Devil Smoke Page 6

  Chapter 10

  TOMMY PULLED HIS Volvo up to the curb and looked out the window at Sarah Brown’s apartment building. It was a seven-story yellow brick building directly across from Shadyside Hospital. Anonymous would be how he’d describe it. No wonder the cops hadn’t found anyone who knew her here. She could have come and gone for weeks without seeing another resident.

  He left the car and trudged up the steps to the building’s entrance. At least Sarah had still had her keys with her when she’d been found. He let himself into the lobby, checked her mailbox—empty, not even any junk mail—then took the elevator up to the fifth floor. The walls of the corridor were narrow, the carpet beige, the paint close to the end of its useful lifespan. The architecture had that pre-World War Two feeling, with high ceilings and elaborate molding—facts the otherwise bland decor hadn’t been able to obscure.

  As he prowled down the hallway searching for 517, the smell of bacon and cabbage wafted from behind one of the doors. It reminded him of summer vacations visiting his grandparents’ house. How he’d loved those summers filled with hay bales, barn cats, horses, swimming holes, and ice cream hand churned as fireflies swirled against the twilight sky.

  Until last year he’d carried that feeling of carefree contentment with him every day, even all these years later. Being with Charlotte, coming home to her and Nellie, it had felt like that. Every single day.

  Until last year.

  He reached Sarah’s apartment door and inserted her key into the lock. He hesitated, then knocked before turning the key.

  A thrill rushed through him as he opened the door onto Sarah Brown’s life. It felt weird, trespassing into someone’s private space even if it was for her own good. This wasn’t part of his usual job—nothing about this case was. Usually he spent his time at Beacon Falls reviewing medical records and on the phone discussing lab protocols and findings that maybe didn’t make it into the official record.

  The door opened onto a small foyer with a coat stand—empty—then expanded into the living room. The floors were oak, and there was a generic tan area rug in the center of the living room, between a matching modern beige sofa and chair that faced a large screen TV. Light streamed in through a wall of windows opposite the door. The artwork on the walls was as generic as the rug and furniture. No clues there.

  He closed the front door behind him and stood listening. The construction was solid—he couldn’t hear anything, or at least not now, midday when most of the building’s occupants were presumably at work. The apartment faced the rear of the building, so no sounds of traffic either. He stepped farther into the living room, still feeling as if he were a criminal, or worse, a voyeur.

  He started by walking through the one-bedroom apartment, recording everything for Wash, zooming in on anything that was personal and that could provide information, like the contents of Sarah’s trash cans. The kitchen can was empty, except for a Giant Eagle grocery bag serving as a bin liner, but the one in the bathroom, in addition to an assortment of cotton balls and makeup removal pads, had a receipt from a Sheetz convenience store for gas and a soda. He snapped several close-ups and sent everything to Wash, then slid the receipt into a manila envelope from his messenger bag.

  Maybe it was the smell of Sarah’s shampoo concentrated here in the tiny bathroom with its vintage hexagonal black and white tiles and lack of ventilation, but suddenly he was swamped with a vision of Charlotte. It wasn’t one of his treasured memories, where she was smiling and laughing; this vision was from that last morning, as he pulled out of their driveway and caught sight of her leaving the house, phone to her ear, frown on her face.

  Last glimpse he’d ever had of her. He had no idea who she was talking with, where she was going, or why she was upset. According to the police, she’d neither received nor made a phone call that morning—at least not on her regular cell. If she had gotten a call, it must have been on a second, untraceable cell phone, which implied an intent to deceive. Police jargon for: she was hiding something from Tommy.

  The fact that they’d traced her route to several ATMs, where she’d withdrawn cash from accounts she’d kept separate from their joint account, had only confirmed their suspicions. The only other location where they’d placed Charlotte before her car was found two days later, abandoned at a secluded scenic overview beside the Youghiogheny River, was the Sheetz where she’d bought two prepaid cell phones.

