“Oh yes, I do,” Sam announced proudly. “I called Hal Myers. Used to be my partner. You do remember him, don’t you?”
“Of course, Dad. I actually knew him.”
“Well, he’s still on the job and he gave me all the details the police have so far. I hope I can keep it all straight. I wrote most of it down so I could remember.”
“That’s good, Dad. Way to go!”
“More hippie talk. You sound like I didn’t spend a fortune putting you through college.”
“I had part-time jobs—”
“That paid practically nothing. Never mind; that’s not the subject. Okay, here’s what I found out. There was a shooting nearly two hours ago at a vacant house on Sutton Street. That’s only half a mile from here, but I figure between Brooke getting knocked out, then wandering around for a while before she found our house, then all the time that went by before you called me”—Vincent sighed at the jibe but said nothing—“the time lapse is accounted for.” Sam paused and Vincent could picture his father adjusting his reading glasses as he looked at his notes. “Anyway, the shooting took place in a car in the driveway. The victim was a Mia Walters. Shot three times. Brooke Yeager’s purse was found in the car, but there’s no sign that she was the shooter. I could’ve told them that,” Sam said as an aside. “Both women work for Townsend Realty. According to the owner of the business, Brooke and Mia were supposed to be showing the house. He also said they were friends.”
“Hal is certain Brooke was involved in the shooting but wasn’t the shooter?”
“The woman was killed by three shots from a rifle, Vincent, but the rifle was nowhere around.”
“A rifle,” Vincent said thoughtfully. “So this Mia was shot from a distance.”
“Yes. And as for Brooke, if she were the shooter, why would she leave her purse in the car with all her identification? Why would she kill this woman when their boss knew they’d be together?” Sam waited through Vincent’s silence, then demanded, “You’re still suspecting Brooke of something, aren’t you?”
“I just . . .” Vincent knew anything he said against Brooke would either upset his father or make him angry. “I just wondered if they have any idea who the shooter was or what’s going on?”
“No-o-o.”
“You don’t sound so sure, Dad, or like you’re trying to hide something. Tell me all of it.”
Sam hesitated. Then he said reluctantly, “Brooke Yeager’s stepfather—Zachary Tavell, who shot her mother to death—escaped from Mount Olive Correctional Center in the middle of last night. That place is less than two hours from Charleston. Wait a minute. Writing’s a little fuzzy here. Okay! A car was stolen not far from Mount Olive and a gun shop was robbed.” Sam paused, and Vincent knew his father was no longer reading notes. “Son, the police think Tavell is on his way to Charleston. He’s probably already here.”
“How did he get out of prison?”
“Hal gave me a lot of technical information about how he did it, but I’ll be damned if I can remember much of it and he was going too fast for me to write it down. The important thing is that he shot Brooke’s mother to death, for God’s sake, and even that wasn’t his first offense. No doubt he’s the one who stole the car and robbed the gun store.” Sam paused. “Vincent, Brooke is in a terrible position. This jerk could have gotten away with his wife’s murder if it weren’t for her being an eyewitness. Instead, he was put away for forty years without much hope of parole. Hal reminded me that Tavell was just forty-two at the time of the murder.”
“Which means that forty years in prison would probably have been the rest of his life,” Vincent said slowly.
“That’s right. And according to Hal, the prison officials say Tavell’s gotten real strange the last few years. Hardly ever talks. Just reads the Bible and writes all the time.”
“Writes? Writes what? Arguments for an appeal? Stories, a novel?”
“I don’t know. Maybe one of those things, too, but he doesn’t talk to people; he writes them a note. He gives notes to the other prisoners, to the guards, to everyone he comes across about whatever is on his mind.”
“That’s pretty strange. I mean, a lot of prisoners suddenly ‘get religion,’ but I’ve never heard of one communicating mostly through notes.”
“Me, neither,” Sam said. “Listen, Son, I think he wants revenge on Brooke. He’s armed and sure enough a little crazy. The prison officials think he’s extremely dangerous.”
“No shit.”
