The Night Is Deep (A Liam Dempsey Thriller Book 2) Page 4

  “But this could be him.”

  “Which is exactly why you need to stay here until we have this sorted out. The moment we know something, we’ll contact you.”

  Owen began to speak but Perring and Sanders left the room with the officer, and a moment later they heard the sound of several engines roaring away along with the wail of a siren. Owen stared at the entryway and jerked when Liam placed a hand on his back.

  “I know you want to be there, but there’s nothing saying that this is our guy. We need to sit tight. Perring’s good, she’ll handle this,” Liam said. Owen nodded and shot a look at Webb who had risen to refill his glass.

  “I’ve never felt so helpless.” Owen rubbed the stubble on the side of his face. “Not even when Val . . .”

  “When Val what?”

  The other man lowered his voice. “When Val tried to kill herself four years ago.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “It’s not something we wanted to broadcast. It was more of a cry for help than anything else. She swallowed half a bottle of muscle relaxants one afternoon when I was at work. I found her passed out in our room. I got her to the hospital and they pumped her stomach in time. She told me when she woke up that it was getting too hard to go on the way she was.”

  “Was she seeing a therapist?”

  “Yeah. For a while he came to the house, but slowly Val couldn’t stand to have anyone here besides me or her dad. After that they switched to phone consultations four times a week. He was the one that had prescribed the relaxants to help her sleep, along with two or three other kinds of antidepressants and anxiety meds. When she had her . . . incident, he changed her prescriptions and she seemed to get better. I didn’t let her out of my sight for a week afterwards. I was terrified she’d try it again.” Owen glanced out of the window at the white-capped lake. “But now is worse, so much worse.”

  “Do you have a picture of Val, maybe with Alexandra?” Liam asked.

  “Yeah, she has everything of Alexandra’s that she kept in her office upstairs.”

  “Show me.”

  Owen frowned, glancing at Webb who had refilled his glass and wandered into the dining room. He motioned in the opposite direction and led Liam out of the living room, away from the command post, and into a hallway that ran the width of the house opening onto other spacious rooms decorated with a practiced hand. At the far end of the hall, they climbed a set of stairs to the second floor and passed two closed doors before Owen entered a dormered room with birch flooring. A single window looked out over the lake and below that a glass-topped desk held two laptops along with a desktop computer. A vase of wilted roses sat on the desk’s corner, dropping a circle of petals around it like dollops of dried blood.

  “She didn’t keep much after Alexandra died: her diary, some of her perfume, pictures, and a couple of T-shirts,” Owen said, walking toward a short set of doors set into the wall beside the desk. “Truth be told that was all she could save before Caulston had almost all her belongings hauled away. He said he couldn’t stand to see Alexandra’s face everywhere and in everything.” Owen opened the doors and drew out a cloth-lined wicker box. He set it on the desk.

  Two T-shirts, one tie-dyed and the other white with an abstract drawing of a horse on its front, lay on top. Beneath them was a bottle of perfume, almost completely empty, a paperback copy of collected Robert Frost poems, a neon pink diary with a swooping embroidered design across its front, and at the very bottom a well-worn envelope. Liam drew out the diary first, setting it aside before thumbing open the envelope, exposing a dozen glossy photographs. Most were of a young woman at different ages, her face cherubic and smiling, with a missing bottom, front tooth in the first and slowly progressing through the years. The very last photo was of Valerie and the little girl, now nearly grown. They were carbon copies of one another; blond hair, long and styled to the side, their eyes dancing blue above identical smiles. The only discernible difference was in Valerie’s gaze. It told of experience beyond her years, a dull worrying like that of a stone exposed to millennia of moving water. In the picture their arms were around one another and they sat on a bench with greening grass and budding trees in the background. They were both beautiful and so bursting with life, he thought he could almost hear their intermingled laughter.

  “They look like twins,” Liam said.

  “They were only a year apart,” Owen said, lowering himself into the office chair like a man twice his age. “They probably could have passed as twins Alexandra’s senior year. That picture was taken right before her graduation, in the park down the street. I only knew her a little since Val and I ran in the same circles in high school, but didn’t start dating until college. She was a sweet girl. It was the one thing Val could talk about without getting bound up. She would tell a story about Alexandra and laugh the whole time until she got to the end.” Owen blinked and his eyes glazed. “I wish I could’ve gotten to know her.”

  “Do you mind if I keep this for now?” Liam asked, holding up the picture.

  “No, go ahead. What do you want it for?”

  “It might come in handy.” He picked up Alexandra’s diary and opened the simple, brass lock on the cover. Inside were numbered pages highlighted with a date at the top of each entry. The script was generous and looping with an elegant lean to the letters. She had dotted each and every lowercase i with a heart.

  “I’d find Val reading that a lot,” Owen said. “I didn’t know if it was healthy or not, so I asked her therapist about it and he said if it wasn’t causing a disturbance in her mood then to let it go. He thought maybe it was a way of coming to terms with the loss.”

  “Death’s a cheat. You don’t come to terms with it.” Liam glanced at his friend, saw him wince. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “We’re going to find her, Owen, you know that, right?”

