Last Whisper (6 page)

“
Mrs
. Corrigan.”

“Mrs. Corrigan. I’ll just write that down.” The woman had gone white and her handwriting looked jerky. “Please have a seat in the waiting room, Mrs. Corrigan, and I’ll see that you get information on Ms. Yeager soon.”

“See that you do, or I’ll be back up here in fifteen minutes, and next time I won’t just threaten a scene; I’ll
make
one!” Stacy left the reception clerk openmouthed and flounced toward the waiting room, Vincent trailing in her hot-tempered wake.

With tremendous relief, Vincent saw that both the woman with the black eye and the male coughing machine had vanished. Two vacant chairs sat beneath a window. Stacy headed for one, plopped down, fished in her purse, and withdrew a cigarette. “You can’t smoke in here,” Vincent said as he reluctantly sat down next to her.

“Damn it! You can’t smoke anywhere anymore! They treat smokers like pariahs in this country!” Stacy’s voice was loud. People looked at her, then quickly glanced away, as if fearing a tongue-lashing. Vincent didn’t blame them.

Stacy set her purse on the floor and folded her hands tightly in her lap, but not before Vincent had noticed their trembling. In fact, her whole body seemed to throb with tension. She crossed her legs and began jiggling her right foot nervously. Then she turned on him. “Who are you and
what
happened to Brooke?”

“I didn’t hurt her, I promise,” Vincent returned, startled.

“Well, all right. You don’t have to sound like a little boy making excuses to his mother.”

Anger flared in Vincent. “Lady, you look
way
too old to be my mother,” he returned nastily.

Of course, it was a lie—Stacy looked like what the kids called
hot
or a
babe
—but perhaps an insult might dent this woman’s high-handed manner, and she certainly needed to be taken down a peg, Vincent thought.

Stacy glared at him for a moment. Here it comes, he thought. An outburst. A rant. He braced himself, but she surprised him. “I’m quite sure I don’t look older than your
mother, but I might have deserved your sarcasm. I’m sorry I took that tone with you. I get loud and bitchy when I’m scared, and I’m fairly shaken right now. Brooke is only five years younger than I am and she feels like a little sister to me, even though I’ve only known her slightly over a year.”

Somewhat mollified, Vincent said, “I can understand that. She seems like the kind of person you think you should take care of.”

“How would you know that? I’ve never heard her even mention you before.” She stiffened. “Are you a friend of
Robert’s
?”

“Who’s Robert?” Vincent asked innocently.

“Robert Eads. Her boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Stalker.
Nutcase
!”

“I remember her mentioning a Robert earlier, but no, I am not a friend of his.”

“Then who
are
you?”

“I already told you on the phone my name is Vincent Lockhart—”

“That name sounds familiar,” she interrupted, “and not because you just told it to me on the phone.”

Vincent didn’t want to talk to her anymore, but he knew if he didn’t answer her, she’d just keep badgering him. She was the badgering type. “Maybe Brooke has mentioned a Detective Sam Lockhart,” he managed to say with a modicum of civility.

Stacy frowned. “Yes, she has. A couple of times.” She paused. “He had something to do with her mother’s case.”

“He was the lead investigator. I’m his son.”

“Oh! The lead investigator in her mother’s
murder
?” Vincent nodded and Stacy looked startled. “Now you’re really making me feel weird. Why are you here? What do you have to do with her mother’s murder?”

“I don’t have
anything
to do with her mother’s murder and would you
please
lower your voice?” Vincent hissed.

“I’ll lower my voice if you explain this whole situation to me from the beginning.”

Vincent felt like telling her to go to hell, but they’d already created enough of a scene in the waiting room. Nearly everyone was staring at them now.

“All right, but only if you don’t interrupt me—I
hate
to be interrupted—and keep your voice
down
. Deal?”

Stacy narrowed her cool gray eyes at him for a moment, then said grudgingly, “Deal. Start talking.”

