A Whisper in the Dark Page 6

  He was trying to decide if he should give her a quick education on all the things that could happen to people who didn’t lock their doors when her scream stopped him dead in his tracks.

  FOUR

  Julia didn’t scare easily. She wasn’t particularly squeamish or skittish. She’d never even been afraid of bugs or rodents or any of the other creepy things that launched most people into panic mode. But the sight of the knife stabbed into the book and surrounded by the stark red of blood sent a scream pouring from her throat.

  She scrambled away from the counter just as John burst back into the shop. “What is it?” he snapped, but his eyes were already on the counter.

  Julia pointed, surprised to see her hand shaking. “Someone . . . must have come in while we were upstairs.”

  He crossed to the counter. “What the hell?”

  Taking a calming breath, she moved closer and stared down at the macabre sight in utter disbelief. Someone had driven a nasty-looking knife through the center of a book and dribbled what looked like blood all over the cover and surrounding countertop. The serrated blade had gone through both the front and back covers and penetrated the wooden counter beneath.

  “My God,” she murmured, but her voice was high and tight. “What do you—”

  John’s gaze met hers, his eyes flat and dangerous. “Did you lock the front door after your father left?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “It wasn’t locked.” He glanced toward the rear of the shop. “Stay put. Don’t touch anything. I’m going to check the back room.”

  Sudden understanding dawned: the intruder could still be in the shop. Julia’s heart began to pound. She watched John move soundlessly down the aisle and disappear into the storage room. Still not sure if she was frightened or angry—or maybe a little of both—she glanced down at the book. A shudder moved through her as she took in the length of the knife, its stainless blade stained with bright red droplets. The cover of the book had been slashed multiple times, as if the culprit had been in a frenzy. It almost looked as if the book was bleeding . . .

  Leaning close, she was able to make out the title on the spine, and a second, deeper chill barreled through her. A Gentleman’s Touch by Elisabeth de Haviland.

  “Oh, my God.” Dread and a pristine new fear unfurled inside her. For a moment Julia couldn’t catch her breath. Pressing one hand to her stomach, she leaned heavily against the counter. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She’d been so careful. How could anyone know?

  “The storage room is clear. The back door was locked.”

  She turned to face John.

  “They must have come in through the front door,” he said.

  “That’s impossible because I locked it.”

  “Are you absolutely certain?”

  “Of course, I am,” she snapped. “I live in the French Quarter. I always lock my doors.”

  He didn’t look convinced, but she gave him credit for not pressing her. “Any idea who might have done this?”

  She glanced at the chilling scene on the counter, then looked away, shook her head. “I can’t imagine.”

  “Who has a key to this place?”

  “Claudia and Jacob. My landlord. My dad.”

  “Jacob again, huh? His name keeps coming up.”

  “You can be suspicious all you want, but there’s no way he had anything to do with this.”

  He removed the pad from his jacket. “I need his contact information.”

  “Why? What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not going to send him a goddamn Christmas card.”

  “John, I don’t think—”

  “Julia, for God’s sake, I’m not going to rough him up. I’m just going to talk to him. Now, give me his phone number and address.”

  Realizing the smart thing to do at this point was cooperate, even if she disagreed with him, Julia walked to her desk, pulled out a memo pad and jotted down Jacob’s address and phone number. She crossed to John and held the piece of paper out. “Be nice to him. He’s a good kid.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what everyone said about Ted Bundy.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Who’s joking?” He took the paper and slid it into his pocket without looking at it. “I need your landlord’s number, too.”

  Making a sound of exasperation to cover the fact that she was still feeling shaky, Julia recited the number from memory while he jotted it on his pad. “Don’t be rude to her. She’s old and sweet.”

  “As long as she cooperates, we’ll get along just fine.”

  Shaking her head, Julia looked toward the counter, the ghastly sight sending a shiver through her. She simply couldn’t reconcile herself to believing someone she knew was doing such a thing.

  She jumped when he set his hand on her shoulder. “You okay?”

  “I’m . . . ticked off more than anything.”

  One side of his mouth curved. “Ticked off is better than hysterical.”

  “Yeah, well, you can relax. I don’t do hysterical.” She couldn’t stop looking at the book. “For God’s sake, is that blood?”

  He grimaced. “Smells like it.”

  “Where would someone get blood? I mean, he could have . . . It could be hum—”

  “For all we know he could have gotten it at the neighborhood butcher. We can have the police test it.” His eyes narrowed. “It took some strength to get that knife through that book and into the countertop.”

  “It’s almost as if he was in a frenzy.”

  “Or a rage.”

  Unnerved by the thought, Julia rubbed her hands over her arms. “Who would do something like this?”

  “Evidently someone who’s unhappy with something you’ve done. Some perceived wrong.” He tilted his head slightly, as if to get a better look at her. “Any idea what that might be?”

  She forced her gaze to his. “None.”

  He stared at her, his eyes probing with an intensity that unnerved, but she held his gaze. For a moment, the only sound came from the rain pinging against the window and the quickened beat of her heart.