  Tommy startled, emptied the receipt from the envelope back into his palm. Stared at the address. The Sheetz where Charlotte had last been seen was the very same convenience store Sarah had visited Friday, the day before her accident.

  He shook his head, tried to deny how rattled the realization that Sarah had crossed paths with Charlotte made him feel. It was as if a chill breeze swept through the room, despite the fact that there were no windows in the bathroom and the door was closed.

  Nonsense, he told himself, almost but not quite speaking out loud—that’s how real this felt. Two women visit the same convenience store a year apart? Doesn’t even rise to the level of coincidence. Was he so far gone that he’d grasp at any will-o’-wisp that might lead him to Charlotte?

  He shook his head, put the receipt back into the envelope, and continued his inventory. But it was hard to shake the feeling that someone was watching him. The goose bumps rising on his arms didn’t help.

  Before he could start in on the scant contents of Sarah’s closet, the sound of a knock at the front door made him jump. He jogged through the living room and peered through the security peephole. It was Sarah.

  He opened the door. She held a large package wrapped in plain brown paper in her arms.

  “You have the only set of keys,” she said.

  “Of course, sorry. What’s that?” he asked as he drew back to let her enter. It was strange to see her do a double-take at the sight of her own apartment. She moved awkwardly as if not knowing where to go.

  “I don’t know. It was sitting at the mailboxes in the front lobby.”

  “Wasn’t there when I came in. But that was around forty-five minutes ago.”

  She hefted the package. “It’s not very heavy for how big it is.”

  He ushered her around the corner to the kitchen/dining area, where there was a glass-topped circular table large enough to seat four. No place mats, no centerpiece, just the plain glass reflecting the light from the window beside it.

  “It does face the morning sun,” she said as she set the package down. It was about three feet by four feet, a little less than a foot in height. No postage or barcodes, just her name and address on a printed label. No return address.

  She left the package to rummage through the kitchen. “If I were me, where would I keep the scissors?”

  “You didn’t come here alone, did you?” he asked, watching her open and close drawers.

  “TK brought me. She’s downstairs at the rental office getting a copy of my application, since they were closed when Detective Burroughs stopped there earlier.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “Aha. Found them—although, for a junk drawer, there’s not a lot of junk, is there?” She brandished a pair of scissors, and Tommy glanced at the open drawer. Scissors, packaging tape, some plain envelopes, an assortment of screwdrivers, and a hammer.

  “Maybe let me open it?” he suggested. “In case we need the paper or something?”

  She frowned, her features sagging with disappointment for a brief moment, then said, “Why not? You’re already treating my home like a crime scene. Although,” her smile returned, “given my almost criminal lack of taste in decor, guess I really can’t complain.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “No. Too modern, stiff. No personality. And those pictures on the walls? Yuck.”

  Another knock came on the door. Sarah went to open it, returning with TK, who was holding a sheaf of papers.

  “Occupation: freelance photographer,” TK read as she walked through the living room. “Employer: self. Hmm,
guess that doesn’t help us much.” She glanced around the room and grimaced at the decor. “Apartment: pre-furnished.”

  “Thank goodness,” Sarah said. “I was beginning to doubt that I possessed any taste whatsoever.” She pressed against TK, looking over her shoulder. “Does it mention next of kin? An emergency contact?”

  TK rifled through the pages. “No. Sorry. It’s blank. And the only reference was your previous landlord—same Altoona address as your old driver’s license.” She handed Sarah the papers and looked past her to where Tommy stood at the table with the package. “What’s that?”

  “It was waiting at the mailboxes.” Sarah dropped the rental papers onto the couch. “We were just getting ready to open it.”

  “Why isn’t there a postage mark or delivery label?” TK examined the package from every angle. She shook it. Frowned. “This is weird.”

  “Trust me,” Sarah said, reaching for the scissors again. “You don’t know weird. Not until you wake up one morning staring at a stranger in the mirror. It’s addressed to me and I’m opening it.” Tommy opened his mouth to protest, and she added, “Carefully.”

