Dark Whispers

by Debra Webb

  “Lieutenant Grady Russell.”

  Jess was acquainted with Russell. He was a detective in the Crimes Against Persons division. Russell was a good cop. “Why don’t I give the lieutenant a call and see what I can find out?”

  Drummond nodded, visibly relieved. “Thank you.”

  Jess stood. “Come with me and I’ll introduce you to one of our investigators.” No reason to mention that he was their only investigator.

  Buddy was in his office on the phone as they passed. Jess escorted Drummond to the end of the hall where Clint was organizing his desk.

  “Clint, this is Natalie Drummond.”

  “Ms. Drummond.” Clint gifted her with a nod.

  “Ms. Drummond will explain her situation to you while I make a call to Lieutenant Russell.”

  Clint invited Drummond to have a seat. Rather than go to her office, Jess went to Buddy’s and closed the door. When he’d ended his call, she said, “We need a conference call with Russell about our first client. She says she shot a man who is now missing.”

  Buddy raised his eyebrows as he set the phone to speaker and made the call. “You always did attract the strange ones.”

  He needn’t remind her.

  Three rings and Russell answered. Jess quickly explained the situation and asked for any insights the lieutenant could provide.

  “We received the call early this morning,” Russell confirmed. “I have to tell you, I think maybe the lady is a little wrong in the head.”

  Jess was immensely grateful for the thick brick walls of the historic building that helped ensure privacy between offices. “What does that mean, Lieutenant?” If the man said Drummond was hormonal or flighty, Jess might just walk the few blocks to the Birmingham Police Department and kick his butt on principal.

  “About two years ago Natalie Drummond had a fall down the stairs of that mansion her daddy left her. She was banged up pretty good, but it was the brain injury that left her with big problems. According to her family, she still suffers with the occasional memory lapse and reasoning issue.”

  “She had a traumatic brain injury?” Jess frowned and rubbed at the resulting lines spanning her forehead. Even two years later, an injury like that could explain Drummond’s uncertainty as to the sequence of recent events.

  “That’s the story according to her brother, Heath Drummond,” Russell confirmed.

  Now there was a name Jess recognized. “As in Drummond Industries?”

  “The one and only,” Russell confirmed. “The brother says she hasn’t been the same since the fall. She spent months in rehab. He thinks maybe she’s having some kind of relapse. About two months ago, she started insisting that someone was coming into her house at night. Every time she told the story it was a little different. The brother decided she was hallucinating. Apparently that can happen with TBIs. This morning she called 9-1-1 and claimed she’d shot a man. We arrive and there’s no body. No blood. No signs of an altercation. Nothing. There was no weapon found on the premises, yet she swears she discharged a .38 at an intruder. She also swears she left him bleeding on the floor.”

  Jess exchanged a look with Buddy.

  “You believe she imagined the whole thing,” Buddy said.

  “At this point, yeah, that’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

  “Thanks so much, Lieutenant.” Before ending the call, Jess assured him she would pass along any information she might discover relevant to the case. To Buddy she said, “Whether she shot anyone or not, it sounds as if Ms. Drummond needs our help.”

  “I guess we have our first case.” Buddy came around to the front of his desk and offered his hand. “I’ll leave the logistics to you. I have another investigator to interview over at Cappy’s.”

  Jess took his hand and struggled to her feet. Cappy’s Corner Grill was a cop hangout over on 29th that served the best burgers in town. Local cops, private investigators and bounty hunters frequently used Cappy’s for unofficial staff meetings.

  “Clint is the right investigator for this one,” Jess said, the wheels inside her head already turning. She remembered well how cocky the detective had been when he’d first joined her major crimes team, but time had softened his hard edges.

  Buddy shot her a wink as they exited his office. “Good thing, since he’s our only investigator.”

  “True.” Jess turned to the office at the end of the hall where Clint was interviewing their first client. Whatever troubles Natalie Drummond faced, real or imagined, Jess would see that she received the help she needed.

  No one should have to fight her demons alone.

  Chapter Two

  Southwood Road

  Mountain Brook

  6:00 p.m.

  Clint pulled into the driveway behind Natalie Drummond. He surveyed the place she called home and blew out a long, low whistle. If the lady lived here—the estate looked more like a castle than a home—then she was loaded. He should have realized she was related to the Drummonds of Birmingham.

  He climbed out of his Audi and strolled up to her BMW as she opened the door. When she emerged her lips tilted the slightest bit with a shaky smile. “I appreciate you being able to start right away. I was afraid it would be days or even weeks before I could retain the services I needed.”

  “I’ll work as quickly as possible to get to the bottom of the trouble, Ms. Drummond. No one should be afraid in their own home.” Even if it was large enough to host the next governor’s summit.

  “You should call me Natalie.” She exhaled a big breath and sent a worried glance back at the street.

  “Natalie,” he repeated. “As long as you call me Clint.”

  She nodded, and then led the way to the front door. When she fished the keys from her bag, he reached for them. “Why don’t I go in first?”

