A Whisper in the Dark (19 page)

“The thought occurred to me,” she said after a moment.

“Maybe you could talk to him.”

“I can try. I don’t know what I’d say.” She shrugged. “I don’t know if he’d listen even if I found the words.”

“After what happened the other night, I don’t think this is the kind of thing you want to take any chances with.”

“He’s here in the evenings. That’s a comfort.”

“Judging from the way he looked this morning, last night he probably wouldn’t even have known it if some screaming madman crashed through the front window.”

Julia didn’t mention that even though John had been drinking and obviously intoxicated, he’d looked plenty capable last night. “I’ll talk to him tonight. I’m sure he’ll be reasonable about it.”

“If he doesn’t straighten up his act, maybe we should fire him and hire a rent-a-cop or something.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Have you received any more letters?”

Julia shook her head. “Maybe he got bored with me and decided to move on.”

But she could tell by the expression on her younger sister’s face that neither of them believed it.

Fifteen minutes later John came downstairs, went directly to the coffee station and poured. His wet hair was spiked as if he’d run a towel over his head and left it. He wore faded jeans, a navy pullover and leather boots.

“There’s aspirin in the drawer on the left,” Julia said.

Without speaking, he opened a drawer, tapped out what looked like a handful of pills and downed them all with a gulp of hot coffee. Breakfast of champions, she thought, and shook her head.

When he turned to her, she didn’t miss the pallor of his complexion or the bloodshot eyes. “Have you checked with your publisher to see if they’ve received any letters?”

“No,” Julia said. “I can check with my editor today.”

“We might get lucky if he sent a letter to New York and left a return address, hoping you might correspond.”

Bolstered by the prospect of a lead, Julia sat down at her desk and dialed her editor’s number from memory. They chatted for a few minutes and then Julia asked about fan mail. She was surprised to find that the New York office had, indeed, received several dozen letters and cards. Julia asked her editor to overnight the letters and hung up.

“She’s going to overnight them.”

“Let me know when they arrive.”

“All right.”

John refilled his coffee. “Sorry about throwing up in your alley,” he said when his back was to her.

Julia looked over at him and knew he must be carrying a heavy load for it to bow those broad shoulders. “You were in bad shape last night.”

“Never could hold my liquor.” He turned to face her, his expression grim and shuttered.

“If there’s anything I can do to—”

“There’s not.” As if realizing he’d been rude, he sighed and his voice softened. “You heard from Chip?”

“Skip,” she corrected and motioned toward the roses on the counter.

John arched a brow, some of the old humor coming back into his eyes. “You going to forgive him?”

“I’m going to tell him I’d like to remain friends.”

“He’s going to be crushed.”

Because she didn’t know how to respond to that—because this was not a appropriate conversation to have with John—she crossed to the coffee station and poured herself a cup of hazelnut. “I’m sure he’ll get over it.”

“Judging from the way you looked in that dress last night, I doubt it.”

A quick slice of heat low in her belly sent a blush to her cheeks. She hated feeling so transparent. What was it about John Merrick that had her feeling like a silly schoolgirl?

“I have to get to work,” she said.

“I need to make some calls.” He hesitated. “If you need any help around here, let me know. I’ll try to make myself useful.”

Her gaze met his. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said and started for the storage room.

 
The mail arrived at noon. The mailman, a stout little
man by the name of Crosby, always helped himself to a truffle or beignet as he dropped the stack in the antique wicker box on the counter. Julia always thanked him and smiled. It was one of those small rituals she loved. While Claudia rang up a sale at the counter, Julia carried the mail to her desk, where she slit each piece, separated the bills from the correspondence and junk mail, and filed what needed to be filed.

She held the phone in the crook of her neck. Mr. Thornbrow was accusing her of borrowing and never returning a Keats first edition. Absently, Julia slit the letter with an antique opener.

“If you continue to borrow books and refuse to return them, I’ll be forced to stop our book sharing program,” he said.

