Whisper of Evil tbscus-5

by Кей Хупер

  "It's hardly something I could forget." She set her cup down, left a tip on the table for the waitress, and prepared to slide from the booth. "Just don't crowd me, okay?"

  "Gotcha."

  Nell didn't look back or indicate any interest whatsoever in that other rear booth, just walked up front to pay her check and then left the cafe.

  Justin Byers hadn't had much trouble fitting in since he had come to Silence a couple of months before. He'd always liked small towns, choosing them over cities whenever there was a choice to be made, and so he felt entirely comfortable here. And his duties as a detective in the Criminal Investigation Division of the sheriff's department were both familiar and absorbing — especially these days.

  But the major reason he liked this town went by the name of Lauren Champagne. Deputy Lauren Champagne.

  Justin had never been given to fantasies — at least no more than the average male — but he'd discovered that his subconscious had a mind of its own. He was waking up virtually every morning in a tangle of sheets with his heart pounding and with the disconcerting realization that his dreams had been more than a little… raw.

  Which made it damned hard to be cool and professional when he encountered Lauren in the course of the day.

  "Hey, Justin," she offered easily when they met on the sidewalk in front of the courthouse on Thursday afternoon.

  "Hey, Lauren." He hastily quashed a fleeting mental image of creamy bare flesh and strove to be professional. "Where's Kyle?"

  "Inside. We had some paperwork for the clerk of court." She shrugged. "What're you up to?"

  "Still trying to run down all the financial info on George Caldwell. You know, for a fine, upstanding banker, he sure had tangled finances."

  Lauren smiled wryly, her dark eyes grave. "Isn't that par for the course where these killings are concerned?"

  "Yeah, there always seems to be a mess left behind. Except we haven't stumbled over any of George's secret vices yet."

  "You think you will?"

  Quite without planning to, he heard himself say, "Well, let's just say I'm a little bothered by a few things. These scattered financial records, for one, all of which I still haven't been able to track down. As for his personal accounts at the bank where he worked, there've been some regular deposits to at least one of them with no explanation of where the income originated. It wasn't salary or bonuses, and so far it doesn't look like investment income."

  "Maybe his wife knows."

  "Maybe, but I'm under orders not to bother her with questions."

  With a lifted brow, Lauren said, "Sheriff's orders?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well," she said after a moment, "I'm sure he has his reasons."

  Justin was worried that the sheriff did have his reasons but reminded himself that Lauren had been here longer than he had and might well feel loyal to Ethan Cole, so all he said was, "It's making things a little difficult, that's all. Caldwell knew how to handle money, and that included how to hide it."

  "To avoid paying taxes, you think?"

  "Maybe. Or to squirrel some of it away in case he and Sue finally decided to divorce. What she couldn't find, he wouldn't have to share."

  "Not so unusual for a man contemplating divorce."

  "No," Justin agreed. "But it would be nice to know for sure if that was his motive."

  Lauren nodded but didn't comment, since her partner, Kyle Venable, joined them then to say dryly, "We have a couple of warrants to serve. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

  "Loads," she agreed in the same tone. "Justin, good luck with your investigation."

  "Thanks. See you, Lauren. Kyle."

  "We'll be around," Kyle told him cheerfully, then followed his tall and striking partner back toward their cruiser.

  Justin watched them — well, Lauren — until they got into the patrol car and left the courthouse, then continued on his way. He spent nearly an hour in the courthouse checking over property records, then paid a third visit to the bank where George Caldwell had been a VP.

  By the time he came out and headed back toward the sheriff's department, he was feeling more than a little frustrated. It wasn't that he was being stonewalled, exactly; with Caldwell's death a clear murder, the judge hadn't hesitated to order the bank to make its records available to the investigators. Problem was, the bank records looked clean.

  It was Caldwell's personal financial records that looked suspect, but there was nothing firm Justin could point to in order to explain why he had this itching on the back of his neck that told him to keep digging.

  He just knew, dammit. Knew there was more to the story than he had yet discovered.

  The problem was how in hell to find it.

  The sheriff could have made it easier on him but instead had virtually tied his hands, and much as he wanted to it wasn't something Justin intended to complain about. He was treading carefully with the sheriff, perfectly aware that Ethan Cole didn't really trust him and equally aware that the sheriff was hiding something. Or trying to.

  That was something else Justin knew but couldn't prove. And wasn't really sure he wanted to try and prove, all things considered. But he didn't have much of a choice.

  Not really eager to return to the station any sooner than he had to, Justin stopped off on the way back for a cup of decent coffee at the downtown cafe. He sat alone at a front table and gazed broodingly out at the passing traffic.

  Such a nice little town.

  "Hey, Detective Byers — " One of the young waitresses he'd spoken to maybe twice stood by his table holding an envelope. "This was left for you." She handed it over.

  His name was block-printed on the front — just his name, nothing to identify him as a cop. For some reason, that bothered him.

  "Who left it, Emily?"

  She shrugged and popped her gum. "Dunno. Vinny just found it on the counter and told me to bring it over to you. Guess somebody figured you'd stop by. You usually do, most afternoons."

