Whisper of Evil

CHAPTER THREE

Ethan Cole looked up from his desk and only just managed not to scowl as the mayor of Silence walked into his office. Like him, she disliked intercoms; unlike him, she also disliked phones and so tended to arrive with absolutely no warning.

He could have used a little warning.

"Ethan, is there any more information about George Caldwell's death?" she asked without preamble.

Ethan made a token attempt to rise, mostly wasted since she immediately sank into one of his visitor's chairs, then he sat back down and made a show of pulling a folder off a stack in his in-box and frowning over the contents.

"Well, no, Casey, I don't see anything here you don't already know. Which I could have told you and saved you the trip if you'd called me."

Mayor Lattimore shrugged, her dark blue eyes fixed on his face. "I was coming over this way and figured I'd stop in. Ethan, I've had a dozen calls today — and not a single answer for any of the questions I've been asked."

"What questions?"

"What you'd expect. What's going on? Why can't we figure out who killed George Caldwell and the others and stop him before he kills somebody else?"

Ethan stiffened. "Even assuming all four of these men were killed, who's to say they were killed by the same person?"

"Jesus, Ethan, I hope you're not suggesting we've got four separate murderers running around Silence."

"It might be the lesser of two possible evils," he said with a sigh. "All we need is for the phrase serial killer to start making the rounds to damned sure put this town in a panic"

"Maybe we're already in a panic," the mayor suggested. "People are scared, you can hear it in their voices."

"I know that."

"So what do I tell them?"

Irritably, Ethan said, "Tell them to lock their doors at night, be careful, and mind their own business."

"And what do I say when they ask me why we elected officials aren't doing the job we were voted in to do?"

"Say we're damned well doing our jobs. Look, Casey, I don't know what else to tell you. My people are busting their asses trying to get this thing figured out. I haven't taken a day off since January, and my overtime budget went out the window months ago. We're working the investigations — and that's all we can do. If anybody else has a practical suggestion, I'd love to hear it."

"You still don't have a suspect for even one of the murders?"

He hesitated, then said, "I'm looking at Max Tanner for the Ferrier and Patterson deaths."

She lifted an eyebrow at him. "Last I heard, you weren't even admitting Luke Ferrier's drowning was anything but suicide or an accident."

"A few things have come to light that make murder at least as likely as an accident."

"I see. And what's the connection to Max Tanner?"

Ethan was not required to explain either himself or his investigations to the mayor — not directly, at any rate — but he'd learned that when Casey Lattimore asked questions she expected answers. And she could be a royal pain in the ass until she got them.

So, reluctantly, he answered. "It seems Ferrier borrowed money from Max a few weeks before he died."

"You got that from Max?"

"No. From someone who overheard Max telling Ferrier he wanted the loan repaid pronto."

The mayor frowned. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but wouldn't killing Ferrier be a stupid way to get a loan repaid?"

"Max has a temper, everybody knows that. He could have struck first and regretted it later."

"Struck by pushing Ferrier's car into a bayou? Wouldn't that theory make more sense if somebody'd beat the hell out of Ferrier rather than trying to drown him? I mean, if you suspect Max of the killing?"

Ethan hated logical women. "I said I was looking at Max, not that I considered him a solid suspect."

Without commenting on his disgruntled tone, she merely said, "And the Patterson death? What makes you suspect Max of being involved in that one?"

"We know the killer stood outside that bathroom window for a while before he dropped the electrical wire in, and we found a footprint. Style and size match up with the boots Max usually wears."

"I assume you checked Max's boots?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"And nothing. We can't prove just from the print that it was him standing outside that window."

"What else have you got?"

"Not much," Ethan admitted.

Rather than question him further on that point, she merely sighed and said, "I gather you're still against caning in outside help?"

His jaw tightened. "I am. These are grudge killings, and that means all the answers are right here in Silence. Whether there's one killer or more than one, no outsider is going to be better or quicker than we are in putting the pieces together."

