Midnight Voices (24 page)

Unless her parents had lived in the building as well.

Was that it? Was that why all the neighbors were so friendly with each other? Could they really have all been childhood friends, growing up in the same building, living out their lives in the same apartments their parents and grandparents had lived in? Then it came to her—there was a way to find out; a very simple way. There was an office that held the history of every piece of real estate in the city—Brad had gone there half a dozen times on one piece of business or another. The Register’s Office—that was it!

Putting the album away, she closed the center drawer of the desk and relocked it. Then she moved on to the three drawers on the right. In the top one she found a large checkbook, and on an impulse she opened it and glanced through the stubs. Only a few checks had been written, most to something called The Biddle Institute.

She put the checkbook back, relocked the drawer, and moved on to the next one, where she found half a dozen packets of photographs from a shop on Broadway. Picking one up, she pulled out a stack of two dozen pictures. The top one was of a group of kids and she recognized one of the cages at the Central Park Zoo in the background. The next one was of the same group of kids, but in front of another cage. Flipping quickly through the rest of the stack she found nothing but more pictures of the same group of kids, sometimes in groups of half a dozen or more, at other times only twosomes or threesomes. None of the pictures looked posed; indeed, the children in them didn’t even look as if they knew they were being photographed.

She flipped a few of them over, but there was nothing on the back that would either tell her who the children were, or when the pictures had been taken. As she flipped through the last half-dozen shots, one of the girls began to appear more and more often, a girl with long blonde hair framing a heart-shaped face, dominated by large blue eyes that twinkled with mischief.

In the last picture in the stack, the blonde was with three other girls, but her face had been surrounded with a thick black circle such as a laundry marker might make.

As if she’d been selected.

But selected for what?

Unbidden, the memory of her waking up a few nights ago with Laurie’s scream still ringing in her ears and finding Tony gone from the bedroom came flooding back, along with the terrible thought that had come into her mind when Laurie had told her about the dream.

The dream in which people had been in her room, touching her.

No!
she told herself.
It’s something else! It has to be!
She tried to put the thought out of her mind, but it clung to her consciousness like a burr to a thin sock, embedding itself deeper and deeper even as she put the photographs back in their envelope and returned them to the drawer.

Part of her—a tiny part—wanted to close the drawer, lock it, and walk away. But even as she listened to that whispering voice, she was reaching for the next envelope, taking out the pictures, and flipping through them.

More children.

Different children.

Yet as she flipped through the pictures then went on to the next envelope, she began to see a certain common thread running through them.

The children were all the same age—ten to twelve years old.

The faces that were circled—perhaps five in the first four envelopes, tended to be similar. The three girls were blonde with blue eyes; the boys with brown eyes and dark hair.

Like Laurie and Ryan.

She tried to banish that thought as well, but now a knot of fear had formed in her stomach, and a sheen of cold sweat had broken out over her whole body. Once more she tried to put the rest of the envelopes away; once more she failed.

At last there was only one envelope left, and as she opened it, her hands trembled so badly that the pictures cascaded out onto the top of her husband’s desk. She gazed down at them, certain that her eyes must be playing tricks on her, that what she was seeing couldn’t be real.

The pictures that lay before her had been taken in the park, just like those in all the other envelopes.

But this time she knew exactly who the children were the moment she saw them: Ryan and Laurie.

Spread out on the desk were two dozen pictures she’d never seen before, and had no memory of them having been taken.

There were shots of Ryan on the baseball field, a couple as he stood with his bat poised, readying himself for a pitch; others of him playing short-stop, and left field and second base.

Two more from soccer practice.

Half a dozen more of him just sprawled out on one of the lawns with some of his friends.

The rest of the pictures were of Laurie. In one of them she was sitting on a park bench with Caroline herself, and in another she was jumping rope with some of her friends: Caroline recognized Amber Blaisdell and a couple of other girls from Eliot Academy.

Where had the pictures come from?

