Heart of the Night: A Novel Page 7

  “Where does she keep the rest of her things?”

  “There’s a safe in the library. It hasn’t been opened. I checked.”

  “Was she wearing anything else—necklace, watch?”

  He frowned, trying to concentrate. “I’m not sure.”

  “Think,” she commanded gently. “If she was wearing something of value when they took her, they may have hawked it to pay for food or a motel room or plane tickets. We could possibly trace it.”

  Head bowed, Will thought for a minute. Finally he looked up and said weakly, “I gave her a Piaget watch with diamonds around the face for her birthday last year. She used to take it off along with the earrings when she came to bed, but it’s possible she put it back on when she got up and went downstairs.”

  Savannah did not remember having seen the watch with the earrings. She glanced at Hank who was already getting up to check. She turned back to Will. “How about money?”

  He looked more frustrated than ever. “I don’t know. I have no idea how much she had in her wallet. She cashes checks whenever she needs money. I don’t keep tabs on her. I’ve never wanted her to feel restricted.” More quietly, he added, “She balances the checkbook at the end of the month. I like it that way.”

  “Want to check her wallet?”

  “But I told you, I don’t know—”

  “Check. For me?”

  He glanced longingly, painfully at the phone.

  “You’ll hear if it rings,” Savannah assured him. “We’ll be here listening, too. But I have to know about the wallet. Look to see if anything’s been messed up, identification cards removed, money taken out quickly. I’d also like to know whether anything, even the smallest thing, is missing from any of the other rooms on the first floor. I doubt the kidnappers would have risked going far, but it’d have been easy for one of them to dash through and pick up a few little trinkets that could be sold for a few thousand dollars, which would be lovely spending money in Rio.”

  “They’re not robbers,” Will said. “They’re kidnappers.”

  “Which is robbery once removed, isn’t it?” she pointed out gently.

  She had him there. Without further argument, he left the kitchen. She immediately turned to Sam. “I checked with the lab just before I drove over. The prints you picked up in the library are mostly Megan’s and Will’s. There’s one set they can’t identify. They’re checking it through the crime computer. If we’re lucky, it may match up with something.”

  “Where’d we lift it from?”

  “The base of the desk lamp.”

  His mouth went flat. “That was the most obvious print we found—bright and clear, right there on the brass. I took it because it was looking me boldly in the face, but even then I doubted it belonged to the kidnappers. They wouldn’t have been so dumb.”

  “Or careless. Not after being fastidious with everything else.” Savannah sent Susan a dry look. “It was probably the cleaning men.”

  Susan snorted. “They’re pathetic.” She continued to turn the glass, quarter by quarter.

  Sam looked puzzled. “What kind of cleaning man is going to leave a fingerprint on something that should be spotless and shiny?”

  “Good question,” Savannah said, “and I ask it every week when I write out a check. But good cleaning people are hard to come by. These guys are really good with the heavy stuff. They do a super job on bathrooms and floors and carpets and baseboards. They’re not so good with the little things—”

  “Like dust,” Susan said.

  “Or fingerprints,” Sam guessed. He looked from one sister to the other. “You use the same cleaning service Megan does?”

  “Savannah’s been using them longest. Blame it on her.”

  Sam wasn’t ready to blame anything on Savannah. “No one’s making you use them.”

  “But Savvy’s right,” Susan argued. “You can’t get good cleaning help anymore. The ones who can dust can’t clean, and vice versa, so you take the lesser of the evils. I can’t do heavy cleaning. These men can. And they bring their own equipment. The last thing I want to be thinking about is buying new vacuum bags.”

  “Might interfere with the party plans?” Sam said in a low, taunting voice.

  No longer turning her glass but clutching it tightly on the table, Susan looked rigidly at Savannah. “This man is an idiot, do you know that? The gall of him to accuse me of being a snob, when he’s a far worse one than I am. He’s already taken digs at my coat, my rings, my clothes.” She looked over what she was wearing. “Just because I buy a jogging outfit in a boutique rather than a department store doesn’t mean I don’t jog, and it certainly doesn’t mean I’m any less of a person.”

