Scare Me (17 page)

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

 
 

 
 

Apt 17,
 
 

144 East Went Street,
 
 

Chicago,
 
 

Illinois,
 
 

60510
 
 

 

Relief and panic collided as Will inputted the coordinates into his online map. The apartment was in the Gold Coast area between Cabrini Green and North Lake Shore Drive. It would take him sixteen minutes to get there.

He was just yanking the coffee house door when a hefty guy in a hairnet grabbed him by the arm.

“You haven't paid your check.” His fingers pinched bone.

“OK!” Will rapidly pulled out his wallet. “But you're going to have to let go of my arm.”

Hairnet Guy unclamped Will's bicep and put a meaty hand against the exit.

His limb freed, Will plucked some single dollar bills from inside and thrust them at him. “Keep the change.” He turned to leave, but Hairnet Guy didn't budge.

“This isn't enough. It's for six seventy-five.”

He parted his wallet folds, but there was no other money within. Hairnet Guy looked at the ceiling.

 

Pope was already out in the street looking for a cab when Weaver pulled up. He jogged to the passenger door as his maroon-faced partner swung out.

“Get back in. Frost should be leaving any second.” He narrowed his eyes at the coffee shop and wondered why the new coordinates hadn't made him emerge.

Weaver slammed the car door and thrust some dollars into the driver's window. “Keep the change.”

The cabby nodded and pulled away.

Pope was momentarily stunned. “Weaver? We've got the new address…”

Weaver shouldered past him into the juice bar and Pope quickly followed. He dumped his camera onto the shelf and unstrung his kitbag from over his head. “Just after I spoke to you I got a text from the channel. I thought it was kinda weird that they'd be sending me an assignment for tomorrow so I called the desk to tell them there'd been a mistake.” He widened his eyes, a cue for Pope to explain.

Pope had been preparing for this conversation, but all of the bullshit he'd rehearsed seemed pointless given Weaver's current demeanour.

“So I find out that the Monday assignment is my
actual
assignment and that I've been dragged onto two planes under false pretences by someone who doesn't have a job at 55 anymore.”

 

Will clawed in another pocket and found more change. He counted it out onto the six dollars already in the man's palm. Each coin another second wasted. He just managed to make it up. As soon as the last quarter landed, Hairnet Guy dropped his arm like a release mechanism.

Will shot out into the street and headed for a taxi that was idling in a line for the lights.

 

“They're firing me?”

“And me along with you unless I'm back at work tomorrow morning.”

Pope watched Frost cross the street to the taxi. “We can argue the toss later. He's moving.”

Weaver turned briefly and then retrained his hostility on Pope. “You're a son of a bitch. What were you thinking? No contract, no safeguards. Just string Weaver along and risk his livelihood because you think you're a hotshot? The best moment of
your
career was getting caught in the fucking rain.”

Pope held up Weaver's iPad. “I can't believe we were on top of this and you're letting it drive away.”

“You should have levelled with me.”

“If I'd done that you wouldn't have got on the plane.”

“Damn right I wouldn't have. This is us concealing evidence, not the channel. I could go to jail for this, Pope. So what was your ultimate plan?”

“I hadn't thought further than staying on top of Frost.”

“Bullshit. Who are you taking this to?”

“Taking what to? Every second we stand here it's slipping through our fingers.”

“You must have already positioned yourself with one of the big networks. It'll be back to begging for a job at 55 for me though, right?”

“You're right. I should've levelled with you. But we can slug this out later. If we don't move now you would have risked your job for nothing.”

“Fuck you.” Weaver sat down and folded his arms.

 

Rush hour meant they could only crawl through the traffic and Will considered getting out to walk, but sporadic surges through the lights moved them across town at a faster pace than if he was on foot. He perched on the rim of the seat and willed the vehicle forward.

He knew getting there faster wouldn't have any impact on the consequences for whoever lived in apartment 17, and his agitation kept tugging the driver's attention in his direction. He had a flat cap and thick lens spectacles that both seemed too big for his head and his magnified gaze was becoming increasingly nervous. Will caught his own waxen features in the mirror.

“You OK?” It sounded like concern for the interior of his cab more than anything else. Will nodded, but the driver wasn't convinced. “You just let me know if you need me to pull over.”

“That's the last thing I want you to do.”

East Went was like a tree-lined runway to the outer harbour of Lake Michigan with a mishmash of architecture that reminded Will of the street on the website. The apartment building was a relatively new structure slotted between two older buildings. He handed the driver his credit card, got out and stood by the window. He didn't hear his wisecrack as he tossed it back. Will headed up a short flight of steps to the main entrance, sliding his hands inside the chequered gloves.

He found the box and button for 17. It was the last apartment on the top level. He tried the heavy brass handles of the filigreed glass doors, but they were rigid. He trotted back down the steps and looked up at the blank windows, counting the floors. Seventeen. Looked like it was the penthouse. He only had one option so mounted the steps again and pressed the buzzer.