When had they—

And then her blood ran cold as she remembered that Laurie hadn’t played with a jump rope in nearly a year. And the last time she’d gone to the park to jump rope with Amber Blaisdell had been nearly a year ago.

Months before she’d even met Tony.

Suddenly her mind was whirling. It was a coincidence—it had to be. Tony had been taking pictures of lots of children in the park—dozens! Why wouldn’t he have caught Ryan and Laurie on film?

But why hadn’t he ever told her? Why hadn’t he shown her the pictures? A word flashed into her mind, an ugly word: pedophile. But as quickly as it came, she banished it, instantly grasping for another explanation—any other!

He’d forgotten about them—that was it! He’d taken so many pictures, he didn’t even remember he’d taken some of Ryan and Laurie. He—

Suddenly Caroline froze as she heard the sound of the doorknob turning, and a moment later one of the hinges creaked as the door was pushed open.

Caught! Caught with the keys still hanging from the desk drawer.

Caught with the drawer open, and its contents spread out on the desk. Then, out of the silence she heard a voice.

But not Tony’s voice—Ryan’s voice.

“He’s coming, Mom! I saw him coming down the street.”

Without saying a word, Caroline scooped the pictures up off the desk, put them back in their envelope, then shoved the envelope back into the second drawer with the rest of them. Locking the drawer, she followed Ryan out of the study, closed the door, then shoved the key into the lock and twisted it.

Nothing!

“See if the elevator’s coming up,” she told Ryan as she pulled the key out of the lock. Ryan darted to the front door and opened it a crack as she fitted a second key into the lock.

“It’s coming,” Ryan hissed.

The second key didn’t fit, and neither did the third, and suddenly Ryan shut the front door and leaned against it. “It’s here,” he said, his voice trembling. “Mom, he’s coming!” He disappeared, racing up the stairs with Chloe merrily chasing after him, and a second or two later she heard his door closing. Her hands trembling so badly she was afraid she’d drop the keys the way she had the photographs a few minutes ago, Caroline fumbled with the fourth key, finally fit it into the lock, and twisted it.

The lock snapped home, and Caroline jerked the key loose and was dropping the big ring into her shoulder bag and moving away from the study door when the front door opened and Tony stepped into the foyer. From upstairs, she could hear the muffled sound of Chloe’s barking.

Caroline’s eyes locked with her husband’s, and for a moment she thought she saw a flash of anger in them. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, and a moment later when his eyes clouded with concern, she wasn’t certain she’d seen it at all.

“Darling, are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Her skin was still damp with the cold sweat that had broken over her in the study, so she quickly shook her head. “I’m afraid I might be coming down with the same flu Laurie had,” she said. “That’s why I came home.”

“Then let’s get you to bed,” Tony said. “I knew you shouldn’t have tried to go to work today. I’m starting to think you should quit that job.” He was already guiding her up the stairs. “I’ll make you a cup of tea with honey and lemon, and then I’m calling Ted Humphries.”

Uncertain what she should do, Caroline let him steer her into their room, and began changing into her robe. Better to let him think she was sick, than have to explain why she’d come home from work so early.

Then, as she slid into bed, another thought occurred to her: when he’d left that morning, Tony had thought Melanie Shackleforth was going to be staying with Ryan. But when he’d come in just now, he hadn’t seemed the least bit surprised that Melanie wasn’t here, and she herself was.

So he’d known about the change of plans.

And he’d come home.

Why?

To see if she was all right?

Or to find out what she was doing?

CHAPTER 29

Frank Oberholzer ripped a large and messy bite out of his pastrami sandwich, ignored the glob of mustard that clung to his chin, and leaned back in his chair to gaze unseeingly at the ceiling as he chewed. Scattered across the desk in what would have looked to anyone else like a chaotic jumble was the mass of paperwork already generated by the murder of Andrea Costanza: photographs of the crime scene, reports from the Medical Examiner and the Forensic Lab, inventories of everything that had been found in the apartment, and, of course, the things Oberholzer had brought from the apartment himself: Costanza’s Day-Timer, address book, and computer.

