The Night Is Deep (A Liam Dempsey Thriller Book 2) (4 page)

“Sure. You think this has something to do with her treatment?”

“I don’t know. But I want to get as clear a picture as I can.”

“Okay, I’ll call him in a minute.” Owen stood, looking out at the lake, which had lost all its color since Liam had arrived. It was an indifferent gray now, matching the sky above. “Thank you for coming. You don’t know how much it means to me.”

“You’re welcome. You helped me out a lot back in the academy.”

Owen waved his hand dismissively. “It was nothing.”

“It was something to me.”

“You were one of the first people I thought of when I realized she was gone. You’re the best investigator I’ve ever met. You being here is a whole lot different than lending you some cash for your car payment.”

“Like I said, I’ll do everything I can to help.”

The two men moved out of the office and Liam paused in the hallway where a frame containing three pictures hung. The first was a snapshot of Owen and Valerie on their wedding day. They were on a small dance floor holding one another close, the lights low around them. The second was the two of them sitting on the rear deck of the house Liam stood in now. The couple’s hands were linked between their chairs, their eyes looking past the photographer out at the lake. The third was the most recent. Owen was seated at the end of the dining-room table that was now holding multiple computers and sophisticated electronics, his hand gripping a glass of wine. He was staring at Val who looked directly into the camera, a faraway quality to her eyes. She barely looked five years older than the version Liam had in his pocket, definitely not sixteen.

“I’m going to take a quick ride,” Liam said, continuing down the hall to the stairs. “Call my cell and let me know when Val’s therapist can stop over.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to shake the past a little and see if anything falls out.”

CHAPTER 4

Liam turned off the paved highway onto the county road, gravel crunching beneath the truck’s tires.

The sun was only a shining gray circle behind the clouds and the fall colors had dimmed. The wind spun discarded leaves into the air like a playful child and the breeze smelled of smoke and shifting seasons. Instead of the day warming, the temperature had fallen, forcing him to turn on the truck’s heater for the first time since April. He shivered, sipping at the dregs of his cold coffee and watched for the address he’d pulled from the Internet.

The mailbox he was looking for appeared after he’d crested a gentle hill overlooking a pond skimmed with ice. The house number stuck out at a broken angle from the side of a narrow drive trailing into a stand of oaks twisted with time. A layer of gold leaves paved the trail through the property and he let the truck idle most of the way in. When the house appeared after the second turn in the drive, his jaw tightened.

It looked more like a junkyard than a home. The yard was dotted with wrecked vehicles and piles of scrap iron. Rotted lumber leaned in a towering heap toward the north end of the property and in the clear spaces, dried weeds poked up in solitary stalks like survivors in some apocalyptic wasteland. The house itself was two stories, its paint faded from a vital blue to milky gray. Scrawls of graffiti ran in tattooed lines across every available surface, racial slurs colliding with curses intertwined with threats. The upper windows were boarded up and two slats of siding hung askew revealing tattered plastic sheeting beneath.

Liam pulled the truck up behind a rusted Ford flatbed and an old but clean Volkswagen Bug. He shut the engine off and climbed out to a series of barks coming from the muscular hunch of a pit bull that stood on the porch steps, white canines catching the cold light.

“Hey buddy, you’re okay. You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” The dog responded with a growl that could have come from a diesel engine. “You wanna bite me, don’t you?” Liam said in the same soothing voice. The dog cocked its head and licked its chops before settling onto its haunches. A moment later the front door eased open and an aging black woman in hospital scrubs stepped onto the porch. She was heavyset but moved easily, her sneakered feet creaking on the old boards beneath them. Her face was lined around the eyes and mouth, suggesting more scowls than smiles.

“Good morning,” Liam said.

“We already had our visit from the police for today, you can get yourself right back in that truck and head on out.” Her voice was clear and strong without a hint of hesitation or fear.

“I’m not a police officer.”

“Well detective then. I don’t care what you call yourself. We’ve dealt enough with you people. You want to make yourself useful, how about you find who put the latest paint on the side of my house.”

“Actually ma’am I’m a police consultant, I have no jurisdiction here. I only wanted a few words with Dickson if he’s home.”

She studied him then motioned to her dog. “If you aren’t a cop then what’s stopping me from sending Fletcher here down to take a piece out of your hide?”

“Nothing. Only he’d be very disappointed with the taste. I’ve been told I’m stubborn and would assume that would make me tough and gamey.” He waited, ready to run if she sicced the dog on him. A flutter of something came and went in her dark eyes and she screwed up her mouth as if she were thinking.

