Phantom Limb (8 page)

Chapter Ten

I hadn't gone a hundred feet up the path when I saw the large, shambling utility shack. The wood-framed, tin-roofed building was right where Julian had said it would be. Perched at a precarious angle at the crest of a hill, its rough-hewn walls were shrouded in darkness. Enveloped by low-hanging branches and scalloped by deep shadows, it stood as forlorn and isolated as an outpost on the moon.

Instinctively crouching, I made my way slowly toward the only visible entrance, a narrow plywood door. Moving closer, I saw that it was unlocked and swayed slightly, rusty hinges creaking, in the steady wind.

A distant, muffled sound made me stop, still bent low, and look up to my right. Up to where the observatory could be seen through a lattice of branches. I had to squint to make him out, but my ears hadn't been deceiving me. Stepping resolutely in and out of the basilica's faint exterior lights was a solitary figure in a bulky jacket and brimmed hat. A security guard, slowly making his way around the building's perimeter.

I froze for a moment, wondering if he could see me. But he never ceased his steady, rhythmic march along the side of the building, soon disappearing from view as he rounded a corner.

Some part of me wanted to call out to him. Solicit his help. But I kept silent, remembering Julian's warning that he had a clear view of the trail and surrounding areas.
And that any deviation from his instructions meant Lisa's death.

Drawing a couple deep breaths, I hastened across the final dozen yards to the shack's entrance and pulled open the door. Its thin plywood slats rattled mournfully in my hand.

I shone my flashlight beam into the cold darkness of the interior. One large, rectangular room, it was divided by mottled aluminum shelving into smaller compartments. Dirt and dust clung to every visible surface, ash-gray webs hung from exposed ceiling beams. Shadows draped the worn hand tools hooked to the walls, the splintered rakes and shovels bundled in the bleak corners. The chilled air itself seemed old, congealed. A choking, tangible thing.

Fighting a rising panic, I crept slowly, carefully, across the room, sending my flashlight beam warily into each segregated area I passed. Nothing but more dust, old tools. Wicker bundles of dead grass. An upside-down wheelbarrel, caked with rust.

Finally, as the shadows dispersed before my light at the far end of the room, an unseen barrier emerged as though from a dream. Spanning the width of the rear wall from floor to ceiling like a hanging curtain, was a thick, oily tarp. Oddly unnerved, I played my flashlight across its creased, opaque expanse. Deliberately. Reluctantly.

Until the beam revealed what looked like a bulge. Like something was pushed up against the tarp from the other side.

Heart thumping, I took another step—

When I heard a sudden rush of movement behind me.

I whirled, bringing my flashlight up, but it was too late.

The man was big. Tall. All in black.

Maybe the same man I'd seen at my office. Maybe—

He threw his arms around me and brought us both crashing to the uneven wood floor. I was on the bottom, pinned under two hundred eighty pounds of solid muscle. My back buckled in agony. My teeth rattled in my skull. Pain exploded in my ribs.

I tried to peer up at him, get a look at his face. But he'd already rolled off me and grabbed for the suitcase that had flown from my hand. I'd also lost the flashlight, whose beam plumed uselessly up against the unrelenting darkness.

I was still on my back, gasping for breath, when I heard my assailant head for the door. Then, to my surprise, I heard a second set of footsteps. Hurrying
into
the room.

Head clouded, back aching, I forced myself to turn over, scramble up to my knees. Then I grabbed up the flashlight.

I trained its beam in the direction of the shack's open doorway, just in time to see my attacker swing the heavy suitcase at the newcomer. It caught him on the jaw, hard, and he went down like a collapsing sail.

Then, without a backwards glance, my assailant slipped through the opened doorway to be swallowed up by the night.

Gulping mouthfuls of midnight-cold air, I crawled gingerly across the floor to where the second man lay. Before I even shone the light on his face, I could hear the slow, labored rasp of his breathing.

I let out a grateful breath of my own. He was alive.

