Wicked Lies (49 page)

“Who the hell are you?” Harrison demanded, staring through his windshield and seeing nothing. His gaze was turned inward; his concentration on the caller.

“They all will die . . . all the witchesss who hide in their fortresss,” he scoffed. “Ssssiren Ssssong . . . The sssisters think they’re ssssafe.” Then Harrison heard a smile in the caller’s voice. “But they never will be, not until all of Satan’sss spawn are dead, their black sssouls going sssstraight to hell!”

“Turnbull?” he asked.

Click!

The phone went dead in his hand.

Jesus, what was that all about?

Immediately, he recalled the number, then hit the dial button, but no one answered. No voice mail picked up.

“Damn!”

Had he really been talking to Justice Turnbull?

Or could it have been a prank?

No way . . . The voice was too low, too deadly, too damned weird.

Psychotic.

Even now, his car idling in the bank lot, traffic rushing by on Roosevelt Drive, Harrison’s skin crawled. Where the hell was the bastard? Why was he taunting him? Of course, he knew that some criminals, including killers, got off on the replay of their crimes in the press. They loved the notoriety. But it surprised him that Justice Turnbull knew him, had his number, for Christ’s sake.

Then again, who really knew what went on in the mind of a psychopath?

Even those who purported to understand them could be fooled. Dr. Maurice Zellman was a case in point. He’d been so sure of himself, of his understanding of the maniac, that he’d let down his guard. And nearly lost his life in the process.

A little calmer, Harrison grabbed his wallet and found Detective Stone’s card. He punched in the number of the offices of the TCSD, only to be told that the detective had left for the day. Not missing a beat, Harrison next dialed Stone’s cell number. On the first ring, voice mail answered, and Harrison was forced to leave a short message telling Stone that Turnbull had called him and he had a cell number for the bastard.

Once more, as he pulled out of the lot, he dialed Laura.

Once more, she didn’t answer.

He tried to convince himself that she was fine, just busy, that she wouldn’t take his call while on duty. He also assured himself that if Justice Turnbull had done anything to her, the maniac would have bragged about it in his call.

Right?

“Son of a bitch.” He pushed on the accelerator and risked a call to the hospital. An operator answered and he asked to speak to Laura Adderley.

“Just one second,” the receptionist said, and a few minutes later a smooth female voice said, “Nurses’ station, second floor.”

“I’d like to speak to Laura Adderley. This is Harrison Frost.”

“Ms. Adderley’s with a patient right now. If you would like her to call you back . . . oh, wait.” Her voice became more muted as she said, “Laura, there’s a Harrison Frost on the line. He wants to talk to you,” then, more loudly, “If you’ll just hang on, she’ll be with you.”

Relief rained over him.

“Hello?” Laura’s voice was a balm.

“Hey. Just thought I’d check in. Was wondering if we could have lunch or dinner or whatever your next break is.”

“I just took lunch . . . I won’t have another break until one in the morning. You still on?”

“About that . . . ,” he said. Then, though he didn’t want to worry her, he thought she deserved to know what was happening, so he explained about the call he’d received, finishing with, “It was anonymous, of course, but I’ve got a call into Stone, to find out to whom, if anyone, the phone is registered. It could be one of those throwaway cells.”

“He’s targeting you?” she asked, sounding coldly furious.

“I think he’s looking for a little press, and that worries me because his need for publicity, to be on page one, might ramp up his anxiety, his need to
do
something to draw attention back to him.”

“Like kill,” she whispered.

“I’ll keep you posted on what I find out, but be careful. I think you’re safe at the hospital. So call me when your shifts are over, and we’ll take it from there.”

She hesitated.

“Laura?”

“You be careful, too. He’s got
your
phone number.”

“I told Buddy to give it out. I don’t think Turnbull’s interest in me is personal. It’s you he wants.”

“And my family.”

“Yeah.” He almost said, “I love you,” but caught himself, surprised by how it had seemed so natural to say.

“You won’t believe this,” Stone said, an edge to his voice as he drove south toward the Zellman estate.

“What?” Dunbar asked, sounding far away wherever she was on her cell phone.

“The reporter, Harrison Frost, the guy we saw earlier. He claims he got a call from Justice Turnbull.”