Trying not to ignore the headache that was starting to creep up his skull from the stiffening muscles in his neck, Vincent started out with Brooke appearing in front of the Lockhart house, her suit covered in blood, her head injured, her memory fractured. “My father and I brought her inside and it turns out that she’d been to our house several times not too long after her mother was murdered. She was placed with a foster family in South Hills, not far from my father’s house. She knew he was the detective in charge of her mother’s case, and she’d sneak over to see him to talk about it,” Vincent explained. “Her grandmother had suffered a heart attack and for a while it was thought she might not live. My parents actually thought of adopting Brooke. I was away at college at the time and never actually met her. But her grandmother recovered and Brooke went to live with her.

“Anyway, apparently she and another young woman, a Mia Walters, had been sent over to show a house on Sutton Street,” Vincent continued. “I’m not sure if they were coming or going from the house, but someone opened fire on them when they were in the car.”

Stacy gaped at him, her taut, high-cheekboned face going slack. “Someone
what
?”

“Shot at them. Three times with a rifle. The other woman was killed. I don’t know how Brooke was spared unless the shooter thought he got her, too, and didn’t hang around to find out.”

“Someone shot at her with a rifle?” Stacy breathed.

Vincent nodded. “Afterward, Brooke turned up at my father’s house. It’s close to the place on Sutton where the shooting occurred and she seemed to remember it, although
she wasn’t clear about other things. She had a head injury, so we called an ambulance. My father insisted I come with her to the hospital.”

“Oh my God,” Stacy mumbled. “This is incredible.”

“I know.”

“Who would want to kill Mia?”

“I have no idea. I didn’t know her at all. But I think there was a mistake and the target was Brooke.”

“Why?” Stacy asked sharply.

“I’ve learned from my father that in the middle of the night Brooke’s stepfather broke out of Mount Olive Correctional Center. The police think he has a car and a gun, and he could certainly have made it to Charleston by this time.” He paused. “Brooke was the only eyewitness in his trial. Maybe he was the shooter and she was his target.”

Stacy made the sign of the cross and closed her eyes. “I can’t believe this! Then you think that Tavell guy thought he’d killed Brooke?”

“I don’t know any more than my father could find out from the police. Dad’s been retired for four years now, but he still has some sources of information.”

“Maybe I can find out more,” Stacy said. “Believe it or not, my husband is a detective, too. He’s just second grade, but then, he’s only thirty. I’m sure in a couple of years he’ll be promoted to first grade. And he’s just been assigned as partner to this really great detective everyone thinks walks on water, Hal Myers. Anyway, Jay has probably heard of your father.” She looked at Vincent closely. “But it’s not just your father’s name I recognize. There’s something about you. Are your eyes really that green or do you wear colored contacts?”

“I don’t wear contacts,” Vincent said, suddenly noticing several people peering at his face, focusing on his eyes.

“Well, your eyes are really remarkable. Sexy and not something I’d forget,” Stacy went on relentlessly. “I’ve seen you before.”

“I don’t think so.” Vincent pretended to look at something on his shoe and wished Stacy would lower her voice. “I live in California. Monterey.”

“Do you visit often?”

“Not often enough.”

“But I feel like I
know
you.”

Vincent sighed. “I write books. My father wanted me to be a cop, but I didn’t really want to, so now I just write about them. Maybe you’ve read one and seen a photo of me on the cover. . . .”

“That’s it!” Stacy exclaimed. “You’re a writer! Wait a minute.” She scrunched up her forehead in thought. “
Murder in a Small Town
!”

“That was my first book.”

“And I’m actually reading one right now! Your picture is on the flap. That’s why you looked familiar to me! You have a trench coat on and a devilish look in your eyes.”

“I remember the trench coat—that was the photographer’s idea—but a devilish look?”

“Definitely a devilish look.”

“Oh. Well . . .” So she wanted to flirt. Even though she was married, even though she was worried about her friend. Although he was annoyed, Vincent was never one to let a woman embarrass him into self-conscious verbal stumbling. “I guess I’m just naturally devilish.”

“I
knew
it!” Stacy plunged on. “The book I’m reading now is
Dark Moon
.”

“Black Moon.”

“Of course!
Black Moon
! And my friend told me if I like
Black Moon
, I’ll love
Last Good-bye
.”

“My latest. Your friend has excellent taste,” Vincent said dryly.

“I can’t believe it. I’m sitting here talking to the writer of best-selling books!” she exclaimed loudly.