“Mr. Thornbrow, Claudia returned the book to you last week.”

The contents of the letter spilled onto her desk. Julia’s eyes were drawn to a flash of color. At first she thought it was one of the many junk advertisements she received every day. Then she looked down at the dozen or so photos spread out before her and her blood ran cold. Vaguely, she was aware of Mr. Thornbrow speaking. Of Claudia shuffling paper at the register. Then her heartbeat became a roar. Horror spread through her body like ice.

She saw pasty white flesh and the shocking red of blood. She saw bound hands and a face contorted in horror. Her eyes saw, but her mind could not comprehend. Shock and revulsion punched her like fists.

“Mother of God.” Julia dropped the phone and stood abruptly, her heart hammering. The phone clattered to the floor.

“Julia?”

Vaguely, she was aware of Claudia’s voice. But it couldn’t penetrate the veil of horror stealing through her. She stared down at the photos. Graphic images of murder and death stared back at her. Images she would carry with her the rest of her life.

A gasp escaped her when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She spun to see her sister hang up the phone, her face concerned. “What is it? My God, you’re pale as death.” Her eyes flicked to the photos. “Oh, my God!”

Both women jumped when the phone rang. The normalcy of the sound brought Julia back. “Don’t look at them,” she said. “Get John.” When Claudia only continued to stare at the horrific pictures, Julia gave her a gentle shove. “Go.”

Relief went through her when her younger sister turned and ran toward the storage room.

The phone rang again. Mechanically, Julia picked it up. “The Book Merchant.”

“How do you like the photos?”
a whispered voice asked.

The words shocked her brain. Several seconds passed before she found her voice. “Who is this?”

“Look at them carefully, Julia. The terror on her face. The pain in her eyes. What do you think?”

“I think you’re a sick bastard.”

His laugh chilled her, sent a shiver barreling through her. “Ah, such language.”

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I want to hurt you. I want to hear you scream in agony. I want you to pay for your sins.”

A small part of her brain told her to keep him talking. John would be there in a few seconds and maybe he could get something out of the guy that would be helpful. But his words, the chilling tone of his voice, overwhelmed her with fear. She couldn’t bear to listen.

“You’re next, Julia. Get ready because I’m coming for you. When I get my hands on you you’re going to wish you were never born.”

SIXTEEN

Julia gripped the phone and listened to the terrible voice.
She could feel her skin crawling. Her heart slamming against her ribs. Her hand gripping the phone so hard her knuckles hurt.

The next thing she knew John was prying the phone from her hand. He put it to his ear, his expression taut as he listened.

An instant later his eyes met hers and he shook his head. “He hung up.”

Julia pressed her hand to her stomach. “It was him.”

“The stalker?”

Nodding, she motioned at the photos on the desk. “He sent those.”

John’s eyes darkened as he took in the photos spread out on her desk like macabre playing cards. Using the letter opener, he looked carefully at each one.

Because she couldn’t bear to look at them, Julia turned away and crossed to Claudia. “Are you okay?” she asked.

Claudia looked shell-shocked. “I’ve never seen anything like that in my life.”

“I’m sorry you had to see them.”

“Same goes. You’ve nothing to be sorry for. It’s not your fault.”

Julia took her younger sister into her arms. “Thank you.”

After a moment she pulled away and turned to John. “Please tell me those photos are not real.”

“I’m no expert,” he said. “But they look genuine.” His jaws clenched tight. “The big question now is, who is the woman in the photo?”

 
John had seen a lot of disturbing things in the years he’d
been a detective, but he’d never seen anything like this.

There were seven photos, each graphic and stark. Five of the photos depicted a young woman bound and terrified. In two of the photos she appeared to be dead. He knew they could be fake. That some backroom photographer could have set up the scene or doctored the photos. But John had seen enough death in the course of his career to recognize it when he saw it. His gut was telling him these were real.

