Deadly Visions Page 6

  “Not like this. This detects high-frequency sounds like radio waves and RF control signals and converts them to sounds I can hear.”Joe put on the headphones.

  “What could that tell you?”

  Joe adjusted the gain control. “It tells me that you're wearing a digital watch.”

  Bonafas lifted his sleeve to reveal an inexpensive LCD wristwatch.”You can actually hear it?”

  “Your watch, the refrigeration unit on the minibar, and the bathroom lightbulbs.”Joe cocked his head. “But nothing else, I'm afraid.”He took off the headphones.”I'll go over the room with some of my other equipment later, but I want the fingerprint guys to pass through first.”

  “Got it. Until you tell me otherwise, no one gets in here without a badge.”

  “This Bailey guy has some pretty cool gear. He might be able to teach us a thing or two.”Paul adjusted his parabolic microphone and glanced back at Haddenfield, Gary, and Donna. They were on the fourth level of the Flesher Pharmaceuticals parking structure, directly across the street from Monica Gaines's hotel room. Paul leaned out the van with his microphone, recording the details of Joe Bailey's initial sweep of the room. The audio had been channeled to a small speaker for the others to hear.

  Haddenfield nodded. “Bailey's a sharp guy. We should monitor him. He could make our jobs a little easier.”

  “Our jobs?”Donna asked.”Aren't they pretty much over?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Gaines is out of commission. A toasted Ry-Krisp. She's not going to be doing much of anything for a while, except maybe shuffling off this mortal coil to a place I have no intention of going for a long, long time.”

  Haddenfield's face was taut. “There are still questions to be answered.”

  Gary frowned. “Answered by us?This is a little different than the assignment I was given. Whatever happened to Monica Gaines tonight, we're moving into foreign territory. None of us have any experience dealing with this.”

  “Nobody has, Gary. Which is why it's so important.”Haddenfield spotted a uniformed security officer steering a white golf cart on the other side of the garage.”Okay, everybody, let's move to the other loca-tion. We got everything we need here.”

  Joe picked up Nikki from Wanda Patterson's apartment, where he'd hastily left her when the call about Monica Gaines came in. Wanda was a successful sculptor who lived down the hall, and Nikki occasionally earned extra money walking her dog. Nikki was silent as they walked back to their apartment.

  “You're usually talking a mile a minute when you leave Wanda's place,”Joe said.”Is everything okay?”

  “You had to go because of Monica Gaines, didn't you?”

  “Yes.”

  “We heard what happened to her. It was on the news. Is she going to die?”

  “I don't know, honey.”

  They entered their apartment, and Nikki walked quickly toward her room.

  “Hold on,”Joe said.

  “I'm tired.”She strode into her room and closed the door behind her.

  Joe pushed her door open. “Not so fast. Are you still mad that I wouldn't let you go to the concert?”

  “No. Janey's and Giselle's moms wouldn't let them go either.”

  “Then what's wrong?”

  She plopped down on her bed. “What happened to Monica Gaines?”

  “I don't know, honey. We're trying to figure that out. She was burned pretty badly.”

  “Why can't someone else figure it out?”

  “Maybe someone else will. But the detectives need my help, and I think I should do what I can to find out what happened to her.”

  “It's not really evil spirits, is it?”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “It was on the news. They were interviewing her TV producer in Canada, and she said that Monica thought maybe bad spirits killed the other people here.”

  Joe sighed. Christ, the media would go nuts over this one. “Sweetie, even if you believe in spirits, there has never been a documented case of one hurting anybody.”

  “Well, you don't believe there's been a documented case of a spirit period.”

  “It doesn't mean I wouldn't love to be the first to find one.”

  “Maybe you should call Suzanne. She's good at this kind of stuff.”

  Joe nodded. He knew that Nikki missed Suzanne. Hell, hemissed Suzanne. They'd dated earlier in the year, but things had gotten complicated. After the way he'd bailed on their relationship, he wasn't sure she'd ever want to see him again.

