Sleep With The Lights On (23 page)

Mason Brown’s new home was the first one that popped up. Small town, and not exactly a booming real estate market. There were photos of the place, date of sale, name of the Realtor he’d used and the one who’d sold it, and, of course, the
pièce de résistance,
the address.

Now all I needed was a set of wheels. I got up and looked down at my attire. And a set of clothes, I thought. Luckily the laundry room was also in the basement. A pair of mom-jeans and a T-shirt were just the ticket. The twins’ shared first vehicle was sitting at the end of the driveway, which had just enough of a slope that I would be able to coast away a little before starting the engine. The keys were on the rack in the garage, and Myrt and I were on our way to investigate the investigator.

* * *

Mason Brown sat in the driveway of Rachel de Luca’s impressive home, watching the place long after everyone else had gone.

They needed a judge to sign a warrant before they could search the house, or the car, thanks to her high-end lawyer’s intervention, and the delay was frustrating.

Rachel herself had been cooperative until her sister had come charging in like the cavalry. He supposed that could have been an act, but he didn’t think so.

At least he was here, watching the place. No one was going to tamper with any evidence tonight. And by morning, noon at the latest, he’d have that warrant.

In the meantime, he pulled out the book the shrink had written. The guy’s theory was ridiculous, of course.

But he’d seen Rachel’s penchant for hot sauce firsthand. And she’d said that she’d never liked it before she got her eyesight back, and that she found it odd she loved it so much now.

His brother had loved hot sauce. Eric had sprinkled the stuff on everything.

Coincidence.

He’d figured he would toss the book, but instead, sitting here for the next several hours with nothing but time on his hands, he decided to skim through it again. And as he did, he started to question his own certainty. Dr. Vosberg had cited some pretty extreme cases. The vegan health nut who woke from her surgery with a craving for a Big Mac and fries—and later learned it had been her donor’s final meal.

Then there was the man who’d never played a note of music in his life but sat down at a piano and started playing after receiving a heart from a concert pianist.

Was it possible that Eric’s organs had carried his warped need to kill on to a new host? More than one, even?

And if so, was it someone else? He already knew it couldn’t possibly be Rachel herself. She was the most logical candidate, given that she was connected to each of the murders since Eric’s death, and he was very afraid the current killer was targeting her now, either to frame her for his crimes or to make her one of his victims.

But while he didn’t think she was a murderer, he
was
convinced there was
something
going on.

He knew the house wasn’t locked. Why lock it when there was a cop sitting in the driveway watching the place? He could easily go in and take a look around. But no. He was doing this by the book. He’d broken the law he was sworn to uphold once already, in covering up Eric’s crimes, and that was enough for one lifetime, thanks very much. Not to mention it was biting him in the ass every time he turned around.

No, he’d just wait for the warrant. If there was evidence inside, it wasn’t going anywhere.

* * *

Mason’s new house was cute, a neat little turn-of-the-century farmhouse with a small barn off to the side. The house was white with red trim, the barn red with white trim, and both looked to be in decent shape, given their obvious age. The U-Haul trailer I’d seen in his apartment driveway the other day was parked in front, closed but not locked. That would be my first stop. I was half hoping all his belongings would still be in it, and I wouldn’t have to break and enter a cop’s home. I left Myrt in the car and went to see what I could find. But when I opened the trailer, jumping as the door squeaked on its hinges, I found it empty.

I closed the door again, then stayed quiet for a minute, just listening, watching the place. It was dark as hell, dead silent. I heard crickets somewhere, a night bird or two. But nothing else, except the wind and the cars passing on distant Route 81.

Okay, I had to do this. I had to.

I headed up the porch steps but then stopped halfway, because I’d caught sight of something in the barn, and for some reason it brought me up short. Through the slightly open door I could see the nose of a white pickup truck.

Isn’t this a stroke of luck? Little brother kept the truck.

The voice in my head was so clear and so unexpected that I jumped as if I’d heard it out loud. And yet, despite how freaked out I felt, I found myself walking toward the barn, toward the truck. A few spindly weeds hidden in the tall grass grabbed at the legs of my borrowed jeans. They were Sandra’s and a size too big, but the twins’ would have been a foot too long and too tight to let me breathe. I’d opted for comfort. There was a night breeze, soft but chilly, sending shivers down my spine. Or at least I thought they were caused by the wind.

