Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2) (18 page)

Elliot knelt and looked beneath the marble slab, where he saw a piece of cardboard taped to the underside. He peeled away the tape and removed the item, and when he stood, he saw that he held what must have been directions for the construction crew.

“What do you have there?” the manager asked.

Elliot gave the paper to him, then walked to the window and pushed the curtains aside and gazed through the glass. Seconds later, it dawned on him that he should check the bed. He turned around and pulled the comforter and sheets back, then ran his hand between the thick, plush mattress and the box spring. It was as clean as it was luxurious. He thought of Cyndi. She, too, looked like she belonged in such a place.

The manager checked his watch. “Will there be anything else?” he asked.

Again Elliot had to drag his thoughts back to the present. “No,” he said. As he walked out of the room and took the elevator down, he wondered if this case was destined to be unsolved.

When he reached the lobby, he started across the floor. Before reaching the exit he noticed someone sitting in one of the lobby chairs who hadn’t been there when he’d come in. Elliot paused for a moment. Something about the man’s build looked familiar, though he had his face buried behind a newspaper.

An idea occurred to Elliot. He turned back and went to the front desk. “Excuse me,” he said. “Are there any messages for Mr. Llewellyn, or did anyone leave anything for him?”

“Just a moment,” the clerk said.

He finished with a customer then turned to Elliot. “Now, what were you asking?”

“Jim Llewellyn. Did anyone leave anything for him?”

The clerk glanced at the manger. Again the manager frowned, but nodded his approval. The clerk disappeared for a moment. When he returned, he handed Elliot a yellow writing tablet. Elliot glanced at the clerk then to the manager. “That’s it?”

“Yes, sir,” the clerk said.

The tablet appeared unused. Elliot leafed through the pages, finding each of them blank, nothing scribbled upon them, until he reached the last one. But as he scanned the words written there, another thought vied for his attention. He wondered who the man in the lobby might be. He lowered the tablet, just in time to see the man push through the exit door.

Glancing at the clerk and the manager, Elliot held the tablet in the air. “Thanks,” he said. He turned and walked briskly across the lobby, then opened the door and stepped outside. The stranger was gone. But Elliot knew what was happening. The way the man hid his face, his taking off when Elliot noticed him, all seemed to indicate one thing. He was being followed.

Elliot headed for the parking lot. This thing just kept growing, and he was feeling more helpless all the time. When he reached his car, he reached for his phone. Knowing he shouldn’t, but unable to stop himself, he called Cyndi.

She said she’d been about to call him, too. They agreed to meet at Utica Square.

Elliot pulled into the shopping center expecting to see Cyndi waiting in her Mercedes in the parking lot, but instead he saw her standing in front of Margo’s, a classy gift shop. When he joined her on the sidewalk, she held her arms out and gave him a hug. Pulling back, she said, “Thanks for coming.” Then she slid her arm around his waist. “Let’s walk.”

When Elliot returned the gesture, putting his arm around her as well, she laid her head against his shoulder. He tried to savor the moment through the churning of his stomach. “After our little chat in the park, I’m not sure where I stand.”

“Where do you want to stand?”

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

She pulled closer as they crossed the lot, making their way toward 21st Street. “Dinner’s on me tonight, at McGill’s,” she said, “but first I need to ask you something.”

Elliot shrugged. “What’s on your mind?”

Cyndi stopped walking and tugged at Elliot to do the same. When he complied, she stared at him. “Why do you want to be with me?”

Elliot looked around. They were in front of Pepper’s Grill. If the season had been spring, or summer, people would have been sitting at the outside tables, and several of them would’ve stopped eating long enough to eavesdrop on their conversation. But it was cold and everyone was inside, leaving them alone in the silence. “Because I like you,” he said. His answer was simple, but it was the truth.

Cyndi’s eyes darted back and forth, searching Elliot’s face. “You find me attractive, is that it?”

“There’s a little more to it than that.”

“If I looked different, would you still be attracted to me?”

He cupped her cheek in his hand for a moment. “There’s so much more to you than just your looks. You know I would.”

