Hello, Darkness (6 page)

His dad paused and looked at him hard, probably hoping he would ask what that one thing was. He could wait till hell froze over. Finally he said, “It’s right that you’re living with me now. I’m glad you are. I want you here with me.”

“Right. I’m sure you’re just thrilled over the new living arrangements. You love having me around, cramping your style, getting in the way.”

“In the way? Of what?”

“Of everything.” The exclamation caused his voice to crack. He hoped his dad didn’t mistake it for emotion, which it sure as hell wasn’t. “I’m in the way of your life. Your new job. Liz.”

“You’re not in the way, Gavin. You’re my family, my son. Liz and I wanted you with us tonight.”

He scoffed. “For a cozy dinner? Just the three of us. Your new family. Then what? What was I supposed to do when you took her home? Wait in the car while you went inside for a quick blow job?”

He knew instantly that he’d gone too far. His dad wasn’t one to fly off the handle when he got angry. He didn’t lose his temper, rant and rave, stomp around, yell, or throw things. Instead, Mr. Self-control went very still. His lips narrowed and something funny happened to his eyes that made them seem to harden and sharpen and go right through you like steel picks.

But apparently there was a limit to his old man’s restraint, and he’d just reached it.

Before he had even processed all this, his father was on his feet, and he was on the receiving end of a backhanded smack that caught him hard across the mouth and split his lip.

“You don’t want to be treated like a kid? Fine. I’ll treat you like an adult. That’s what I would have done to any grown man who said something like that to me.”

Gavin struggled to hold back tears. “I hate you.”

“Well, too bad. You’re stuck with me.” He went out, soundly pulling the door shut behind him.

Gavin launched himself out of the chair. He stood in the center of his messy room, bristling with anger and frustration. But realizing he had nowhere to run, and no means of running if he had somewhere to go, he threw himself onto his bed.

He made swipes at the snot, tears, and blood that had mingled on his face. He felt like blubbering. He wanted to draw himself into the fetal position and cry like a baby. Because his life sucked. All of it. He hated everything and everybody. His dad. His mom. The city ofAustin . Women. His stupid friends. His ugly car.

Most of all he hated himself.

Chapter Six

W
ithout making it too obvious, Sergeant Robert Curtis was trying to see past the dark lenses of her sunglasses. Catching himself staring, he hastily held a chair for her. “Forgive my lack of manners, Ms. Gibson. I’ll admit to being a little starstruck. Have a seat. Can I get you some coffee?”

“I’m fine, thanks. And I’m hardly a star.”

“I beg to differ.”

Curtis was a detective for the Austin Police Department’s Central Investigative Bureau. He was fiftyish, compactly built, and neatly turned out, down to a polished pair of cowboy boots, the heels of which added a couple of inches to his stature. Although he was still no taller than she, he gave off an air of authority and confidence. A sport jacket was hanging on a coat tree, but his necktie was tightly knotted beneath a starched collar. His cuffs were monogrammed with his initials.

On the walls of the small enclosure were a detailed map of the state, another ofTravisCounty , and a framed diploma. The built-in desk was nearly completely covered with paperwork and computer components, but somehow avoided looking messy.

Curtis sat down at his desk and smiled at her. “It’s not every morning of the week I get visited by a radio personality. What can I do for you?”

“I’m not sure you can do anything.”

Now that she was here, ensconced with a detective in his compact cubicle where he doubtless worked long hours, serving the public by snaring felons, she was second-guessing her decision to come.

Things that happened at two o’clock in the morning took on a different complexion in daylight. Suddenly, coming here seemed like a melodramatic and somewhat self-centered reaction to what probably amounted to a crank phone call.

“I called in a 911 last night,” she began. “Actually early this morning. Two patrolmen, Griggs and Carson, responded. I have a case number for your reference.” She gave him the number that Griggs had left with her.

“What kind of 911, Ms. Gibson?”

She gave him an account of what had happened. He listened attentively. His expression remained open and concerned. He didn’t fidget as though she were wasting his time on something trivial. If he was faking his interest, he did it very well.

When she finished, she removed a cassette tape from her handbag and passed it to him. “I went to the station early this morning and made a copy of the call.”

Insomnia had claimed her until dawn, when she finally surrendered to it. She got up, showered and dressed, and was back at the radio station by the time Charlie and Chad, the morning drive-time deejays, were reading the seven o’clock news headlines.