The grille crackled. Will anticipated a woman's voice. Then the door hummed and the front entrance doors unlocked.

The elevator was a capsule of dread. Will had almost taken the stairs. Running up them seemed more appropriate than listening to the kitsch muzak inside the plush, mirrored box delivering him to the top level. He looked at his own reflection as the container rose and shuddered around him. Who had let him in? If it was her, why was she allowing him to get closer?

The elevator lurched to a stop. When the doors eventually opened, a sickly sandalwood scent poured over him. He was standing in a private lobby. The carpets there were the same dark honey colour as in the elevator. There was an occasional table with a bowl of ornamental wicker balls beside the front door, which was ajar.

The elevator started to close behind him. He put his body back in the frame. If he allowed it to descend, there was no quick escape. He grabbed a fire extinguisher from a bracket on the wall and positioned it on the threshold. The doors closed on it, bounced and opened. Closed on it, bounced and opened.

He listened, no sound except for the elevator and his own internal percussion. He could see the glow of daylight on the plain white wall to the left of the cracked door. Somebody was waiting inside.

Will placed his laptop on the occasional table. A set of keys was hanging motionless from the lock. He gripped the leather fob and pushed the door slowly inward. It glided open soundlessly and he was peering down a hallway he'd already seen. It had several doors off it; the one at the far end was the only one left open. Then he recognised what was lying on the bureau beneath the mirror to his right. It was a canary yellow clutch purse like the one he'd seen the girl carrying when he'd passed her at the back of the house in Ellicott City.

He was about to dismiss it as coincidence, but the object's presence prompted him to reconsider the memory for the first time since it happened. There were only a limited number of houses she could have exited from down that overgrown walkway. It also now seemed too coincidental she'd been leaving as he'd arrived. He remembered her face, lit by the streetlamp. He could see her pronounced lip and a hint of the expression there, but all he could recall in any detail was the purse she'd held against herself that matched the one in front of him now.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

 

Will moved soundlessly to the first closed cherry wood door. He had no choice but to work his way methodically along the rooms. The gold handle felt cool through the glove as he gripped it and pulled it down. The interior was bathed in the cold light of day. It was the den with the pool table and bar. It was much bigger than it looked in the digital image. An old Wurlitzer jukebox was installed against the far wall, unplugged

Will guessed the last open room had been an invitation, but a movement drew his attention to the L-shaped couch in the top left corner. A naked man was lying there, bound on his front but alive. He was middle-aged, his dyed, jet-black hair contrasting with the wiry grey covering his chest, arms and beer belly. Tape bound his hands behind him and to his ankles and his eyes were protruding so much they looked like they were about to eject from his head. His eyes locked on Will. He yelled through the gag.

“Mr Frost,” a female voice stated, as if his name was an answer quickly needed.

It came from behind him.

“Mr Frost,” she said more imperatively. He turned in its direction.

He walked back out of the room. It had come from the door opposite. He had to put himself between her and the man on the couch.

Will crossed the hallway and pushed into the room. He anticipated assault or to be greeted by the sight of more mutilation. But all he saw was her profile and the whip of her long, dark hair as she left the room via a door at the back. She closed it quickly behind her.

He speedily crossed the room and gripped its handle. It wouldn't open. He tried turning it clockwise and anti. She'd locked it. He looked about, registering the circular bed and hurried back to the door he'd entered by. It slammed before he reached it and he heard the lock snap into place. She'd circled around.

He realised what was about to happen before his shoulder was against the door. “Open this!” he yelled at the panel.

He waited for a response, his face still ringing. She was there. He could sense her presence the other side of the door. “Open the door,” Will said levelly. He put his ear to the crack and listened, hearing only the wood brushing his ear. She'd moved away.

He stepped back and held his breath, trying to pick up any footfalls in the apartment. All he could discern was the hum of the air con unit in the ceiling. Had she left? He doubted it.

One note of masculine pain answered the question. One extended, animal-like protest. It vibrated through nostrils as it held its hopeless pitch. A choking followed, as blood drowned the cry.

It was too late to save him. If they arrested her, he'd never see Libby again.

Or would that outcome be the same whatever he did? He was incapable of doing anything except sitting by and allowing it to happen. She knew it as well.

He tugged at the other door again, muscles wrenching against its solidity. He moved to the back window and yanked the nets along the rail. The glass was sealed and it was a sheer drop to a deserted, private parking courtyard below. He returned to the door he'd entered by and repeatedly booted the handle. He didn't know what would happen if it gave. What could he do, even if he escaped? But he only stopped when the scream did.

His exertions evaporated with the sound.