“Yes, so you are.” Vincent grew more irritated, wishing she’d quit yammering on even if she was being flattering. People in the waiting room were now glancing at him as if they expected him to do something special because he was
somebody
. That always made him uncomfortable with what he considered his small bit of celebrity. Besides, he always felt odd about his profession, probably because his father
had never considered “making up stories” a manly way to earn a living.

“Does this shooting mean Brooke will get twenty-four-hour police protection now?” Stacy asked abruptly.

Vincent blinked, then realized she’d mercifully changed the subject. The flirting session appeared to have ended. “I’m not sure about surveillance. Your husband could probably answer that question better than I can.”

“Yes, I guess so.” Stacy abruptly stood up and walked the perimeter of the waiting room. She wore tight jeans and a skimpy tank top. Vincent guessed her to be about five foot nine, with the toned body of someone who worked out regularly. She was certainly striking, if not his particular idea of beautiful, and he noticed the male gazes following her restless pacing, most of them focused on her chest, which looked as if it had paid a visit to a plastic surgeon for enhancement. Vincent wondered if in the past she’d done some modeling.

Finally, she glanced at her watch and headed grimly out of the waiting room. She’d given the hospital staff fifteen minutes to get a report on Brooke to her. Vincent looked at his own watch. Eighteen minutes had passed by! Someone was in for trouble now, he thought with amusement.

Luckily, at that moment the harried-looking woman from behind the reception desk appeared at the waiting room door, nearly colliding with Stacy. Stacy turned and motioned for him to come. Like a dog, he thought. All she’d needed to say was, “Here, boy!”

In the hall, the reception clerk said nervously, “Ms. Yeager is in Examining Room Four. You can go in now,” before quickly retreating to her desk as if she thought Stacy might do her bodily harm before she could seek cover.

They found the correct examining room. Brooke sat huddled on a table garbed in some kind of paper contraption from the waist up and a white blanket wrapped around her from the waist down to her ankles. Her pale feet with their bright red toenails dangled above the floor.

Stacy rushed to her and enfolded Brooke in her arms.
“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry about the shooting. This guy”—Stacy jerked her head in Vincent’s direction—“told me what happened.”

Brooke cast him a slightly vague glance, as if she didn’t quite recognize him, and Stacy looked at her closely. “You
do
remember him, don’t you?”

“Y-yes. Sure.”

“What’s his name?”

“Vincent Lockhart.”

“He
is
Detective Lockhart’s son, right?” Stacy continued. “All he did was come with you to the hospital? You’re certain he didn’t do anything to hurt you?”

Vincent bristled at Stacy’s suspicious tone. Did she think he’d made up the whole tale of the shooting to cover up an attack on Brooke
he’d
made?

“He
is
Sam Lockhart’s son.” Brooke’s voice sounded stronger and more definite than earlier. “He helped me. He’s been very good to me, Stacy.”

“What did you think?” Vincent sarcastically asked Stacy. “That I attacked Brooke, risked getting caught by the cops to bring her here, then I called you and just hung around so you could praise my books?”

Stacy gave him her narrow-eyed look, then said insincerely, “I apologized. I told you I get rude when I’m nervous.”

“You said you get bitchy,” Vincent corrected. “It’s more accurate.”

“Do either of you care how
I
am?” Brooke asked, some of her usual feisty spirit returning. “Or would you prefer I just keep quiet so you two can keep sniping at each other?”

Vincent and Stacy looked at her guiltily. “I’m sorry,” they said at the same time. Stacy continued, “This has just been so upsetting.”

“No kidding,” Brooke returned sourly. She suddenly wished she hadn’t asked Vincent to call Stacy. Stacy was her closest friend, but she was high-strung and not always great at creating a calm atmosphere. At least Vincent didn’t care
enough about her to cause a stir. “This hasn’t been one of the best evenings of my life, either, Stacy.”

Stacy’s high-cheekboned face turned red. “God, here I am, thinking about myself. Jay would say that’s typical.”

Brooke shook her head. “No, he wouldn’t. Jay adores you.”

“Yeah, well, love is blind. And in his case, mute.” Stacy shook her head. “Sorry for being so egocentric, Brooke. How are
you
? Any serious injuries?”

Brooke touched the bandage on the left side of her head. “A bullet grazed me.”