“What? Why?”

“Maybe he wants some publicity. Who knows? He’s a psycho. But get this, Frost got the guy’s cell number and I ran it. Guess who it belongs to?”

“Just tell me, Stone.” She sounded exasperated.

“Dr. Maurice Zellman. I’m on my way there now. Should arrive in fifteen minutes. Frost is probably going to show up, but I told him to stay back. Who the hell knows what’s there.”

“Did you try calling the number?”

“No answer.”

“What about Zellman’s home phone?”

“That’s the kicker. They don’t have one. Everyone in the house has his own cell, and an answering service takes after-hours calls for the doctor. Helluva deal.”

“No kiddin’. I’ll be there in twenty. I’m—” There was a little gasp, and Dunbar sucked in a shaking breath.

“What?” Stone demanded. “Dunbar?”

“I think I’m going to throw up again,” she said on a sigh. “I’m gonna have to pull over.”

“You sick?”

“Probably pregnant. I’ll let you know.”

“Well, don’t come to the Zellmans. I’ve got this one,” Stone told her, surprised.

“Okay,” she said and hung up.

Stone didn’t have time to think about that as he took a corner a little too fast, his tires screeching a little. Was Turnbull holed up in Zellman’s house? Had he stolen the doc’s phone? Or had someone else called?

It seemed to take forever before he pulled into the drive and past the stone pillars guarding the gate which was still dented and lying open, the result of some unfortunate crash. Carriage lights blazed against the stone house. Cars were parked in front of the huge garage, and he wondered vaguely why they weren’t locked inside it, especially after the son’s Range Rover had been stolen.

He parked behind a BMW, then called again, trying both Zellman and his wife’s cell. Again, neither call was picked up.

For a few seconds he surveyed the place, but it looked quiet and occupied, the lights glowing through tall windows. He phoned in his position with the department . . . just in case, then climbed out of the car and eyed the premises again. Still nothing looked out of place, the darkness shrouding the huge house on the cliff over the Pacific was to be expected. A porch light was on, so warily, with one hand on his sidearm, he walked up the front steps and rang the bell.

From within he heard the sound of classical music, then quick footsteps. A few seconds later a woman he recognized as Mrs. Zellman peeked through the windows near the door, then unlocked the dead bolt and pulled the door open slightly. A chain still kept the door from swinging free.

“Detective Langdon Stone, Tillamook Sheriff’s Department,” Stone said and flipped open his badge.

“Oh . . . yes.” She managed a tight, worried smile. “What can I do for you?”

“I tried to call. Neither you nor your husband answered.”

“Oh, my . . . well, the music is on in the house, and I was watching television in the den. I must not have heard my phone.”

“Is your husband inside?”

“Yes . . . oh, and I’m sure you didn’t reach him, because he’s misplaced his cell. It’s been missing for a few days now. . . .” She let her voice trail off, then asked, “Is something wrong? Oh, dear, it’s that patient of Maurice’s, isn’t it? He’s killed someone else or stolen another car or God knows what else!”

“Ma’am, I’d like to speak to your husband.”

She was just rattling the chain when headlights swept across the drive, and Stone recognized Harrison Frost’s old Chevy. The reporter killed the engine and sprinted across the lawn into the light cast by the exterior lamps.

“Oh!” Mrs. Zellman gasped; then her brows pulled into a knot. “Mr. Frost?”

“I thought I told you to stand down,” Stone said.

“And I thought I told you I’d be here ASAP.”

“Well, come in, come in,” Mrs. Zellman insisted, anxious to close the door and bolt it shut again, as if a chain lock or dead bolt could keep out a psycho like Turnbull. “Maurice,” she called over her shoulder. “We’ve got company!”

“Is your son here?” Stone asked, but she shook her head as she led both men down a short hallway.

“Brandt’s out with friends. Something about a late movie, I think.” She opened the double doors to a wood-paneled study, where the doctor was sitting behind a massive desk, notes spread upon the top, books piled in the corners, the music much louder within the octagonal room. Through the windows, Stone guessed, was an incredible view of the ocean, though now, with the night, all that was visible was darkness.