I stopped at the barn door, gripped it and slid it open. It had casters in a track up top that squealed in protest. I cringed at the noise, and something inside flapped its wings and moved deeper into the barn, scaring the hell out of me. Then all was quiet again.

I looked at the truck and just for the hell of it tried the driver’s door.

It opened. Cool. There wasn’t much inside. A pair of leather work gloves. A broken ratchet on the floor. A travel mug that hadn’t seen a dishwasher in way too long.

I reached for the glove compartment and opened it, flipping through the stuff inside and finding an expired insurance card.

Eric Conroy Brown. It was my donor’s truck, all right. Maybe this was where I could find out more about him and get some answers to my questions.

I dug around the rest of the truck but found nothing of interest except for a pair of sunglasses I just loved for some reason and was tempted to steal. I put them back instead, got out and walked around to the back. The bed was lined with chrome toolboxes, all of which were locked.

I had to get into them.
I had to
. Impulsively, I ran my hands underneath the wheel wells, and lo and behold, I found a magnetic box affixed to the inside of one with a key inside. I climbed up on the tailgate and slipped the key into the lock of the first toolbox. It turned, and I lifted the lid.

The only thing inside—well, besides lots and lots of tools—was a satchel, like a duffel bag. Frowning, I pulled it out and sat down on the barn floor to unzip it.

* * *

Mason was reading about a perfectly wonderful husband who began beating his wife after receiving the kidney of a man who’d done time for domestic violence, when his cell phone rang. He closed the book and picked up the phone. “Brown.”

“Hey, pal, it’s Rosie. We got the okay to take the imprint from the tire of her car, but the judge said no more than that until he’s had time to review the case. Chief Sub says just get the imprint and then surveil the place from outside until morning. Someone will relieve you then.”

“All right.”

He got out of the car, taking his kit with him. The garage had two overhead doors and a side door, which was the one he used to go inside. He found the light switch, flipped it on and headed over to take a rubbing from the tread of the car’s rear tire. It was an easy task. Lay the paper on the tire, rub the charcoal back and forth to get the impression, take the whole thing in to the station and have an expert compare it with the cast taken from the tire tracks in the driveway. He also noted the size of the tires. To the naked eye, they were narrower than the tracks he’d seen earlier in the driveway, but a comparison would say so for sure.

Then he straightened and, in spite of the rule book, took a look at the inside of the garage, walking slowly around the car but carefully touching nothing on the way. There was a utility sink in the back. Something on the front of it caught his eye, and then his heart sank a little. It looked like blood, smeared along the top lip of the deep sink.

“Probable cause, right? I got permission to get the tire imprint. I saw blood. I had to follow up.” He moved closer, half holding his breath.

Inside the sink was a hammer, and it was covered in blood, bone and what looked to him like brain matter.

“Shit, Rachel, what the fuck did you do?”

He turned, still without touching anything, and walked out of the garage. He was going to have to call this in and get the team back out here to photograph the hammer
in situ
before bagging it and taking it in.

A white sedan pulled to a stop in the driveway, bathing him in its headlights, as he headed toward his own car. Rachel got out of the driver’s side, slammed the door and came striding toward him. “What the fuck are you doing in my garage, you fucking lunatic?”

“Getting a tire impression for evidence.”

“Yeah, evidence. I don’t think I trust you to be getting any evidence, Detective.” She had a sheet of paper in her hand.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” And why was she so furious at him? He thought he’d convinced her that he was on her side.

“What the hell is
this
supposed to mean?” She waved the paper at him, storming closer.

“What is it?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s your brother’s suicide note. You know, the one confessing to thirteen murders?” She closed the distance between them and backhanded him hard across the face. “You gave me your brother’s eyes knowing he was a fucking lunatic serial killer! What’s wrong with you?” She drew back a fist to punch him in the chest. He just stood there and let her, so she pounded on him over and over, until, sobbing, still clutching the note, crumpled now in her fist, she sank to the ground.

