Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (59 page)

“You know, it’s remarkable,” Sommers pointed out. “But you two have the same exact eyes—same color and shape and everything. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, but the shade is so unique, you don’t see it every day.”

There was a highly tense moment as those eyes met, and a knowing but guarded expression swept over Neil’s face. The reporter was putting two and two together. Andrew’s resemblance, living in Neil’s house…As if sensing Andrew’s inner turmoil, Neil casually smiled and turned to Sommers. “Oh, bloodshot eyes are more common than you think, Glenn. Especially given all the dust while Andrew and his mates have been good enough to live in my property as I destroy it around their heads.”

Andrew didn’t know what he had expected Neil to say. Neil valued his privacy. Of course he wouldn’t announce to God, the world, and
Rolling Stone
that he was his son. Of course not.

“That was quite a stunt you pulled the other night,” Neil said to him quietly after Sommers excused himself to take a cigarette break in the back garden.

Andrew didn’t reply.

“She was worried about you.”

Andrew didn’t know what to say, not sure of the implications of Neil’s words. But just then the doorbell rang again, signaling the pizza delivery boy dropping off lunch, and Christian and Simon walked over to join them, ending any hope for a conversation. S.J. had exited to the back garden to smoke with Bolen and Sommers, leaving the four of them to huddle around some compound buckets in the living room. They were chatting about the upcoming weekend when Neil cleared his throat.

“I am concerned you gentlemen don’t have a manager yet. You need one, desperately. If you didn’t before, you definitely do now.”

Andrew ran his hands through his hair. “It’s an important relationship. We’ve got to find the right person. You said so yourself.”

“What happens if I have the right person?”

“Really?” Simon mouthed, chomping down on a large slice of pepperoni.

“Who?” he asked.

Neil paused. “Me.”

Andrew dropped his soda can on the floor.

“Seriously, man?” Simon asked.

“But…you’re retired,” Christian mumbled, blinking like an owl with cataracts.

“Think about it over the weekend, that’s all I’m asking. I can provide references if you require.”

“You’re truly serious?”

“Andrew, I know how this must look, but please see that I—”

The loud buzz of the newly functioning doorbell interrupted him.

“Damn pizza boy,” Simon complained. “He forgot the salads.”

The whole crew had wandered back into the living room while Simon got the door. Andrew was about to pull Neil aside when he spotted the man in the entranceway. He definitely was not a delivery boy.

He wore a rumpled jacket, trousers, and a loosened tie that hung over his middle-aged paunch. He peered around the room as he took out something from his pocket to show Simon.

A badge.

“Mr. Andrew Hayes?” the portly man asked, his bald spot shining in the Klieg lights.

Andrew crossed the room in three strides. “Yes, and you would be?”

“Detective Kent from the SFPD. I also need to locate a Miss Emily Thomas. Are you familiar with her?” At the mention of Emily’s name, Andrew felt his heart drop.

“Yes, she’s my…fiancée. Why, what’s the matter?”

“Do you know if she’s at home?”

“No, she’s on holiday—traveling. What is this in reference to?”

“Is there a place we can discuss this in private?” the detective asked, motioning toward the sea of people behind them. Andrew stepped into the foyer; Christian and Simon were by his side in an instant.

The detective frowned at them.

“No, it’s all right. Anything you say to me, you can say to them,” Andrew insisted wanting the detective to continue.

“Are you familiar with a Dr. Pavel Vandin?”

“Yes, he’s a professor. Emily’s professor. What about him?”

“This morning, a Miss Laura Schandler was admitted to San Francisco General. She had been severely beaten and is in intensive care. They’re not sure she’ll regain consciousness.”

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

“Due to her allegations against Dr. Vandin, we acquired a search warrant for his home, and this is what we found.”

He handed Andrew the photos. The shots showed a wall papered with photographs of Emily. A depraved shrine, with obscene words scrawled across the pictures—some that had been torn, while others had been mutilated past recognition.

His hands shook so badly that he had to give them to Simon to hold.

“Fuck,” Simon groaned.

“We also found extensive information about you as well, Mr. Hayes. Medical records, even. With Miss Schandler’s assault, it’s imperative that we locate Miss Thomas. She’s in extreme danger.”

“But she already let you guys know she was heading out of town. She called Detective Obester before she left, she told me. And he told her Vandin was still out of the country.”

“Out of the country? From our records, Dr. Vandin never left.”

“But Detective Obester told her—”

“Detective Obester?”

“Yes, Anthony Obester. He’s handling the rape case against Vandin. He’s been taking care of Emily, keeping her apprised of what’s going on—she just called him to let him know she was heading to Mendocino. Don’t you people talk to each other?”

“Miss Thomas has been calling the San Francisco precinct? Headquarters?”

“Yes, I think so. But he also gave her his cell phone. She may have been using that. He’s an acquaintance of Emily’s from New York, a friend of the family. He wanted to make sure she was safe.”

“Sir, we never give our cell phone numbers to civilians. Ever.”

“Then I guess Detective Obester is different.”

“Mr. Hayes, I hate to inform you, but the only Detective Obester I know is serving his duty with the National Guard in Iraq. He’s been stationed there for the past year. There’s no Detective Obester currently active on the force.”

“Then who the hell has been calling her all this time? She has to have been talking to someone from the police department.”

It was then and only then that he finally understood what had been prowling at the edges of his mind this whole goddamn time. Of course no cop would act like this; of course no cop would give her his cell. Of course no cop would want to know her every move. His shoulders were shaking. He had been blind, stone cold blind.

“Where is Miss Thomas, Mr. Hayes?” the detective demanded.