“I’ll be happy to listen to your tape, Ms. Gibson,” Curtis said.

“But this department investigates homicide, rape, assault, robbery. Threatening phone calls…” He spread his hands wide.

“Why’d you come to me?”

“I read your name in yesterday’s newspaper,” she admitted with chagrin. “Something about your testifying at a trial. I thought I’d get more personal attention if I asked to speak with a particular detective rather than just showing up without an appointment.”

Now he looked chagrined. “You’re probably right.”

“And if my caller does what he threatens to do, it will fall to this department to investigate, won’t it?”

Sobering instantly, Curtis left his chair and stepped outside the cubicle. He called across the room at large, asking if anybody had a cassette recorder handy. Within moments another plainclothes detective appeared with one. “Here you go.”

He regardedParis with patent curiosity as he handed the machine to Curtis, whose brusque, “Thanks, Joe,” was as good as a dismissal. The other man withdrew.

Sergeant Curtis had been a random selection, but she was glad she’d come to him. He obviously had some clout and wasn’t reluctant to use it.

He returned to his seat and inserted the tape into the recorder, saying in an undertone, “I see word has gotten around as to who you are.”

Maybe,Paris thought. Or maybe the detective was simply wondering why she hadn’t removed her sunglasses. This wasn’t a particularly bright environment. In fact, it was a room without windows.

Curtis and the other detective probably assumed that she wore the sunglasses like a celebrity would, to conceal her identity in public or to add to her mystique as a media personality, that she wore them to shut others out. It would never occur to them that she wore the glasses to shut herself in.

“Let’s see what Mr…. what was it? Valentino?…has to say for himself.” Curtis pressed the Play button.
This isParis . Hello,Paris . This is Valentino.

When the tape ended, Curtis tugged thoughtfully on his lower lip, then asked, “Mind if I play it again?”

Without waiting for her consent, he rewound the tape and restarted it. As he listened, he frowned with concentration and rolled hisUniversityofTexas class ring around his stubby finger.

At the end of the tape, she asked, “What do you think, Sergeant? Am I reading too much into a crank call?”

He asked a question of his own. “Did you try to call the number?”

“I was so stunned, I didn’t think of calling back immediately, but I suppose I should have.”

He dismissed her concern with a wave. “He probably wouldn’t have answered anyway.”

“He didn’t whenCarson called later. No voice mail either. Just an unanswered ring.”

“The number on the caller ID, you say it was traced to a pay phone?”

“I’m sure the details are in the report, but Griggs told me that a patrol car in that area had been dispatched to check out the phone booth. But by that time—at least half an hour, maybe more—whoever placed the call was gone.”

“Somebody could have seen him at the phone booth. Did the patrolmen ask around?”

“There was nobody to ask. According to Griggs, the area was deserted when the patrol car arrived.” Curtis’s questions were validating her concern, but that only increased her anxiety. “Do you think Valentino was telling the truth? Has he kidnapped a girl he plans to murder?”

Curtis made balloons of his ruddy cheeks before expelling a long breath. “I don’t know, Ms. Gibson. But if he has, and if he sticks to his three-day deadline, we don’t have time to sit around and talk about it. I don’t want another kidnap-rape-murder case on my desk if I can possibly avoid it.” He stood up and reached for his jacket.

“What can we do?”

“We start by trying to determine if he’s for real or just a nut trying to win the attention of his favorite celebrity.” By now he was ushering her through the maze of similar cubicles toward the set of double doors through which she’d entered the CIB.

“How do we make that determination?”

“We go to the authority on the subject.”

Just as Dean was leaving the house, Liz called from theHouston airport. “You’re already inHouston ?”

“My flight fromAustin was at six-thirty.”

“Brutal.”

“Tell me.” After a short pause, she asked, “What happened with Gavin when you got home last night?”

“Your basic open warfare, both sides scoring hits and suffering casualties.”

He balanced the cordless phone between chin and shoulder and poured himself a glass of orange juice. He’d lain awake for hours last night, and when he finally did fall asleep, he’d gone comatose. His alarm had been going off for half an hour before it awakened him. No time to brew coffee this morning.

“Well, at least he was home when you got there,” Liz said.

“He hadn’t disobeyed.”