She smiled hesitantly. “All right, but if this is some kind of look-at-me, look-what-I’ve-got kind of thing, you can forget it.”

Elliot wondered why she would feel so uncertain about the depth of emotion she instilled in him. He shook his head. “I take my relationships seriously. I would never treat you like that.”

“I feel the same way,” she said. “And if I like someone, I play for keeps. Does that scare you?”

Elliot shook his head again. It scared him a lot, but in a thrilling way. He wasn’t sure what to say, though on some level he must have known because the words came out. “I want to be with you, Cyndi. And I cannot imagine my ever not wanting that.”

Her face softened as she smiled. “I hope I didn’t frighten you too much. I knew you’d pass the test.”

“The test?” Part of him bristled.

She shrugged. “I’ve been hurt too many times. Aren’t you going to kiss your girl?”

“Are you my girl?” Or was he still under evaluation?

“Isn’t that what you want?”

Elliot ran his hand across Cyndi’s cheek, then slid it behind her neck and gently pulled her toward him. He couldn’t judge her for trying to protect herself from being hurt. “It is,” he said. “It most definitely is.”

She tiptoed and their lips came together, and even though Elliot had thought their kiss in the park could not be outdone, she proved him wrong. At that moment Elliot lost all anger he’d held for Michael Cunningham, and he felt sorry for him.

The restaurant was a bit of a walk, but Elliot didn’t mind. He felt like he could walk a thousand miles with Cyndi by his side.

They stopped at McGills, an upscale steak-and-seafood place about a block from the square. Even before seeing the car Cyndi drove, Elliot had suspected she came from money. In this setting, with the smell of well-prepared food wafting through the air, and the dim light sparkling from her diamonds, there was little doubt in his mind. As soon as the waiter took their order, Cyndi stood. She touched Elliot’s shoulder and brushed past him, saying that she would be right back, then headed for the interior of the restaurant.

Elliot used the time to call the department. The captain wasn’t in, but Dombrowski was. Elliot brought the phone closer to his ear to overcome the slight buzz of the restaurant. “I want to bounce something off you,” he said, “see what you think.”

“All right.”

“I’m going to need more time on the case.”

“You heard what the captain said.”

“I know, but there’ve been some new developments.”

Dombrowski was silent for a moment. Finally he said, “You know the captain once he makes up his mind. I wouldn’t count on anything.”

Elliot put a hand in his jacket pocket and fingered the business card Snub had given him. “I ID’d our John Doe.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No. His name’s Jim Llewellyn, a freelance writer from Florida.”

“Are you sure?”

The business card, along with the physical description given by Llewellyn’s former editor, went way beyond a gut feeling. “It’s him, all right.”

“What was he doing in Tulsa?”

Elliot watched a couple walk past his table. “Working on a project for a magazine.”

“That should give you some leads.”

“Yeah,” Elliot said, “you would think, but the editor didn’t know what exactly Llewellyn was working on.”

“So it’s a dead end?”

“Not completely. Llewellyn left some notes at the hotel where he was staying, something he’d labeled the Stone Family Project. It’s not much, just a couple of contacts. A Jerry Sinclair, who he was supposed to meet at a bar called Cymry’s, except I don’t think he ever showed. Llewellyn left with the prostitute instead.”

“What about the other one?”

Elliot heard a noise, and as someone touched his shoulder he turned to see that Cyndi had returned. The look on her face said she wasn’t happy about the phone call. He’d have to cut it short. “Llewellyn had an appointment the next day with Gary Sullivan, a psychologist. He works out of an office in Tulsa, but he wasn’t in. Apparently he only comes in two days a week. But he runs a sideline business out of his home in Donegal. Look, I’m kind of busy right now. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Are you with . . . ?”

“You could say that.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, kid.”

“That makes two of us,” Elliot said. But before he could put the phone away, Cyndi intercepted it. With a smirk, she pressed the OFF button and waited until she was sure the phone was out of commission.

“You need to learn to relax,” she said. “Let go of your daytime world and enjoy the evening.”

After dinner, Elliot had walked Cyndi home. She lived in the Yorktown condominiums across from the square. He was out of his league all right.

