Dark Whispers

He handed the keys back to her, placed a hand at the small of her back and ushered her across the threshold. He surveyed the entry hall. The ceiling soared high above a grand balcony on the second floor. A large painting hung on the broad expanse of wall that flanked the ornate staircase. He recognized Natalie as a child of around ten or twelve in the painting.

“My family,” she said, following his gaze. “My parents are both gone now. There’s my younger sister, April, and my older brother, Heath. Heath runs the family business and April is a trophy wife who specializes in fund-raising.” She said the last with something less than pride as she placed her purse and keys on a table near the door. “The kitchen is on the right at the end of the hall. That’s where...it happened.”

Clint hesitated, the sticky notes on the mirror above the hall table snagging his attention. There were several yellow notes and one pink one. Leave the keys and your purse here. Lock the door. Arm the security system. The pink note read Check the peephole before opening the door.

“I don’t need them as much as I used to,” she said with a noticeable resignation in her tone. “My short-term memory gets better every day.” She locked the door. “It’s certain parts of my long-term memory that still have a few too many holes.”

He gestured to the notes. “This was part of the process of getting back into your normal routine?”

She nodded. “I’m not sure anything about my routine will ever be called normal again, but I manage.”

“I imagine the journey has been a challenging one.” Clint moved toward the kitchen. “Back at the office you said your sister spent a great deal of time helping you get back on your feet?”

“She stayed with me every night for the first year. When she wasn’t with me there was a nurse.” A weary sigh escaped her lips. “For ten months I was fine on my own, and then...the voices started. April stays the night whenever I need her despite my brother-in-law’s insistence that he needs his wife at home.”

“Your brother-in-law is...?”

“David Keating, the son of Birmingham’s new mayor, who sees himself as governor one day. He’s running for state representative and insists that April should be at his side at all times. You haven’t seen the billboards plastered all over the city? Vote for Truth and Family Values.” Natalie shook her head. “Personally, I believe he’s worried that I’m losing my mind and he doesn’t want his wife too close to anything unpleasant that might end up attached to his name in the news.” She paused. “Sorry. I’m being unkind. In truth, David has been very thoughtful since the fall. Forgive me if I’m a little too blunt at times.”

“No apology necessary. Do you and your siblings get along?”

“As well as any I suppose.” Her heels clicked on the marble floor as they continued toward the kitchen. “Five years ago, after our father died, I think people expected there to be dissention, but we all felt the terms of the will were remarkably well thought out. Heath inherited the family business, which made perfect sense since he was the only one with any interest in overseeing it. He was Father’s right hand. I inherited the house and April was endowed with the largest portion of the family financial trust. Father was well aware of my younger sister’s love of spending. The trust pays out slowly over her life so there’s no fear of her ever being destitute in the event her marriage to David doesn’t work out.”

They reached the wide arched entrance to the kitchen and Clint paused. “You’re an attorney?”

She stared at the sleek tile floor. “I was. It remains to be seen if I will be again. I feel more like an assistant now. Two years ago I was up for partner at Brenner, Rosen and Taylor. I would have been the youngest partner in the firm’s history. Most of the past two years I’ve been on extended disability leave. I returned to work a few weeks ago. I review other people’s cases to see if we’re doing all we can for each client. I’m certain the partners fear that giving me a case of my own at this point would be premature, perhaps even detrimental to the firm’s reputation. After what happened this morning, who can blame them?”

Her work history was impressive. Brenner, Rosen and Taylor was a small but very prestigious law firm. “Why don’t you walk me through exactly what happened this morning.”

Natalie drew in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I was preparing to go to the office. The security system was apparently unarmed. I could’ve sworn I set it before I went to bed, but evidently I didn’t.” She sighed and rubbed at her temple as if a headache had begun there. “I still forget things sometimes and get things out of order, but those instances rarely happen anymore—at least that’s what I thought.”

“What time did you get up?” Clint moved to the back door. According to the police report, Natalie believed the alleged intruder entered the kitchen through the door leading from the gardens and patio since it had been standing open. All other entry points had been locked when the police arrived, seemingly confirming her allegation. Clint opened the door and crouched down to have a look at the lock and the knob.

“At six,” she said in answer to his question. “I remember because the grandfather clock in the entry hall started to chime the hour. It’s a habit of mine to count the chimes.” She looked away as if the admission embarrassed her. “I’ve done it since I was a child.”

Clint smiled, hoping to help her relax. “I count buttons. Whenever I button my shirt, I count.”

Her strained expression softened a bit at his confession. “I guess we all have our eccentricities.”

Focusing on his examination of the door, he saw no indication of forced entry. Back at the office, he’d sent a text to Lori Wells requesting a copy of the police report. A quick perusal of the report she’d immediately emailed him had showed the same findings. Clint hadn’t really expected to find anything. Still, a second look never hurt. He pushed to his feet. “You were upstairs when you heard an intruder?”

She nodded. “I was dressed and ready to go when I heard a noise down here.”

“Describe the noise for me.”

She considered the question for a moment. “There was a lot of banging as if whoever was down here was searching for something.”