The M.E.’s report had narrowed the time of death down to sometime between six o’clock Friday evening and noon Saturday, which was all very scientific, but in Oberholzer’s mind was very stupid as well; given the method of the killing, the detective was much more inclined to put the time of death as somewhere between nine p.m. and two a.m. of the same days, having ruled out the earlier hours on the grounds that it wouldn’t have been really dark by then, and someone looking out of any one of several dozen windows with a view of Costanza’s apartment could have clearly seen what was going on. If the killer had half a brain—and in Oberholzer’s experience most killers had at least that—he would have waited until anyone looking in the direction of Costanza’s apartment would have had to have the lights out and the curtains open in their own. Not a one hundred percent chance of not being seen, but far better than climbing around on fire escapes in broad daylight. He’d also figured that Costanza would have gone to bed by two in the morning, so wouldn’t have been sitting on her sofa as an easy target. The odds, in fact, were that the killing had taken place sometime between nine and ten, since the only reasonable access to the fire escape was over the roof, given that the ladder from the second floor down to the street showed no sign of having been either moved or used, and the only access to the roof was through the building. Having already determined that there’d been a large party going on in one of the apartments on the fourth floor, it would have been simple enough for the killer to get in simply by ringing half a dozen buzzers then waiting for someone to unlock the front door, and since the host of the party had already admitted to letting at least a dozen people into the building between eight and nine without making certain who they were, Oberholzer figured the odds were pretty good that at least one of those people had gone to the roof instead of the party.

But now he had at least a dozen more names of people he’d have to track down to see if any of them had seen someone who hadn’t been at the party. He figured the odds on that one at close to zero, but knew he’d have to go through the motions anyway.

Just before lunch he’d gone to Costanza’s office to talk face to face with everyone who’d worked with her. The only person he’d figured could have had anything to do with it was the geek who worked in the cubicle next to hers, but the longer he talked to the guy—his name was Rosenberg—the less convinced he was. The guy had liked Costanza, but Oberholzer hadn’t picked up any vibes at all that the relationship had gone much past the office-buddies stage. Dinner together every now and then, but that was about it.

“What about this guy Humphries?” the detective had asked as he was winding up the interview with Rosenberg. “Any idea what that appointment was about?”

Rosenberg’s head had bobbed. “She went to see him about one of her cases—a little girl who lives in The Rockwell.”

“Foster parents in The Rockwell? Some kids get all the luck, hunh?”

To Oberholzer’s surprise, Rosenberg had shaken his head. “Andrea was worried about the girl, and wanted to talk to her doctor, who also happens to live in The Rockwell. And the doctor didn’t cooperate.” As Frank Oberholzer had listened silently and scribbled a few notes, Nate Rosenberg recounted the conversation he’d had with Dr. Humphries Monday morning.

“So what do you think?” the detective asked when he was finished. “Did he sound like he was pissed at Costanza for wanting to see the kid’s records?”

Rosenberg shrugged. “Not particularly—he sounded more like he was just making sure everything was done right before opening a patient’s records. And he’s right—he could get sued if he just opened them up.” He hesitated, and Oberholzer instantly knew there was something else.

“What is it?” he prompted.

“It’s probably nothing,” Rosenberg replied. “But Andrea didn’t like Humphries.”

He fell silent, and Oberholzer prompted him again, not quite so gently. “You wanta tell me about it, or do I have to play a guessing game?”

Rosenberg held his hands up almost defensively. “There’s not that much—Andrea just didn’t think much of some of Humphries’ ideas, that’s all. I mean, he’s an osteopath and a homeopath, and Andrea isn’t—” He caught himself, and adjusted the tense. “—Andrea
was
n’t very impressed. She wasn’t much for alternative medicine.”

