You Can't Hide (21 page)

“I don’t know. The person who’s called me twice now is definitely female. The person who imitated my voice was definitely female.”

78

Karen Rose

[Suspense 5]

You Can't Hide

His quick glance was shocked. “Someone imitated your voice?”

“On Cynthia Adams’s voice mail. I went in this morning to give a voice sample, hoping to exclude myself from the investigation, but so far that doesn’t look likely.”

“This somebody has planned this for some time, then.”

“Looks like.”

“How did they know your patients’ names?”

“I’ve been thinking about that, too. One thing both Winslow and Adams had in common was that both were referred by the hospital when they were admitted for suicide attempts. But then again, so are half my patients.”

“But the hospital would have records of those referrals.”

“They would, yes. Technically, those records are private, guarded, just like we protect our records. But…” She shrugged.

“Are your records intact?” he asked careful y.

“I thought of that, too. Nothing is out of place and my electronic records haven’t been accessed by anybody except me and Denise.”

He frowned. “She’s been with us for five years. Since you joined the practice.”

Tess sighed. She’d never been comfortable with Denise, but Harrison was quite fond of her.

“I know. Besides, this person has access to police records as well. They knew about Cynthia’s sister, had a copy of her death scene photos. Winslow’s baby’s death photos, too. I certainly didn’t have those things in my records. There were also lilies in Cynthia’s apartment. I didn’t know anything about that.”

“So somebody has a cop in their pocket?”

“Or a cop’s holding the reins.”

Harrison drew a deep breath while pul ing the car into the restaurant’s parking lot. “Revenge then?”

“Detective Reagan seemed to think it was a possibility.”

He put the car in park. “So we have an organized, theatric sociopath.”

“Who knows about meds.”

“Ah, now that’s interesting.”

She thought about the tragedy of the two deaths. Suicides when both had fought so hard to dig themselves out of the mire. There was a cruelty here that went beyond mere violence. “And who doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.”

“Who has a hard-on for you.”

Tess’s eyes widened at the uncharacteristic vulgarity. “Harrison.” He said nothing and she shrugged. “I guess so.”

“Sounds like you have the beginnings of a profile, Doctor,” he said with a smile. “And I have a taste for roast pork.”

There was one good thing to be said for Chicago traffic midday, Joanna thought as she pul ed the lens cap from her camera. Nobody went so fast that a biker couldn’t keep up with them. Straddling her bike, she snapped ten good pictures of Dr. Ciccotelli and her companion. After tailing Ciccotelli for a day her camera’s memory card was nearly ful and her flypaper was getting good and sticky.

Chapter 9

Tuesday, March 14, 12:35 P.M.

It’s not finished,” Burkhardt snapped before Aidan or Murphy could say a word.

79

Karen Rose

[Suspense 5]

You Can't Hide

“We didn’t come to harass you,” Aidan said and produced a white paper bag from his coat pocket. “But we’d be willing to bribe you.”

Burkhardt lifted a brow. “What’s in the bag?”

Aidan held it just out of reach. “Baklava. The really good stuff.” He’d intended to keep it for his own midafternoon snack, but Burkhardt looked frustrated, his hair standing up in spikes as if he’d pul ed at it repeatedly. Aidan’s mother had always said you catch more flies with honey and baklava was dripping with it.

Burkhardt scowled. “You fight dirty, Reagan. Okay, hand it over.” He snagged the bag and opened it, sniffing in appreciation. “There are nuances.”

“What does that mean, ‘nuances’?” Murphy asked.

“It means that I see some differences in certain sounds, but they don’t occur frequently enough on the tape to be sure. This impressionist is very, very good.” He hesitated, looked at Aidan, then Murphy. “Are you sure your shrink’s not guilty?”

Aidan could hear Murphy’s teeth grinding. “We’re sure,” Murphy bit out. Burkhardt shrugged. “Wel , she’s got your shrink down pat.”

The term “impressionist” had struck a chord and visions of bad Richard Nixon impressions were flickering through Aidan’s mind. “You think she could be a pro?”

Burkhardt shrugged. “Maybe. It’s certainly worth a try. The best impressionists usually end up on the comedy circuit. Some are voice actors for cartoons, but you’re not going to find too many of them in Chicago.”

“Theater actresses do voices too,” Murphy said slowly. He pul ed the envelope holding the microcassettes from his shirt pocket and handed it to Burkhardt. “But we really didn’t come to harass you or bribe you. Can you play these for us?”