  "Yeah. Thanks, Emily."

  "Welcome."

  As she wandered away, Justin made a mental note to stop being so goddamned predictable, then stared at the envelope, turning it in his hands. The usual number-ten business-type, treated for security so what lay inside wasn't easily visible, at least through the paper. But what lay inside clearly had shape and bulk, something like a small notebook from the feel of it.

  The envelope had been handled by so many people he knew it was useless to worry about fingerprints. As for what was inside…

  He wasted a couple of minutes trying to convince himself somebody had sent him an early birthday card — okay, maybe an early birthday booklet — sighed, and carefully pried up the lightly sealed flap.

  It was indeed a small, black notebook, the sort some people carried around in their pockets or purses to jot down phone numbers or whatever. Justin handled it carefully by the edges, even though his instincts and training told him the polished surface was polished for a reason and would yield no fingerprints whatsoever. Inside, a number of the lined pages contained notes. Two initials at the top of each page, followed by what looked like a list of dates and dollar amounts.

  The dates on each page were spaced no less than a month apart, with some only every three or four months, and at least one page contained only two dates, more than six months apart.

  He was no expert, but the spiky handwriting — different from the block-printing on the envelope — looked familiar. It looked like George Caldwell's handwriting.

  Frowning, Justin pulled out his own notebook and made a careful list of all the dates, in chronological order. What he ended up with was a date for almost every month spanning the past three years. And when he compared the dates to earlier notes he had made, he was grimly unsurprised to find that they matched the dates of the regular deposits into one of Caldwell's bank accounts.

  Those unexplained deposits.

  That unexplained income.

  "Blackmail," Justin muttered under his breath. It was possible. Maybe more
than possible. Every one of the dead men had led a double life, a secret life, their crimes and sins hidden until their deaths had exposed those dark truths.

  It appeared that someone had become impatient with Justin's failure to uncover George Caldwell's nasty little secret and had decided to help the investigation himself. Or herself.

  One of the blackmail victims?

  The killer?

  And if either, why give the book to him? Why hand evidence like this over to a detective investigating the murder of George Caldwell? To ensure justice?

  Or something else?

  Justin looked at the initials that headed each page. Each, presumably, represented a name. Most were unfamiliar to him, or at least suggested no one he knew. Two did suggest names that he knew, or thought he knew.

  M.T. — Max Tanner?

  And E.C. — Ethan Cole?

  "Ah, shit," Justin muttered.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Max hadn't planned on following Nell around all day. He really hadn't. And after her cool dismissal at the cafe, seeking her out again should have been the last thing on his mind. But he found himself hanging around where he could watch her Jeep, and when she left town a few minutes later, he followed her at a discreet distance until she turned off into the driveway of the old Gallagher house.

  It was late afternoon by then, and he had a dozen things that needed doing at the ranch, but even though he went back home and tried to concentrate on his work, he found his mind wandering again and again. An uneasy sense that he needed to be somewhere else nagged at him.

  It had happened before, years ago, an urge he hadn't heeded — something he would forever regret. And it had happened again recently when he'd felt driven to saddle his horse and head toward Gallagher land, discovering Nell in the middle of the woods and in the middle of one of those "visions" of hers that left her frighteningly vulnerable.

  He had almost forgotten how unsettling they were, those episodes of hers. She was physically there, eyes open, breathing — but somewhere else as well. Somewhere no one else could follow. And wherever it was, either the effort of getting there or simply what she saw left her pale and shaking.

  She had told him once, hesitantly, that she had no control over what happened to her and had no idea what it was that triggered the episodes — but what she saw during them was invariably something that frightened her. When he had pressed her for details all those years ago, she had said only that "some places remember" what had happened in them — or would happen.

  It had made no sense to him then. It still didn't.

  But whatever he felt about her peculiar abilities, it didn't change his uneasiness and anxiety now. There was someplace he needed to be, and it wasn't here at the ranch. As a mild spring night fell, that restless urge to be somewhere else, to do something, was driving him crazy. He resisted as long as he could, but the feelings just kept intensifying until he couldn't ignore them any longer.

  And he was only mildly surprised when his truck rounded the curve near the Gallagher driveway, to see Nell's Jeep pulling out onto the road.

  Eight P.M. Where was she going?

  In just a few minutes, it became obvious she was heading away from Silence; she took the new highway and headed south, in the general direction of New Orleans.

  Max followed cautiously, not even bothering to find reasonable excuses for what he was doing. There weren't any. There was nothing in the least reasonable about any of this, and he damned well knew it.

  Traffic wasn't especially heavy on this Thursday evening, so Max stayed back as far as he dared without losing sight of the taillights of Nell's Jeep. Which is why he nearly missed it when she took an off-ramp about a dozen miles from Silence.

  Forced to close the distance between them or risk losing her in the darkness, Max followed her for several miles along a winding country road until she pulled off at a small and distinctly seedy motel where, the sign proclaimed, rooms were for rent at an hourly as well as nightly rate. Since only two cars were parked in front of two of the units, it appeared business wasn't exactly booming.

