She shrugged. “Like I said when you called, I don’t think so. But I could be wrong.”
“So could I,” Blackburn said as he popped open his door and climbed out, “but I’ve got a feeling he’s still in the wind.”
“And you just want us to wait here, right? Give you the heads-up in case he decides to show?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“What about the neighbors? Won’t they be curious? Wonder why we’re hanging around?”
Blackburn looked at the surrounding houses, saw lights in the kitchen and living-room windows, families going about their business, living their lives.
“Let ’em wonder,” he said.
“You do realize we’ll be breaking about a hundred different laws.”
“Just one, actually. Maybe two. But we’re on a fact-finding mission, remember?”
“What about a search warrant?”
After his conversation with Soren, Blackburn had pretty much convinced himself that Soren wasn’t Tolan’s connection to Hastert and Janovic. Soren didn’t strike Blackburn as the kind of guy who would let himself get caught in the middle of a blackmail scheme. Especially one that involved multiple murders.
But with Psycho Bitch currently incapacitated, Blackburn needed to find some other connection, some concrete piece of evidence that linked Tolan to the two victims. If for no other reason than to confirm that he was on the right track with this thing.
But he knew a judge would never allow him to go on a hunting expedition. Not without probable cause.
So he’d go in anyway, see what he could find, and worry about the search warrant later.
“Look,” he told Kat, “if you don’t feel comfortable about this, feel free to—”
“I want to go in with you,” she said.
Blackburn saw the excitement on her face, but shook his head. “No way.”
“Come on, Frank. Hogan can handle lookout. And you could use another pair of eyes.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Why?”
“This isn’t a date, Kat. We aren’t talking about a movie and a milkshake.”
“Yeah?” She leaned in close to him then, whispering in his ear. “If you ever want that milkshake, you’d better reconsider.”
Blackburn stared at her, not doubting for a moment what she meant by that. A bold move, to be sure. An ultimatum. Appealing to his baser instincts.
And he liked that. Hell, he loved it — especially the reward being offered.
But the moment he thought about the visual she had so generously supplied him, an image of Carmody intruded. Carmody, lying across her bed, pulling him toward her. Carmody, who still hadn’t bothered to return his last phone call.
He had no reason to feel loyal to the woman. Had every reason not to be. But sitting in that hospital cafeteria today, he’d felt a renewed vibe between them. That old spark. An intangible link that a loner like Blackburn didn’t often find.
And for all his sexual bravado, he hadn’t slept with another woman since that night of drunken bliss.
But he also knew that Carmody was a dead end. Treated him with about the same amount of dignity she’d afford a piece of used toilet paper. More interested in advancing her career than getting involved with an overbearing jerk like him.
So why the sudden conflict?
Why was he wasting his time fretting over a cold fish when he had a potential sure thing standing right here in front of him? All he had to say was yes.
Maybe having a second set of eyes in there wasn’t a bad idea after all.
“Well?” Kat said.
Blackburn stared at her. God, she was cute. He didn’t need much more convincing.
“What are you doing for dinner Saturday night?”
48
“Turn left,” Lisa said.
She had lined her trunk with black Hefty bags before they put the body inside. The trunk was small, but they managed to get Carmody to fit with a minimum of fuss.
A minimum of fuss, Tolan thought. How callous is that?
They were driving now, Tolan behind the wheel of Lisa’s BMW. He was still in shock, letting her take the lead, continually amazed by her calm under fire, and continually grateful that she was willing to take this risk for him.
But how could she?
How could she remain so loyal to a monster?
Because if he’d done this, if he had butchered Carmody, that’s exactly what he was.
Something stirred at the periphery of his brain, like an image from a dream. Abby standing near a dark doorway.
“Where are we taking her?” he asked.
“The old hospital.”
“The old hospital? We can’t just dump her there.”
“We don’t have much choice.”
“But—”
“Nobody goes up there anymore, Michael. And there are plenty of places to hide a body.”
He glanced at her and saw the set look on her face, her expression unreadable. This was beyond the usual focused concentration now. Something deeper. Colder.
“Why are you doing this, Lisa? How can you even be in the same car with me?”
“I already told you why.”
“No, this is above and beyond. You think I killed her. You probably think I killed Abby, too.”
They pulled onto Baycliff Drive now, winding up the mountain.
She looked at him. “It doesn’t matter, Michael. Don’t you know that by now? I love you. I’ve always loved you. You’re my lost soul.”
“Your what?”
She shook her head. “If you don’t get it by now, there’s no point in trying to explain it to you.”
“No,” Tolan insisted. “Tell me. What do you mean?”
“It’s something the old man said. That I looked like a woman in search of a lost soul. I think it’s fitting. Don’t you?”
Another image from the dream assaulted Tolan. Abby pointing her camera. A flash of light.
Ask the old man, Michael. He knows.
“Who are you talking about? What old man?”
“The police brought him in today. He had some interesting things to say about your new girlfriend.”
“My what?”