Across from him Julia stood rigid and still. Her eyes were dark with outrage, but her face had gone pale. Even from three feet away he could see that she was visibly shaking. He wished he could spare her the questions, but he knew now was no time to coddle. A witness was much more apt to remember details if questioned immediately.

“What did he say to you?” he asked.

She closed her eyes briefly, then her gaze met his. “He asked me if I liked the photos.”

So he knew they had been delivered. “What else?”

“H-he wanted me to look at the photos. He said he wanted to hurt me. That I was next.”

“Did you recognize the voice?”

“No. But I think he was trying to disguise it, because he spoke in a guttural whisper.” She set her fingertips against her temple and rubbed. “I am so creeped out.”

“You’re doing fine. I want you to walk over to your desk, get a piece of paper and write down everything you remember about the call while it’s still fresh in your mind.”

She nodded.

Touching her briefly to reassure her, John unclipped his cell phone from his belt and punched in his brother’s number. Mitch picked up on the first ring with a brusque utterance of his name.

“Our stalker’s been a busy boy,” John began.

“What have you got?”

John told him about the photos and the call.

Mitch cursed with the proficiency only a cop could manage. “I’ll be right there.”

 
Using the letter opener, John slid the envelope and photos
into a Baggie Claudia had supplied, on the outside chance that when Mitch dusted them for prints something would pop. But John knew that would probably not be the case. The man who’d sent those photos might be twisted, but he was not stupid.

He handed the Baggie to his brother. “I’ll pick up the software for tracing incoming calls today,” he said.

“Chances are he’s using a disposable cell.”

“Probably, but it’s still worth a shot.” John motioned toward the photos in the bag.

“The woman murdered in the cemetery?”

Mitch nodded. “Yep.”

“Any idea who she is?”

Mitch shook his head. “I’ll check with Homicide and Missing Persons, but a face-only I.D. is a long shot, especially without prints.”

“It’s possible he’s killed before but the body of the vic was never found.”

“Yeah.” His eyes went to Julia. “How’s she holding up?”

John glanced over to see her at the cash register with a customer. She was smiling, but he could see the stress in her eyes. Claudia had left for class at Julia’s urging, leaving them alone. Again.

“Shook her up,” he said.

“Can’t blame her.” Mitch scrubbed his chin with his fingertips. “You’re looking kind of rough, bro.”

Because he didn’t want a lecture, John said nothing. But Mitch didn’t do well with subtle, and he didn’t take the hint. “How hard are you hitting the bottle?”

“Just enough to take off the edge.”

“Yeah, and I was born yesterday.” Mitch shook his head. “For God’s sake, John, don’t frickin’ lie to me. I saw the bottle in the trash. You’ve got hangover written all over you.”

“I had a few drinks last night.”

“A few?” Mitch laughed. “You look like shit, bro.”

“Look, it’s no big deal.”

Mitch motioned toward Julia. “It’s going to be a big deal if this joker shows up and you’re passed out.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t want to see that pretty face in a goddamn body bag next time. Think about that before you pick up the bottle tonight.”

John ground his teeth, wishing he could dispute his brother’s words. It irked the hell out of him that he couldn’t. But the thought of facing the night without the anesthetization of alcohol was not a pleasant one.

“Do yourself a favor and cut it out while you’ve still got a handle on it.” Mitch shook his head in disgust. “I’ve got to go.”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, John held his ground at Julia’s desk and watched Mitch walk toward the door. He knew he should thank his brother for coming so quickly and offering to help, but he was still pissed about the drinking comment.

Julia called out to him, and Mitch waved as he went through the door.

“What was that all about?” Julia had put on her reading glasses and tucked a pencil behind her ear. She was wearing a red turtleneck today. Not tight, but snug enough for him to be needlessly reminded that she was nicely put together. The bruises peeked out at him from the high neck, reminding him why he was here.

“Nothing,” he muttered.