“Don’t talk like that in a public place! People will hear you and think your mother didn’t teach you better,” Sam reprimanded sharply. “Anyway, there’s only one important thing to remember, Vincent. We can’t take our eyes off that poor girl or Tavell is going to kill her, just like he did her mother.”
three
1
After Vincent shut off his cell phone, he saw two policemen enter the emergency area of the hospital and speak to a woman at the desk who pointed them in the direction of the examination rooms. He figured they’d arrived to question Brooke. He thought about following them. He knew from being around cops all his life that their interrogation techniques could be less than gentle, especially if they thought that Brooke had killed the other woman in the car. They might be verbally forceful with Brooke, even threaten her. His father certainly wouldn’t like that, considering how much he thought of the girl. But the police hadn’t had time to do a thorough investigation. Besides, Vincent wasn’t Brooke’s family or her lawyer. He didn’t stand a chance of being allowed into the examination room to observe the questioning. He could do nothing, and he wasn’t sure he should try. The information his father had given him seemed to clear Brooke of any wrongdoing, but Vincent still wasn’t satisfied that she was the innocent she claimed to be.
Contacting the woman Brooke had said was her friend might be his only way of finding out more about her, he decided, and he could have kicked himself for not doing so immediately. But what was her name? The drama of hearing that Brooke’s stepfather, a murderer, was on the loose had completely knocked it out of his memory.
Vincent paced up and down the hall, thinking. Was the woman’s name Carrie? No. Casey? No. Stacy! That was it! But Stacy what? Carrington? Something like that. He went to the pay phone and picked up the directory, annoyed as always by all the pages torn out. Why couldn’t people just write down the phone number they wanted instead of ripping out the whole page? He found the section of Cs and began scanning. At last, he came to “Corrigan” and a bell went off in his mind. That was the last name! Luckily, there weren’t many Corrigans. When he quickly came to Jay and Stacy Corrigan, he felt like cheering.
The first time he called, the line was busy. He waited five minutes, then tried again. On the third ring, a woman announced, “Corrigan residence.”
“Mrs. Corrigan? Mrs. Stacy Corrigan, friend of Brooke Yeager?”
The woman laughed lightly, making Vincent realize how ridiculous he’d sounded. Then she said in a slightly deep, sensuous voice, “Yes, this is Stacy, friend of Brooke Yeager. What can I do for you, Mr.—”
“Lockhart. Vincent Lockhart. Look, I don’t know you—I barely know Brooke—but she’s been in . . . well, an accident.” He didn’t feel now was the time to go into details. “She’s at Charleston General and she’s asked for you.”
The sensuousness vanished from the woman’s voice. She spoke louder than necessary, fear edging her voice. “What was it? A car wreck? Is she badly hurt?”
“Not a car wreck. She has a head injury. I don’t think it’s too serious, but they’re still examining her. There could be other things wrong. Internal injuries. I’m not a doctor.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here,” Vincent said quickly. He felt that the woman was getting angry at his vagueness. “It’s complicated. I’ll be in the waiting room. I’m in my early thirties and I have black hair. No, wait. Go to the receiving desk and I’ll catch you there. Just come as soon as y
ou can. Brooke expected me to call you sooner, but I got busy.”
The woman didn’t even say good-bye. She slammed down the phone, which could mean she was rattled or that she thought he was a lunatic playing a prank. Vincent hoped that Stacy Corrigan had believed him and was on her way.
2
Vincent headed back for the waiting room. As soon as he stepped in, the woman with the black eye and split lip motioned vigorously to him. No doubt she wanted to continue her harangue about the jerk. Vincent didn’t want to insult her—not because he cared about her feelings but because she was the type that when incensed would no doubt burst into a raucous tirade. Instead, he pulled out his cell phone, acted as if he’d just received an important call, and made a “back in a minute” gesture to her. Then he ducked into the safety of the hall, and finally out the door so he could smoke a cigarette. He’d been trying to quit, but now he felt his hands begin the slight trembling that indicated an oncoming nicotine withdrawal fit.