He sank down beside her.

She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I want them out. I want them out of my head!”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You’re
sorry?
What the fuck were you thinking, hiding this, Mason?”

He gripped her shoulders, stared hard into her eyes, willing her to look at him and see that he was being honest. “I was thinking about his pregnant wife. His two boys. Hell, Josh is only eleven. How was I supposed to tell them what their father was? It was enough that he was dead, that he couldn’t hurt anyone else.”

“But he is. Somehow, Mason, he still is. You realize that, don’t you?”

“No. It has to be something else.”

She lifted her head, her eyes red-rimmed and wet. “I want these eyes out of my head.”

“I didn’t know about your brother,” he whispered. “I swear to God I didn’t know.”

“You knew about
yours,
though. I don’t want to see what I’m seeing anymore. I can’t handle it.”

“You
have to
handle it, Rachel.”

“Why? Just give me one good reason why!”

He looked toward the garage, looked at her again. “Because there’s a bloody hammer in your garage. And I’m betting it’s the one that killed your friend.”

15

I
stood up fast, then felt this whoosh, like everything in my body just sort of rushed down to my feet, and my head was left without anything to hold it up. It couldn’t be true, what he was saying. It couldn’t be.

He was grabbing my shoulders then, and I jerked away as if his touch was dirty. “Get off me.”

“You were swaying like a punch-drunk boxer.” But he let go.

I reached through the hurricane in my mind and grabbed hold of myself, yanked my brain into focus, looked him in the eye. “I want to see it. This hammer.”

“You can’t. I have to call it in, and the garage needs to be sealed off until then.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m sorry, Rachel, this is procedure.”

“And was it procedure to cover up the fact that your brother was the fucking Wraith?”

He flinched, looked away. I had him and he knew it, so I pushed my advantage. “Look, Detective,
I
know for a fact that I didn’t kill Mott. So if the murder weapon is in my garage, it means someone put it there. Someone who’s trying to set me up. Was it you, Mason?”

His head came up fast. “I wouldn’t try to frame someone else for my brother’s crimes.”

“Yeah, and
I
wouldn’t bash someone’s brains in with a hammer. But I can’t expect you to take my word for that.”

He looked down. “You’ve been connected to every murder since Eric’s death.”

“Maybe because I have your twisted fuck of a brother’s corneas.”

He shook his head. “That’s not even a real theory.”

“You want to know what’s real, Detective Brown? Let me just fill you in on what’s real. You call in that bloody hammer, and I’m going to call in this suicide note.” I held it up, realizing belatedly that I’d crumpled it up pretty badly in my fit of temper. I knew, too, that he could take it from me. He had a gun, and I didn’t. “I made a copy in my sister’s office before I came over, so don’t even think about taking it from me. I’m not an idiot.”

I had made no such copy, of course. I was, in fact, an idiot.

He surrendered. His stance softened; I felt it as well as saw it. It was in the breath he released, the slight bending of his spine, the movement as his shoulders relaxed a little. I thanked my stars he was too fucked up right now see through my bluff. I had no doubt that normally nothing so transparent would have worked on him. But he was off his game, because I knew his secret.

“That hammer is evidence,” he said, and it had all the earmarks of a last-ditch effort to convince me. “We cover it up, we lose whatever it might have told us.”

“Then take it out of my garage and toss it in the weeds, over there where the guy’s car was parked while he carried what was left of Mott up onto my front porch.”

He looked where I pointed, toward the curve in my driveway. “They could still find your fingerprints, your DNA....”

“I promise you, they won’t. I don’t think I’ve picked up a hammer in a year—if ever. It’s not a common tool among the blind. I didn’t kill anyone, Mason.”

He was watching my face like a cat watching a rat hole, waiting for me to give something away, or to reveal my true murderous nature. Then he said, “You drove all the way to Cortland in your sleep. How can you be sure you didn’t kill someone?”

“And bring the body home in a car I don’t own, and carry it—not drag it but carry it—to my own front door? Mott was a beanpole, but a heavy one. He weighed a solid one-ninety. There were no drag marks in the driveway, were there?”