Getting up on my haunches, I played the light on his face. At first, I almost didn't recognize him in the security guard's pea-green jacket and standard-issue hat.

But this was no security guard.

It was Jerry Banks. The assistant chief's nephew.

Harry Polk's new partner.

***

With an abrupt, shallow moan, Banks tried to raise his head. There was an ugly bruise sprouting on his jaw, and I realized he'd have to be evaluated for a concussion. But other than that, he appeared to be unharmed.

I, too, seemed to be okay, except for the fact that every part of me was bruised. Including, I must admit, my ego. This was the second time that hulking son of a bitch took me down. I swore to Christ, there wouldn't be a third.

Not the most mature, psychologically healthy response to what had happened, but there it was. Sue me.

I'd already detached the two-way from Banks' belt and was about to call for back-up and an ambulance when another figure filled the doorway.

Lieutenant Stu Biegler.

He looked winded, spent. Shoes scuffed, the bottom of his overcoat mud-spattered.

“The perp got away.” Struggling to catch his breath. “I gave chase, but I lost him in the damn trees…”

I angrily tossed aside the two-way and jerked my thumb at Jerry Banks, who was finally rousing himself.

“This
your
idea, Biegler?” By now, I'd climbed to my feet. “The kidnapper said no cops. Just me alone. You could've gotten both of us killed. Me
and
Banks.”

Biegler shrugged. “It was a calculated risk. I figured that Julian—or whoever was watching—wouldn't take notice of a lone security guard up at the observatory. Hundred yards away.”

“Well, you figured wrong. Besides, why the hell didn't you tell
me
about your little plan?”

“Need-to-know basis, Rinaldi. The cornerstone of any successful covert operation. And
you
—as far as I'm concerned—didn't need to know. Hell, if you had, you coulda blown the whole thing.”

“I think we can safely consider it blown. Big-time.” I bent and helped Banks get woozily to his feet. Though my gaze never left Biegler's. “I bet you didn't inform Gloria Reese about your master plan, either. Because she didn't ‘need to know,' right?”

“Agent Reese is merely acting in an advisory capacity. I saw no reason to enlist the Bureau's cooperation.”

“Right. You're a real piece of work, Biegler. Now we don't have either Lisa Campbell
or
the ransom. I can't wait to watch you tell Charles Harland all about it.”

Biegler pursed his lips, but said nothing. His silence told me he'd already begun dreading that conversation.

I turned to Jerry Banks.

“Was Sergeant Polk okay with you doing this?”

“No, sir. He said I'd either fuck it up or get my ass killed. Either way, he looks bad. So
he
offered to do it.”

“Sounds like Harry.”

“Doesn't matter.
I
said no.” Biegler had his hands on his hips, looking about the shack. “I wanted Polk to stay put, supervising things at the crime scene. Besides, the docs just took him off the injured list. Old fart like Polk gotta take things easy. Oughta be retired by now, anyway.”

Yeah,
I thought.
Like that'll happen anytime soon.

Rubbing his hands together, Biegler stepped over to Banks.

“You okay, Detective?”

“Never better, sir.”

“Just in case, I'll have the EMT look you over. I already called for an ambulance and CSU. Now let's all get outta here, before we compromise this new crime scene any worse.”

I stared at him.

“Before we
what—
? Are you crazy, Biegler? Do you realize what happened here? Lisa Campbell is still being held. And now that Julian has the money, what reason does he have for keeping her alive? He can just—”

The words died in my throat. Because through the fog of my physical discomfort and anger at Biegler, I suddenly remembered the tarp. And the bulge pushing from the other side.

I quickly turned and made my way through the room to the back wall. To where the immense tarp hung like a shroud.

I could sense Biegler and Banks coming up behind me, but I didn't bother to wait. I bent and lifted the bottom of the tarp, and slipped underneath.

And almost tripped over the large canvas bag on the floor. Wedged between the back wall and the hanging tarp, it was the size and shape of a body bag.

As I knew it would be.

