Eerie - Crouch Blake (книги бесплатно без .txt) 📗

Grant had just thrown up for the third time in the last hour, and he was still hunched over the toilet in the downstairs bathroom, gasping for breath while Paige patted his back.

“You’re going to feel better soon,” she said. “I promise.”

Grant wiped his mouth as an intense shiver wracked his body.

“How long until your client—”

“Anytime.”

“You ready?”

“Yes.”

She looked the part at least, having changed back into her kimono.

“Got your phone set up?” he asked.

“I didn’t want to go in there alone. I’ll do it when I take Steve up.”

“You be careful. Guy could flip out he catches you trying to record him.”

“I will be.”

Grant struggled onto his feet and flushed the toilet. The spinning of the water made him queasy all over again. He ran the tap, bent down, rinsed and spit until his mouth no longer burned with bile.

Already, it was dark outside and even darker in the brownstone. By the illumination of the candle on the sink, Grant studied his reflection in the mirror. The soft light should have knocked off ten years, but instead he looked worse—pallid and sweat-glazed and thinner.

Eyes as dark as pits.

The headache raged on—felt like his frontal lobe had been dropped in a food processor.

“What time is it, Paige?”

“Six fifteen.”

Through the pain and the fog, Grant registered the distant, manic anthem of an alarm, although it took him a minute to land upon the crisis that had triggered it.

He staggered out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, steadying himself against the island where his phone waited. There were candles everywhere—in the living room, dining room, at least a half dozen casting a flickering warmth across the kitchen.

“Stu was supposed to call me fifteen minutes ago,” he said, picking it up.

He held the power button down for several seconds.

Nothing happened.

He tried again, pressing harder and longer, his thumbnail blanching from the pressure.

Might as well have been trying to power up a brick.

He finally dropped the phone and put his head on the counter, the chill of the tile providing the briefest flash of relief.

“Grant, what’s wrong?”

“Battery’s dead.”

“So your friend can’t call you?”

“Right.”

“Just use my phone.”

“I don’t know his number off the top of my head, and he’s not on the Internet.”

“So what do we do?”

Grant looked up from the counter.

It felt like someone was prodding around in his head with a screwdriver.

“I don’t know. That was our best chance.”

Paige came over, laid a cool hand on the back of his neck.

“We’re gonna get through this,” she said.

A noise reverberated down the hallway—someone pounding on the front door. It seemed to shake the entire building.

“That would be Steve,” Paige said.

Grant choked down the despair, the exhaustion, the agony.

No time for pain.

He pulled himself up.

“I’ll be in the closet by the bar.”

Chapter 23

Sophie nearly jumped out of the booth when her cell began to vibrate.

She glanced down at the caller ID—Stu Frank.

It took her a moment to place the name—a semi-shady private investigator she and Grant had used once or twice. If she remembered correctly, Stu was ex-law enforcement. Six or seven years ago, he’d been thrown under the bus over a scandal involving several detectives and an ill-advised beat down of an errant CI. Even during their limited contact, she’d hated working with him. The man radiated an intense skin-crawling aura.

What the hell could you possibly want?

She answered quietly with, “Really not a good time, Stu.”

“I’ve got something for Grant, but I can’t get a hold of him.”

“I’m his partner, not his mother.”

“Be that as it may, you’re still the closest thing to a mother he’s got. Now I have some info on this crazy-urgent request he hit me with this afternoon. I’ve been trying to call him, but he’s not picking up.”

She felt her interest prickling.

Said, “When did he say he needed this by?”

“Two minutes ago. Six p.m. He was adamant. I’ve called five times, and it’s been straight to voice mail. This house got something to do with a hot case or what?”

She didn’t know how to answer that, so she just said, “Yeah.”

“Is Grant with you?”

“No, but I’m going to see him later.”

Through the window, Sophie watched the headlights of what looked like a Crown Vic whip into the parking space beside the black van.

“What do you want me to do with this file, Sophie?”

She opened her purse, dug out her wallet, threw a ten spot on the table.

“Where are you right now, Stu?”

“Cafe Vita in The Hill.”

She slid out of the booth.

“I’ll meet you there in twenty,” she said.

She met Dobbs at the entrance.

“Outside, Art.”

They stood in the drizzle.

“What’s the word, Sophie?”

Art didn’t exactly look like a law enforcement badass with his receding hairline and burgeoning paunch, but the threadbare JCPenney suit belied a damn good shot and one of the best detectives Sophie had ever worked with.

“Talbert, Seymour, and a John Doe are seated at one of the booths by the window. Stay on them.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I just got a call about Grant.”

“I thought he was sick.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“He in trouble?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll call you.”

“I had a reservation at Canlis tonight for me and the wife.”

Sophie was already moving across the sidewalk toward her TrailBlazer.

“I owe you one,” she said over her shoulder.

“Yeah you do.”

“Text me when they move. I’ll be in the city.”

Chapter 24

Grant stumbled over to the closet, slipped inside, and pulled the door closed after him.

He sat on the floor.

Drew his knees into his chest.

Buried his head in his hands.

The pain was operatic—audible through the silence like a throbbing timpani drum. He wondered how Paige had held out for three days by herself. In the years they’d been estranged, the memory of his little sister had been replaced by the image of the addict, the fuck-up, and now, the prostitute. It was easy to forget the little girl who would quietly stroke his hair when the tears he had fought back during the day finally arrived in the middle of the night. Those muffled sobs he’d tried to stifle with a pillow. She was stronger than he would ever be.

Now, with his head splitting apart in the darkness, he wished—as he had so many times before—that he could find some of her strength in himself. But he had never been the brave one.

Grant heard the front door close, followed by low voices in the foyer. Reaching up, he gently twisted the knob and nudged the closet door open a quarter of an inch.

He caught a twinkle of candlelight through the crack, and then Paige’s voice.

“I’m so glad you came, Steve.”

“What’s with all the candles?”

“You don’t like them?”

“I can’t tell if it’s romantic or if you’re about to subject me to some Satanic ritual sacrifice.”

Paige laughed, but Grant could tell it wasn’t the genuine article—too quick, too high, definitely forced.

“The boring truth,” she said, “is that the power went out.”

“Bummer.”

Their voices seemed to occupy the same airspace. Grant imagined her arms wrapped around the man’s neck.

“I’m glad you called,” the man said. “Thought you might have forgotten about me.”

“Never.”

Silence, and then the phlegmy slurp of kissing.

Grant grimaced.

“You feeling all right?” the man asked. “You look tired.”