Not wanting to recount his argument with Gavin, Dean harrumphed a nonverbal agreement. “What time is your first meeting in Chicago?”

“As soon as I arrive at the hotel. I hope O’Hare isn’t too hairy and I can get through it quickly. What have you got on tap today?”

He outlined his day. She said she needed to run, that she’d just wanted to say hi before her flight to Chicago. He told her he was glad that she’d caught him and wished her a safe flight. She said, “I love you.” And he replied with, “Love you, too.”

After disconnecting, Dean bowed his head, closed his eyes, and tapped his forehead—hard—with the telephone as though he were paying some kind of unorthodox self-flagellating penance.

Rather than getting his day off to the good start that Liz had obviously intended, her call put him out of sorts. Add the blasted heat and Austin’s rush-hour traffic, and he was in a testy mood when he reached his office fifteen minutes late.

“Good morning, Ms. Lester. Any messages?”

Dean shared the secretary with several other people. She was competent. And friendly. His first day on the job, she had informed him that she was the divorced mother of two daughters and that it was okay for him to call her by her first name.

Unless his eyes were deceiving him, and he didn’t think they were, since his arrival her necklines had gotten progressively lower and her hemlines higher. This gradual reduction of textiles could be in correlation with the rising summertime temperature, but he doubted it. Just to be safe, he had stuck to calling her Ms. Lester.

“Messages are on your desk. A fresh pot of coffee is brewing. Soon as it’s ready, I’ll bring you some.”

Fetching him coffee wasn’t in her job description, but this morning he was glad she’d volunteered. “Great, thanks.”

He went into his office and closed the door, discouraging further conversation. He slung his jacket onto the wall rack, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned his collar button. He sat down at his desk and riffled through his messages, happy to see there were no urgent ones. He needed a few minutes to decompress.

He swiveled his desk chair around and adjusted the window blind so he could see out. The sunlight was glaring, but that wasn’t why he dug his fingers into his eye sockets, then wearily dragged his hands down his face.

What was he going to do about Gavin? How many times could he ground him? How many more privileges could he revoke? How many more scenes like the one last night could they withstand? Arguments such as that inflicted damage that was often irreparable. Could any relationship survive constant onslaughts like that?

He sorely regretted smacking him. Not that Gavin hadn’t deserved it for the insulting crack he’d made. Still, he shouldn’t have struck him. He was the grown-up and he should have behaved as such. To lose his temper like that was juvenile. And dangerous. Loss of control could wreak havoc, and he knew that better than anyone.

Besides, he was determined to be a positive role model for Gavin. He didn’t want to preach to him, but to set a good example. Last night, he had sent the wrong message on how to manage anger, and he was sorry for it.

He ran his fingers through his hair and wondered what was taking the coffee so freaking long.

Should he send Gavin back to his mother? “Not an option,” he muttered out loud. No way. For a long list of reasons that included welshing on the agreement he and Pat had reached about their son, but the main one being that Dean Malloy deplored failure. At anything. He threw in the towel only when absolutely forced to.

Gavin had told him—more like
accused
him—of always being right. He’d said that it must be boring as shit to be so right all the time.
Hardly, Gavin,
he thought cynically. He didn’t feel right about anything. Obviously he wasn’t doing right by his son.

Or by Liz. Not by a long shot was he doing right by Liz. How long could he put off doing something about that?

“Dr. Malloy?”

Thinking that Ms. Lester was bringing the long-awaited, high-octane coffee, he kept his back to the door. “Just set it on the desk, please.”

“There’s someone here to see you.” Dean swiveled his chair around. “Sergeant Curtis from CIB asked for a minute of your time,” the secretary told him. “Is it all right if he comes in?”

“Certainly.” He’d met the detective only once, but he’d seemed like a stand-up kind of guy. Dean knew that he was a hard-working and well-respected member of the Austin PD. He stood up as Curtis walked in. “Good morning, Sergeant Curtis.”

“Just plain Curtis. That’s what everybody calls me. Do you prefer Doctor or Lieutenant?”

“How about Dean?” They met in the center of the office and shook hands.

“Is this a bad time?” Curtis asked. “I apologize for barging in on you unannounced, but this might turn out to be important.”

“No problem. Coffee is on the way.”

“Make that coffee for three. I’m not alone.” Curtis stepped back into the open doorway and motioned someone forward.