  With precise movements she slit the tape without cutting the paper, allowing the wrapping to unfold, revealing a white box. She raised the lid. A card fluttered out, past Sarah’s hands. She gasped.

  Tommy and TK stared at what lay inside. A wedding gown, carefully folded amid billowing pink tissue paper.

  “It’s beautiful,” Sarah said, dropping the lid to reach a hand to the white silk, but pulling back before she could actually touch it. “Is it for me?” She turned to stare at Tommy and TK in turn. “I’m getting married?”

  Chapter 11

  TK STARED IN horror as Sarah’s expression crashed and burned, morphing from wonder and delight to despair. Thankfully, Tommy was standing right beside her, so when she crumpled, tears streaming, hands clutching at air, he caught her. He helped her over to the couch. She fell, sobbing into his arms.

  “I’m getting married? I don’t even know who I am. I can’t remember who he is,” Sarah blubbered. “Someone out there loves me and I can’t, I can’t—”

  TK felt bad for Sarah, but was glad to be out of range of the waterworks. Crying wasn’t going to help them complete their objective. She spotted the small white card that had flown free when Sarah unwrapped the dress. She crouched down, retrieved it from beneath the table, and without asking permission, despite the fact that the front said “Sarah” in plain block handwriting, she opened it.

  An unforgettable dress for an unforgettable woman.

  I’ll be with you. Soon.

  Then we’ll be together. Forever.

  No signature, just a cloying XOXO. Ugh. TK couldn’t decide if the author was hopelessly sentimental, trying too hard, or controlling and coercive. After all, why would a husband-to-be send the bride her dress? Wasn’t that the one thing the bride got to splurge on and decide for herself?

  She pulled the dress out, searching for any labels that might trace it back to its origins. Nothing.

  On the couch, Tommy had finally calmed Sarah down. The girl—she was only two years younger than TK, according to her driver’s license, but somehow she acted much younger, definitely more innocent, whether that naivety came from her memory loss or life experiences, and absolutely more trusting—had curled up against Tommy’s side, her head on his shoulder, one of his arms wrapped around her. He glanced up at TK, his expression begging for help.

  “Why don’t you have a ring?” TK asked. Her words sounded blunt and recriminating, but she didn’t mean them that way; she simply hated puzzles. “An engagement ring?”

  Sarah startled, sniffed, then disengaged herself from Tommy and sat up, her left arm stretched out, staring at her fingers. “You’re right. I didn’t have it at the hospital.”

  “Maybe you lost it when you fell?” Tommy suggested.

  “I doubt it. Anyway, if I had one, I couldn’t have had it for long.” She waggled her fingers in the air. “No tan lines.”

  “You only rented the apartment two months ago,” TK said. “If you were already engaged by then, wouldn’t you have listed him as an emergency contact?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know. Would I? Is that what people do?” Her sigh rattled through the room with its barren decor.

  “People definitely don’t go from no ring to a wedding dress in two months,” TK said.

  “Most people,” Tommy cautioned. “Maybe he’s in the military and there’s limited time before the wedding. Or maybe the dress is something else entirely. You’re a photographer—maybe it’s a prop for a photo shoot?”

  Sarah’s eyes widened and she nodded, obviously liking the idea. But TK shook her head and handed her the card. “Not unless whoever sent it has an extremely bizarre sense of humor.”

  Sarah held the card and read the bold, blunt handwriting. Her hand trembled, her eyes drew together, lips tightened, and her entire body cringed away from the small, plain white card. It slipped from her hand, which was frozen out in front of her as if fear had paralyzed her.

  “Do you know who wrote that?” Tommy asked, taking her hand and folding it in his.

  Sarah shook her head, over and over, not making eye contact with either of them, her gaze darting around the room, searching for the exit. It was a look TK was extremely accustomed to: primal terror.

  “No. No. No.” Each syllable emerged in time with her head shaking. She drew her knees up to her chest and hid her face by burrowing into Tommy’s side. “I don’t know. I can’t remember. Nothing. Except. Except.” Her breathing grew fast, and TK feared she was hyperventilating.