  Savannah looked at Sam, who was the picture of innocence.

  “She’s too sensitive,” he said. “She can’t take a little kidding.”

  Susan turned on him. “Kidding! It’s been nonstop criticism since I arrived.”

  “Not true. I told you dinner was great.”

  “Uh-huh, after you told me how surprised you were that I knew how to cook.”

  “I was. Am. You don’t look like the domestic type. Let’s face it, you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth. You didn’t do badly when you married, either.”

  “Which goes to show what you know,” Susan muttered in disgust.

  “Dirk Gardner is loaded.”

  “And money can’t make a marriage. Dirk and I were a disaster together. So, yes, I did do badly when I married.”

  The good-natured humor that Savannah had seen on Sam’s face when he’d first begun sparring with Susan was replaced by something more sober. “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be. It’s not easy for me being here, and you’re not helping.”

  “I’m trying to. I’m giving you something else to think about besides Megan and that drink.”

  Furious, Susan stood. “Who in the hell are you to think you know what I need? If I want a diversion, I can promise it won’t be with a jackass like you.” Bumping the arm of her chair as she rushed past him, she stormed from the room.

  Silence hung over her departure. Sam blew out a breath and eyed Savannah expectantly. “Your sister doesn’t like me.”

  Sitting back in her chair, Savannah put her elbows on its arms, linked her fingers, and pursed her lips. “I think you may be right.”

  “I like her.”

  “Really.”

  “I do. But she doesn’t take to my honesty. She’s not used to honesty.”

  “Astute observation.”

  “Her friends are that shallow?”

  “Not all of them. I’m her friend. So’s Megan. I don’t like to think either of us is shallow.’

  “But the others,” Sam said, “the Newport crowd. Pretty shallow, huh?”

  He was getting himself in deeper. She fought a smile. “My father is part of the Newport crowd. So are two aunts and uncles and numerous cousins.”

  “And you became a lawyer,” he said without blinking. “Why, Savvy? Why not a society willow like Susan?”

  Savannah sat in quiet admiration of the way he had turned the discussion to his advantage. Then she said softly, “I needed something more. That’s all.”

  “And Susan?”

  “She chose the world she knew.”

  “But she’s not happy.”

  “She’s almost thirty-one. Are you going to tell her to leave what she knows and try something new?”

  “Someone should.”

  “You’ve seen what she does. She just leaves the room.”

  “She does that to you?”

  “Sometimes. When I hit a raw spot.”

  “Like the booze?”

  Savannah fell quiet again. When she spoke, it was in a softer voice that asked what the words themselves didn’t. “She didn’t seem drunk.”

  “She’s not,” Sam said. “Yet. You worry about that, don’t you?”

  Savannah looked at her hands. “Yes, I worry. She’s my sister. I worry a lot.”r />
  “You look tired.”

  She glanced up. “I am. But it’s not supposed to show.”

  “Why don’t you go home?”

  She wanted to. “Soon.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen here until morning. I’ll keep an eye on Susan for you.”

  Savannah gave a sad chuckle. “That could be tragic for both of you. At the rate you’re going, I’ll arrive here in the morning to find bits and pieces of you two strewn around the house—” She stopped short, all humor gone as she pictured the parody with far too much clarity. It reminded her of a murder case she had worked on, in which the victim had been mutilated. She’d gone through hell trying that case, and she still felt the bile rise in her throat each time she recalled the exhibit photos she had shown the jury. For a split second, she saw the fleeting image of Megan’s face attached to that limbless torso. Then she closed her eyes and took a slow, shaky breath.

  “Savvy?” Sam asked. He was rising from his seat just as she opened her eyes, but he continued around the table to where she sat. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine.” She forced a smile.

  “You look green.”