  “But will she . . .”

  “We’re going to find her alive and safe, you got me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now I do need to ask you, were you drinking last night?”

  Owen frowned. “I may have had one. Why?”

  “Just one?”

  “Maybe two. Don’t think for a second I don’t remember what really happened, I can’t get it out of my head.”

  “I believe you. Keep it under wraps today, all right? I was serious downstairs. Val is going to need you in good condition.” Owen looked as if he were going to say something, but only nodded. “Now, can you call Val’s therapist and have him drop by sometime today?”

  “Sure. You think this has something to do with her treatment?”

  “I don’t know. But I want to get as clear a picture as I can.”

  “Okay, I’ll call him in a minute.” Owen stood, looking out at the lake, which had lost all its color since Liam had arrived. It was an indifferent gray now, matching the sky above. “Thank you for coming. You don’t know how much it means to me.”

  “You’re welcome. You helped me out a lot back in the academy.”

  Owen waved his hand dismissively. “It was nothing.”

  “It was something to me.”

  “You were one of the first people I thought of when I realized she was gone. You’re the best investigator I’ve ever met. You being here is a whole lot different than lending you some cash for your car payment.”

  “Like I said, I’ll do everything I can to help.”

  The two men moved out of the office and Liam paused in the hallway where a frame containing three pictures hung. The first was a snapshot of Owen and Valerie on their wedding day. They were on a small dance floor holding one another close, the lights low around them. The second was the two of them sitting on the rear deck of the house Liam stood in now. The couple’s hands were linked between their chairs, their eyes looking past the photographer out at the lake. The third was the most recent. Owen was seated at the end of the dining-room table that was now holding multiple computers and sophisticated electronics, hi
s hand gripping a glass of wine. He was staring at Val who looked directly into the camera, a faraway quality to her eyes. She barely looked five years older than the version Liam had in his pocket, definitely not sixteen.

  “I’m going to take a quick ride,” Liam said, continuing down the hall to the stairs. “Call my cell and let me know when Val’s therapist can stop over.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to shake the past a little and see if anything falls out.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Liam turned off the paved highway onto the county road, gravel crunching beneath the truck’s tires.

  The sun was only a shining gray circle behind the clouds and the fall colors had dimmed. The wind spun discarded leaves into the air like a playful child and the breeze smelled of smoke and shifting seasons. Instead of the day warming, the temperature had fallen, forcing him to turn on the truck’s heater for the first time since April. He shivered, sipping at the dregs of his cold coffee and watched for the address he’d pulled from the Internet.

  The mailbox he was looking for appeared after he’d crested a gentle hill overlooking a pond skimmed with ice. The house number stuck out at a broken angle from the side of a narrow drive trailing into a stand of oaks twisted with time. A layer of gold leaves paved the trail through the property and he let the truck idle most of the way in. When the house appeared after the second turn in the drive, his jaw tightened.

  It looked more like a junkyard than a home. The yard was dotted with wrecked vehicles and piles of scrap iron. Rotted lumber leaned in a towering heap toward the north end of the property and in the clear spaces, dried weeds poked up in solitary stalks like survivors in some apocalyptic wasteland. The house itself was two stories, its paint faded from a vital blue to milky gray. Scrawls of graffiti ran in tattooed lines across every available surface, racial slurs colliding with curses intertwined with threats. The upper windows were boarded up and two slats of siding hung askew revealing tattered plastic sheeting beneath.

  Liam pulled the truck up behind a rusted Ford flatbed and an old but clean Volkswagen Bug. He shut the engine off and climbed out to a series of barks coming from the muscular hunch of a pit bull that stood on the porch steps, white canines catching the cold light.

  “Hey buddy, you’re okay. You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” The dog responded with a growl that could have come from a diesel engine. “You wanna bite me, don’t you?” Liam said in the same soothing voice. The dog cocked its head and licked its chops before settling onto its haunches. A moment later the front door eased open and an aging black woman in hospital scrubs stepped onto the porch. She was heavyset but moved easily, her sneakered feet creaking on the old boards beneath them. Her face was lined around the eyes and mouth, suggesting more scowls than smiles.

  “Good morning,” Liam said.

  “We already had our visit from the police for today, you can get yourself right back in that truck and head on out.” Her voice was clear and strong without a hint of hesitation or fear.

  “I’m not a police officer.”

  “Well detective then. I don’t care what you call yourself. We’ve dealt enough with you people. You want to make yourself useful, how about you find who put the latest paint on the side of my house.”

  “Actually ma’am I’m a police consultant, I have no jurisdiction here. I only wanted a few words with Dickson if he’s home.”

  She studied him then motioned to her dog. “If you aren’t a cop then what’s stopping me from sending Fletcher here down to take a piece out of your hide?”

  “Nothing. Only he’d be very disappointed with the taste. I’ve been told I’m stubborn and would assume that would make me tough and gamey.” He waited, ready to run if she sicced the dog on him. A flutter of something came and went in her dark eyes and she screwed up her mouth as if she were thinking.