  “It’s okay,” Tommy said, pulling back so that Sarah was looking directly into his eyes. “We’re not going to let anyone hurt you. Breathe. That’s it. Slower. In and out. Good.” He held both of Sarah’s still shaking hands in his. “Now. Don’t worry if it makes sense or not. Just tell us everything you felt, no matter how strange, when you saw that card and the handwriting.”

  Sarah nodded, gulping in a breath. “I’ll try.” Her voice was timid and small.

  “What was your first thought?”

  “Run. I had to run.”

  “What were you running from?”

  “I—I don’t know. Everything’s dark. Except… blood…” She gasped. “Tommy. I see blood. Blood everywhere. And I—I can’t stay… I have to get out… I have to run. Now!”

  She practically leapt off the couch with her final screech. TK’s hands went up, ready to defend, but Tommy had the opposite reaction. He pulled Sarah back to him, the girl now decimated, a quivering mass of tears and wordless sounds of terror.

  He hugged Sarah tight, palms stroking her hair, rocking with her as if she were a little girl caught in a nightmare. But his gaze was locked on to TK and his eyes were narrowed with worry.

  TK nodded, her phone already in her hand. She grabbed the card from the floor and stepped into the bedroom, closing the door so Sarah couldn’t hear her.

  “Lucy? We have a problem.”

  Chapter 12

  WHILE WASH BEGAN his work of combing through Sarah Brown’s digital footprints, Lucy retreated to the back of the house to what Valencia called the “nanny’s room.” It was long and narrow with only one small window at the far end and was empty except for a few cartons of stray office supplies. Perfect for Lucy’s needs.

  At the FBI, she’d gotten used to surrounding herself with smart boards to visually represent a case, covering them with data as well as potential avenues of investigation. Here, she went low tech, but it still worked. She covered the walls with brown craft paper, grabbed a bunch of marking pens and sticky notes in various colors, and began deconstructing Charlotte Worth’s last days.

  On one wall, she created a timeline with documented facts: where Charlotte was, who saw her or was with her. On the other wall she organized hypotheticals—unverified sightings before or after the day she vanished, the various “possible” leads that law enforcement, the private i
nvestigators hired by Tommy and Charlotte’s family, and Valencia had stumbled across—along with unanswered questions raised by the evidence: motives for her leaving voluntarily, reasons to question her mental health, motives for anyone to want to harm her, the stalled money trail she’d left in her wake, possible attempts to cover her tracks… There were so many questions that Lucy almost ran out of space.

  When she was done, she stood back. No wonder both the police and private investigators had been so frustrated. Tommy was right. Despite the fact that they’d been able to discover a multitude of “facts” about Charlotte’s disappearance, you could twist them into any story you wanted.

  For instance, following the money—a time-honored law enforcement tradition, mainly because it usually did lead to answers—told a story of a woman who bought disposable cell phones, who had multiple accounts separate from her husband, and who, on the day she vanished, maxed out those accounts’ ATM withdrawals. Cash in hand, she bought herself time by parking her car in a secluded scenic overlook, where it sat undiscovered for three days. Presumably she either met an accomplice or had another car waiting, then walked away from her life.

  This was the story that seemed to please law enforcement the most. Lucy could understand why: it not only solved the case, but it had the most concrete, objective evidence to support the theory, and it meant that they hadn’t allowed a murderer to walk around free to kill again.

  Only problem: no one had been able to document any motive or even a hint of unhappiness that might cause Charlotte Worth to abandon her life, including her husband and child.

  The press had taken a different, more salacious view, following their own time-honored tradition of “if it bleeds, it leads.” They speculated at first about possible motives for killing Charlotte—despite the fact that Tommy had an ironclad alibi for the day of her disappearance—setting their “investigative teams” to search for possible “thugs for hire” and tracking down would-be assassins he could have reached out to via Craigslist and other anonymous internet sites.