Burkhardt shook the microcassettes onto his palm. “Not on this equipment.” He went to a filing cabinet and rummaged until he straightened, a small dictating recorder in his hand. “This is the best I can do for now.” He slipped one of the cassettes in the recorder and pushed play. Aidan frowned at the high-pitched keening cry. “What the hell is that?”

Burkhardt put the machine to his ear. “Sounds like ‘Cynthia, Cynthia, why did you do it?’” He handed the recorder to Aidan, a disturbed look on his face. “It sounds creepy. Like a little kid, but it’s hard to pick up. These little machines don’t produce the greatest quality.”

Aidan listened, rewound, and listened again. “Cynthia Adams put these tapes in her safedeposit box two days before she died.” He caught Murphy’s eyes. “The speakers.”

“You’re right,” Murphy said grimly. “Taunting Adams into believing her sister was calling her from the grave. Why would she make a tape?”

“Maybe she thought she was losing her mind and was afraid to tell anyone. Tess said Adams was good at denying what she didn’t want to believe. She didn’t want to believe she heard voices and the tape would have been proof she wasn’t imagining it.”

Murphy looked at Burkhardt. “If this is the same impressionist, can you compare it to the imitation of Tess Ciccotelli’s voice?”

Burkhardt nodded. “The tape’s lousy, but I’l do my best.”

Aidan looked at the tapes. “You know there was one other taped message. The one urging Adams to check her e-mail. Have you analyzed that?”

Burkhardt frowned. “I didn’t know about it.”

“We were so focused on Tess’s message that we forgot about it,” Murphy scowled.

“Well, at least I know about it now. I’l get it from Jack and maybe all together I can get you something definitive.”

Tuesday, March 14, 3:15 P.M.

Mrs. Lister was crying, wild wracking sobs of grief and rage. But it was beautiful music to Tess’s ears. For three months this woman had been coming to therapy for symptoms ranging from chest tightness to insomnia. The underlying reality was that she had been unable to deal

80

Karen Rose

[Suspense 5]

You Can't Hide

with the sudden suicide of her thirty-year-old son. She’d gone through the motions, burying him, mourning him. But her rage ran so very deep.

Somehow, some way, the public deaths of Cynthia Adams and Avery Winslow had served to unlock all that rage and now, final y, Mrs. Lister was admitting how very angry she was. How much she hated him for leaving her that way. How much she loved him and wished he’d come home. She should have protected him, but she hadn’t known. Never suspected. Until it was way too late. Now there would be no second chance.

It was a common enough theme among those left behind, but it never failed to make Tess’s eyes sting, her throat close. For now, she pressed some tissues into Mrs. Lister’s hand and let her cry it out. She’d be hol owed out afterward, Tess knew, but not necessarily ready to take the next step. Every patient was different, their needs unique.

While Tess quietly waited, the pager in the front pocket of her slacks buzzed silently against her hip. It was Denise. No one else had the number. The pager was the discreet way Denise would contact her when she was in session.
Not now, Denise.
Thirty seconds later the pager buzzed again. Tess rose and surreptitiously pul ed it from her pocket under the guise of staring from the office window down at the street.

Her heart skipped a beat, then two. A series of “911”s filled the little message screen. A single

“911” was their emergency code. Her hands trembling, she slipped the pager back in her pocket. Forcing her voice to remain steady, she turned to the weeping woman on her couch. “Mrs. Lister, I’m going to step out for a moment, to give you some time.”

Tess slipped out and her skipping heart dropped to her gut. Denise sat behind her desk, her face totally white. “I’m sorry, but there’s another call. Line two. She’l only talk to you and she says you’l want to talk to her.”

Tess picked up the phone, squared her shoulders, and gave Denise a brisk nod. Denise punched the button for line two and Tess’s ear was filled with the staticky sound of a cell phone with a lot of background noise. A horn blared and a second responded in kind. Fiercely she wished she’d allowed Reagan to tap her office phone even though she knew she could never do so. “This is Dr. Ciccotelli. How can I help you?”

“Dr. Ciccotel i, I’m a neighbor of one of your patients.”

Cut the bullshit, lady,
was on the tip of Tess’s tongue, but she bit it back, not wanting to antagonize the woman into hanging up. “Which patient, ma’am?”

“Malcolm Seward.”