“Mr Frost.” She was at the door again, her tone cordial. “If you break the lock, I won't be able to let you out. If I can't let you out, you won't be able to finish the task.”

“Am I going to see my daughter again?” There was no sharpened edge to the question. Will waited.

No response.

“Where is she?!”

“Out of sight, out of mind,” she whispered.

“Open this door!” His palms were against it, then the edges of his fists.

Will could hear a strangulated vomiting sound coming from the other room. Then it was cut off.

One glimpse of her had confirmed it. She was the woman he'd passed behind the house in Ellicott City. He thought she'd been a neighbour. Hadn't considered she could have been leaving the Stricks' home. But the same pout to her lower lip had been evident when she'd exited the room he was in now.

She was the one who'd baited him on the telephone at home and when he called the family in Bel Air. He thought she might have had an accomplice, but it looked like this woman was mutilating and arranging the bodies herself.

He registered the black-framed photograph above the bed. It wasn't hidden amongst others, but screwed into a central position over the headboard. It was Carla.

 

Carla couldn't begin to speculate what the motionless red dot on her GPS map meant for Will. How long had it been since he'd reached the address?

She speed-dialled his number and waited. Pope would have the location as well. How far behind was he? She knew she couldn't trust him to maintain the distance he'd promised. Maybe he'd tried to get too close.

“This is the answering service for William Frost. Please leave a message.”

Had Will turned off his phone before he went into the apartment? A minute passed and she dialled again. Answering service. She repeated the process, but still he didn't pick up. She called Pope.

“Mrs Frost?” Pope sounded startled.

Carla could hear the drone of people around him. “What's happening there?”

“There's been a slight complication.”

She became angry. “What the hell have you done?”

“Stay calm, nothing that would expose our presence. I just have to iron out a couple of things here.”

“Are you at the apartment?”

“No. I promised I'd keep a discreet distance and I am.”

“Where are you now?”

“A couple of blocks away.”

“Don't lie to me, Pope. If there's anything you can tell me about what's happening right now I need you to tell me.” She didn't want to betray her distress to Pope. “He's not answering his phone.”

“OK, listen. Keep trying him and, if I have your permission, I'll move in for a closer look.”

The only dialogue Carla had wanted with Pope was to negotiate his silence, but with Will not responding he was her only way of finding out what was going on.

 

“Call me back when you hear from him.” Pope hung up and put the phone down on the table between him and Weaver. “Frost's not responding. She's asking us to take a look.”

Weaver still sat opposite him in the juice bar, arms folded and implacable. Pope had been working on him and hadn't made any headway. Without a cameraman it was futile continuing.

“Weaver, it's fine if you want to get on a plane home afterwards, but this is a plea for help.”

“Which would be very convenient for you.”

Pope sifted the conversation he'd just had. “If you want to look at this cynically then at least helping the Frost family will make things easier for us in light of what we've been concealing.”

“What you've been concealing.” But something registered in Weaver's glare and his jaw began working his nicotine gum again.

Pope took this as a good sign. “If we're withholding from the police at the Frosts' say-so as well as shadowing under her instruction then our motive is purely to protect their daughter.”

Weaver eventually nodded then shook his head to signify that he knew Pope had got lucky. “OK, but wherever this story goes I'm in for fifty per cent.”

“That's a conversation for later.” Pope was already clambering down from his stool.

“Fifty per cent, Pope. Agree now or I split.”

Pope nodded. He'd already used up his credit. “Agreed.”

Weaver grabbed his kitbag and hefted the camera.

 

5.10pm. Will estimated he'd been confined to the room for just over fifteen minutes.

Whoever had been on the couch was dead. Slaughtering him while Will had been powerless was part of the design. Why? How were these people significant to him, or to her or to Libby?

Again he examined the colour photograph of Carla. He knew when the image had been captured. It had been in June when they'd had an open day at Easton Grey. She'd invited the village residents to rally them for the protest against David Wardour and his proposed Motex Radials plant. Even though it was only a head and shoulders shot he recognised the suit she'd worn and could see the summer house behind her. She'd addressed the assembly from its platform and in the background were the fliers Libby had decorated it with. It would have been so easy for someone to enter with the crowd and slip away to capture the other pictures of the house that had been posted on the site.

There was a scratch at the door beside the window. Will got to his feet and returned to it. He tried the handle. Still locked. He waited there, expecting to hear more whispered instructions. Realisation took him back to the first door. He depressed the handle slowly and it clicked open.

He stepped cautiously into the hallway. She'd misdirected him to the inner door while she unlocked the other. He ran to the lobby, noticing her yellow clutch purse had gone from the bureau. The elevator was descending. He considered the exit to the stairs, but knew he'd never make it down seventeen flights to intercept her in time. And what would he do if he did? He turned back to the apartment.

His own life had been spared, but he felt another part of himself collapse. He still had to collect something from inside.