Phobia KDP (21 page)

Tucker stood behind him, silent, as Herne shot more bullets into the target. Six center mass. Four in the head. His aim was good today.

Some of the tension released from his shoulders, and he pulled the ear plugs from his ears. “So,” Herne said, resigned. “What have you been thinking about, Rex?”

“Well, if it isn’t Lochhead, it’s gotta be that private investigator. What’s his fucking name?”

“Morales,” Herne said. “And it might be. You’ve got Miller on him?”

Tucker nodded. “He reported in this morning. Says Morales left his house at eight o’clock this morning, filled up his SUV at Gary’s gas station, and then drove to his office. He’s been in there ever since.”

“I might take a drive by his house,” Herne said. He tried to speak casually, but he knew Tucker detected the slight tremor of excitement in his voice. “Maybe just take a look at it.”

“You’re not going to do anything fucking illegal, are you?” Tucker asked.

“Do you honestly think I’d do something like that?”

Tucker didn’t reply. Herne walked toward his house and Tucker followed.

“Fuck, it’s hot in here,” Tucker said as they entered Herne’s kitchen.

Herne scooped up his truck keys from the counter and started out the door again.

“Where the hell are you going, Art?”

“I’m investigating. That’s what you’re paying me to do, right? You wanted me to investigate. So that’s where I’m going.”

“I don’t want you to do anything fucking illegal. I don’t want you to do anything that will get your ass thrown in jail.”

Herne turned and faced his friend squarely. He saw the set of Tucker’s jaw, clenched so tightly that it almost quivered. The jaw of a man who’s a lousy liar. Herne felt his own chest tighten in response.

“That’s not how you
really
feel, is it?” Herne asked.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tucker met Herne’s stare, but there was guilt in his voice.

“You asked for my help because you knew I would do whatever it took to finish the job. You knew I would sacrifice anything. Everything.”

Tucker shook his head and started to speak, but Herne just turned on his heel and walked out the door.

Two little girls squatted on the sidewalk next to Morales’ home. They held fat chunks of pastel colored chalk in their small hands, and they scribbled pictures of rainbows and flowers on the hard concrete. One of them, her brown hair in pigtails, watched Herne curiously as he walked toward them.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m nobody,” he said. He forced a smile on his face. The smile he reserved for weddings and small children. The falseness of it made his cheeks tighten.

“I’ve never seen you before,” the little girl said.

“I’ve never seen you, either.” He turned to go. There was no way to enter Morales’ home through the front. It was too open. Too public. He’d have to approach it from behind.

He returned to his truck and drove around the block until he was behind Morales’ house. The neighborhood was quiet. He grabbed a cardboard box from his truck. Dressed in blue jeans and work boots, he could pass for a delivery person.

A young child playing in a sandbox was the only person in sight. Herne examined the simple lock on Morales’ door. He fished in his pocket for his bump key—the tool of professional burglars—and then slipped it into the keyhole. The key was cut to open most standard locks with just a little bit of pressure. Most burglars used a mallet or screwdriver to apply the tension, but Herne used his right hand. The lock clicked open.

The inside of the house was cool and crisp. Morales kept his air-conditioning at low temperatures.

Herne moved quickly through the house, which had only two bedrooms. It was neat. Sterile. Cheap, nondescript furniture filled the small rooms. There were no dirty dishes in the sink, no piles of clothing on the floor, no streaks of toothpaste on the bathroom mirror. The only personal decoration was a photo of a young girl in a gold frame that hung on the living room wall. Her smile displayed straight, white teeth and her long dark hair framed the lines of her youthful face. She looked beautiful and soft, but Herne sensed loneliness in her brown eyes.
Too young to be so sad
, Herne thought.

There were no file cabinets and no computers. Herne halfheartedly opened the drawers, finding only the basic necessities: toothbrush, some pots and pans, a few forks, a lonely AA battery.

The house said nothing about its owner. It was a shell yet to be filled.

“Gotcha,” Morales said as his camera clicked. He sat in his SUV and watched a man in a hotel. The man hadn’t bothered to close the curtains, and the open window gave Morales full view of the inside of the room.

“Jesus,” Morales said to himself. “This guy is going to OD.”

The man used a rolled up bill to snort line after line of cocaine.

The afternoon sun meant Morales didn’t need to use a flashbulb. But worried the darker interior of the hotel room might affect the final pictures, Morales snapped a few more photographs until he was certain he had enough evidence to get his redheaded client—the one who reminded him of his third grade teacher—a big alimony check.

Then he slipped his camera back into its bag and drove off. He had other business that still needed his attention.

