Sleep Tight (30 page)

"But the photo lab has a Dumpster," Elliot said, weaving in and out of traffic.

"Yeah, but did you notice how much garbage they had?"

School was out, and people had gotten off work. There weren't any empty parking spaces near the building, so Elliot dropped Mary off; then he and Gillian circled the block in search of parking.

Mary found the same young man inside at the counter.

"Does anybody ever take any trash away from here to dispose of somewhere else?" she asked.

"We have a Dumpster in back."

"Suppose it was full. Would anyone take a few bags home to throw away in their own waste container? Or maybe even throw it away in another store's container in order to save an extra pickup fee?"

She must have hit on something, because he looked a little worried.

"Can you get in a lot of trouble for that?" he asked.

She held his gaze. "We aren't concerned with trash being dumped in the wrong place. We want to find something that may have ended up in that trash and we need your help."

He shifted uncomfortably, looking away. "We used to leave the extra stuff bagged up beside the Dumpster, but we got in trouble for that. And we used to just not take it out, but we got in trouble for that too.

The owner told us to make it fit no matter what, but that's a hassle, and sometimes it just won't fit, you know?"

"Where would it have been taken?"

He gave her a weak shrug. "There's a bar about two blocks from here. And a grocery store on Oak Street. Oh, and a school. I forgot about the school."

"What about this week and last week?"

"Hey, lemme call somebody."

He hunched over the phone and dialed a number, hiding the buttons so she couldn't see. "It's me," he said into the receiver. "You know that trash you took out a few days ago? Where'd you dump it? Okay. No, just somebody looking for something." He hung up. "The bar," he said.

"Thanks."

Mary was leaving the building when she met Elliot and Gillian heading in. "Some trash was dumped at the bar down the street," she said.

They piled in Elliot's car and headed down the block. The place the kid had told them about turned out to be a little neighborhood bar called Catfish. Behind the building, in the alley, was a Dumpster overflowing with trash.

"Luckily we don't need a search warrant," Elliot said, standing in front of the huge metal container with his hands on his hips. "Once garbage hits the alley, it's public property."

Mary eyed the black bags. "I'm going to go in and tell the bartender all the same."

When she stepped into the dark building, several of the men at the bar looked boldly at her. One flash of her badge had them all staring straight back down into their drinks.

"You can have all the trash you want," the bartender said.

They didn't have to go far to find the two bags that belonged to the photo lab. But they continued through the refuse, digging all the way to the bottom to make sure they had everything. Then, since it was getting dark, they took their booty back to the lab to examine it in the light. The investigative team had dispersed, leaving two members to finish up. Those two, a man and a woman, helped sift through the bags of trash.

Gillian found three pieces of a negative. She held them to the light and was able to make out a female form.

"I have something," she announced.

Everyone rushed to her side.

"Rather than trying to hold the negative together," Elliot said, excited again, "let's enlarge each piece separately, then put those pieces together."

"I'll do one while you do one," Gillian said, taking a section over to an enlarger. "Could somebody get the lights?"

"I'll do the third piece," the man from the investigative team said.

Mary headed for the door. "I'll get the photo from the car."

"You'll need these." Elliot tossed her his keys.

All three sections went into the developing bath at the same time. As everyone watched, the broken images slowly appeared, each eight-by-ten sheet blank except for a strip that was the image left by the torn negative. After the final rinse, the lights were turned on and the pieces were cut with scissors, then put together like a puzzle along with the original photo.

It was of a woman, or girl, lying on the ground, panties around her knees. Gillian pressed a hand to her mouth. Even though the girl's face was turned away, she could see it was Holly.

This should get Gavin a life sentence.

She didn't know how long she stared at it before she heard the dead silence in the room. She looked up. Mary was watching her with compassion in her eyes, and the sympathy and understanding she saw there had her suddenly feeling dangerously close to tears. Slowly, she nodded.

"Okay," Elliot said quietly to everybody in the room. "We've got what we were looking for."

Chapter 25

He was tired of being lonely. That's all.

He wanted somebody to take care of. He wanted somebody to adore.

That evening, as he'd done so many evenings, he drove to Holly Lindstrom's house and parked a block away. The street was crowded and narrow, with vehicles wedged tightly down both sides. Good. That way his car wasn't conspicuous.

The media had a knack for leaking information the cops didn't want reaching public ears, and one of the things going around was that investigators were looking for more physical evidence. What kind of evidence? He heard they were hoping to find photos that had been taken of Holly Lindstrom, so he'd supplied them. He'd gone to a photo lab, found a line that had been left empty in the sign-up book, written in Hitchcock's name, and then left the torn negative for someone to find. And they'd found it. Just like he'd hoped they would, and now nobody was looking for him, and nobody was watching Holly anymore.

He perked up as a little red car pulled into her driveway. Mazda? he wondered. It was hard to tell. So many cars looked alike nowadays.

Someone got out and hurried to the door.

She was back!

What happened to her Mustang? Oh, it didn't matter. She was back! Back!

The front door opened, and he saw Holly's blond head. He heard a feminine laugh. Then the two of them scampered from the house, got in the little red car, and drove away.

He turned the ignition key, put his car in gear, and followed.

At Intercontinental Video, Gillian and Holly discovered they both had an affinity for old movies. They ended up renting four because there was a special going on, and they loaded up on popcorn, soda, and black licorice. At Gillian's apartment, Holly carried in her pillow and backpack while Gillian grabbed the supplies.

"Oh, wow! You have a bird!" Holly dropped her things and ran to the cage.