  Nikki wrinkled her nose. “Just call her.”

  Joe suddenly glanced away. “I'll think about it.”

  She studied him.”I just did it again, didn't I?”

  “What?”

  “I did something that reminded you of Mommy.”

  He smiled. “I'm beginning to think you're a psychic. How did you know?”

  “You always get the same look. Kind of happy and sad at the same time. What did I do?”

  He hesitated before replying. “You twisted your nose in a way that your mother used to. I've never seen you do that before. As you get older, you're more and more like her.”

  Nikki sighed.”I miss her.”

  “Me too, honey.”He kissed her forehead. God, if only Angela were here. More than anything in the world, she'd wanted to watch Nikki grow up. As the cancer ate at her system, Angela's ever-retreating bargains with the almighty centered on her wishes to see Nikki finish college, then high school, then her sixteenth birthday. Nikki was eight when her mother finally slipped away, still angry and confused at being taken from her family so soon. There was no peace, no nobility in her death, just tragic, devastating loss.

  “Did Mommy worry about your police work?”

  “Sometimes, but she thought what I was doing was important.”

  “I think it's important too.”

  “I'm glad. Then you understand why I have to do this?”

  Nikki nodded. “Yeah. You have to find who tried to kill Monica Gaines. If you don't, they could hurt someone else.”

  “That's right.”He stared at her. She was trying so hard to be brave, but he could see she was worried. With good reason. During his only other homicide investigation, she'd watched a man die only a few feet from her. She was probably thinking of him now.

  “It'll be okay, honey.”He leaned down and kissed her on the end of her nose. He whispered, “I promise.”

  Shawn Dylan strode past the intensive care unit nurses'station, letting his white lab coat billow behind him like a long cape. He'd adopted the arrogant swagger of an “I-am-your-God”medical doctor, and no one seemed to be paying him any attention.

  Perfect. Monica Gaines had been there only a few hours, and the nurses on duty had no reason to suspect that he didn't belong there. By tomorrow, there would be systems in place that would make such a visit difficult—an established routine, an assigned medical team, a private guard, or even a police officer nearby. As it was, the only police presence was corralling the television news reporters outside the main entrance downstairs.

  Dylan had heard about Monica's accident just as almost everyone else had—from the television news. How had things gotten so hopelessly fucked up? He should have stayed closer. No, he couldn't blame himself.

  He stepped into her room in the ICU. Most of Monica's torso and half of her face was covered in white bandages. He studied the pulse-ox monitor in the manner of a real doctor, then leaned over her.

  “Monica,”he whispered.

  No response. Probably on some major meds.

  “Monica?”

  Her eyes opened, and her monitored pulse rate quickened.

  “I've been worried.”He checked to make sure no one was watching from the corridor. “I never would have wanted this to happen, Monica. We have to get you away from here.”

  “Hurts …hurts so much,”she whispered.

  “I have something I need to finish here first. It may take a few days. In the meantime, you are to s
ay nothing about our purpose here. Do you understand?”

  No reaction.

  He leaned closer. “There will be people talking to you, Monica. Your judgment may be clouded by the medication, but you must not discuss why we're here. Am I making myself clear?”

  No reaction.

  He gripped her hand harder.”I could end this right now, Monica. I could kill you, leave here, and no one would ever know. I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt, but if I hear you're saying too much, I'll have no choice but to come back. I don't want to do it, but I will. No matter how confused you get, how disoriented you are, you must not tell. Do you understand?”

  A single tear ran from her left eye.

  He released her hand.”I'll take that as ayes.”

  Morning, Bailey.” Carla took a huge bite from her onion bagel as the other cops in the conference room turned toward Joe. Detectives with any involvement with the Spotlight Killings were gathered for a meeting to discuss the Monica Gaines incident. Carla smiled.”You impressed the hell out of that hotel security guy with your spirit kit last night. Did you bring it with you?”