  “Must’ve been something I ate.”

  “Maybe I should drive you home.”

  She shook her head and, as though to prove her point, stood up. “I’m fine. Really. You stay here and guard the fort. I’m counting on you.”

  Nodding, he took a step back to let her pass. She came face to face with Hank at the door.

  “No watch,” he told her. “Will just checked her jewelry box upstairs and it isn’t there. She must have it.”

  Fighting the image of a detached wrist wearing that watch, Savannah swallowed hard. “I’ll see that someone contacts the pawn shops first thing tomorrow.”

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Just tired,” she said with a weak smile as she eased past him. She found Susan in the living room, sitting on the floor in front of one of the stereo speakers. Kneeling beside her, she said, “I’m taking off soon. I’m beat.”

  Susan gave her a sidelong glance. “You look it.”

  “You’re the third person who’s told me that in as many minutes.”

  “If Sam Craig was one of them, it may be the only thing he and I agree about.”

  “Sammy’s a good guy.”

  “He rubs me the wrong way.”

  “Give him a chance. He has a good head on his shoulders. He may be a little too blunt sometimes, but his heart’s in the right place.”

  “A little too blunt—that’s putting it mildly. But maybe I’m being too harsh. Where we come from, social niceties are important. He obviously comes from somewhere else, and his roots show. He’s a cop, not a diplomat.”

  Savannah sat for a minute, quietly listening to John Denver sing “Annie’s Song” on the radio. She always found the song uplifting. It ended too soon. Without realizing it, she held her breath. But the voice that she heard was bright and bubbly rather than the one she longed to hear.

  “Your dial is set at cool country, 95.3 FM, WCIC Providence. I’m Melissa Stuart, with you until midnight. Right now, it’s ten twenty-three, thirty-nine degrees and raining outside our studios. Look for showers to continue through the night with clouds beginning to break by dawn, maybe even a little sun by midday. Meanwhile, I’ve got three of the hottest coming up on 95.3 FM, WCIC, kicking off with the best of Shenandoah.…” The music began right on cue.

  “Strange,” Savannah whispered, “the words are practically the same, but the effect is so different.”

  Susan sounded bemused. “He’s so much better.”

  “Was this already set at CIC?”

  “Uh-huh. Megan listens all the time.”

  “Wonder if she was listening last night.”

  “Wonder if she’s listening tonight.”

  Savannah shivered. “God, I hope she’s okay.”

  “Me, too.” Susan looked at her sister. “You really do look tired. Are you sure you’re not sick?”

  “Sick at heart, maybe. I wish there were more I could do.”

  “My God, Savvy, you’ve done so much already.”

  “But we haven’t learned anything. The lab is coming up with zip. Chris and Ginny are coming up with zip. You can’t believe how frustrated I feel.”

  Susan thought for a minute before saying, “I can believe it. It’s like I said before, you have the highest expectations of anyone I know. I watch you coordinate everything, but you think you’re not doing enough. You can only do so much, Savvy. You’re human. Just like the rest of us.” That said, she raised her glass and took a sip.

  Too tired to argue, Savannah sighed, then stood. “You won’t have too much, will you, Suse?”

  Susan shook her head. “I won’t.”

  “Check on Will every so often?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And call me if anything happens?”

  Susan nodded.

  Satisfied that things were under control with her sister, at least for the time being, Savannah went in search of Will. She found him in the dining room, glancing through the silver drawers. “Anything missing?” she asked.

  Will looked as though he’d been through a wringer. Only his eyes moved, darting frantically from one tray to the next. “I don’t know. How many knives are there supposed to be?”

  The question echoed in Savannah’s mind. How many knives? One dozen? Two dozen? Three dozen? Minus any that may have been snitched by the hired help over the years. Minus any that may have gone home to the wrong house in a casserole dish. Minus any that fell into the disposal.

  His question accurately summed up the problem: they were grasping at straws.