He fought down the panic rising in his veins. He had announced to the world on the radio show what she was doing and where she was headed. He had offered her up to him single handedly.

His knees buckled. Then he felt it. It wasn’t Christian’s hand that held his shoulder, or Simon’s—but Neil’s. He stood behind him, his voice low and urgent, but he couldn’t hear or understand.

Sommers was watching everything with rapt attention, and Bolen was firing off shot after shot. Andrew’s photograph would be linked to him forever, a black and white masterpiece, an iconic image of the true tortured artist, his guts and bones and heart ripped open.

Click.
His voice broke from his throat.
Click
. One word clawed its way free.
Click
.

“Vandin.”

23

“C
AN’T
Y
OU
G
O
A
NY
F
ASTER
?” Christian demanded, his hand wringing the door handle as they raced across the Golden Gate Bridge.

“Why aren’t they answering? All three of them? Why the fuck are they not answering?” Andrew sat coiled in the passenger seat, his cell phone fixed to his ear, unable to reach any of the girls.

Simon gunned the engine in response, straining the truck to its limits. Like an invasion of ghosts, the fog swirled across the windows, shrouding their view as they barely missed spinning into the oncoming lane. Only the bridge’s orange spires and the churning expanse of water below were visible. Andrew had read long ago what happens to a person who jumps from such heights. The impact fractures nearly all your ribs. The shattered ribs then shred the internal organs and rip the aorta from the heart.

“Don’t go there, mate,” said Simon as though reading his mind. He glanced darkly at the look of anguish on his friend’s face and back to the highway ahead. “We’re going to get there in time. They’re going to be fine. The police know to look for them.”

“Yeah, for all the fucking help they’re going to be,” shot back Christian. “Fucking useless cops. You heard what the detective said: he’d contact the authorities up there. You don’t see him moving his fat ass to help.”

Andrew’s memory ratcheted back to when they were still standing in the foyer of their flat. It was barely a half an hour ago, yet it already felt like days. Neil was firing off question after question to Detective Kent while he gripped his cell phone.

The line connected, and he almost cried out in relief. “Emily! Thank God—”

“Hi! This is Emily, please leave a note.”

He swallowed down his panic. What could he say to warn her and not terrify her in the process? “Luv, it’s me. Call me as soon as you get this message. It’s urgent. Please, sweet girl, right away. It’s about Vandin. Don’t answer any calls from Detective Obester, just don’t. Get yourself, Zoey, and Margot to a police station right now. It’s vital that you do this. Call me when you get this. Emily…I love you.”

He ended the call and immediately. Fuck, bloody hell, why wasn’t she answering? He dialed again. Again the message sang to him. He could hear Simon and Christian both curse silently. Evidently they had been thrown into voice mail too.

“We’re out of here,” Andrew announced sharply.

“Whoa, one minute, Mr. Hayes, we’re not done yet. There are still a few more questions I need clarification on.”

“Clarification? What the hell have you people done to help Emily? Nothing. How’s that for clear? Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to stay where you are.” Detective Kent’s voice had lost all its patience; he was done playing good cop. Andrew’s eyes sought out Neil.

“I’ll take care of everything here, Andrew. Not to worry.”

“Mr. Hayes.”

Andrew couldn’t tell whether the cop was frustrated that the situation with Emily and Vandin had gotten to this horrible point, or enraged that they were running off like vigilantes. Either way, Andrew didn’t give a shit. Emily was somewhere out there, prey to a psychopath, with no one to protect her.

Suddenly, S.J. shoved her way between Bolen and Sommers, her eyes narrowing at the sight of the detective.

“What’s going on out here?” she asked, annoyed at the delay in the photo shoot.

“We’re leaving,” Andrew told her and grabbed a hold of his bag that stood waiting by the front door. “Come on guys.” He motioned to Simon and Christian who were ready to go. None of them even bothered to cast off their long leather dusters from the shoot.

“What?” cried S.J., clearly having reached the end of her patience. “You said you’d work through the day, and I expect just that. What is this all about? And who the hell is he?” She glared at Detective Kent, who raised his shaggy eyebrows in surprise at the seething woman before him.

“S.J., extenuating matters have come to light in the last several minutes. I think it’s wise to let these gentlemen go,” Neil explained.

“What extenuating matters? There are no extenuating matters. You get yourselves in here right now and finish what you’ve committed to.”

Sommers and Bolen didn’t say a word, although they knew full well all that had just transpired. They were way too thrilled to lap up all the drama. It made good copy.

“We need to leave now! If you have a problem with that—take it up with our manager,” Andrew said caustically.

“And who would that be?”

“Neil St. John.”

Her eyes darted between them, then zeroed in on Neil as the realization sank in. She started laughing derisively. “Oh my, my, my. You played that perfectly, didn’t you? All nobly retired, no desire to step back into that soul-sucking fray, you said. Oh, that’s rich. Neil St. John, lost in mourning over his dead wife. Neil St. John, the great philanthropist, the broken-hearted humanitarian who’s still in bed with Atlantic after all these years. How much of a cut are you getting, then?”

Neil studied her coldly. “I have no ties to anyone except these men. So you and I, S.J., will step back into that room and arrange the date and times for this session to resume. We will do it with respect and decorum. Do I make myself clear?” His glare then shifted from S.J. onto Sommers and Bolen. “I do not have to remind you why, because all of you know how wildly successful these three men are going to be. If you want to have a prayer in hell of having access to them, or so much as breathe the same air as they do in the future, you will march yourselves right back into my house and not utter another single word. Now, please excuse me while I walk my clients to their car. I will be with you shortly.”