Sleepwalker (15 page)

It expanded rapidly, devouring the white light in mere seconds. Richard’s hypnotic vista glowed blue, and he lay back in a familiar position, as if lying in bed, waiting to see what--whom--it brought today. First, a tiny hand, then the pure golden curls of Debra, the four year-old daughter he never had the chance to know. Her skin was white and pure amidst the cobalt illumination, her eyes blue and glowing. Her brow was downcast, a frown pasted on her face.

Richard reached out to her.
Debra, honey...it’s me. Daddy
.

Tears filled her eyes. Not tears of sadness. Or happiness. But those unique tears that race down over suddenly flushed cheeks when a child is in pain.

Honey...what’s wrong?

And then a hand appeared, swathed in black. It came across in front of Debra, a glint of steel meeting Richard’s eye as it pressed a thick-bladed knife against her unblemished throat. A second gloved hand emerged from the light. It grabbed the child by the hair, twisting her head sideways so the knife pressed sharply against her jugular. Debra let out a cry as a thin point of blood appeared and trickled down her neck into her shirt.

Richard wanted to scream
no!
but his consternation had his throat bundled up in nerves. Did it make sense to yell at an apparition anyway? He searched for his conscience, but as expected, it was gone. He peered back at his daughter, at the hands, and the trickle of red amidst all that was blue. He closed his eyes, wished it away as he did moments earlier when turning away from his visions of murder.
Go away! Please, go away!
When he opened his eyes, her crying face was still there. The hands. The knife.

His face
.

The masked face of the man in black, two perfect circles at the mouth and eyes revealing the slightest hint of disclosure.

It didn’t matter. Richard knew those eyes. Those lips. And when the masked man smiled and spoke, he knew those teeth, and that voice.

   
“It’s
showtime
,
Sparke
.”

Moldofsky
entered the foyer first, Kevin Hughes immediately behind. The small vestibule was a mere five by five-foot square, one-inch black and white tiles
checkerboarding
the entire floor. Brown vertical paneling covered the walls except for six small glass-fronted mailboxes to the right, tiny locks at the bottom of each one allowing access to those holding a key.
Moldofsky
eyed the tenants’ names printed below the locks, noting only one: apartment 5A, Pamela Bergin. There was no mail in her box, at least none that he could see without crouching.

The smell of chicken soup invaded their nostrils as Leonard pulled open the inner doorway leading into the hallway of the Washington Building. The Presidential Studios had been built years ago, the absence of a security entry system an obvious drawback to living here. Likewise, the decor, which left much to be desired, clearly lent itself to the ages. Crooked wall sconces coated in dust, rusty vents, warped crown moldings. The hallway, lined with what could have been turn-of-the-century wallpaper, boasted brown snowflake patterns on a tan background that nearly dizzied Leonard as he eyed the brown steel doors and their tarnished brass numbers. Apartment 5A was three doors down on the right.

“Smells pretty good,” Leonard said.

“Chicken soup?”

“Someone’s cooking up a storm.”

“Just like Mom used to make.”

Leonard smiled and knocked on the door. He heard footsteps approaching, then stop. The pinpoint of light in the peephole disappeared, signifying that 5A’s occupant was looking out at them. He knocked again, and the light returned. “Ms Bergin?”

No answer.

He drew out a long, impatient breath. They had another twenty minutes before
Sparke’s
session ended, five of those minutes needed to get back to Delaney’s office on Main Street.
 
“Ms Bergin, this is Officer
Moldofsky
of the Fairview Police Department. I was hoping you’d be so kind to allow me a few moments of your time.”

More footsteps. Hurried footsteps. Then, a woman’s voice. “I’ll be right with you.”

Leonard stepped back, eyebrows raised. Kevin returned the inquisitive gesture then shrugged his shoulders, clearly unsure and perhaps anxious of what to expect when Pamela opened the door. Although Leonard rarely assumed anything uncustomary when conducting routine situations such as this--questioning the populace usually ended uneventfully--today’s circumstances seemed to be nudging them toward an occurrence worthy of their precautions. Or so his intuitions led him to believe. And that placed him in agreement with Kevin. That something
curious
might happen.

More footsteps. A lock clicked, a security-chain was unhooked, and the door opened.

A very attractive woman appeared in the doorway, shoulder-length chestnut hair framing a dark complexion that housed crystal blue eyes perfectly capable of hypnotizing any man that got in their way. The sudden smile on Kevin’s face attested to this, and Leonard made sure he’d get Kevin back for his earlier ribbing about Samantha
Sparke
.

“Ms. Bergin?”

She smiled, pure pearls for teeth. “Yes?”

“We’d like to ask you a few questions about a call we received earlier today.”

Pam nodded. “Of course...is there something wrong?”

“No...we’re...” Leonard hesitated, now remembering his primary purpose for coming here in the first place. Damn, he’d been distracted, talking so much about
Sparke’s
past, and then really, Pamela’s hypnotizing looks. Her near
perfect
looks. And he wasn’t solely contemplating nature’s graces towards her, or the way she applied her make-up, or her sly charming ways. No. He was thinking about her injuries, or lack thereof, as there wasn’t a scar nor a scab to be seen on her. No wounds at all to corroborate Richard’s neighbor’s reports of an injured woman--a
bloodied
woman--running from his condo. Leonard remembered what
Sparke
had said in defense, that she’d cut her hand on a knife. He tried to peek down at her hands but they were buried in her pockets.

“We’d like to...” he continued, then said, “It’s about a friend of yours. Richard
Sparke
.”

Pam stepped aside, not a twitch of emotion registering on her face at the mention of
Sparke
. “Come in, then.” They followed her inside, Leonard at once taking in the small studio residence. Its contents were sparse to say the least, an unmade twin bed in one corner, a kitchenette in another, a small metal desk with nothing on it centering the room. The desk sat alongside a threadbare couch which faced a small television atop a red milk crate. Paltry lifestyle for someone who could easily utilize her looks for success.