  After a moment, John looked away and focused his attention on the book. “There’s something wedged between the pages.”

  On impulse, Julia reached for it, but he stopped her by grasping her wrist. “Don’t touch it,” he said. “If it’s blood, it’s a biohazard. Plus, we don’t want to contaminate any possible evidence.”

  She looked down where his fingers were wrapped around her wrist. His grip was warm and surprisingly reassuring. His skin was dark against hers, and for a moment Julia couldn’t look away.

  “You’re shaking,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, I’m not used to finding bloody books on my counter.”

  He released her and unsnapped a cell phone from his belt. “The police will be able tell us if this is human or animal.”

  Julia hadn’t wanted the police involved any more than they already were, but she was smart enough to know she no longer had a choice. The situation had just taken a hard turn left into dangerous territory.

  “What will the police do?” she asked.

  “They’ll file a report. A minor crime like this—trespassing and vandalism—doesn’t warrant much attention from PD. We’ll be lucky to get a crime scene team out here to dust for prints. On the other hand, if the blood turns out to be human, they’re going to want to know where it came from.”

  The thought made her shudder. “Let’s hope it’s not human.”

  “I’ll give Mitch a call, see if he can help get a CSI out here.”

  “Mitch as in Mitchy?”

  John grinned. “He’d probably prefer if you didn’t call him that.”

  She smiled back. “He’s a cop?”

  “A damn good one. If we can get someone to dust that book for prints, Mitch can help us cut through some of the red tape. Get the prints entered into AFIS. If our perp’s in the system, we’ll I.D. him.”

  Hope swept through her a
t the thought of the police catching the stalker.

  John punched keys on his phone and slipped into cop mode as he reported the crime. Watching him, Julia suddenly realized that he had probably been a very good cop. That he missed police work. That he was a hell of a lot more disturbed about what had happened in Chicago than he was letting on.

  He snapped the phone closed. “A unit will be here in a few minutes.” He glanced at the book and frowned. “In the meantime, I thought we’d see what this sick son of a bitch had to say.” Removing a small pocketknife from his slacks, he opened it and used the tip to slide the paper from its nest.

  Julia watched, not sure she wanted to know.

  The paper appeared to be the same expensive linen as the others. Using the knife, John unfolded it on the counter.

  Something went cold inside her when the words came into view. The harlot’s ink is her lifeblood. Bleeding sin onto the page. Words that maim the hearts of the innocent and taint the souls of the weak. Soon the blood will be hers. The world will be purged of her sins. And vengeance will at last be mine.

  “Holy shit,” he muttered, “I think the crazy bastard really did write this in blood.”

  She stared at the perfectly executed red calligraphy, aware that her heart was pounding. She could feel her breaths coming too short, too fast. And for the first time since the letters began, she acknowledged the fear that had taken up residence deep inside.

  “Do you recognize the book?” John asked after a moment.

  Julia closed her eyes briefly, pressed her hand to her stomach against the slow curl of dread. She didn’t want to tell him about her book. She wanted that part of her life to remain private. But there was no way she could continue to downplay the situation.

  “Maybe,” she whispered.

  “What do you mean ‘maybe’?” He looked at her sharply, his thick brows knit with impatience. “If you know something, Julia, now would be a good time to enlighten me.”

  When she said nothing, he used the tip of his knife to open the cover flap of the book and turn to the first page, where the title and author’s name were visible. “Elisabeth de Haviland.” He turned his attention back to Julia. “Are you familiar with this author?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she a friend of yours? What?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean ‘not exactly’?” He looked at the book. “Can you think of any reason why this book might upset someone? Why they would take that anger out on you?”

  She nodded. “I can think of several.”

  “Is it controversial? What?”

  Heat rose in her cheeks. She could feel the guilt on her face, the rise of panic in her chest, her brain scrambling for a lie. But she knew there was no way she could keep her secret and still hope to find the person responsible. As much as she didn’t want to acknowledge it, the two were as intertwined as the blood and paper of the pages inside the book.

  John closed the book and turned stormy gray eyes on her. Within their depths, Julia saw questions, cool suspicion, and an impatience that was tempered with the resolve to satisfy both.

  “You’re not telling something,” he said. “Come on, Julia. Talk to me. Who is Elisabeth de Haviland?”

  She met his gaze levelly, refusing to drop her eyes or look away first. She didn’t have anything to be ashamed of, she told herself. Damn it, she didn’t. But she could feel the burn of a blush rising into her cheeks . . .

  “Me,” she said and tried not to think about what the confession would set into motion.

  FIVE

  John hung back and watched the single CSI work the scene. Big city police departments were invariably stretched tight with regard to manpower. Dispatch had sent only one investigator. At his brother’s prodding, no doubt. John didn’t miss the politics or the bullshit, but he sure missed being a cop.

  It had been over two months since he’d worked a crime scene. In the past he’d always felt at home among the chaos, the pain and death and bad jokes. Tonight he felt like an outsider. A civilian. But then standing on the sidelines had never been his cup of tea. John figured he’d better get used to it. In his current state of mind there wasn’t a police department in the country that would hire him.