Outside, the soothing warm air of an August night washed over him. The air-conditioning inside had been too low for his taste. He liked the heat, which was why for the last ten years he’d been living in Monterey, California. His father’s condition had prompted his unscheduled trip back to West Virginia. Although Sam Lockhart would be the last person to ask for help, his increasingly rambling letters and phone calls had alerted Vincent to the man’s failing memory. Only a week ago, Vincent had learned his father had Alzheimer’s. The news had come as a shocking blow, from which Vincent still hadn’t recovered.
He took a deep draw on his cigarette, wishing he’d never started smoking in the first place, yet gleaning some comfort from it anyway. He’d cut down tomorrow, he promised himself. Or as soon as he figured out how to handle his dad. The man certainly couldn’t go on living by himself. Vincent had arrived home to find bills three months overdue, a refrigerator containing nothing except butter, six packages of cold cuts in various states of decomposition, a loaf of moldy bread, and two paperback books. Every old phonograph album the Lockharts owned lay scattered throughout the living room along with articles of his mother’s clothing and at least thirty travel brochures collected through the years for trips the Lockharts had never taken.
Vincent knew something would have to be done soon. But what? Should he move in with his father for a few months? The idea was unbearable to him. He’d been home for only two weeks and just about all they’d done was argue. Vincent had a book deadline in a month, and he couldn’t possibly finish a book around his father, who wandered and mumbled and constantly demanded attention. He could get an extension on the book deadline, but another month wouldn’t solve Sam’s condition.
And Vincent desperately missed Monterey. He had a house he loved, friends, two dogs, his agent. His whole world existed in Monterey. He didn’t want to leave it. Dammit, he wouldn’t leave it, he thought. Vincent loved his father and intended to help him, but he’d spent too long building his own life to have it all fall apart by his moving back to Charleston to look after a man who might be beyond Vincent’s ability to help in as short as six months or as long as six years.
He tossed down his cigarette in frustration and had started to light another one when he saw a tall woman striding toward him. She had very long curly light brown hair, a lithe and obviously strong body with large breasts that looked too big to be real, and a determined look in her gray eyes. Somehow, he knew this was Stacy Corrigan, and he approached her.
“Mrs. Corrigan?”
She stopped, giving him a steely look from those granite gray eyes. “You’re the man who called me about Brooke?”
“Yes. I’m Vincent Lockhart. I came to the hospital with her.”
“I recognize your voice from the phone.” She looked him up and down almost accusingly. “How is Brooke and what the hell happened? Did you hit her with your car?”
Vincent was taken aback by her hostile tone. “Hell no, I didn’t hit her with my car! What makes you assume I hurt her?”
“You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t done something to her. Apparently, you don’t even know her.”
“If I’d done something to Brooke, I’d be in police custody.” Vincent immediately felt dislike for this attractive but brittle woman. “And I don’t know how she is yet. Shall we go inside and see if we can get some information?”
“Yes, let’s do that,” she said curtly, sweeping past him and almost letting the hospital door fly back and hit him in the face. Bitch, Vincent thought. At least he now knew one thing for himself about Brooke—he sure as hell couldn’t say much for her taste in friends.
Stacy marched toward the admitting desk and asked for Brooke Yeager. As Vincent had anticipated, the middle-aged woman behind the desk said there was no news on Ms. Yeager yet. Stacy then demanded to see a doctor. “He’s busy,” the woman told her dismissively.
“Then tell him to get unbusy and come out here,” Stacy nearly shouted. “I have no idea how my friend is. She could be dead for all I know. Exactly what does it take to get a little common courtesy around here? A scene? Because believe me, Miss Whoever You Are, I’m more than ready to cause one.”
The woman behind the desk abruptly looked alarmed. Vincent almost laughed in spite of his dislike of Stacy. She might be abrasive, but her methods worked. The woman quickly answered, “I’ll get some news to you immediately, Miss—”
“Mrs. Corrigan.”
“Mrs. Corrigan. I’ll just write that down.” The woman had gone white and her handwriting looked jerky. “Please have a seat in the waiting room, Mrs. Corrigan, and I’ll see that you get information on Ms. Yeager soon.”
“See that you do, or I’ll be back up here in fifteen minutes, and next time I won’t just threaten a scene; I’ll make one!” Stacy left the reception clerk openmouthed and flounced toward the waiting room, Vincent trailing in her hot-tempered wake.