  Obviously relieved, she turned over the keys.

  As he opened the door the first detail he noted was the lack of a warning from the security system. “You don’t arm your system when you leave the house?”

  “With all that happened this morning, I suppose I forgot.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Like I said, I didn’t go back in the house after the police left. I couldn’t.”

  He handed the keys back to her, placed a hand at the small of her back and ushered her across the threshold. He surveyed the entry hall. The ceiling soared high above a grand balcony on the second floor. A large painting hung on the broad expanse of wall that flanked the ornate staircase. He recognized Natalie as a child of around ten or twelve in the painting.

  “My family,” she said, following his gaze. “My parents are both gone now. There’s my younger sister, April, and my older brother, Heath. Heath runs the family business and April is a trophy wife who specializes in fund-raising.” She said the last with something less than pride as she placed her purse and keys on a table near the door. “The kitchen is on the right at the end of the hall. That’s where...it happened.”

  Clint hesitated, the sticky notes on the mirror above the hall table snagging his attention. There were several yellow notes and one pink one. Leave the keys and your purse here. Lock the door. Arm the security system. The pink note read Check the peephole before opening the door.

  “I don’t need them as much as I used to,” she said with a noticeable resignation in her tone. “My short-term memory gets better every day.” She locked the door. “It’s certain parts of my long-term memory that still have a few too many holes.”

  He gestured to the notes. “This was part of the process of getting back into your normal routine?”

  She nodded. “I’m not sure anything about my routine will ever be called normal again, but I manage.”

  “I imagine the journey has been a challenging one.” Clint moved toward the kitchen. “Back at the office you said your sister spent a grea
t deal of time helping you get back on your feet?”

  “She stayed with me every night for the first year. When she wasn’t with me there was a nurse.” A weary sigh escaped her lips. “For ten months I was fine on my own, and then...the voices started. April stays the night whenever I need her despite my brother-in-law’s insistence that he needs his wife at home.”

  “Your brother-in-law is...?”

  “David Keating, the son of Birmingham’s new mayor, who sees himself as governor one day. He’s running for state representative and insists that April should be at his side at all times. You haven’t seen the billboards plastered all over the city? Vote for Truth and Family Values.” Natalie shook her head. “Personally, I believe he’s worried that I’m losing my mind and he doesn’t want his wife too close to anything unpleasant that might end up attached to his name in the news.” She paused. “Sorry. I’m being unkind. In truth, David has been very thoughtful since the fall. Forgive me if I’m a little too blunt at times.”

  “No apology necessary. Do you and your siblings get along?”

  “As well as any I suppose.” Her heels clicked on the marble floor as they continued toward the kitchen. “Five years ago, after our father died, I think people expected there to be dissention, but we all felt the terms of the will were remarkably well thought out. Heath inherited the family business, which made perfect sense since he was the only one with any interest in overseeing it. He was Father’s right hand. I inherited the house and April was endowed with the largest portion of the family financial trust. Father was well aware of my younger sister’s love of spending. The trust pays out slowly over her life so there’s no fear of her ever being destitute in the event her marriage to David doesn’t work out.”

  They reached the wide arched entrance to the kitchen and Clint paused. “You’re an attorney?”

  She stared at the sleek tile floor. “I was. It remains to be seen if I will be again. I feel more like an assistant now. Two years ago I was up for partner at Brenner, Rosen and Taylor. I would have been the youngest partner in the firm’s history. Most of the past two years I’ve been on extended disability leave. I returned to work a few weeks ago. I review other people’s cases to see if we’re doing all we can for each client. I’m certain the partners fear that giving me a case of my own at this point would be premature, perhaps even detrimental to the firm’s reputation. After what happened this morning, who can blame them?”

  Her work history was impressive. Brenner, Rosen and Taylor was a small but very prestigious law firm. “Why don’t you walk me through exactly what happened this morning.”

  Natalie drew in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I was preparing to go to the office. The security system was apparently unarmed. I could’ve sworn I set it before I went to bed, but evidently I didn’t.” She sighed and rubbed at her temple as if a headache had begun there. “I still forget things sometimes and get things out of order, but those instances rarely happen anymore—at least that’s what I thought.”

  “What time did you get up?” Clint moved to the back door. According to the police report, Natalie believed the alleged intruder entered the kitchen through the door leading from the gardens and patio since it had been standing open. All other entry points had been locked when the police arrived, seemingly confirming her allegation. Clint opened the door and crouched down to have a look at the lock and the knob.

  “At six,” she said in answer to his question. “I remember because the grandfather clock in the entry hall started to chime the hour. It’s a habit of mine to count the chimes.” She looked away as if the admission embarrassed her. “I’ve done it since I was a child.”

  Clint smiled, hoping to help her relax. “I count buttons. Whenever I button my shirt, I count.”

  Her strained expression softened a bit at his confession. “I guess we all have our eccentricities.”