I couldn't breathe. Unmindful of the ache in my ribs, I knelt and began clawing at the rough canvas with my fingers. Then, kneeling beside me, Banks held up a pen knife.

I nodded, and he carefully slit the bag along its seams. Then I hurriedly peeled back the thick, ropey layers.

It was a body. A woman.

Dead. From the bloody pulp where the back of her head used to be, her killer had used at least one high-caliber bullet.

By now, Biegler had crouched on my other side. He'd brought the flashlight. Played it now across the woman's still, lifeless features. The staring eyes. The streaks of loose blonde hair.

It was then that I realized it wasn't Lisa Campbell.

Though my gratitude for that fact faded almost as quickly as it had arisen.

Banks whispered, “Who is it?”

I paused before answering. My voice heavy, flat.

“Her name's Donna Swanson. I recognize her from her photo. She was Charles Harland's personal nurse.”

Biegler grunted. “The one who's been missing since this morning.”

Sighing, I lifted a loose flap of canvas and lay it across her face. As I did so, something fell out of the fold of fabric. Something small and metallic. Glinting in the beam of the flash.

A miniature recorder. Digital. LED button blinking.

“Nobody touch it.” Biegler withdrew a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket. “In case there're prints.”

I stared at the device. “There won't be.”

He ignored me. Wrapping a forefinger in the white silk, he carefully pressed the glowing, pulsating button.

It was Julian's voice. Again, distorted. Unrecognizable. Even so, I could detect impatience. Malice.

“I said no cops or Feds, remember? So Ms. Swanson's unfortunate demise is squarely on you. Let's call this latest error Strike Two.
Three
strikes and Lisa Campbell dies a slow, agonizing death. I'm sure you don't want that to happen. Though the price for her safe return has gone up. Another five million dollars in bearer bonds. I'll get in touch soon with my new instructions.”

An ominous beat of silence.

“And this time, don't get creative. Just do as you're told. Or else, when you find what's left of Lisa Campbell, you'll see how creative
I
can be.”

The message ended.

Chapter Eleven

“I think I have some Vicodin.” Gloria Reese was rummaging through her small shoulder bag. “Couple pills left over from when I sprained my wrist one time.”

I leaned over and peered into the bag.

“You wouldn't happen to have a morphine drip in there?”

“Don't be such a baby. As I recall, you got a lot more banged up last winter. The Jessup case.”

“And I've got the scars to prove it.”

Finally, she fished out a medicine bottle and tossed it to me. Two lone pills, visible behind a label that indicated the prescription had long since expired. I popped one in my mouth anyway and swallowed.

Gloria gave me a wry look. “You know, 'til I met you, I didn't know being a shrink was so dangerous. I mean, to life and limb.”

“Normally it isn't.”

“So what's the deal with you, anyway?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

I winced as I shifted position on the edge of the massive oval tub. Gloria sat at an angle from me on a similarly oversized marble bench with ornately carved legs.

We were back in the Harland residence, in an enormous master bathroom, all gleaming Moroccan tiles and mural-sized mirrors. Illuminated by evenly spaced wall sconces that glowed with the bright, insistent light of miniature suns.

At just past three a.m., after the discovery of Donna Swanson's body, Biegler, Banks, and I had waited outside the utility shack until we heard the muffled sound of car doors slamming far down the hill on Perrysville Avenue. Fifteen minutes later, a pair of uniformed cops trudged along the narrow trail toward us, followed by a winded, glowering Harry Polk.

Biegler was still debriefing the sergeant on the night's events when we heard more vehicles screeching to a halt at the curbside below. Again, some minutes later, these new arrivals—CSU techs laden with equipment and a dour, balding pathologist from the ME's office—were making their way up the tree-shadowed path to the shack.

Polk and Banks soon found themselves once more in charge of a crime scene, after which Biegler and I headed back down to the street in an awkward silence. By then, an EMT had parked at the crowded curb and was clambering from behind the wheel.