  Joe threw his jacket over the back of a chair. “I dont need my spirit kit today unless you guys suddenly get weirder and creepier than you already are.” He showed Carla and Howe the sketches he'd found in Monica's hotel room.”Do you see anything strange about these?”

  Howe flipped through the drawings and nodded. “It looks like she spent a lot more time on these. Not the rush jobs she did for us. Maybe she wanted prettier versions for her website.”

  “That's what I thought at first,” Joe said. “But the backgrounds are different. It's like she wasn't familiar with the locales when she drew these.”

  Carla stared at a picture of the first murder scene they visited, with its floating spirits, shadowy tree branches, and full moon. “You think maybe these are first drafts, drawn before she even got here?”

  Joe nodded. “Exactly. I may ask her about it later. Any idea how she's doing today?”

  Howe shrugged. “She slept through the night, but her condition's still critical. I don't know if she's conscious or not.”

  Captain Henderson entered the room with half a dozen well-dressed men and women. Howe whispered to Joe,”Mayor's office flunkies. I just met some of them in the hall. This meeting is for their benefit.”

  Although Howe and Carla were visibly annoyed by having to endure what was probably their twentieth meeting on the killings, Joe appreciated the discussion and slide show that followed. Aside from his crash course from Carla the other night, he had little direct exposure to the case, and he was glad to hear directly from the officers who worked the various crime scenes. At the end of the officers'presentations, Henderson introduced a slick young man named Alex Spengler, the department's media relations director.

  “Gentlemen, while you work this case, please be mindful of the fact that this has now become an international media event,” Spengler said. “Monica Gaines's books are published in over thirty languages, her television show is seen in something like twenty countries, and her website receives several hundred thousand hits a day. She's not just a normal celebrity. Her fans see her as a savior, and they're already lining up in front of the hospital. We've already received reports that they're flying in to stand vigil. They may try to go to the places she's been. Her producer is continuing production of her show with guest hosts.”

  “Guest hosts?” Carla asked. “A different psychic every night?”

  Spengler shrugged.”They'll be doing daily reports from here. Watch what you say. You may think you're shooing away some nut with a camcorder, but that footage of you could be beamed all over the world by nightfall.”

  “Got it,” Howe said sarcastically.”Priority one is for us not to look bad on camera.”

  “No one's saying that,” Henderson said,”but you're more than cops on this case. You're representatives of this city. Be nice.”

  The room filled with cops'grumbling as if they'd been asked to make a monumental sacrifice.

  Henderson motioned toward Joe. “Detective Bailey will be assisting us. If you have questions about any purported psychic phenomena, talk to him.”

  Someone in back whistled the Twilight Zonetheme.

  After the meeting adjourned, Joe accompanied Howe and Carla to the Peachtree Summit Studios, where Glen Murphy's coproducer, Chris O'Connor, was finishing up work on the singer's final album. O'Connor had bleached-blond hair, a cheerful red face, and a boisterous Irish accent that somehow made everything sound like the punch line to a joke.

  “Murphy was going daft, if you ask me,” O'Connor said.”Which, of course, you didn't, but when has that ever stopped me, eh?”

  “Why did you think he was …daft?” Howe asked.

  O'Connor leaned back in his chair at the mixing console.”Why, he was hearing things. That's not good for a music producer when he's mixing an album. The hearing's everything.”

  Joe nodded.”So what was he hearing?”

  “Voices, mostly. Scared the hell out of him, I must say.”

  “Where was he when he heard these voices?”

  O'Connor gestured around the studio. “Around here, mostly.”

  “Did anybody else hear them?”

  “Not at the time. That's why I thought he was daft. Not daft, maybe, but exhausted. He was practically living here. The album was late, and the label wanted it something awful. But something strange happened when I came in here to try and wrap things up. That's what made me call you fellas last night.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was cataloguing some of the tracks he'd laid down for this song, and I heard something I couldn't explain.” O'Connor's fingers glided over his console. “Listen for yourself. This was a percussion track that Murphy recorded sometime in the last week of his life.”