  Focusing on his examination of the door, he saw no indication of forced entry. Back at the office, he’d sent a text to Lori Wells requesting a copy of the police report. A quick perusal of the report she’d immediately emailed him had showed the same findings. Clint hadn’t really expected to find anything. Still, a second look never hurt. He pushed to his feet. “You were upstairs when you heard an intruder?”

  She nodded. “I was dressed and ready to go when I heard a noise down here.”

  “Describe the noise for me.”

  She considered the question for a moment. “There was a lot of banging as if whoever was down here was searching for something.”

  The evidence techs had dusted for prints, but hadn’t found any usable ones except Natalie’s, which meant the intruder wore gloves and that she had a very dedicated and thorough cleaning staff. Most surfaces in any home were littered with prints. “You came down the stairs,” Clint prompted.

  “First I came to the landing. I thought maybe Suzanna, my housekeeper, had arrived early.” She hugged her arms around herself as if the memories stole the warmth from her body. “I saw him standing at the bottom of the stairs, but I couldn’t see his entire face. He was wearing a mask. Like a ski mask where all you can see are the eyes and across the bridge of the nose. I ran back to my room and grabbed my cell phone and my father’s handgun from the nightstand. When I came down the stairs I didn’t see him anymore. The back door was open so I assumed he’d fled.” She took a deep breath. “I came into the kitchen to close the door and suddenly I heard him breathing...behind me. It was as if he’d been waiting for me to come.”

  “Did he touch you?”

  She shook her head. “I spun around and fired the weapon.”

  Clint closed and locked the back door. “You’re certain the intruder was male.”

  The sound of the door locking or maybe the question snapped her from the silence she’d drifted into. She flinched. “Absolutely. He was tall and strong and he had a scar.” She pointed to the spot between her eyebrows.

  “He never spoke?”

  She shook her head. “He staggered back and then fell to the floor. There was blood on his shirt.”

  “You ran outside to wait for the police?”

  She nodded. “I dropped the gun and ran. I was confused. That still happens when I get overexcited or upset and, quite frankly, I was terrified.”

  Clint would ask her more about the traumatic brain injury later. According to the police report there was no indication of foul play in the home and no gun was found. Since the detective at the scene had decided the whole event was Drummond’s imagination, no test for gunshot residue had been performed. “Did blood splatter on your clothes or your shoes?”

  She frowned. “No.” Her head moved from side to side. “I suppose there should have been.” She closed her eyes for a moment before continuing. “I know what I saw. There was a man here. He wore a black ski mask. I fired the weapon, the sound still echoes inside me whenever I think of that moment.”

  “You believe,” he offered, “while you were waiting for the police the intruder fled, taking the gun with him.”

  “Yes.”

  * * *

  CLINT HAYES DID not believe her.

  Natalie didn’t have to wonder. She saw the truth in his eyes. There was no evidence to support her story. Nothing. Her brain injury made her an unreliable witness at best. How could she expect anyone to believe her?

  Maybe she was losing her mind. Her own brother thought she was imagining things.

  “Let’s talk about why someone would want to create a situation like the one that played out in your home this morning.”

  Hope dared to bloom in her chest. “Are you saying you believe me?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “I do.”

  Startled, Natalie fought to gather her wits. She had hoped to find someone who would believe her. Now that she had, she felt weak with relief and overwhelmed with gratitude. “Would
you like coffee or tea?”

  “No thank you, but don’t let me stop you.”

  “I don’t drink coffee after the middle of the afternoon for fear I won’t sleep.” Her life was quite sad now. What would this handsome, obviously intelligent man think if he knew just how sad? What difference did money and position matter in the end? Very little, she had learned. The years of hard work to reach the pinnacle of her field meant nothing now. She could no more battle an opponent in the courtroom than a ten-year-old could hope to win a presidential debate.

  All she had been or ever hoped to be was either gone or broken. Her mother had warned her all-work-and-no-play attitude would come back to haunt her one day. What kind of life will you have without someone to share it with? Her mother’s words reverberated through her.

  A lonely one, Mother. Very lonely.

  “Are you taking medication?”

  “I have a number of medications, Mr. Hayes.” She led the way to an enormous great room where her family had hosted the Who’s Who of Birmingham. “There are ones for anxiety and others for sleep—all to be taken as needed. So far I’ve done all right without them more than six months. I take over-the-counter pain relievers for the headaches that have become fewer and further between.”

  She settled into her favorite chair. Mr. Hayes took a seat across the coffee table from her. The idea that he might not actually believe her but needed to pad the company’s bottom line crossed her mind. The other three agencies she’d contacted this afternoon weren’t interested in taking her case. What made this one different? She’d stumbled upon B&C Investigations completely by accident. She’d walked away from the third rejection and noticed the new sign in the window on the way to her car.

  “Do you have any personal enemies that you know of?”

  She shook her head. “No family issues. No work issues. I can’t imagine anyone who would want to do this. Why break into my home? Nothing appears to be missing.”