“No. Blood trail, but no drag marks.”

“No. And even in my sleep, I think I’d have brains enough to toss the hammer into the reservoir. I mean, it’s right there, Mason.” I gestured at the dark water just a few dozen yards from my home, out across the narrow dirt road. “And then somehow I drove away and left myself sleeping in the house, and then I got up and called you guys?”

“You were painting,” he said. “You sure you didn’t use a hammer?”

“I didn’t use a hammer.”

“To pull nails or hang pictures?”

“Haven’t gotten that far yet.”

“Do you own a hammer?”

My brows went up. “Yeah. There’s a little girlie toolbox kit my sister got me when I first bought the place. Said everyone should have one. The hammer in it has a pink rubber grip and is about big enough to sink a thumbtack. And that’s the only hammer I own.”

He seemed to be thinking hard. Then he said, “Okay, we’ll move the hammer.”

We?

“And we have to be smart here. Make sure someone on the force finds it. Whoever he is, he knows he put the hammer there. He’ll know we’re onto him if it doesn’t turn up in the evidence room.”

“How will he know if it did or not?”

Mason shrugged. “Maybe he won’t, but we can’t take that chance. Like I said, we have to be smart. Stay one step ahead. Figure out why he’s doing this.”

My lips trembled. He’d believed I was innocent, earlier. I’d been sure of it. But now I wasn’t, and I couldn’t ask, because I was afraid of what his answer would be. And since when did it matter to me what this lying cop thought about me, anyway?

“You should get back to your sister’s. I’ll take care of the hammer.”

The guilt he felt over that was in his voice, as thick as butter. “I’ll do it. I don’t want you risking your career for me.”

“My career is already over,” he said. Sad as hell, that tone. “It’ll come out, what I did. It has to.”

“Yeah, well, on that we’re gonna have to agree to disagree. I don’t think it has to come out. I just think we have to find this killer. I don’t suppose you know a private lab that would run a bloody hammer without asking questions, do you?”

He made a face.

“Right, I didn’t think so.” I heaved a sigh and walked into the garage, folding his brother’s suicide note and tucking it into my pocket on the way. “Where is it?” I asked. My pretty car was sitting there like a silent, gorgeous witness.

“In the utility sink in back.” I flipped on the light switch with my sleeve pulled over my hand. I don’t know why. That switch was probably covered in my fingerprints already, but I did it anyway, then I walked back to the sink. I was such an idiot. I’d locked up the whole place last night but forgotten the garage’s side door, probably because I hardly ever used the thing. Dammit.

“How did you find the note,” he asked. “You ransack my whole place?”

“I didn’t even go inside. It was pretty fucking strange, actually.” I walked closer, then stopped, looking down at the disgusting tool in the deep stainless-steel sink.

“Strange how?” He came up behind me, looking at it over my shoulder.

I shrugged. “I glanced around the place, saw the truck in the barn, just showing where the door wasn’t shut quite all the way, and I heard this stupid rhyme in my head.”

“Rhyme?”

I nodded.
“Isn’t this a stroke of luck? Little brother kept the truck.”

I felt him react. Shock bounced from him like a static charge. He’d gone still, stopped breathing until he had to in order to say, “Where the hell did that come from?”

I turned to see that same sense of shock reflected in his eyes. “It’s what I heard in my head. I told you, it’s fucked up.”

He said nothing.

“Why? Why are you looking at me like that?”

The man literally gave his head a shake. Like a wet dog shaking off the water. “Get the damned hammer. But don’t touch it barehanded.”

Frowning, knowing there was more—this guy was a bundle of secrets, but hell, how many could there be?—I looked around the garage and spotted my collection of grocery bags hanging from the wall in their cutesy paisley print holder. Amy’s Christmas gift to me a year ago. I snagged a plastic bag from it. Using it as a glove, I picked up the hammer.

“Make sure it doesn’t drip,” he instructed.

“It’s pretty...congealed. God, this is gross.” I tried not to think about there being Mott’s blood and God knew what else all over the hammer. I tried not to think about how scared he must have been, or how much it must have hurt to die like that, and I followed Mason out of the garage, holding the bloody hammer as far from my body as I could. Blood had a smell to it. It was a cross between fresh meat and sulphur. I’d never smelled it quite this strongly before and had to actively suppress the urge to gag.