Lisa sighed. “Jane Doe, Michael, Jane Doe. But according to him, that’s not who she really is. Not now, at least. And I think you already know that.”
Tolan tried to find a suitable response to this, but couldn’t. His mind was reeling.
Lisa pointed. “Take the access road.”
“Lisa—”
“Turn.”
He did as he was told, pulling onto a narrow road that snaked through the mountains toward the old hospital. He waited as Lisa gathered herself to tell him whatever it was she was trying to tell him.
After a moment, she spoke. “You remember when Abby used to say, ‘Careful, now, the rhythm is gonna get you’?”
Tolan nodded. “What about it?”
“I always figured she got it from that song. I mean, she did, but she didn’t really use it in the same way. For her it was a warning.”
“It’s just something she said. I never really gave it much thought.”
“Neither did I, until today, when the old man started talking about it.”
“About what? The song?”
“No, Michael, pay attention. The Rhythm. The way of The Rhythm.” A pause. “Abby was from Louisiana, just like him.”
It’s the way, Michael. The Rhythm. The heartbeat.
“Maybe you should back up and tell me who the hell this old man is.”
“First, I need you to tell me something.”
He said nothing. Waited.
“Why did you leave the hospital today? Why did you take off without saying anything?”
Tolan hesitated, thinking about what he’d seen and heard in that seclusion room. Early this morning, he had chastised Blackburn for his insensitive use of labels, but there was no better way to describe what he’d been through.
“You’ll think I’m nut
s.”
“I doubt it,” she said. “Just answer the question. Tell me why you left.”
He hesitated again, wondering how much he should say.
But what exactly did he have to lose? Things couldn’t be much worse than they were right now.
So he told her. Told his story from the beginning. About the blackout the night Abby died, and again today, just before finding Carmody in her shower. About the details of Vincent’s phone calls and his fear that they might not be real. About Jane’s changing eyes, the disappearing needle tracks. About the song that only he and Abby knew, the shifting facial bones, the words she spoke. Saying his name.
It was an unburdening. A confession.
The confession of a madman.
Because he now knew that’s what he was.
Lisa said nothing as he spoke, staring out her window into the night.
“The missing ear was the kicker,” he said. “I had a panic attack, ran to my car, then… nothing. Until I woke up on your living-room floor.”
They were silent as he rounded a curve, threading his way through the tangle of pepper trees, then into a clearing where the old hospital stood, illuminated only by the moon.
The place was a throwback to a more primitive time. A time when the mentally ill needed to be hidden from the world. Shunned.
As he pulled into the front drive, Tolan couldn’t help feeling the heat of a thousand eyes on him. The ghosts of the many patients who had come and gone over the years.
Watching him.
Judging him.
When he finally brought the car to a stop, Lisa turned to him. “I knew this was coming, you know. I guess it’s pretty ironic it happens today of all days.”
Tolan was puzzled. “You knew what was coming?”
“This moment. The moment you finally realize what you’re capable of. What you did to Abby.” She paused. “Sooner or later it had to catch up to you.”
What he did to Abby.
“You knew? You’ve known about her all along?”
“Yes,” she said.
Tolan was at a loss. “… How?”
“The same way I know about Detective Carmody. And Anna Marie Colson.”
He just looked at her. “What?”
“Come on, Michael. Do you really think this is the first time I’ve helped you?”
49
Like the lowlifes who had broken into Hastert’s apartment, Blackburn always kept a ring of bump keys handy. Such keys were once a well-kept secret in the locksmith’s arsenal, an essential tool for quick and easy entry. But it didn’t take long for the home-invasion crowd to catch on.
The keys were of various makes, each with its grooves filed down to the lowest cut, allowing it to be used in just about any lock that accepted that particular make of key. Once the key was inserted, the locksmith or thief — or, in this case, cop — would lightly “bump” the back of it with a screwdriver, or some other blunt instrument, until the key turned and the lock opened.
The process was so simple, a kid could do it. And Blackburn had no doubt that more than a few had.
After he and Kat took a quick look around the perimeter of the house, they decided to go in through the rear door. There were two locks, the knob and a deadbolt, but Blackburn had no trouble bumping them both.
“I knew those hands were good for something,” Kat said.
The moment they were inside they flicked on their Mag-Lites, illuminating a basic, upscale tract home: kitchen attached to a sunken living room. Hallway leading to a bathroom and three bedrooms.
“Where do you want to start?” Kat asked.
Blackburn handed her a pair of crime scene gloves, then shone his light toward the bedroom doors. “Most people keep their secrets in their closets. You take the first one, I’ll take the last, and we’ll meet in the middle.”
“A head-on collision.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud. What exactly are we looking for?”
“Bank statements, check stubs. The most recent ones you can find. Patient files would be nice.”
“Janovic?”
“Or the new victim — Hastert.”
“Good luck.”
“I can dream, can’t I?” He gestured for her to get started. “Make sure you put everything back where you got it. We don’t want to leave any footprints.”
“Roger.”