When Elliot pulled into his driveway that night, he noticed someone sitting in a car parked at the curbside in front of the house. He considered approaching the vehicle’s occupant, but figured it could be anybody, and decided to wait. He drove into the garage and closed the door.

Once inside, Elliot left the lights off in the living area, then made his way to the bedroom, turning the lights on in that part of the house to attract attention away from the living room. With that done, he went back to the living room, keeping out of the line of sight of the car, and peered through the window. The car was still there. Elliot edged out of the room then went through the kitchen and breakfast nook until he reached the back of the house. When he reached the door leading to the backyard, he slid it open and stepped outside, thankful that Colorado the barking beagle was still at Joey’s place.

Elliot walked along the east side of the house and stopped at the gate. Between the boards of the stockade fence, he could see a silhouette in the car, but it was too dark to make out who it was. He closed his hand around the gate handle and slowly depressed the latch, gently pushing the gate open at the same time.

The stranger didn’t seem to hear the gate as it scraped lightly against the ground, and Elliot was sure he could get close enough to identify him without being seen. Just as Elliot got the gate open, a weight smacked the backs of his knees, and Colorado, apparently no longer at Joey’s house, began to bellow.

Elliot ran toward the car, but the driver had been alerted. He started the car and took off, speeding halfway down the block before turning on his lights. Elliot didn’t get the tag number, but he did hear something clank to the asphalt as the car drove away. There would be no use in trying to follow the guy. By the time he got his car out, the lurker would be miles away.

Elliot stepped into the street and walked along the south-side curb until he came upon the object that had fallen from the vehicle. He reached down and picked it up: a parabolic antenna with earphones attached. It was a listening device. They weren’t that hard to get. Anyone with an Internet connection could have one in a matter of days.

As Elliot walked back to his house, he wondered who the eavesdropper might have been. A lot of names came to mind—Wistrom, Holsted, Snub the bartender. They all had connections to the case. The question was: Why was he being followed? And why was listening in on Elliot’s conversations important enough to risk his tail’s being discovered?

Chapter Twenty-Three

Psychologist Gary Sullivan pushed away from his desk, got up, and went into the library, where he poured himself a glass of Merlot. It’d been a long day. Frank McKinley’s boy, Danny, had opened up, begun to talk about his involvement with Reverend Coronet. The reverend’s handiwork snaked through the town like a disease. But he would undo some of it, if he could. He slid a Dvorak CD into the sound system, then sat down in the leather chair beside the fireplace. The fire was dwindling. He thought about adding another log, but it had burned throughout the day and there was enough residual heat left in the room to be comfortable.

He closed his eyes, hoping the combined effect of wine and music would help him unwind. Drawing deep, diaphragmatic breaths, he guided his thoughts to a place of soothing nothingness.

Somewhere in the background he heard a sound that didn’t belong, a doorbell ringing. Setting the wine on the table, he opened his eyes and forced himself out of the chair. He suspected it was McKinley who’d dropped by to ask about Danny. He’d so much as said that he would, in his roundabout way.

Sullivan flipped on the outside light and peeked through the curtain, giving the stranger a once-over. Whoever it was didn’t look much like McKinley. He hesitated, but he unlocked the door and pulled it open. Frigid air swirled around his ankles. “Can I help you?” he asked.

The stranger wore a coat with a hood, which he had pulled over his head against the weather. He wasn’t a big fellow, but rather slender, Sullivan guessed. It was difficult to tell with all of the clothing he wore. “I was hoping to talk with you,” the stranger said. “It’s cold. Can I come in?”

The little fellow certainly didn’t look threatening. And it was cold. He nodded and stepped aside.

Once the visitor was in, Sullivan closed the door and offered to take his coat, which he promptly removed and handed over. The hood, Sullivan saw now, was attached to a sweatshirt. This the man did not want to surrender. “I’ve been out for a while,” he said. “I’m chilled to the bone.”

“Of course,” Sullivan said. The visitor had a problem and he sought Sullivan’s help. He asked him to follow him into the library. The library had been an extension of the office at one time, occupying the same large room, until he had the wall and French doors installed.