  O'Connor pushed a button and moved up a slider until they heard a slow, rhythmic drumbeat through the sound booth's speaker system. Chris suddenly pointed at the speakers. There was a faint whispering sound.

  “Hear that?” he said.

  “What was it?” Carla asked.

  O'Connor grinned. “I couldn't tell at first either. I thought maybe Glen was trying to lay in a subliminal message or something.” He pushed a red button.”So I filtered out the drum and took a closer listen. Here's what I came up with.”

  He pushed another slider, and a low voice whispered from the speakers, “Come with us, Murphy…. Die with us, Murphy….”

  Carla stepped away from the speaker as if the voice might reach out and grab her.”Holy shit.”

  “Leave your world behind you, Murphy…. The time has come….”

  The whispers had a bizarre, ethereal quality unlike anything he'd heard, Joe thought. “Is this what Murphy claimed to be hearing?”

  O'Connor nodded.”Near as I can tell. He was wearing headphones playing the other tracks while he recorded this, so he might not have known he actually got the voice on tape. But he described it to us, and this sounds like it.” O'Connor rewound the recording and played the whispers back.

  “Die with us, Murphy….”

  Howe pointed through the booth's glass window. “Are you telling me that this voice somehow came from that room?”

  O'Connor nodded. “That's where the microphones are.”

  Carla nervously moistened her lips.”This is incredible. Most of those victims claimed to hear voices, but this is our first evidence that they actually existed.”

  “Can you make us a copy of this?” Joe asked.

  O'Connor picked up a CD and handed it to him. “Already done, my friend. I hope it helps. You know, I think I may leave it in the song. Couldn't hurt sales, you know. I think this is going to be the album's breakout single.”

  “What's it called?” Carla asked.

  “'Nothing but the Stars.'A real catchy tune.”

  Sam Tyson stared at the boom box in the cluttered back room of his downtown magic store. “Jeez, kind of chills you to the bone, doesn't
it?”

  Joe pushed the stop switch. He'd made a cassette copy of Murphy's percussion track before turning the CD over to the police crime lab. The techs already knew that the song's title,”Nothing but the Stars,” had been “read” by Monica at Murphy's crime scene, and they pestered him for an explanation. All in good time, he'd told them. “The voice doesn't sound real, does it?”Joe said.

  “Neither does the music, for that matter. How do people listen to that crap?” Sam picked up an armload of packing straw and shoved it into a wood crate. He was packing up a custom-built illusion he called Ice of Atlantis to send to a Las Vegas magician who had become rich performing Sam's spectacular tricks.

  Joe smiled.”Let's forget for a moment that you hate any music past Rudy Vallee's time.”

  “I'm not that old, kid.”

  “Crosby and Sinatra's time.”

  “Now you're talking.”

  “Most of the spotlight murder victims heard strange voices in the last days of their lives. This is the only recording we have. Do you know anybody who specializes in audio tricks?”

  “Like ventriloquism?”

  “Not exactly. There was no one else around in most of these cases.”

  “I'll have to think about that one.” Sam leaned against the crate. “I bought a new TV last year, and it has a setting that gives the illusion that the sound is coming from behind you.”

  “Surround sound?”

  “Yeah, but there aren't any speakers behind you. The circuitry plays with the sound in such a way that it fools the ear into believing that part of it is radiating from behind.”

  Joe nodded.”A lot of newer televisions do that.”

  “Well, I know a ventriloquist who can do it without a lot of fancy electronics. Whatever that TV is doing to the sound, he must be able to do by sheer instinct. You'd swear his voice was coming from behind you.”

  “Like I said, there was no one else present at these places. And as bitter as I'd be if I had to make my living as a professional ventriloquist, I don't think it's bad enough to turn one into a serial killer.”

  “Well, being a professional magician was bad enough to turn you into a cop.”