"Hello," she said.

Birdie stared at her.

"Does he talk?" Holly asked, glancing over her shoulder, then back at the bird.

"Once he starts he doesn't shut up. He's just getting used to you right now."

"He's so cool."

Gillian walked over and poked her finger at the bird. "I've had him since I was eight. We guessed he was about twelve then, but parrots can live eighty years or more."

"Oh, man. I don't know if I'd want to spend eighty years in a cage. Do you ever let him out?"

"Quite a bit, but he seems to prefer the cage. I think he feels safe in there. Maybe because I lost him once. I let him loose in the house and he got out a window I'd forgotten to close. He was gone about twenty-four hours, and when my sister and I found him and brought him home, he wouldn't leave his cage for two weeks."

They made microwave popcorn and poured cola over ice. Gillian grabbed some blankets and a pillow from upstairs. Knowing Holly's penchant for darkness, she lit a couple of candles, turned off the lights, and settled in front of the TV.

Holly had already popped in Sabrina. It was the original, with Audrey Hepburn. They discussed Audrey Hepburn's clothes and style and long neck, and temporarily forgot about Gavin Hitchcock.

When the movie was over, they got into their pajamas and opened the futon for Holly. Gillian covered Birdie's cage, then stretched out on the couch and hit the PLAY button on the remote to watch movie number two.

"This is one of my favorites," she said as the opening credits for Harvey began to roll.

"Jimmy Stewart was so cool."

"Did you see Rear Window?"

"I love that movie! Did you see the digitally remastered version when it was at Oak Street Cinema?"

"Yeah!"

"No way! Me too! And even though I'd seen it maybe five times on TV, I swear my mouth was hanging open, it was so awesome to finally see it on a movie screen. Wouldn't it have been cool to have lived then, and dressed like Grace Kelly? When she came in with that net thing on her hat, and she raised her arms like this and folded it back away from her face. That was too cool."

The opening scene began. They fell silent and directed their attention to the TV screen.

Even though the movie was one she loved, Gillian began to drift off. The last three nights—nights in which she'd been unable to sleep—were catching up with her.

One time she woke to see that Holly was watching the third movie. It was a more recent release, something Gillian didn't think looked very good. The candles had burned down and gone out by themselves, and the room was dark except for a blue glow coming from the television.

Holly glanced over at her and smiled. "Go to sleep, silly!" she said, seeing how hard it was for Gillian to stay awake. Gillian let out a sleep-drugged laugh and closed her eyes.

Holly turned back to the movie. It was boring and hard to follow, but she finished watching it anyway. That's how she was. She could never stop reading a book halfway through, no matter how bad it was, and she could never stop watching a movie.

When it was over, she rewound the tape and put it back in the case. Leaving the television tuned to MTV, she turned down the volume and settled back on the futon, pulling the blanket to her chin. She always liked to have something on when she was going to sleep— the radio or TV. It didn't matter. Just sound to fill the silence.

As soon as she fell asleep, she began to dream. And the dreams were all mixed up. Gillian and Jimmy Stewart were there, and a rabbit in a birdcage. Suddenly Gillian turned into Grace Kelly. Over her face was black netting. "You look like a movie star," Holly told her in the dream.

Gillian was walking toward her, her footsteps light. Holly felt pressure on her shoulder, turning her around, turning her over.

She smelled adhesive.

Suddenly a hand pressed a wide band of tape across her lips, extending from cheek to cheek, almost to her ears. She felt hot breath on her skin while something cold and metallic was shoved into her neck.

Gillian came awake with a start to see a silhouetted figure backlit by the flickering glow of the TV. The man wore a dark, bulky jacket and a ski mask over his face. Standing, his arm clamped around her stomach, was Holly. Her mouth was sealed, her eyes large and terrified.

She made a sound deep in her throat—a scream halted by the tape.

"Please—" Gillian slowly sat up, swinging her feet to the floor, struggling to keep her voice calm. "Don't hurt her."

How is this happening?

He shifted slightly. Something caught in the flickering light. A gun. Her own gun was upstairs. Too far away.

"Lie down on the floor," he told her. "Hurry. Now! Or I'll kill her." His voice was neither deep nor high- pitched, and he didn't sound especially agitated—not a good sign. Some of the most horrendous killers in history remained calm and emotionally detached throughout their attacks of violence.

Gillian dropped to her knees. He lashed out with a booted foot, kicking her in the back of the head. The impact sent her sprawling, her chin smacking wood. She didn't feel anything. He shoved Holly facedown into the futon. "Stay there. Don't move."

He knelt above Gillian, wrenched her arms behind her, and wrapped her wrists with duct tape. He tore off another piece. Before he could silence her with it, knowing this was her last chance, she rolled to her back, her arms and hands crushed beneath her.

Two thoughts raced through her mind simultaneously.

This is the Lucia Killer.

Gavin is in jail
.

She tried to remember everything she'd learned about the killer, his likes and dislikes and what he wanted in a victim. Her sister's words came back to her. You fit the victimology.

"Take me," she said, looking up at him, adrenaline and fear pumping through her veins. "Don't take her, take me."

The shabby ski mask stared at her.

"That's what you're here for, isn't it?" Gillian asked. "You've come for Holly?"

Inside the oval holes, eyes blinked. Seemingly curious, he reached down and fiddled with her hair, rubbing it between his gloved fingers.

On TV, a psychic was telling people to call for a free reading: "I know you're lonely," the psychic said. "I can help you find your perfect soul mate."