"It's been eight months, Ethan."

The sheriff drew a breath and said carefully, "And the first forty-eight hours after a murder are critical. Yes, Casey, I know that. I also know that you feel qualified to comment on the investigation because you took that FBI course last year."

"That isn't —"

"I'm not saying it wasn't a smart thing for you to do. A mayor should feel qualified to oversee most aspects of town management. But law enforcement is a specialty, and one course in Criminal Investigation Techniques 101 hardly equates to fifteen years of experience on the job."

Perfectly aware that he was putting her on the defensive deliberately, Casey Lattimore nevertheless heard herself say, "I never claimed to be an expert, Ethan. And I'm certainly not trying to tell you how to do your job."

"I appreciate that, Casey."

She got to her feet, adding smoothly, "But judging by the phone calls I've been getting, the citizens of Silence want action, and they want it soon. Even so, we can't afford any mistakes. That means you'd better be damned sure of your evidence before you shine a spotlight of suspicion on anybody."

Even Max Tanner. She didn't add that last aloud. She didn't have to.

"Don't worry," the sheriff said. "I know my job."

Instead of agreeing that he did, she merely said, "Keep me advised, will you? The town council is under as much pressure as we are, Ethan; it won't look good to the voters if we all appear to be sitting on our hands."

"Meaning they might take action?"

The mayor kept her tone mild. "Elected officials can't afford to do nothing for long, you know that." She didn't wait for a response but turned toward the door, adding over her shoulder, "We'll be talking, I'm sure."

"Yeah," the sheriff agreed. "I'm sure we will."

THURSDAY, MARCH

What Nell discovered when she wandered around downtown Silence on Thursday morning was that most people had forgotten old scandals and questions. Most people. There were, in fact, quite a few newcomers to the area, especially since the recently completed highway had brought heavier traffic much closer to the city limits the previous year.

She counted a dozen obviously new businesses just in the downtown area, most of them the sort she would have expected, like clothing boutiques and collectibles-type stores. All were enjoying brisk foot traffic. There was also, she noticed, an unusually strong police presence in the town. She counted three different cruisers patrolling, as well as a couple of deputies on foot roaming the sidewalks.

Nell had several reasons for being in town. She had to see the family attorney to sign various papers; she paid a visit to an insurance adjuster for referrals to appraisers she could employ to look over some of the furniture and artwork at the house; and she spent some time at both the library and the courthouse.

It was after lunchtime when Nell emerged from the courthouse, and after a glance at her watch, she picked a downtown cafe and found herself a rather isolated booth in the rear. The waitress was blessedly incurious, the food good, and Nell enjoyed a peaceful half hour or so alone with her thoughts.

"Wade Keever says you've turned down my offer."

She looked up to find Max scowling at her. She sat back and sipped her coffee to give herself a moment, then said, "He's talking out of turn. I said I'd consider it, that's all. I just haven't made up my mind about it."

"It's a fair offer. You won't get a better offer, Nell, not for that land."

"I'm aware of that."

"Then why the hesitation?"

She glanced around, grateful that most of the cafe was deserted and no one appeared to be paying attention to them. Still, she kept her voice low. "I told you. I'm not so sure I want to sell out."

Max slid into the booth, across from her. "Why not?"

Nell didn't waste time or energy commenting on his manners. "Because I'm not sure. Look, Max, I know you want that land and I know you want me gone. But maybe I'm not quite so eager to cut my last ties to this place. You don't have to worry, though — I won't sell the land to anybody else. It adjoins your property, and you'll have first chance at it. If I decide to sell."

Instead of protesting or questioning that, Max abruptly changed the subject. "Any more blackouts?"

Nell shook her head.

"What about that… episode in the woods? Has that happened again?"

"Nothing happened, Max."

"Don't give me that daydreaming bullshit again, Nell. Do you think I don't remember what used to happen to you? The visions?"