  Whatever Max had expected, it wasn't this.

  He cut his lights and pulled a little past the turnoff, watching as her Jeep bypassed the flickering neon sign indicating the office and went directly to the last unit at the end of the building. She parked in front, got out, and apparently used a key to let herself into unit number ten.

  Max watched a dim light come on inside the room. The curtains were drawn, so it was impossible to see what was going on in there. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, frowning, then swore under his breath and turned his own truck back toward the motel.

  He parked off to the side and crept toward the unit on foot, being very careful not to give away his approach with the slightest sound.

  Not careful enough.

  He heard a click he recognized and froze even before he felt the cold steel of a gun barrel against his neck.

  "See, what I don't get is why you'd want to spend most of a day and night following me all over the place." Nell moved around where he could see her but kept the gun pointed at him. It was a big gun; and she held it with expert ease.

  All he could think to say was, "How'd you get out here? I've been watching the door."

  "Window in back." Nell took another step, then gestured with the gun toward the unit's door. "Shall we?"

  Max went ahead of her, half afraid of what might await them in the room. What met his searching gaze inside was merely a cheap motel room, the one bed sagging in the middle beside a scarred nightstand, small TV bolted to the shabby dresser on the other side of the room, and the open bathroom door showing him that the tiny room was bare of any threat.

  Nell shut the door behind them, then went to lean against the dresser. She still held the gun, though no longer pointed it at him. "Let's hear it, Max. Why've you been following me around all day today?"

  "You going to explain that gun?"

  She shrugged, smiling just a little. "A woman alone has to be careful. Your turn."

  "Maybe I don't have anything better to do than follow you around."

  "I remember enough about ranching to know that's a lie. You've got more than enough to do. Try again, Max."

  He really didn't want to confess the truth, but something about her eyes and that little smile she wore warned him to take both her and that gun she was holding with such seeming negligence very seriously. "I was worried," he said finally. "I thought somebody should keep an eye on you."

  "Why?"

  "People are dying, remember?"

  "Not good enough. Men are dying, four in eight months. And even if women became targets, what makes you so sure I'd be one of them? I've been gone for twelve years, only back here a few days, and only to take care of a little business before leaving again. I'm just passing through. So why would anyone want to kill me?"

  "You said yourself someone had questioned your fitness to inherit the estate."

  "Yeah, but nobody's challenged me legally, and the will's through probate. I inherit. And I have a will, which now takes precedence. So if anybody's after any of the property, killing me won't get it for them."

  "The killer doesn't necessarily know that," Max pointed out.

  "I'd think he'd make sure before getting rid of me. And since I told Wade Keever about my will today, I imagine most of Silence will know by, say, tomorrow afternoon. Sooner, if somebody buys him drinks tonight."

  She paused a moment, her green eyes steady on his face, then said, "Besides, this killer doesn't seem to be acting for personal gain. No, whatever your reasons for following me around, they don't include concern about the disposition of my father's estate. So I'd like to know what those reasons are, Max. And the truth would be nice."

  "I told you the truth. I was worried about you."

  "Then tell me why."

  He hesitated, then drew in a breath and let it out roughly. "Because you're a threat to the killer, Nell. And I'm not sure how many people know
that."

  Anyone who had ever lived in a small town — especially a small Southern town — would probably be quick to admit that skulking around at night for any reason wasn't the easiest thing in the world. There were lots of streetlights, for one thing, and people tended to leave their porch lights on as well.

  Welcome, neighbor. Come on in and kill me.

  She shook her head as she stood back from a too-lighted area at the edge of downtown Silence and warily watched the passing traffic. For a nervous town, there were sure as hell a lot of people out doing things on a weeknight.

  Human nature, of course. No matter how nervous they might feel, most people simply never expected the really bad things to happen to them.

  Until they did.

  Hearing footsteps, she immediately withdrew deeper into the shadows and watched a young couple as they walked past her, holding hands. Oblivious to any possible threat.

  Conscious of the gun tucked at the small of her back, she shifted her weight and breathed a sigh. Just because only men had been victims so far didn't mean the women of this town were safe, but none of them seemed to realize that. There needed to be a curfew at the very least —

  All her senses flared suddenly, and she went perfectly still. Waiting. The traffic noises faded, and she no longer smelled exhaust fumes on the damp breeze. The harsh brightness of the streetlights seemed to dim everywhere — except a block away, where a lone man walked, shoulders hunched and hands in his pockets. As he passed beneath each streetlight, it seemed to brighten, almost as if a spotlight followed him.

  She smiled unconsciously, her gaze intent on him. The damp breeze brought her now the scent of his cologne. He was wearing Polo. She could almost feel the faint tremors of the earth beneath her feet as he walked.

  Or maybe that was her own heartbeat.

  She watched him walk toward her. His head was bent, and he was obviously deep in thought. Oblivious. She unconsciously shook her head. Bad to be so wrapped up in thought that you left yourself vulnerable. Worse to do that when living in a town where nice, seemingly respectable men were ending up in the morgue.