Zellman looked up over the rims of his glasses and blinked, then reached behind him and pushed a button on a console and the music ended abruptly. His neck was still bandaged, and he didn’t look pleased to see them.

“Maurice, this is—”

Scowling, he waved impatiently at her and nodded. He knew who they were. But, obviously, he still didn’t speak.

Stone said, “We want to talk to you about your cell phone.”

Zellman wrote:
It’s missing. Haven’t seen it for the better part of a week.

“You lost it?” Stone said.

Mrs. Zellman cut in. “I told you this already,” she said and opened her hands to the ceiling, as if to explain to her husband that she was sorry for the disturbance, that she’d tried to intercept the visitors before they bothered him.

Frowning, as if the detective were stupid, Zellman wrote:
Obviously I misplaced it.

“Then you’ve made no calls on it in the last twenty-four hours?”

No. How could I?
Zellman shook his head and, somehow while seated, appeared to look down his nose at them.
Why?

“Someone called me from it,” Harrison said, “and he hissed a message that made me think it was Justice Turnbull.”

Mrs. Zellman whispered, “No!” and clasped her hand over her chest, and even Zellman’s facade of superiority dropped as Frost relayed the conversation.

“Oh, my God, Maurice!” Mrs. Zellman said, walking behind the desk to put her husband between herself and the disturbing news. “But how? And why?”

Zellman began typing furiously.
You think my phone was stolen?
And then before anyone could answer, he added,
By Justice Turnbull? When he took the car?

“We don’t know.”

“No . . . oh, no . . . I was afraid of this,” his wife said, her eyes wide, her skin an ashen color. “When you deal with all of those mentally unstable . . . murderers. And that . . . maniac. He’s the worst! I told you, didn’t I?” she said to her husband. Frantically, she looked out the windows to the darkness beyond and worried aloud. “He could be here now. . . . Oh . . . and what if he got the keys to the house? From Brandt’s ring? Oh, dear God!” She began walking to each of the windows and drawing the drapes.

You’re sure it was Justice who called you?
Zellman typed, then looked up at Harrison Frost.

Frost answered, “I’ve never spoken with him but he said some things that were pretty freaky and he said them all as if he were hissing. He said things like ‘sssisster.’ ”

Zellman looked away. Closed his eyes for a second. Shook his head almost imperceptibly, as if denying what he knew to be true.

“Dr. Zellman?” Stone asked.

Zellman sighed. Guilt crossed his features as his wife walked into the next room and started lowering blinds and pulling drapes frantically, the zip and clatter of the closure filtering into the study.

He doesn’t always hiss,
Zellman wrote, his fingers nearly trembling on the keyboard.
Only when he’s agitated, when he’s talking about the women of Siren Song, his sisters. Justice Turnbull refers to the women who live there as his ssssisssttterss.
He paused, then wrote:
Is that what you’re talking about?

“Yes.” Frost’s voice was stone-cold, serious as a heart attack.

“How did he have Mr. Frost’s cell number?” Stone asked.

I put it into the phone menu.

Stone asked, “Is there any chance he could have a set of keys to the house?”

The psychiatrist’s brow furrowed as he shook his head.
I don’t think so. The keys were returned with Brandt’s car, and the house key was included.

“He could have made a copy,” Stone said, though he doubted it. There just hadn’t been enough time. Then again, anything was possible.

Justice Turnbull isn’t that patient or organized. He works off emotion and opportunity.
As he wrote the last line, Zellman flushed and grimaced. Stone guessed the psychiatrist was thinking of how he’d played the doctor for a fool out of emotion and opportunity.
He’s also off his meds, so he’s even more unpredictable, more out of control.

“Son of a bitch,” Frost muttered, staring at Zellman’s computer screen.

“Someone else is here!” Mrs. Zellman said, her voice rising as if she was about to panic.

“Probably my partner.” Stone walked out of the study and told the nervous woman, “Let me get the door.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Zellman said gratefully. “I’m afraid all of this business with Maurice’s patient has me beside myself.” She lowered her voice. “I warned Maurice about him, you know. To no avail. Even after that maniac threatened Maurice with his life, it didn’t matter. Not to my husband and his damned job.” She threw a dark look in the direction of the study, then rubbed her arms as if suddenly chilled before turning away.