  “I guess it wouldn’t do much good. Damn dog doesn’t listen to me anyway. What’s your name?”

  “Liam Dempsey.”

  “Wow, could you get much more Irish?”

  “I try every year on St. Paddy’s day.”

  Another flutter. Amusement. “My name’s Tanya. I’m leaving for work but Dickson’s inside. I’ll hold you to your word that you only want to talk to my son, Liam, otherwise I’ll be calling the police.”

  “Just a few questions, that’s all.”

  “You’re trying to find that woman, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  Tanya glanced from him to the steely sky and then at her overrun yard. She studied it as if seeing it for the first time before looking at him again.

  “It’s like a curse or something,” she finally said. He didn’t know how to respond so he said nothing. “Fletcher won’t bite you, but I can’t promise anything about Dickson.”

  Without another word she rubbed the dog’s head and strode down the stairs to the Volkswagen and climbed inside. When she’d backed around his truck and disappeared down the driveway, Liam approached the house. Tanya was right. When he reached the top of the steps, Fletcher began to wag his tail and pant, first smelling, then nuzzling at Liam’s hand. He scratched the dog’s brindled hide.

  “I am the dog whisperer.”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Liam stood up, facing the man standing inside the screen door. Dickson had lighter skin than his mother but they shared the same eyes. He had a handsome face with a prominent jawline although a harsh growth of whiskers partially obscured it. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt and even though a formidable paunch protruded before him, the set of his shoulders and muscled chest told Liam that at one time the man had been a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps still was.

  “My name is Liam Dempsey, I—”

  “Yeah I heard you talking to my mother.”

  “Then you know I’m here regarding the disappearance of Valerie Farrow.”

  “I already told that cop who was here this morning that I didn’t have anything to do with that. I was at the bar last night ’til closing. Go talk to Jim down there and he’ll tell you the same.”

  “I believe you.”

  Dickson appraised him. “Then why are you here?”

  “I was hoping you could answer some questions about Alexandra.”

  “Man, you’re about sixteen years too late. I answered all the questions I’m ever going to answer about her.” Dickson began to shut the door.

  “If you could save her sister’s life, would you?”

  The door stopped. Dickson glared at him, his gaze flicking to him, then to the floor. He let the door swing wide before pushing the screen door open, holding it for Liam.

  “Thank you,” Liam said, stepping inside.

  Dickson walked away from him down a narrow hallway and into a kitchen, his strides smooth and powerful. There were echoes of athleticism in his gait, possibly the remaining effects of a stern football regimen. Liam glanced around as he followed him farther down the hall. The house was the exact opposite of its exterior. The walls were a warm yellow with white trim. The floors were clean, and when he entered the kitchen the air of order remained, everything in its place. Dickson stood behind a breakfast counter and pulled two coffee cups from a cupboard before filling them from a steaming pot.

  “We’re out of cream,” Dickson said, motioning toward a round table beside a window that looked out into a backyard that was even more cluttered than the front. Liam sat and accepted the cup of coffee as Dickson drew out a chair opposite him and settled into it. Liam sipped the scalding drink and watched the other man through the steam that rose from his cup.

  “You read my file?” Dickson finally said.

  “No.”

  “Bullshit. All you cops read the files before you come out here.”

  “Like I said, I’m not a cop.”

  “Yeah. Consultant, right? You were a cop. I know that just by how your eyes move. So what’d you fuck up? Steel some meth from the evidence locker? Fuck the chief’s wife?”

&
nbsp; “I killed a pregnant woman and her unborn child.” Liam let the words roll out naturally even as they tried to constrict his throat. A bead of sweat formed on his temple.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Why would I make something like that up?”

  Dickson shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first cop that made some shit up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’m acquainted with your tactics.”

  “You’re referring to Alexandra’s death.”

  There was a hesitation before Dickson spoke again, a softening of his eyes.

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “It might matter a lot.”

  “No one seemed to care before.”

  “Try me.”

  Dickson sighed and rubbed the beginnings of a beard.

  “When she died they came right to me. First thing. No witnesses, no DNA, nothing, but they still came right to my door. They told me straight off that they had me at that church the night she died, that I should just come clean and confess to throwing her off the tower.”

  “That’s a common interrogation tactic.”

  “Yeah? How about threatening to burn down your house if you don’t tell them what they want to hear?”

  “What?”

  “The two detectives that came here were real hard-asses. Tossed me around a little, slapped the cuffs on me, that type of thing. But then they started saying that it would be so easy for a place like this to burn down if I didn’t confess to having something to do with her death. They said that maybe it would happen in the middle of the night and my mom wouldn’t wake up and get out of the house in time.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Why would I make something like that up?” Dickson smiled without humor. “Of course it didn’t happen because they had nothing on me. Alex killed herself but they still tried to pin it on me somehow. I know the threat to set fire to our house came down from the top, right from the chief. Old man Webb needed to lay his guilt and grief somewhere and who better than the poor black boy that was dating his rich, white daughter. He just couldn’t get over the fact that she’d done it.”