“I guess it wouldn’t do much good. Damn dog doesn’t listen to me anyway. What’s your name?”

“Liam Dempsey.”

“Wow, could you get much more Irish?”

“I try every year on St. Paddy’s day.”

Another flutter. Amusement. “My name’s Tanya. I’m leaving for work but Dickson’s inside. I’ll hold you to your word that you only want to talk to my son, Liam, otherwise I’ll be calling the police.”

“Just a few questions, that’s all.”

“You’re trying to find that woman, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I am.”

Tanya glanced from him to the steely sky and then at her overrun yard. She studied it as if seeing it for the first time before looking at him again.

“It’s like a curse or something,” she finally said. He didn’t know how to respond so he said nothing. “Fletcher won’t bite you, but I can’t promise anything about Dickson.”

Without another word she rubbed the dog’s head and strode down the stairs to the Volkswagen and climbed inside. When she’d backed around his truck and disappeared down the driveway, Liam approached the house. Tanya was right. When he reached the top of the steps, Fletcher began to wag his tail and pant, first smelling, then nuzzling at Liam’s hand. He scratched the dog’s brindled hide.

“I am the dog whisperer.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

Liam stood up, facing the man standing inside the screen door. Dickson had lighter skin than his mother but they shared the same eyes. He had a handsome face with a prominent jawline although a harsh growth of whiskers partially obscured it. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt and even though a formidable paunch protruded before him, the set of his shoulders and muscled chest told Liam that at one time the man had been a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps still was.

“My name is Liam Dempsey, I—”

“Yeah I heard you talking to my mother.”

“Then you know I’m here regarding the disappearance of Valerie Farrow.”

“I already told that cop who was here this morning that I didn’t have anything to do with that. I was at the bar last night ’til closing. Go talk to Jim down there and he’ll tell you the same.”

“I believe you.”

Dickson appraised him. “Then why are you here?”

“I was hoping you could answer some questions about Alexandra.”

“Man, you’re about sixteen years too late. I answered all the questions I’m ever going to answer about her.” Dickson began to shut the door.

“If you could save her sister’s life, would you?”

The door stopped. Dickson glared at him, his gaze flicking to him, then to the floor. He let the door swing wide before pushing the screen door open, holding it for Liam.

“Thank you,” Liam said, stepping inside.

Dickson walked away from him down a narrow hallway and into a kitchen, his strides smooth and powerful. There were echoes of athleticism in his gait, possibly the remaining effects of a stern football regimen. Liam glanced around as he followed him farther down the hall. The house was the exact opposite of its exterior. The walls were a warm yellow with white trim. The floors were clean, and when he entered the kitchen the air of order remained, everything in its place. Dickson stood behind a breakfast counter and pulled two coffee cups from a cupboard before filling them from a steaming pot.

“We’re out of cream,” Dickson said, motioning toward a round table beside a window that looked out into a backyard that was even more cluttered than the front. Liam sat and accepted the cup of coffee as Dickson drew out a chair opposite him and settled into it. Liam sipped the scalding drink and watched the other man through the steam that rose from his cup.

“You read my file?” Dickson finally said.

“No.”

“Bullshit. All you cops read the files before you come out here.”

“Like I said, I’m not a cop.”

“Yeah. Consultant, right? You were a cop. I know that just by how your eyes move. So what’d you fuck up? Steel some meth from the evidence locker? Fuck the chief’s wife?”

“I killed a pregnant woman and her unborn child.” Liam let the words roll out naturally even as they tried to constrict his throat. A bead of sweat formed on his temple.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Why would I make something like that up?”

Dickson shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first cop that made some shit up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m acquainted with your tactics.”

“You’re referring to Alexandra’s death.”

There was a hesitation before Dickson spoke again, a softening of his eyes.

“Yeah.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What does it matter?”

“It might matter a lot.”

“No one seemed to care before.”

“Try me.”

Dickson sighed and rubbed the beginnings of a beard.

“When she died they came right to me. First thing. No witnesses, no DNA, nothing, but they still came right to my door. They told me straight off that they had me at that church the night she died, that I should just come clean and confess to throwing her off the tower.”

“That’s a common interrogation tactic.”

“Yeah? How about threatening to burn down your house if you don’t tell them what they want to hear?”

“What?”