With tremendous relief, Vincent saw that both the woman with the black eye and the male coughing machine had vanished. Two vacant chairs sat beneath a window. Stacy headed for one, plopped down, fished in her purse, and withdrew a cigarette. “You can’t smoke in here,” Vincent said as he reluctantly sat down next to her.
“Damn it! You can’t smoke anywhere anymore! They treat smokers like pariahs in this country!” Stacy’s voice was loud. People looked at her, then quickly glanced away, as if fearing a tongue-lashing. Vincent didn’t blame them.
Stacy set her purse on the floor and folded her hands tightly in her lap, but not before Vincent had noticed their trembling. In fact, her whole body seemed to throb with tension. She crossed her legs and began jiggling her right foot nervously. Then she turned on him. “Who are you and what happened to Brooke?”
“I didn’t hurt her, I promise,” Vincent returned, startled.
“Well, all right. You don’t have to sound like a little boy making excuses to his mother.”
Anger flared in Vincent. “Lady, you look way too old to be my mother,” he returned nastily.
Of course, it was a lie—Stacy looked like what the kids called hot or a babe—but perhaps an insult might dent this woman’s high-handed manner, and she certainly needed to be taken down a peg, Vincent thought.
Stacy glared at him for a moment. Here it comes, he thought. An outburst. A rant. He braced himself, but she surprised him. “I’m quite sure I don’t look older than your mother, but I might have deserved your sarcasm. I’m sorry I took that tone with you. I get loud and bitchy when I’m scared, and I’m fairly shaken right now. Brooke is only five years younger than I am and she feels like a little sister to me, even though I’ve only known her slightly over a year.”
Somewhat mollified, Vincent said, “I can understand that. She seems like the kind of person you think you should take care of.”
“How would you know that? I’ve never heard her even mention you before.” She stiffened. “Are you a friend of Robert’s?”
“Who’s Robert?” Vincent asked innocently.
“Robert Eads.
Her boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Stalker. Nutcase!”
“I remember her mentioning a Robert earlier, but no, I am not a friend of his.”
“Then who are you?”
“I already told you on the phone my name is Vincent Lockhart—”
“That name sounds familiar,” she interrupted, “and not because you just told it to me on the phone.”
Vincent didn’t want to talk to her anymore, but he knew if he didn’t answer her, she’d just keep badgering him. She was the badgering type. “Maybe Brooke has mentioned a Detective Sam Lockhart,” he managed to say with a modicum of civility.
Stacy frowned. “Yes, she has. A couple of times.” She paused. “He had something to do with her mother’s case.”
“He was the lead investigator. I’m his son.”
“Oh! The lead investigator in her mother’s murder?” Vincent nodded and Stacy looked startled. “Now you’re really making me feel weird. Why are you here? What do you have to do with her mother’s murder?”
“I don’t have anything to do with her mother’s murder and would you please lower your voice?” Vincent hissed.
“I’ll lower my voice if you explain this whole situation to me from the beginning.”
Vincent felt like telling her to go to hell, but they’d already created enough of a scene in the waiting room. Nearly everyone was staring at them now.
“All right, but only if you don’t interrupt me—I hate to be interrupted—and keep your voice down. Deal?”
Stacy narrowed her cool gray eyes at him for a moment, then said grudgingly, “Deal. Start talking.”
Trying not to ignore the headache that was starting to creep up his skull from the stiffening muscles in his neck, Vincent started out with Brooke appearing in front of the Lockhart house, her suit covered in blood, her head injured, her memory fractured. “My father and I brought her inside and it turns out that she’d been to our house several times not too long after her mother was murdered. She was placed with a foster family in South Hills, not far from my father’s house. She knew he was the detective in charge of her mother’s case, and she’d sneak over to see him to talk about it,” Vincent explained. “Her grandmother had suffered a heart attack and for a while it was thought she might not live. My parents actually thought of adopting Brooke. I was away at college at the time and never actually met her. But her grandmother recovered and Brooke went to live with her.
Last Whisper Page 4