As Kat pulled her gloves on and headed for the first bedroom, Blackburn navigated the narrow hallway until he reached the last door. Resting a hand on the butt of his holstered Glock, he pushed inside, shone the light around.
The master bedroom.
King-size bed, double-wide dresser, closet to the left, bathroom to the right. Nothing special. The wall above the bed featured a stark black-and-white photograph of Tolan, awash in sunlight, standing in a large, open room with high windows.
Taken by the wife, no doubt.
On closer inspection, Blackburn realized it was shot at the old Baycliff Hospital. A gathering spot. A Day Room. He remembered seeing this and several more like it in The New Times magazine, shortly after Abby’s murder.
He took a quick look through the dresser drawers, making sure that every sock, every pair of boxers remained in place, but found nothing of interest.
Moving to the closet, he slid open the door, shone his light inside, and found the usual assortment of clothes and shoes. A set of pristine golf clubs were buried in a corner, looking as if they’d been sitting there since the day they were purchased.
Undoubtedly the product of peer pressure.
The shelf above held a few boxes, their handwritten labels chronicling several years’ worth of tax returns. Blackburn pulled the most recent year down and quickly rifled through it, found a couple of check registers. A scan of their contents, however, yielded nothing of use.
Replacing the box, he closed the closet and turned, sweeping the flashlight beam around the room again.
He decided to move on.
The center bedroom was a home office. Functional and unpretentious. Bookcases holding a mix of hardcover and paperback books, both fiction and nonfiction.
Another reader, like Hastert.
The closet was a bust. A couple of coats hanging inside, more books piled on the shelf above them.
Shutting the closet door, he moved to a desk that was pushed up against the far wall, its blotter littered with various pieces of paperwork and mail. Blackburn quickly looked through them, but again found nothing of interest.
Sliding open the bottom drawer, he was hoping to see a row of hanging file folders, but instead found even more books, most of them snooze-inducing tomes covering a variety of mental health issues.
One of them had Tolan’s byline and the title What Color Is Your Anger? Blackburn pulled it out and leafed through it, vaguely remembering that it had been a bestseller a couple years back. The book that put Tolan on the map.
As far as Blackburn could tell, there was nothing special about it. Just a retread of every other self-help book out there, this one assigning colors to our various moods, followed by an armchair analysis of what triggers them.
It was all gobbledygook to Blackburn and seemed out of character for Tolan. As if he’d been slumming in the world of pop psychology. Why the public and the press latched on to this kind of nonsense was anybody’s guess. One of the many mysteries of our culture.
He was returning this masterpiece to its designated spot when he realized he’d missed something in the back of the drawer, wedged behind the rest of the books. Quickly moving them out of the way, he reached in and pulled out a box. A rectangular metal box with a padlock attached.
Blackburn felt a tiny surge of adrenaline that was immediately offset by puzzlement.
It was a tackle box.
The kind fishermen use.
But if this connected in the way he thought it might, that didn’t make sense. It didn’t make sense at all.
Still, he had to wonder, if you’re usi
ng a box like this to store your fishing tackle, why not keep it in the garage with the rest of your gear? Assuming Tolan had any. Why stick it in the back of a desk drawer, hidden by a bunch of books?
Setting it on the desktop, Blackburn rattled the padlock, but it was securely fastened. Bump keys wouldn’t be any help with this, but a properly bent paper clip would.
He had just found one in the top desk drawer when Kat’s voice rang out from the adjoining bedroom.
“Hey, Frank, I think I’ve got something here.”
Snatching up the tackle box and carrying it with him, he moved down the hallway to the next room, which had been set up as a den.
Sofa. Armchairs. TV.
Kat stood near the closet, a box of her own at her feet. This one made of battered cardboard.
“The shelf in there is full of these,” she said. “All labeled. Old mementos and stuff.” She held out a newspaper clipping. “Take a look at this.”
Blackburn set the tackle box on the floor, then took the clipping from her and shone his light on it. It was a fifteen-year-old article taken from the LA Times, yellowed with age, its headline reading:
COED AND BOYFRIEND GUNNED DOWN
The story that followed told of a young UCLA student named Anna Marie Colson, who had been gunned down one night while she and her boyfriend were returning from a walk to Westwood Village. Several of Colson’s roommates had been questioned, including one Michael Edward Tolan, a pre-med student whom police said was Colson’s former boyfriend.
While Tolan was initially a “person of interest,” no charges were ever brought, and the official conclusion was that the murders were the result of a random mugging.
A photo accompanied the article. The coed and several of her roommates. Six in all.
One of them was clearly Tolan. Much younger. Happier than Blackburn had ever seen him. And sitting on his lap was a cute brunette with a cheerleader’s smile.
Anna Marie Colson.
“The wife wasn’t his first,” Blackburn said. “The sonofabitch did it before.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
Blackburn continued to stare at the photo, looking at all those fresh young faces, none of them knowing that they had a killer among them.
Whisper in the Dark Page 21