Oberholzer scratched behind his ear with the end of his pencil. “Think she would have let him know that?”

“Hard to say,” Rosenberg said, shrugging. “If she did, Humphries didn’t mention it. All he was concerned about was that she have the right authorizations before he’d give her a look at the Mayhew girl’s medical records.”

Oberholzer had picked up the pastrami sandwich on the way back to the office, and as he stuffed the last bite into his mouth with one hand, he fished in the jumble on his desk for Andrea Costanza’s address book. Years of experience had taught him that with an address book, the best thing was to call the newest entries first—old friends didn’t often kill each other, but new friends could be unknown quantities. Paging through the book, he searched for entries that looked fresh.

On the ‘E’ page, he came across an entry that had been scratched out entirely, obliterated by an impenetrable layer of black ink as if she’d crossed it out with a laundry marker or something. Well, the lab could probably sort that out if it came down to it. Then, on the next page, he saw what was obviously a new entry for a Caroline Fleming, with a work number and a home number.

He frowned, then picked up the Day-Timer and flipped through it until he came to the page marked with the notation ‘Caroline’s wedding.’

So Caroline wasn’t a new friend—just a new listing for an old friend with a new last name.

He went back to the address book, going through it from start to finish, but other than the entry for Caroline Fleming, nothing else stuck out as new; indeed, most of the entries made in what looked like the freshest ink were extra phone numbers and e-mail addresses. But even as he went through it again, he kept going back to his conversation with Nathan Rosenberg, and finally he found a copy of the yellow pages and leafed through it until he found the listing for Dr. Theodore Humphries.

On the fourth ring, an answering machine picked up and a deep voice informed him “I am out of the office until two. If you wish, you may leave a number and I shall return your call.” Deciding he didn’t wish, Oberholzer hung up, but as he went back to the address book—and the task of calling every one of the numbers—he kept thinking about the message he’d just heard on the telephone. There had been a strange note not only in the voice, but in the choice of words as well. ‘If you wish . . .’ ‘I shall return your call.’ The phrases had sounded stilted, and the voice that delivered them had sounded—at least to Oberholzer’s ears—a bit arrogant.

But so what?

Weren’t a lot of doctors arrogant? But if Andrea Costanza had challenged this particular arrogant-sounding doctor on either his credentials or his refusal to let her see one of his patient’s files, how would he have reacted?

Deciding he’d rather talk to the doctor in person than on the phone, he turned Andrea Costanza’s address book over to one of the newest additions to the squad, a rookie named Maria Hernandez who’d just been promoted to detective last month. “Start calling these people,” he said. “See what you can find out about who might have been mad at Andrea Costanza. You’re a woman—gathering gossip should be right up your alley.” He turned around and headed out of the squad room, apparently oblivious to the venomous look Maria Hernandez gave him.

Caroline woke up slowly, her mind foggy, strange dreamlike images swirling through her mind. Tony was there, and Virginia Estherbrook, and Melanie Shackleforth and all the other neighbors. But they didn’t look right—they were dressed in old-fashioned clothes, and they looked younger than they were.

Then, as rifts in the fog appeared, she began to catch glimpses of what had happened. It wasn’t a dream at all—she’d been in Tony’s study, searching through his desk and—

—and he’d almost caught her!

The memory of the fear she’d felt when she couldn’t get the study door re-locked even as her husband was coming through the front door sent a chill through her, and she reflexively snuggled deeper into the warmth of the bed.

But why had she been so afraid of him? All she’d found were pictures of the neighbors. Then, as more of the curtains of fog began to fall away, she remembered the other pictures—the pictures of children, even
her
children. Dozens of them, some with faces circled as if they’d been chosen for something.

Chosen for what?

But an answer was obvious, even through the remnants of mist that still clouded her mind, making her thoughts sluggish and so tenuous they slipped away before she could quite grasp onto them: Tony was some kind of pervert.

Could that really be the truth?

Had she married a child molester, and brought her children—Brad’s children—into his home?

