BY THE TIME D.D. ARRIVED AT TONIC, the nightclub was in full swing. Music so loud the blacked-out walls vibrated with the beat of the bass. A dance floor crowded with writhing bodies. Strobing blue lights casting everything into a surreal glow of moving parts.
D.D. cut through the line outside by virtue of her badge, then worked her way around the outskirts of the dance floor until she came to the hall leading to the manager’s office. Sure enough, Jocelyne Ethier sat inside wearing the same black top and black slacks from earlier. Except she was not alone. Across from her sat Keynes.
D.D. drew up short. And not because the victim specialist had finally traded in his trademark suit for some ridiculously expensive designer jeans, but because there was no good reason for Keynes to be here. As in, what the hell? As in, what was he once again not telling her?
“Evening,” she drawled from the doorway.
Ethier looked up, pale face shuttered, which only heightened D.D.’s tension.
Keynes, on the other hand, smiled. Contained. Mysterious. D.D. hated that smile.
“Didn’t realize you were into the club scene,” she said pointedly.
“I was in the area.”
“Funny, me too.”
“Would you care to join us?” Keynes waved a hand, as if inviting her to his party.
In contrast to Ethier, his expression was open. D.D. didn’t buy it for a moment. She stepped into the room warily. Her left hand drifted automatically to her hip, where once she’d carried a sidearm. Except she wasn’t permitted to carry anymore. She was a restricted duty desk sergeant out on her own.
“I had some follow-up questions,” Keynes said.
“Really.” D.D. eyed the manager. “So do I.”
Ethier sighed, appeared less than happy. “If both of you could come back tomorrow—”
“It’ll only take a minute,” Keynes said.
“Only a minute,” D.D. echoed.
“A minute? Have you seen the bar? This is peak hours. Look, I don’t mean to be rude—”
“Then don’t,” Keynes said. He was staring right at the woman. And just for a moment, D.D. saw Ethier hesitate. As if responding to the power of a handsome man’s gaze? Or as if receiving an unspoken signal?
Once again, her hand drifted toward her hip. Once again, there was nothing there.
Keynes caught the motion. And she would have sworn he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“I was just asking some more questions about Natalie Draga,” Keynes said. “The first victim.”
“She implied she didn’t know Natalie very well,” D.D. murmured.
“I don’t—” the manager began.
“But perhaps someone on your staff does,” Keynes continued smoothly. “A fellow bartender, best friend. It’s important. The sooner you find that person for us, the sooner we’ll be out of your hair.”
Ethier scowled, shifted from side to side. “Larissa,” she stated abruptly. “She’s another bartender. She and Natalie often took their breaks together.”
“Is she working tonight?” Keynes asked.
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you fetch her for us.”
Ethier hesitated, clearly reluctant. Then, when Keynes continued to stare at her: “Fine. I’ll get her. But keep your questions short. It’s Killer Band Night—can’t you see how busy it is out there?”
The manager rose, pushing her way past D.D. A second later, she disappeared down the hall, leaving D.D. alone with Keynes.
She was already turning on him when he spoke first.
“Something about our first conversation with her kept bothering me,” he said.
“You mean other than her obvious lie about her relationship with Goulding?”
“Yes. Because covering up a past relationship with a suspected rapist is a logical thing to do. Not necessarily a sign of guilt.”
“Whatever.” D.D. kept her voice hard. She remained suspicious. And something else . . . frightened? No. Wary.
“Five years,” Keynes said abruptly. “Jocelyne Ethier said she’d been the manager here for the past five years.”
“So?” Except then D.D. got it. “Five years, as in exactly how long Flora’s been home.”
“It could be a coincidence,” Keynes said.
“Sure.”
“Except I did some digging. You know where Ethier worked five years ago?”
D.D. shook her head. It was an obvious question, and no, she and her team hadn’t gotten that far.
“She managed another bar. In Tampa, Florida.”
Now, D.D.’s heart accelerated in her chest. “Florida, as in Jacob’s home state?”
“Think it’s still a coincidence?”
“No. But why did you send her out of the room?”
“So we could compare notes. I could tell you were suspicious—”
“You sent her away! As in, how do you know she’s coming back?”
Keynes’s eyes widened.
D.D. didn’t bother to wait. She was already bolting down the hall.
Chapter 43
STACEY MOANS AGAIN IN THE HALLWAY. In search of attic access, I pause, kneeling by her side, uncertain of what to do.
Her side looks terrible, a mass of bloody flesh and wooden splinters. Infected, inflamed, why not. But I don’t think that injury alone would cause her this much distress. My best guess remains that something more has gone wrong, some kind of internal damage I can’t see. A slow bleed? Invisible but deadly?
I consider moving her out of the hallway. Sooner or later, the stairwell door will open, our captor returning from wherever to come storming down the corridor. Enraged at our escape. Prepared to cow us once again into submission. Or exact further revenge.
It’s only a matter of time.
Stacey moans again. I need to think quicker, act faster.
If she has some kind of internal damage, chances are dragging her from room to room will only make things worse. Instead, I bring the shredded mattress over to her. I prop her head onto one corner. Maybe the sedative-laced foam will put her to sleep. Maybe she’ll be grateful for the escape.
The musty, grassy odor teases at me again. A sense of déjà vu. I should know what this is.
Then, it comes to me. Standing in a bar. Drinking a beer. Hops. The mattress smells of hops. Reeks of them really.
I’d read about hops while researching various herbal remedies and basic first aid. Hops have been used as a sleep aid since medieval times, when people realized the workers in the hops fields had a tendency to fall asleep on the job. Now, some companies even sell hops pillows for better sleeping, that sort of thing. The science behind it is still sketchy, but I read one report that said if the hops are distilled down to a strong enough extract and then mixed with viburnum root, it boosts effectiveness.
So that’s the trick then. The mattress has been treated with hops and viburnum. Easy enough to do if you have access to hops.
Say, Devon Goulding, bartender extraordinaire.
Coming to get me from beyond the grave?
I killed him, I remind myself. Which seems to be my theme for the day. I killed Jacob. I killed Devon. And yet here I am, kidnapped and locked away with a dying girl.
For someone who keeps killing people, I am just not getting the job done.
The thought angers me, kick-starts me back into action.
I leave Stacey on one side of the hall, head on the hops-soaked mattress; then I start my search for the attic in earnest. Room by room, eyeing ceiling panels.
Boston is known for its triple-deckers, three-story homes built narrow and deep, perfect for wedging into skinny rectangular lots. This floor’s layout, hallway in the middle, bedrooms either side, is consistent with that. If my assumption is right, the hall should end in a common room with front-facing bay windows, but maybe that part has been walled off. As for which level I’m on, top level makes the most sense. More isolated, no one above to be disturbed by the screams below.
I start by going room to room, gazing overhead.
The bedrooms are tough. The rubbery black paint obscures everything. I’m not studying a ceiling as much as trying to dissect a Teflon pan. I can’t see anything. I return to the hallway, where the water-stained drywall is just as disappointing.
Stacey is still moaning, moaning, moaning.
I rub my temples. Feeling a rising tide of stress and anxiety.