  Julia sat at her desk, looking pale and frazzled even through the smile she’d worked up for his younger brother, Mitch. But John knew from experience the facade wouldn’t last much longer. She might put up a brave front, but he’d seen the fear in her eyes. She was scared—and rightfully so.

  Why had she been so reluctant to tell him about the book she’d written?

  He liked to read as much as the next guy—thrillers and police procedural mostly—but for the last few years his life had been too busy for such indulgences; it had been months since he’d read a novel. He wondered what kind of book she’d penned. More to the point, he wondered why some sick son of a bitch had seen fit to slink into her shop after hours, put a knife through the cover and drizzle it with blood.

  “You got a sec?”

  John turned to find his younger brother standing behind him. An unexpected frisson of pride swept through him at the sight of the uniform. Mitch Merrick might be a rookie, but you couldn’t tell by looking at him. John had watched him work the scene, and his younger brother was as competent as any veteran detective.

  Both he and Mitch came from a long line of law enforcement. It was in their blood. Both boys had wanted to be cops as long as John could remember. Their father, Carter, had tried to break the tradition by urging them to pursue other careers. But John and Mitch had no interest in anything but police work. After their father was killed in the line of duty when John was eighteen and Mitch was sixteen, there was never any question as to which profession they would choose.

  “Sure,” John said.

  Taking a final look at Julia, he followed his brother to the front door.

  “So what do you have?” John asked.

  “I thought we were dealing with a simple B and E and vandalism until the CSI told me the blood is human.”

  “Damn.” He hadn’t wanted to hear that. “You think someone’s been hurt?”

  “Tech said there’s not enough blood to indicate serious injury or death.”

  “Guy definitely made a statement.”

  “No shit. Tech’ll type it. We’ll run DNA, see if we get a hit in the database, but it’s a long shot.”

  “Did the tech get latents off the book or knife?” Running prints through the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System (IAFIS) was routine.

  “Whoever handled that book and knife wore gloves.”

  “Pretty careful for a vandal, don’t you think?” But John figured both men knew they were not dealing with an ordinary vandal.

  Mitch looked over his shoulder toward where Julia sat at her desk, pretending to do paperwork. “So what’s up with Julia? How did you end up here?”

  John thought about Benjamin Wainwright and shook his head. “Long story. I’ll fill you in later.”

  “Looks like the little bookworm is all grown up.” Mitch grinned. “Last I recall, she had one hell of a crush on you.”

  John didn’t smile back. “Yeah, well, she’s older and wiser now.”

  “Someone hassling her?”

  “She’s been receiving threatening letters. Weird shit.”

  “Stalker?”

  “Yup.”

  “So you going to keep an eye on her, or what?”

  John frowned, not liking the insinuation in his brother’s voice. Not liking it even more that he’d somehow ended up in the middle of a situation he wanted no part of. “Something like that.”

  “Or maybe you’re worried she’ll put a crimp in your style. God forbid you might have to come back to the land of the living.”

  John shot his brother a warning look. “What I do is my business, bro.”

  “For chrissake, John, it’s been two months—”

  “I know how lo
ng it’s been.”

  “If you think drowning yourself in a bottle every night is going to help, you’re sorely—”

  “I killed a man, goddamn it,” John ground out.

  “It was an accident. You were cleared.”

  The radio strapped to Mitch’s hip crackled, saving John from having to respond. It wasn’t the first time they’d had the conversation. He hoped it was the last. The way John saw things, a good man was still dead and John still had the man’s blood on his hands.

  Mitch spoke into the radio clipped to his lapel. When he looked at John, his expression was all business. “I gotta run. I got a domestic over on Rampart.”

  “Thanks for getting the CSI out here. I know that took some doing.”

  “I’ll let you know if we get a hit on that DNA.” Mitch started for the door. “Good luck finding your stalker.”

  John watched his brother walk out the door, wishing like hell he’d never returned Benjamin Wainwright’s call.

  It was nearly midnight by the time the CSI left. He’d bagged the book and knife, along with a sample of the blood and several fingerprint strips, to take back to the lab. John stared at the blood that remained on the counter, wishing the CSI had cleaned it up. But, of course, that wasn’t his job, so John had asked him to leave a pair of rubber gloves. Julia provided the bleach. He spent ten minutes scrubbing the counter.

  “I could have done that,” Julia said.

  Peeling off the gloves, John tossed them into the trash bag and tied it off. “Where do you put your trash?”

  “There’s a Dumpster in the alley.” She reached for the bag, but he frowned at her and carried it to the back of the shop. He opened the rear door to a narrow alley lined with scarred metal doors, garbage bags and an array of trash cans. A beat-up Dumpster with a broken lid stood just to the left of the door. John tossed the bag and walked back inside.

  He found Julia standing at her desk, looking exhausted and frazzled—and like she’d rather be anywhere but here with him.