Tess drew a deep breath and gestured for Denise to hand her a pen. She wrote the name on the pad and Denise typed Seward’s name into the computer.

This was going to be very bad indeed. “What is Mr. Seward’s difficulty?”

“He’s having a violent argument with his wife,” the woman said diffidently. “Looks like… yes, he just slapped her to the floor. Says he’s going to fucking kill her,” she added, as if commenting on the weather. “I’l let you take it from here, Doctor.”

The woman hung up and Tess looked at the door to her office where Mrs. Lister still sat, knowing what she had to do. “Call Harrison, tel him to come and do something with Mrs. Lister.”

“Do what?”

“Hel , I don’t know!” Tess’s hands were shaking. “Wrap up the session. Reschedule her for tomorrow. He’l know what to do. Give me Seward’s address.” She grabbed the notepad on which Denise had jotted two addresses. “What?”

“He’s got two homes,” she said helplessly. “One in the city and one out past North Shore. Where do you think he is?”

“There was traffic in the background,” Tess said. “It’l be the city address.” Less than three blocks away. “Cal 911. Tel them to hurry.”

She ran from the office, down the stairwell, praying the reporters had gone away, knowing it wouldn’t mean anything even if they had.

81

Karen Rose

[Suspense 5]

You Can't Hide

Malcolm Seward was news. Big news. If the media didn’t know now, they’d sure as hell know soon. She burst onto the street and took off at a sprint, ignoring the sole cry of an outraged pedestrian.
Reagan.
His face materialized in her mind.
Call Reagan.
Tuesday, March 14, 3:30 P.M.

Luckily Spinnelli’s wife was a patron of the arts in a variety of forms. Luckily she’d dragged Spinnelli to an improv show the week before and their lieutenant had enjoyed it enough to stay awake, which apparently was not the case with every performance she took him to. Within minutes of calling his wife, their lieutenant had been able to hand them a list of contacts at the Chicago Studio Theater, a well-known improv training ground and now Murphy and Aidan entered the theater together, badges out. A rehearsal was in process and all eyes frowned at them.

“I’m Detective Murphy and this is my partner, Detective Reagan.”

“What’s this about?” an older man on the stage asked.

“We just have a few questions,” Aidan said. “We’re looking for a woman who imitates voices and we were pointed in your direction.”

The older man sat down on the stage’s edge and pushed himself to the floor. “I’m the stage manager. Name’s Grant Oldham.”

“Well, like I said, Mr. Oldham, we’re looking for a woman who can imitate voices. She’s very good. We were thinking she might be involved in the theater somewhere.”

Oldham straightened to his ful height of about five feet seven inches. “I’m not going to give you a list of our performers so you can go on a witch hunt.”

“This is a murder investigation, Mr. Oldham, not a witch hunt,” Aidan returned mildly. “You are, of course, under no obligation to tell us anything. Are they, Murphy?”

“Nope, but I have heard that actors and actresses are terribly bohemian. Who knows what we might find hidden backstage when we come back with a warrant?”

It was hard to tell in the semidarkened room, but it looked like Oldham paled. “You can’t get a warrant to search us without just cause. It’s unconstitutional.”

Aidan sighed. Everybody was an expert on the Constitution all of a sudden. “We’re trying to track down a murderer who’s already killed twice with no sign of stopping. We’d like to have your help, but this is of a high enough priority that if we took you in for questioning, nobody would fault us. Please. Do the right thing and help us out.”

Oldham blew out a breath. “What do you want to know?”

“Women who can imitate voices,” Murphy said. “Talented ones.”

Oldham rubbed the bald spot on the top of his head. “Let’s see, there’s Jen Rivers, Lani Swenson, Nicole Rivera…” He threw a look over his shoulder at the other performers on stage.

“Anybody else?” Oldham asked.

“Mary Anne Gibbs,” said a man with a mangy-looking goatee. “She does a great Liza.” The others just shook their heads, still frowning.

Aidan wrote down all the names while Murphy pul ed from his pocket a picture of the woman from the mailbox store video.

“Do you know her?” Murphy asked.

Oldham squinted. “Hey, Egypt, hit the house lights, will ya?” The goateed performer ambled off-stage and suddenly bright light flooded the theater, making them blink. Oldham took the picture and studied it intently. “Hair’s wrong, but… It could be Nicole. Then again, it’s really grainy. Sorry, Detectives.”