The evidence techs had dusted for prints, but hadn’t found any usable ones except Natalie’s, which meant the intruder wore gloves and that she had a very dedicated and thorough cleaning staff. Most surfaces in any home were littered with prints. “You came down the stairs,” Clint prompted.

“First I came to the landing. I thought maybe Suzanna, my housekeeper, had arrived early.” She hugged her arms around herself as if the memories stole the warmth from her body. “I saw him standing at the bottom of the stairs, but I couldn’t see his entire face. He was wearing a mask. Like a ski mask where all you can see are the eyes and across the bridge of the nose. I ran back to my room and grabbed my cell phone and my father’s handgun from the nightstand. When I came down the stairs I didn’t see him anymore. The back door was open so I assumed he’d fled.” She took a deep breath. “I came into the kitchen to close the door and suddenly I heard him breathing...behind me. It was as if he’d been waiting for me to come.”

“Did he touch you?”

She shook her head. “I spun around and fired the weapon.”

Clint closed and locked the back door. “You’re certain the intruder was male.”

The sound of the door locking or maybe the question snapped her from the silence she’d drifted into. She flinched. “Absolutely. He was tall and strong and he had a scar.” She pointed to the spot between her eyebrows.

“He never spoke?”

She shook her head. “He staggered back and then fell to the floor. There was blood on his shirt.”

“You ran outside to wait for the police?”

She nodded. “I dropped the gun and ran. I was confused. That still happens when I get overexcited or upset and, quite frankly, I was terrified.”

Clint would ask her more about the traumatic brain injury later. According to the police report there was no indication of foul play in the home and no gun was found. Since the detective at the scene had decided the whole event was Drummond’s imagination, no test for gunshot residue had been performed. “Did blood splatter on your clothes or your shoes?”

She frowned. “No.” Her head moved from side to side. “I suppose there should have been.” She closed her eyes for a moment before continuing. “I know what I saw. There was a man here. He wore a black ski mask. I fired the weapon, the sound still echoes inside me whenever I think of that moment.”

“You believe,” he offered, “while you were waiting for the police the intruder fled, taking the gun with him.”

“Yes.”

* * *

CLINT HAYES DID not believe her.

Natalie didn’t have to wonder. She saw the truth in his eyes. There was no evidence to support her story. Nothing. Her brain injury made her an unreliable witness at best. How could she expect anyone to believe her?

Maybe she was losing her mind. Her own brother thought she was imagining things.

“Let’s talk about why someone would want to create a situation like the one that played out in your home this morning.”

Hope dared to bloom in her chest. “Are you saying you believe me?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “I do.”

Startled, Natalie fought to gather her wits. She had hoped to find someone who would believe her. Now that she had, she felt weak with relief and overwhelmed with gratitude. “Would you like coffee or tea?”

“No thank you, but don’t let me stop you.”

“I don’t drink coffee after the middle of the afternoon for fear I won’t sleep.” Her life was quite sad now. What would this handsome, obviously intelligent man think if he knew just how sad? What difference did money and position matter in the end? Very little, she had learned. The years of hard work to reach the pinnacle of her field meant nothing now. She could no more battle an opponent in the courtroom than a ten-year-old could hope to win a presidential debate.

All she had been or ever hoped to be was either gone or broken. Her mother had warned her all-work-and-no-play attitude would come back to haunt her one day. What kind of life will you have without someone to share it with? Her mother’s words reverberated through her.

A lonely one, Mother. Very lonely.

“Are you taking medication?”

“I have a number of medications, Mr. Hayes.” She led the way to an enormous great room where her family had hosted the Who’s Who of Birmingham. “There are ones for anxiety and others for sleep—all to be taken as needed. So far I’ve done all right without them more than six months. I take over-the-counter pain relievers for the headaches that have become fewer and further between.”

She settled into her favorite chair. Mr. Hayes took a seat across the coffee table from her. The idea that he might not actually believe her but needed to pad the company’s bottom line crossed her mind. The other three agencies she’d contacted this afternoon weren’t interested in taking her case. What made this one different? She’d stumbled upon B&C Investigations completely by accident. She’d walked away from the third rejection and noticed the new sign in the window on the way to her car.

“Do you have any personal enemies that you know of?”

She shook her head. “No family issues. No work issues. I can’t imagine anyone who would want to do this. Why break into my home? Nothing appears to be missing.”

“Let’s talk about the people closest to you.”

“My sister and I have always made it a point to have dinner a couple of times a week. Since the fall, she stays the night whenever I need her—or when she decides it’s necessary. I don’t see my brother as often. He’s very busy. There’s Suzanna Clark, the housekeeper, and her husband, Leonard, the gardener.”

“You said your sister started staying with you at night again because of the voices.”

Natalie hated admitting this part, but it was necessary. “About two months ago I started waking up at night and hearing voices—as if someone is in the house. I get up and search every room only to find I’m here alone.” If only she could convey how very real the voices sounded. It terrified her that perhaps her brother was right and she was imagining them. “Until this morning.”

“What about your colleagues at the office?”

The uneasiness that plagued her when she thought of work seeped into her bones. Since the fall, her professional inadequacy filled her with dread whenever the subject of work came up. She’d once lived for her career.