“The two detectives that came here were real hard-asses. Tossed me around a little, slapped the cuffs on me, that type of thing. But then they started saying that it would be so easy for a place like this to burn down if I didn’t confess to having something to do with her death. They said that maybe it would happen in the middle of the night and my mom wouldn’t wake up and get out of the house in time.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Why would I make something like that up?” Dickson smiled without humor. “Of course it didn’t happen because they had nothing on me. Alex killed herself but they still tried to pin it on me somehow. I know the threat to set fire to our house came down from the top, right from the chief. Old man Webb needed to lay his guilt and grief somewhere and who better than the poor black boy that was dating his rich, white daughter. He just couldn’t get over the fact that she’d done it.”

“So where were you the night Alexandra died?”

“What does that have to do with Valerie being taken?”

“Maybe a lot.”

“You saying I had something to do with either case?” Dickson set his cup down and leaned forward. The muscles in his neck rose beneath the skin.

“No, but I’m trying understand who Valerie is. I need to paint a picture so I can figure out what this all means. Valerie became disabled after—”

“I know what she became. Don’t you think I would change everything if I could? Don’t you think I’d go back and be waiting for Alex at that church? Try to stop her?” Now there was a sheen of moisture on Dickson’s eyes. “I loved her.”

“I don’t doubt it, but I need you to tell me where you were.”

“I was here at home. My mom wasn’t working that night. We normally spent the evenings that she had off together, after my dad left us.”

“Why weren’t you at the party with Alexandra?”

“Because we’d argued the week before and she said she wanted some time to think. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Liam ignored the jab. “What did you argue about?”

“Stupid shit. She’d mentioned marriage, partially to piss off her father, and I wasn’t a hundred percent on the notion so she threw a fit. She wanted me to propose so bad. But it was more than that.” Dickson paused and shook his head.

“What?”

“It was like she’d changed over the weeks before she died. She started having a little less time for me when I didn’t pop the question the moment she suggested it. I almost got the feeling she was seeing someone else but I couldn’t be sure.”

“Did you mention this to anyone else? The cops?”

“No. Didn’t seem important when I was worried that they were going to murder my mother.” Dickson lowered his gaze to the floor and turned his coffee cup in a circle. “I told Valerie a few days before Alex died. She said not to worry, that Alex loved me and she’d get her head straight.” He swallowed and blinked, looking away out the back window. “But she didn’t.”

“Did you notice anything other than that? Strange behavior? Did she say anything that might’ve hinted at what she was planning?”

“No.”

“Can you remember—”

“I don’t want to remember!” Dickson’s voice was suddenly hard, all the sadness replaced by anger in an instant. “I really don’t know what your game is. Valerie’s missing, not Alex. I know where Alex is. I can show you her grave.”

Liam brought his hands up. “Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down. You come out here rehashing shit that I try to forget every day and then expect me to be happy about it? Look out that window, look at all that shit in the yard. You know what that is? My career. I haul junk and scrap metal to the dump for cash. I fix cars up and try to sell them, but who wants to buy one from the nigger that drove a lovely white girl to her death?”

“Dickson, I’m here to help. I’m just—”

“No. If you want answers, go outside and read the writing on the wall. There’s your answers. That’s all I’ll ever be.” Dickson stood and bunched his fists. Liam tensed and slowly rose to his feet. “It doesn’t matter what I say! Do you get it? People don’t forget, they just pass the hatred down to the next generation.”

“Dickson, please.”

“No. You’re barking up the wrong fucking tree. I’m at the end of my rope and if one more cop comes calling, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

“Valerie—”

“She hated me,” Dickson said, poking a thumb into his chest. “Val was one of my best friends and the day after I lost the love of my life, she told me it was my fault that Alex was dead.”

“If you really loved Alex, you’ll help me now,” Liam said, knowing his words would tip the scale one way or the other. Dickson didn’t hesitate. His head and shoulders lowered and he rushed across the space between them. Liam had a split second to register how fast the man was, along with the fact that he’d definitely played football.

Dickson’s shoulder caught him in the stomach, shunting the air from his lungs. He felt the other man’s arms wrap around him, driving him toward the counter at the closest wall of the kitchen. Liam slipped his forearm beneath Dickson’s throat as they collided with the countertop. The pain was a hot bed of nails in his lower back but he kept his hold on Dickson, sliding the guillotine choke in deeper. Liam brought his arm up, cutting off the blood flow in the man’s throat. Dickson started to panic, trying to lift him up and slam him to the ground, but Liam pulled harder and felt the fight drain from him like water. He waited another beat and just as Dickson’s body began to slacken, he released him.

Dickson tried to remain on his feet but his eyelids fluttered and he fell to the floor. He sat there sucking air, arms wobbling as he tried to hold himself up. Liam drew the photo of Valerie and Alexandra out of his pocket and tossed it on the floor between Dickson’s splayed legs.