Was that why Ryan hated him—because he’d sensed that there was something wrong? But that couldn’t be it—Ryan’s dislike for Tony hadn’t been instant; it had grown as her own relationship with Tony began to grow, and as Tony had begun to slip into the position in Ryan’s life that had been occupied by his father. Surely it was nothing more than the natural resentment felt by any boy whose father is being replaced by a stranger. And it wasn’t that way with Laurie—Laurie liked Tony, and had never shown any fear of him at all. So maybe she herself was wrong.

Maybe the pictures didn’t mean anything at all.

She grasped at that weak straw of self-doubt, terrified that if she couldn’t cling to it, couldn’t somehow make it support her, she would drown in the sea of questions the contents of the desk had raised about the man she’d married.

Or maybe she shouldn’t even look for answers. Maybe she should simply pack a few things into a suitcase, take the kids, and get out.

The kids!

Where were they?

What time was it?

She started to sit up, but a terrible dizziness struck her, and she fell back to the pillow, closing her eyes. What had happened?

Was she sick?

The last of the fog cleared away, and she remembered the words she’d made up when Tony had found her in the hall, her skin clammy, her face pale. Flu—that was what she’d told him.

And he’d called Dr. Humphries.

She’d tried to protest, but he’d insisted, and by then she was so deep into the lie of feeling ill that there was no way to refuse. Dr. Humphries had come, and brought his black bag—the same bag he’d brought when he came to see Laurie, and he’d taken her temperature, and checked her pulse, and tried to reassure her. “It’s probably nothing—your pulse is a little fast, but your temperature’s normal. Still, better to be safe than sorry.” He’d dug into his bag and found one of his remedies—a small vial of white pills that he’d instructed her to put under her tongue. She’d lain back on the pillows, planning to lie there for only a few minutes, then get up, claiming that Dr. Humphries must have been right—whatever it was had passed, and she felt fine. Except that she’d fallen asleep, and now that she was awake, she didn’t feel fine at all. She tried to sit up again, and once more was overcome by dizziness. She tried to fight it, but when a wave of nausea threatened to crash over her as she swung her legs off the bed, she gave up once more, a moan escaping her as she fell back onto the bed, curled on her side, and waited for it to pass.

Finally she felt well enough to roll over and look at the clock.

Nearly four—she’d been asleep for hours!

And the children—

“Ryan? Laurie?” she called out, but her voice sounded weak, and she was certain it wouldn’t carry past the closed door of the bedroom.

Once again she sat up, and once again the wave of dizziness struck, followed by the feeling of nausea. But this time she refused to give in to it, forcing herself to ride it out. As it finally subsided, she stood up and took a lurching step toward the door, but before she could take another, the vertigo crashed over her yet again and she nearly lost her balance, barely catching herself on the night table before she would have fallen to the floor. But again she didn’t give up, remaining on her feet, steadying herself with one hand on the night table and the other on the bed, waiting for the spell to pass. When at last she felt steady enough, she started slowly toward the door, willing herself to stay on her feet.

She came to the door, gripped the crystal knob, and twisted it. Pulling the door open, she moved out into the hall. From the bottom of the stairs, she heard Tony’s voice drifting up.

“If you could call back tomorrow,” she heard him saying. “I know my wife will want to talk to you, but she hasn’t been well today and right now she’s asleep.”

“I’m not aslee—” she began, but before she could even finish the words—words uttered in a voice so weak she knew they wouldn’t carry down the stairs, another wave of nausea broke over her, and she clutched at the balustrade above the staircase, her words dying on her lips as all her strength went to keeping herself from sagging to the floor.

“I’ll give her the message,” she heard Tony say.

“Tony?” she called as she heard him putting the receiver back on the phone in the hall.

In an instant he appeared at the bottom of the stairs, peering up at her. “Darling, what are you doing? You should be in bed!” He started up the stairs, taking them two at a time, then was at her side.