The EMT gave me a questioning look, but I waved him off, so he turned to Biegler, who gave him directions up the winding path and instructed him to examine Jerry Banks. Then the lieutenant got into his unmarked, I got back in Harland's SUV, and we each pulled out into the street.

I took a breath. Still shaken, physically and emotionally, from my experience in that hellish shack, I was looking forward to the solitude of the drive back to Harland's place.

I hadn't gotten halfway down Perrysville Avenue when I saw a KDKA-TV news van slowly coming from the opposite direction. Soon, I knew, to be followed by others. Reporters. Helicopters.

And so it begins
, I thought. No surprise there. The discovery of a dead body—a murder victim, no less—at the famed Allegheny Observatory was big news, and the local media would no doubt hype it for all it was worth.

When I got back to the Harland residence, the first person to meet me at the front door was Gloria Reese, furious at having been left in the dark about Biegler's little operation. After I warned her that the lieutenant was probably right behind me, she grabbed my arm and marched me across the foyer to a garlanded, winding staircase.

On the second floor, we found an immense master bedroom. Like the study, it boasted imposing furniture, as well as a king bed, full bar, and in-home theater screen. A high-end man cave.

“His, I assume,” I said.

Gloria nodded. “Lisa's bedroom is down the hall. Bigger, if that's possible.”

On the far side of the room was the adjoining bathroom. She quickly pulled me inside, shut the door, and demanded that I tell her everything. I did.

Now, as I rose unsteadily from the edge of the tub, I saw Gloria glancing in awe at the bathroom's size and elaborate fixtures, as though registering them for the first time.

“Jesus, this bathroom is bigger than my whole apartment. Nicer, too.”

“Like they say, it's good to be king.”

I went to the twin standing sinks and splashed cold water on my face. The eyes that stared back from the facing mirror were red-rimmed, shot through with fatigue, hollowed by latent stress. But I was afraid to close them, lest the image of Donna Swanson, the back of her head a bloodied pulp, should rise up in my mind. Should etch itself there.

When I shut off the tap, I heard voices wafting up from the floor below. The front foyer. I could just make out Biegler's. Mike Payton. Arthur Drake.

Behind me, Gloria had gotten to her feet as well.

“Better go back down and join the others.” She straightened her jacket. “Julian could call again at any minute.”

I smiled. “Thanks for playing nurse.”

“No problem. Besides, it gave me an excuse to be away from Biegler for a few minutes.
And
the Addams Family.”

“Yeah, the Harlands are a strange bunch. I include their lawyer and head of security.”

I opened the door and we stepped back into Charles Harland's bedroom. By now, the voices below had faded.

“I guess everyone's back in the study.”

She shook her head. “No, not anymore. They've set up a situation room in the library. More interior.”

“Good idea. Away from any windows. And snipers in trees.”

“Plus I don't have to stare at all those movie posters of Lisa Campbell. She had a helluva rack, at least in those days. Reminds me of my ex.”

“Beg your pardon?”

She gave a curt laugh. “One of the things we used to fight about. He wanted me to get breast implants. Claimed he'd be more turned on by me. I said, sure, when you grow a bigger dick. As you can tell, it was a real love match.”

“Your ex sounds like a jerk.”

“He was. Still is, I guess. Though, in his defense, we got married way too young. And it wasn't easy having an FBI agent for a wife. The hours sucked, and I had to travel a lot. Especially early in my career. Then, when I
was
home, we'd just fight and—”

She reddened. “Wow, why am I telling you all this? We barely know each other. I'm sorry.”

I shrugged. “I'm a therapist. Occupational hazard. Besides, wait'll you get my bill.”

Gloria smiled, and for a brief moment that studied wariness faded from her eyes. Then, just as quickly, she drew her slender shoulders back and nodded toward the hallway.

“C'mon, we better get down there before Biegler has a fit.”

We made our way across the carpeted landing to the top of the stairs. Then I stopped, hand on the railing.

“Tell me something. Any idea who might be behind all this?”