With an effort, she summoned a wry smile. "I was sort of hoping you had forgotten."

"It's still happening, isn't it? Just like the blackouts."

"Did you think it would go away? That I'd outgrow it eventually?" Nell had to laugh, however unamused the sound. "Curses are with you for life, Max, didn't you know that?"

"You used to call it that. The Gallagher curse."

"Most families seem to have something. Cousins that can't get along. Squabbles about property. Medical problems. A mad wife locked away in the attic. We have a curse."

"You never told me who else in your family had it."

Nell shook her head, reminding herself that it was far too easy to confide in some people. In him. "Never mind. To answer your question, yes, it is still happening to me. I see things that aren't there. I even hear voices sometimes. So if you want to prove I'm unfit to make decisions about the estate, you could probably at least give the judge something to think about."

His mouth tightened. "That is not what this is about, dammit."

"Isn't it?"

"No."

Nell shrugged but kept her gaze on his face. "Well, you'll have to forgive me if I'm a bit touchy about the subject. Keever was indiscreet enough to hint that someone had questioned my fitness to inherit the estate."

"Someone? He didn't say who?"

"He wasn't quite that indiscreet."

Max frowned. "Hailey was disinherited, and from what I heard there were no loopholes in that part of the will. True?"

"True, at least from a legal standpoint. I'm the sole heir."

"Could it have been Hailey?"

"Sure."

"But you don't think it was?"

Nell shrugged again. "I think it isn't like her to lurk in the background if she wants to fight about it, but maybe she's changed in a dozen years."

"But if it isn't her, with no Gallaghers left in Silence, who would stand to benefit if you were declared unfit or barred from inheriting?"

"As far as I know… no one." Her tone was deliberate.

"Except someone who might want to buy land you don't want to sell? Jesus, Nell, I'd think you knew me well enough to know I don't do things that way."

"Until this week, I hadn't seen or talked to you in twelve years, Max."

"Whose fault is that?" he demanded roughly.

For the first time, Nell avoided his dark eyes, fixing her own on the half-empty coffee cup before her. Ignoring the question hanging in the air between them, she said evenly, "How good a judge of character is any of us at seventeen? I thought I knew a lot of things then. And a lot of people. I was mostly wrong."

"Nell —"

She did not want to answer the question she knew he wanted to ask, not here and not now, so she cut him off before he could ask it. "I'll let you know about the land if and when I make up my mind. In the meantime, I don't think there's anything else we need to talk about, do you?" She made sure her voice was completely indifferent.

Max stiffened visibly, then slid from the booth without a word and stalked out of the cafe.

From behind Nell, a low and slightly amused voice murmured, "Looks like you still know how to push all his buttons."

She picked up her cup and sipped the nearly cold coffee, scanning the room to make sure no one noticed her talking to someone she wasn't looking at in the booth beside hers. She kept her voice as quiet as his had been. "His temper was always his Achilles' heel."

"A small but fatal weakness? Let's hope not."

"You have such a literal mind."

He chuckled. "Yeah, so I've been told. My one failing. Did you know, by the way, that Tanner's been following you around town all morning?"

"I was pretty sure he was."

"Any idea why? I mean, besides the obvious possibility?"

"Maybe he's suspicious."

"Of you? Why would he be?"

"I don't know."

"Mmm. You still sure about him?"

Nell drew a breath and let it out slowly. "I have to start with a certainty. That's my certainty."

"Okay. Then I'll stick to the plan."

"Do that. Oh — have you been out to the house, by any chance?"

"Checked out that place in the woods you told me about, but didn't find anything there. I didn't go near the house, though. Why?"

She hesitated, but only briefly. "It's probably nothing. I've just had the feeling a few times that someone was watching me" And calling my name.

"Inside the house?"

"Maybe through a window, I don't know."

"Shit. I don't like the sound of that."

"Look, it's probably just my imagination."

"We both know you don't imagine things."

"I've never come home before. And twelve years is a long time. It's probably just that."