Mason walked across the driveway, but I don’t know how he didn’t fall, because he was watching me the whole time. He finally stopped and pointed into the woods off to the right. “Toss it out that way.”

I tossed it, feeling like it was the most important throw of my life. It landed with a rustling of underbrush. “What do I do with the bag?”

“Burn it.”

“And the sink?”

“Bleach. But for crying out loud, rinse it really, really well afterward. Crime scene guys smell bleach, they get suspicious. Wear rubber gloves to clean it, and then burn the gloves, too.”

I swallowed hard, thinking the guy knew a little too much about covering up crimes. But no, he was a cop, that was all.

I got another plastic bag and put the bloody one I’d used for a glove inside it. I’d add whatever rag I used to clean the sink, and the gloves I used.

He was staring at me. Looking me up and down.

“I’m not a murderer,” I told him, and I held his eyes when I said it, knowing he had the same ability to sense a lie as I did. He could see the truth in my eyes.

“I believe you.”

Good. God, the relief that rushed through me at those words was beyond any kind of reason, especially now that I knew the huge secret he’d been keeping from me. Now to push my luck. “Mason, I think part of your brother is still alive. I think it’s inside me somehow. And I think it was inside Terry Skullbones when he killed that guy, and I think it’s in whoever killed Mott and planted that hammer here.”

He pressed his lips together. “I think that’s probably the least likely of the half-dozen scenarios that could explain all this.” Then he tipped his head and shrugged. “But let’s play with it a little. Where’s the bleach?”

I blinked, because the change of subject threw me, but I caught up quickly and walked to the far side of the garage where the washer and dryer were tucked out of the way in a corner. I grabbed the bleach and a pair of rubber gloves from the shelf, and headed back.

He took everything from me, turned on the water, pulled on the gloves and began cleaning the sink. I’d expected him to let me do that, but I wasn’t going to argue.

“So you think Mott’s killer is also an organ recipient?” he asked.

“That would make sense.”

He nodded. “I agree with you that my brother’s organs seem to be the connection between these crimes. I don’t believe it’s because he’s somehow still killing from beyond the grave, but I do think he’s the connection. Either way, the next step is the same.”

“And what is the next step, Mason?”

“We find the recipients.”

“All of them?”

“The ones local enough to be involved.”

“How do we do that? The list is confidential. Can you get a court order or something?”

“I don’t have anything solid to base one on. But I do have other resources. I hope to have the list before the weekend is out, and then I can start ruling them out one by one.”

“I can help you do that.” He started to say no, but I held up a hand. “This guy took my brother and my best friend. And my life is on the line here. You know I can read people just as well as you can, maybe better.”

He didn’t even argue with me as he rinsed and rinsed and rinsed the sink. I took the bleach back to its shelf, and returned to see him dropping the used gloves into the plastic bag. “Make sure it burns. Every trace of it.”

The idea of burning plastic in my fireplace didn’t appeal, but then I remembered the barbecue pit out back and thought that might be a better option. “I will.”

“It’ll be daylight soon.”

“And my poor dog is still in the car. Do you have to sit here until morning?”

“I’m not supposed to leave the house until my relief gets here in the morning—to keep you from removing evidence until we have a search warrant.” He said it with an ironic look at the bag in my hand.

“When will you have that?”

“After they compare the tire tread I took from your car with the one taken from your driveway last night, and the judge has time to review the rest of the case. And that’ll happen in the morning, when I can get back to the station.”

I heaved a sigh. “Well, if you’re staying, then I’m staying. You want to come in?”

“We’re not supposed to be in the house.”

“So we’ll get out before anyone knows the difference.”

He shook his head.

“I’m tired. My dog is tired. We’ve already broken every freaking rule in your cop-shop handbook.
And
I’ve got a serial fucking killer after me. I’m going inside. You wanna come, then come. Because my feeling is that this sicko is watching my every move, and I would like to be out of his sight. Or do you disagree that he’s after me?”