Pamela closed the door behind them, shutting out the strong chicken soup aroma. “Please don’t mind the mess. I’ve got a good deal of my things still in storage. I haven’t yet gotten a chance to get them here. And what’s here so far isn’t really set up. I didn’t want to arrange anything until all my belongings arrived.”

“You’re new to Fairview?” Leonard asked, already suspicious of her story. He liked the way she looked, but didn’t trust her. For now.

“You could say that. About four months.” She stood unmoving, like a boulder, watching the two cops with those big blue eyes that might have given any man an immediate impression of self-absorbed shallowness. Leonard, more inquisitive, might have felt that way if it weren’t for her relationship with
Sparke
, which led him to believe that she possessed far more intelligence than she cared to admit, keeping it carefully veiled and to her advantage should she need to talk her way out of a jam. Perhaps like
Sparke
had this morning.

“You like it here?” Leonard asked.

She nodded, pacing slowly across the room. She sat on a white plastic chair next to a matching table in the kitchenette. She crossed her legs and gripped her knees with both hands, finally exposing them to Leonard in an almost deliberate display. They were clean, unblemished. She possessed no injuries whatsoever.

Sly lady
, Leonard thought, peeking over at Kevin. His partner was checking out her hands too. He then peered back at Leonard. Kevin seemed to be thinking Leonard’s own exact thoughts:
So
Sparke
was lying after all. This isn’t the injured woman the neighbors saw running from his condo. It must have been someone else.
Kevin sneezed as he took out his pad and began jotting notes.

“Ms Bergin, we received a call today from a couple of
Mr
Sparke’s
neighbors. This morning, about nine, they claimed to have seen a woman fitting your description fleeing his condo. She had an injury of some sort, on her hands or face, they couldn’t be certain exactly where. But there was blood. And
that
we can confirm. When we went to
Mr
Sparke’s
condo soon thereafter, we found him cleaning up a mess of it on the floor.”

Pamela looked surprised, mouth open slightly, eyebrows arched into a triangle of inquisitiveness. Leonard couldn’t be certain if her concern was genuine or not, whether she’d known about--perhaps supplied--the blood. Regardless, she offered her most forthright dialogue. “My God...is Richard all right?”

Leonard nodded. “Yes, he’s fine. Were you there this morning, Ms Bergin? At Richard’s condo?”

She shook her head. “This morning? No. We had dinner together last night at his place, watched a bit of TV, but then I went home.”

“You didn’t spend the night?”

Pam pursed her lips. “No. Richard has this thing about me spending the night.”

“A thing?”

She hesitated, and Leonard thought she might’ve just revealed something she didn’t really plan to. She appeared to be gathering some thoughts when she said, “He’s a bit old-fashioned.”

Old-fashioned, my ass
, Leonard thought.
Nobody sane is gonna send this beauty home because of old-fashioned notions. That’s a lie, bet your ass on that one, Ms Bergin.

Leonard was about to pursue this line of conversation when Kevin sneezed again, then rubbed his nose. “Excuse me,” he said, then added, “Ms Bergin, do you have a cat?”

“No, I don’t.”

He sneezed again. “I’m sorry, but I have an allergy to cats and it makes me sneeze and sneeze like this until my eyes start tearing, which they’re about to do right now.”

Leonard smiled, a bit frustrated at the interruption but suddenly triggered with a thought.
Kevin, read my mind
. “Kevin, why don’t you go wait outside. I’ll be there in a minute. And while you’re there, check out some of the parked cars for expired inspections.” He winked and gestured with his head towards the door. He turned toward Pamela and grinned. “Quotas.”

“Sure...okay, Len.” Kevin, sneezing crazily, nodded slightly to confirm the receipt of message, then replaced the notepad in his pocket. “Good day, Ms Bergin.” He smiled then left silently, shutting the door behind him. His sneezes could be heard until he exited the building.

Leonard was fairly confident that Kevin got the message. Having a partner that understood you was more than half the battle for success. What he wasn’t so sure about was the answer he’d get from Kevin once he met him outside.

“I think Officer Hughes has an allergy to attractive women,” Leonard said.

Pam laughed. “Either that, or chicken soup.”

They shared another laugh then Leonard got back to business, his voice purposely deep and serious, and professional. “Ms Bergin...the reason why I’m here is because when we asked Richard about how all the blood ended up on his kitchen floor, he said that you were there at his condo, that the two of you had had an argument, and that you slipped and cut your hand on a knife as you grabbed the counter on the way down.”

“Richard said that, huh?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Well...I’m sorry to say this...but he’s lying. Either that, or he dreamed it. The fact of the matter is that we did argue, but that was last night before I left. I didn’t fall down, and I most certainly didn’t cut myself open and bleed on his floor. Here,” she said, offering her hands. “See for yourself. No wounds.”

“I can see that.”

“And he said all this happened this morning?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Well, again, I can assure you that it wasn’t me. I was here, watching television, by myself. If there was blood on his kitchen floor, then it must have come from someone else.”

“Any idea who? I mean, I’m fairly certain that whoever left all that blood had one nasty injury.”

“I don’t know...Richard’s a bit of a recluse, and if you ask me I’d say he’s got a nice case of agoraphobia. He doesn’t have any friends that I know of. He rarely leaves his home except to go to the shrink, or the bookstore. Or get some food. I really have no idea who might’ve been there with him this morning.”

Leonard nodded. “Do you have any clue as to why Richard might be lying?”

“None whatsoever. It doesn’t make any sense. But I will tell you that Richard has had some personal problems. Problems which have recently led us to arguing more often than not.”