"Or ghosts, maybe?"

"Oh, hell, don't even suggest ghosts. All I need is another reason not to sleep at night."

After a moment, and in an uncharacteristically kind tone, he said, "Bad enough to be dropped into the middle of a situation like this one without dragging your own baggage in as well. It can get… real easy to lose perspective. If this is too difficult for you, just say so."

"I'm fine."

"Be very sure of that, Nell. The stakes are high. People are dying around here, remember?"

"It's hardly something I could forget." She set her cup down, left a tip on the table for the waitress, and prepared to slide from the booth. "Just don't crowd me, okay?"

"Gotcha."

Nell didn't look back or indicate any interest whatsoever in that other rear booth, just walked up front to pay her check and then left the cafe.

Justin Byers hadn't had much trouble fitting in since he had come to Silence a couple of months before. He'd always liked small towns, choosing them over cities whenever there was a choice to be made, and so he felt entirely comfortable here. And his duties as a detective in the Criminal Investigation Division of the sheriff's department were both familiar and absorbing — especially these days.

But the major reason he liked this town went by the name of Lauren Champagne. Deputy Lauren Champagne.

Justin had never been given to fantasies — at least no more than the average male — but he'd discovered that his subconscious had a mind of its own. He was waking up virtually every morning in a tangle of sheets with his heart pounding and with the disconcerting realization that his dreams had been more than a little… raw.

Which made it damned hard to be cool and professional when he encountered Lauren in the course of the day.

"Hey, Justin," she offered easily when they met on the sidewalk in front of the courthouse on Thursday afternoon.

"Hey, Lauren." He hastily quashed a fleeting mental image of creamy bare flesh and strove to be professional. "Where's Kyle?"

"Inside. We had some paperwork for the clerk of court." She shrugged. "What're you up to?"

"Still trying to run down all the financial info on George Caldwell. You know, for a fine, upstanding banker, he sure had tangled finances."

Lauren smiled wryly, her dark eyes grave. "Isn't that par for the course where these killings are concerned?"

"Yeah, there always seems to be a mess left behind. Except we haven't stumbled over any of George's secret vices yet."

"You think you will?"

Quite without planning to, he heard himself say, "Well, let's just say I'm a little bothered by a few things. These scattered financial records, for one, all of which I still haven't been able to track down. As for his personal accounts at the bank where he worked, there've been some regular deposits to at least one of them with no explanation of where the income originated. It wasn't salary or bonuses, and so far it doesn't look like investment income."

"Maybe his wife knows."

"Maybe, but I'm under orders not to bother her with questions."

With a lifted brow, Lauren said, "Sheriff's orders?"

"Yeah."

"Well," she said after a moment, "I'm sure he has his reasons."

Justin was worried that the sheriff did have his reasons but reminded himself that Lauren had been here longer than he had and might well feel loyal to Ethan Cole, so all he said was, "It's making things a little difficult, that's all. Caldwell knew how to handle money, and that included how to hide it."

"To avoid paying taxes, you think?"

"Maybe. Or to squirrel some of it away in case he and Sue finally decided to divorce. What she couldn't find, he wouldn't have to share."

"Not so unusual for a man contemplating divorce."

"No," Justin agreed. "But it would be nice to know for sure if that was his motive."

Lauren nodded but didn't comment, since her partner, Kyle Venable, joined them then to say dryly, "We have a couple of warrants to serve. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

"Loads," she agreed in the same tone. "Justin, good luck with your investigation."

"Thanks. See you, Lauren. Kyle."

"We'll be around," Kyle told him cheerfully, then followed his tall and striking partner back toward their cruiser.

Justin watched them — well, Lauren — until they got into the patrol car and left the courthouse, then continued on his way. He spent nearly an hour in the courthouse checking over property records, then paid a third visit to the bank where George Caldwell had been a VP.