“Well, it's Biegler's show, but I assume he's having his people run discreet background checks on Lisa's family, friends, and associates. You'd be surprised how often a kidnapping is the work of someone close to the victim. Someone who knows the vic's lifestyle, habits—”

“And her schedule. I'm still trying to figure out how these guys knew she'd be at my office. And when.”

“Best and easiest guess, they followed her from home. It's Occam's Razor—the simplest theory is usually the correct one. Though I don't know why they didn't snatch her in the parking garage. Fewer people around. Easier to get her into their own car and get away.”

“Same question I had for Sergeant Polk.”

She started to go down the steps, but I hesitated. Took out my cell.

“Tell Biegler I'll be there in a minute. I just realized I never checked my voicemail for messages. I have a patient in crisis, and he might have called me earlier tonight.”

A flicker of doubt crossed her face, but she said nothing. Just gave me another smile—a much more guarded one this time—and hurried down the stairs.

I hated lying to her—especially since she and I both knew I'd done so—but I wanted to be alone. Once she was out of sight, I pocketed my cell and continued down the hall. I soon found what I was looking for.

Gloria had been right. Lisa's bedroom appeared even larger than her husband's. Though the furnishings were definitely more tasteful, softer in tone yet not overtly feminine. Unlike her husband's masculine retreat, whose obvious overcompensation was more dispiriting than impressive.

Not that I gave this other than a passing thought. Of more interest to me was the antique rolltop desk in a far corner.

As quickly but carefully as I could, I went through each drawer, checked each upper compartment. I even looked for any hidden latches, inlaid sliding panels. Nothing.

Then, to be on the safe side, I went over to her elaborate vanity table and repeated the same steps I'd taken with the desk. I did a similarly thorough examination of the lamp tables on either side of her four-poster bed.

Finally, I went through the medicine cabinet in her own opulent private bath. Again, nothing.

I returned to the bedroom. Lisa had told me in our therapy session that she had a bottle of pills at home in her desk. The method by which she intended to take her own life.

I'd found plenty of pills, in many of the places I looked, but not what I'd expected. Aspirin, vitamins, antacid tablets.

There was a bottle of prescription sleeping pills, too, but it contained only three tablets. Not lethal enough to kill her.

I stood, puzzled, in the middle of the room. Maybe she'd meant some other desk in the house. The library, perhaps, or the old man's study. Or else maybe she had her own office somewhere in the residence.

Still, I doubted she'd risk leaving the pills anywhere more public and accessible than her own bedroom. Plus she'd been so emphatic. “I have the means, a bottle of pills, in my desk…”

Had she been lying? Was her threat of suicide a ruse of some kind? If so, it was a very convincing one. Then again, she
was
an actress…

Which brought me back to my questions about the kidnapping. How her assailant knew where she'd be and when she'd be there. How he'd gotten her out of my office building unnoticed.

What if he
hadn't
had to knock her out or threaten her with a gun? What if she'd gone along with him willingly?

I reached up and touched the still-tender lump on my head. Could it be true? Had Lisa Campbell staged her own kidnapping? She told me herself she'd married Charles Harland for his money. Maybe she'd had enough of the querulous, demanding old man, but had grown accustomed to all that money.

I considered this. If she did manage to pull off the scam, she'd have what she'd perhaps wanted all along. Millions of dollars of Charles Harland's money without the inconvenience of being married to him.

Money and freedom. Two powerful motives, rolled into one.

Then, unsurprisingly, I felt a twinge of guilt. I wasn't used to impugning a patient, let alone suspecting him or her of possible criminal acts. Especially one I'd known so briefly.

Plus, I'd found myself liking her a great deal, even after only one session. So, despite my doubts about the kidnapping, I wasn't comfortable with my suspicions about her. And yet—

“Hey! What the fuck are you doing in here?”

I turned to find James Harland, holding a drink, leaning against the opened bedroom door. With his free hand, he absently fingered the gold chain under the V of his dress shirt.

“Gotcha!” he said. And started to laugh.