Herne parked his truck outside the Pages of Print bookstore. The information he needed was available on the Internet, but Herne found the tangible solidness of a book satisfying. Before he was old enough to help in his parents’ bistro, Herne spent Sunday evenings in an alcove in the kitchen of the restaurant. Tired after an afternoon of flag football with the neighborhood kids, he’d read one of the books from his father’s collection of mysteries and ghost stories. He continued his habit of reading at night through college, only breaking it after becoming a cop. He hadn’t read a book in years, but he still remembered the satisfying feeling of turning a page.

He glanced in the bookstore’s front window, noting the display of Nero Wolfe novels. A calico cat lay amid the books, its tail curled around a stack of paperbacks.

A tiny windchime tinkled as Herne pushed open the door. The wooden floors creaked beneath his boots, and when he inhaled he smelled musty paper and dust. Behind a counter in the front of the store sat a short woman with her red hair twisted in a twenty year old hairstyle. She held a paperback in her hand, but she looked up and smiled broadly when he walked through the door. Her body size was unidentifiable beneath a giant muumuu, but her jowls and arms showed signs of middle-age weight. Herne thought she looked just like Mrs. Roper from the television show
Three’s Company.

“Hello there, sweetie,” she called out. “I’m Frances Gallows, owner of this bookstore. If you need anything, just ask. And this is
Mystery Month.
Buy two paperbacks, get one free.”

Pages of Print sold mostly used books, although a few shelves held new releases. Rows and rows of paperbacks lined the walls. Hand printed signs indicated categories like “Romance” and “Non-Fiction,” but otherwise Herne detected no organization. And he didn’t want to waste time browsing through the clutter.

“I’m looking for something specific,” he said.

Her glance passed over his shaved head, blue jeans, and white tee-shirt. “
Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
?” she suggested.

A ghost of a grin touched his face. He’d owned a motorcycle—a 1978 classic Harley lowrider—during his college years, but Maggie had asked him to give it up after they moved to Philly.
Being married to a cop is enough worry,
she had said.
I don’t want to worry every time you get on that bike, too
. So he sold the Harley to his neighbor’s son and never rode again.

He was surprised to realize that he missed it.

“Maybe another time,” he said. “Actually, I was wondering if you had any books about psychology.”

She nodded and pointed. “We’ve got a small mental health section around the corner, sweetheart. There are some old college textbooks, too.”

Herne walked to the section marked “Reference.” The thin layer of dust told stories of forgotten tomes. A shelf of college textbooks, most of which looked to be more than a decade old, caught Herne’s eye.

Abnormal Psychology.
Herne grabbed the book from the shelf and thumbed to the Table of Contents.
Phobias
. He found the information he wanted in Chapter 12.

“Aquaphobia,” he read. “An abnormal and persistent fear of water.”

Cheryl Brandt. Her abnormal and persistent fear of water led to death by drowning.

Herne slammed shut the book and carried it to the counter.

Frances glanced at the title. “Five dollars,” she said.

“A bargain,” Herne replied. He pulled out his money clip—the sterling silver clip from Tiffanys had been his wife’s first anniversary gift to him—and counted out five dollars. As Frances handed him a handwritten receipt, Herne’s phone rang.

“We found some dirt on one of the employees in Lochhead’s building,” Saxon said. “The chief wants you down there right away.”

Herne strode out of the store. It felt good to have a purpose. A
goal
. He drove quickly to his destination.

Saxon met him in the small lobby of the building. Pools of sweat stained the armpits of her uniform shirt. Herne could hear the hum of the old air-conditioner unit, working hard to cool the space that simmered from the summer heat. The scent of dust and mildew seemed thicker in the humidity. “The Healer’s note and photo came today,” she said.

“Let’s see the picture,” he said.

She passed it to him. A copy, since the state cops had taken the original. A woman’s face, obscured by the water in which she was submerged, filled the photograph.

“Why does he take these pictures?” Saxon asked. “Why is he showing us something we’ve already seen?”

“He’s bragging,” Herne said. “Perhaps showing us the best from his collection of photos. Most serial killers keep a memento of some kind. Maybe our boy is an amateur photographer. Or maybe he just likes to look at pictures.”

Saxon remained silent, looking at the photograph of Cheryl Brandt’s watery grave.

“So what did his note read?” Herne asked.

“
Terror acts powerfully upon the body, through the medium of the mind, and should be employed in the cure of madness.
”

“Do you know who the quotation is attributed to this time?”

“Benjamin Rush, also known as the Father of American Psychiatry.”

Herne considered this. “Out of curiosity, do you research these quotations online?”

“I bought a copy of
Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations
,” she said. “I remembered the book from my high school English class.”

Tucker entered the building and glanced around. He shook his head when he spotted them. “Maybe we should move the department here,” he said. “We’re spending more fucking time here than we do in the office.”

Herne shrugged. “You requested that I meet you here. I would have been just as happy to meet at the station.”

“Don’t give me that shit, Art. You’re here because you can’t wait to pounce on someone. You’re hoping we found a black mark in someone’s past so you can rub their nose in it.”