By the time he came out and headed back toward the sheriff's department, he was feeling more than a little frustrated. It wasn't that he was being stonewalled, exactly; with Caldwell's death a clear murder, the judge hadn't hesitated to order the bank to make its records available to the investigators. Problem was, the bank records looked clean.

It was Caldwell's personal financial records that looked suspect, but there was nothing firm Justin could point to in order to explain why he had this itching on the back of his neck that told him to keep digging.

He just knew, dammit. Knew there was more to the story than he had yet discovered.

The problem was how in hell to find it.

The sheriff could have made it easier on him but instead had virtually tied his hands, and much as he wanted to it wasn't something Justin intended to complain about. He was treading carefully with the sheriff, perfectly aware that Ethan Cole didn't really trust him and equally aware that the sheriff was hiding something. Or trying to.

That was something else Justin knew but couldn't prove. And wasn't really sure he wanted to try and prove, all things considered. But he didn't have much of a choice.

Not really eager to return to the station any sooner than he had to, Justin stopped off on the way back for a cup of decent coffee at the downtown cafe. He sat alone at a front table and gazed broodingly out at the passing traffic.

Such a nice little town.

"Hey, Detective Byers — " One of the young waitresses he'd spoken to maybe twice stood by his table holding an envelope. "This was left for you." She handed it over.

His name was block-printed on the front — just his name, nothing to identify him as a cop. For some reason, that bothered him.

"Who left it, Emily?"

She shrugged and popped her gum. "Dunno. Vinny just found it on the counter and told me to bring it over to you. Guess somebody figured you'd stop by. You usually do, most afternoons."

"Yeah. Thanks, Emily."

"Welcome."

As she wandered away, Justin made a mental note to stop being so goddamned predictable, then stared at the envelope, turning it in his hands. The usual number-ten business-type, treated for security so what lay inside wasn't easily visible, at least through the paper. But what lay inside clearly had shape and bulk, something like a small notebook from the feel of it.

The envelope had been handled by so many people he knew it was useless to worry about fingerprints. As for what was inside…

He wasted a couple of minutes trying to convince himself somebody had sent him an early birthday card — okay, maybe an early birthday booklet — sighed, and carefully pried up the lightly sealed flap.

It was indeed a small, black notebook, the sort some people carried around in their pockets or purses to jot down phone numbers or whatever. Justin handled it carefully by the edges, even though his instincts and training told him the polished surface was polished for a reason and would yield no fingerprints whatsoever. Inside, a number of the lined pages contained notes. Two initials at the top of each page, followed by what looked like a list of dates and dollar amounts.

The dates on each page were spaced no less than a month apart, with some only every three or four months, and at least one page contained only two dates, more than six months apart.

He was no expert, but the spiky handwriting — different from the block-printing on the envelope — looked familiar. It looked like George Caldwell's handwriting.

Frowning, Justin pulled out his own notebook and made a careful list of all the dates, in chronological order. What he ended up with was a date for almost every month spanning the past three years. And when he compared the dates to earlier notes he had made, he was grimly unsurprised to find that they matched the dates of the regular deposits into one of Caldwell's bank accounts.

Those unexplained deposits.

That unexplained income.

"Blackmail," Justin muttered under his breath. It was possible. Maybe more than possible. Every one of the dead men had led a double life, a secret life, their crimes and sins hidden until their deaths had exposed those dark truths.

It appeared that someone had become impatient with Justin's failure to uncover George Caldwell's nasty little secret and had decided to help the investigation himself. Or herself.

One of the blackmail victims?

The killer?

And if either, why give the book to him? Why hand evidence like this over to a detective investigating the murder of George Caldwell? To ensure justice?

Or something else?

Justin looked at the initials that headed each page. Each, presumably, represented a name. Most were unfamiliar to him, or at least suggested no one he knew. Two did suggest names that he knew, or thought he knew.

M.T. — Max Tanner?

And E.C. — Ethan Cole?

"Ah, shit," Justin muttered.