  “Forget the silver,” Savannah said wearily. “They probably wouldn’t have taken the time to open drawers. Anything missing on top?”

  His eyes continued to dart through the flatware. “No.”

  Savannah slowly closed the drawer. Bracing her forearm on the top of the cabinet, she looked into his face. “Why don’t you try to rest, Will? It’s been a long day.”

  “I won’t rest until she’s back.”

  “But there’s nothing we can do now. Sam and Hank will take turns sitting by the phone. You’ll be fresher in the morning if you try to sleep now.”

  He laughed feebly. “The only way I can sleep is by taking a pill, but if I do that and the call comes in, I won’t be able to think straight.”

  “Then just lie down. Try to relax. It’ll be better for Megan that way.” Strung out herself, she wasn’t about to argue further. “I’m going to run on home. I’ll see you in the morning. Hang in there, okay?” Without awaiting an answer, she saw herself out.

  The night was dark and wet. Despite the long wool coat that enveloped her, Savannah was chilled by the time she reached her car. She slid in and locked the door in a single, quick motion, then steadied her hand and put the key in the ignition.

  The drive home was quick, thanks to the hour and the sparseness of traffic. She almost wished there were more cars, more noise, more life. The windshield wipers maintained a steady rhythm against the rain; the wet pavement mirrored the city lights. Still, the world seemed very dark, and she felt very much alone.

  Parking in the garage behind her townhouse, she hurried across the small open space to her back door. Her hands trembled as she unlocked it and continued to tremble while she turned off the alarm to allow herself entry. With the door closed behind her, she took an unsteady breath and proceeded up the stairs to the first floor of the townhouse.

  Hanging her coat in the closet, she carried her briefcase directly into the den and set it on the desk. Then she sank into the old, leather wing chair, dropped her shoes to the floor, and drew her knees to her chest. Hugging them tightly, she took one shallow breath after another. All the while her body trembled.

  She didn’t cry. She never did when this happened. In place of tears, a fine sheen of sweat broke out on her forehead, her upper lip, the back of her neck. And the trem
bling went on.

  She knew what was happening; it was no great mystery. In the course of a day, she went about her work in a very diligent, very capable and controlled manner. But some days the work she did deeply upset her. On those days, she held back her feelings until she felt she would burst, because the last thing she could do was show weakness at work. Only later, at home, sitting in her chair with the high back and wings to protect her, could she give vent to the emotions that cried for release.

  It was a classic case of delayed reaction, and it didn’t happen often. She could handle her job perfectly well nine-tenths of the time. The other tenth of the time, she suffered. It had been that way when she tried a case involving a pair of toddlers who had been sexually abused in a nursery school. It had been that way when she headed an investigation into the cult suicides of three teenagers at the local high school. It had been that way with the limbless torso case.

  Megan Vandermeer’s kidnapping wasn’t blatantly grotesque or bloody. Optimally, it would end with the payment of a ransom and Megan’s return, with little more physical harm done than a broken French door.

  Optimally.

  Unfortunately, Savannah knew too much. She knew how the criminal mind worked. Despite the words of encouragement she gave Will, she had seen the results of irrational acts too often to believe that the optimal situation would come to pass. She did believe that Megan would return home alive; she had to believe that. What frightened her was the torment Megan might endure before then, and where that torment was concerned, Savannah’s imagination was fertile.

  Megan was her friend, and that made the pain she felt so much worse. She wanted to help. She was doing everything she could. But she was getting nowhere. And Megan suffered.

  She kept taking soft, shallow breaths. Turning sideways in the chair, she pressed her damp brow to her knees and closed her eyes.

  Gradually, the shaking began to ease. Gradually, her breathing deepened. With her eyes still closed, she rested her head back against the chair.

  A few minutes later, she went into the bedroom to change her clothes. Despite the fact that she was physically drained, she had work to do. Work was her scourge and her salvation. Will took sleeping pills, Susan drank scotch, Savannah worked.