“I have my assistant, Carol. Art Rosen is the partner I work closest with. I’m well acquainted with everyone on staff. I have no rivals or issues with my colleagues, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Friends or a boyfriend?”

Ah, now he would learn the truly saddest part. “Before the injury, I had lots of friends, most were associated with work. We lost touch during my recovery.” She forced a smile. “There’s nothing like tragedy to send the people you thought were your friends running in the other direction. It was partly my fault. I was always so strong and self-reliant. People didn’t want to see the weak, needy me. Except for Sadie. She’s my psychologist as well as my friend.”

“Boyfriend?” he repeated. “Fiancé?”

She drew in a big breath. “There was a boyfriend. He had asked me to marry him but I kept putting him off. Work was my top priority. About three months into my recovery, he apparently no longer had the stomach for who I’d become.”

The dark expression on the investigator’s face told her exactly what he thought about such a man.

Natalie shook her head. “Don’t blame him, Mr. Hayes. I’m—”

“Clint,” he reminded her.

“Clint,” she acknowledged.

“If he cared enough to propose,” Clint argued, “there’s no excuse for his inability to see you through a difficult time.”

“He proposed to the woman I used to be.” Natalie understood the reasons all too well. Steven Vaughn had ambitious plans that didn’t include a potentially disabled wife. “I’m not that person anymore. I doubt I ever will be. Part of me was lost to the injury and now my entire life is different. I don’t blame him for not wanting to be a part of it. After all, if you invest in gold, silver is not a suitable substitution.”

Clint studied her for a long moment before going on. “No one in your circle would have had reason to want to do you harm at the time of your accident or now?”

Natalie laughed, a self-deprecating sound. “Therein lies the true rub. Though my current short-term memory works well now, everything beyond six months ago is a very different story. So I can’t answer that question because I can’t remember. To my knowledge I have no enemies. My colleagues and family know of no one who gave me any real trouble in the past.”

“How much of your memory did you lose?”

“Perhaps the better word is misplaced. The injury jumbled things up. Our lives—our memories—are stored. Like files in a filing cabinet. Imagine if that cabinet was turned upside down, the drawers would open and those files would spill all over the floor. The contents of the files are still there, but they’re hard to retrieve because now they’re out of order.”

“So you do remember things.”

She nodded. “Yes. As my brain healed from the injury, it was like starting over. I had to relearn how to communicate, how to function, mentally as well as physically. As my vocabulary returned, I used the wrong words like saying hands when I meant gloves or feet when I meant shoes. Memories came in disorderly fragments. Most often they returned when prompted by some activity or person. It’s difficult to say what I’ve lost when I have no idea what I had. My sister and brother remind me of childhood events and then I recall them vividly. I can look at photographs and recall almost instantly what happened. So, I suppose I’ve temporarily lost many things. But, so far, the memories return when triggered.”

“Then someone may have caused your accident two years ago and you just don’t remember.”

The dark foreboding that always appeared when she spoke of the fall pressed in on her even as she shook her head. “No. I was here with my sister. There was no one else in the house. My sister and I have been over the details of that night numerous times. If you’re suggesting that someone pushed me down the stairs, that isn’t what happened.”

“All right then, we’ll focus our investigation on life since the accident.”

She wanted to nod and say that was the proper course of action and yet some feeling or instinct she couldn’t name urged her to look back for something she had missed. Frustration had her pushing the idea away. The hardest part of her new reality was not being able to trust her own brain to guide her 100 percent of the time. She also wanted to correct his use of accident. She had never been able to see what happened that way. To Natalie it was the fall—a moment in time that changed her life forever. A part of her wondered if her inability to see it as an accident was her mind trying to tell her something she needed to remember.

“Since you only recently returned to work, has there been a particular case that may be the root of this new trouble? Maybe someone believes they can scare you into some sort of cooperation.”

“I somehow doubt that giving my two cents’ worth, so to speak, on the steps that have been missed or that should be taken on other people’s cases would garner that sort of attention. Considering what happened today, I doubt I’ll have a position at the firm much longer.”

Natalie decided that was the part that hurt the most. Losing her friends and even her so-called soul mate hadn’t been the end of the world. It was losing her ability to practice law that devastated her completely. Work was the one thing that had never let her down. Being an attorney had defined her.

What did she have now?

This big old house and...not much else.

Her attention settled on the investigator watching her so closely. She hoped he could find something to explain how the man she shot suddenly disappeared other than the possibility that she really was losing her mind.

Chapter Three

Richard Arrington Boulevard and 6th Avenue

Tuesday, September 20, 10:00 a.m.

Clint’s first client as a private detective had been at work for an hour when he decided to make his appearance at the offices of Brenner, Rosen and Taylor.

He’d stayed with Natalie last night until her sister, April, arrived. He’d gone home afterward and done some research on Natalie’s career and background. He’d discovered that one of the senior associates at Natalie’s firm was Vince Farago, an old school pal of his from Samford. Clint gritted his teeth. He wondered if Natalie was aware that the man could not be trusted in any capacity. Farago was the proverbial snake in the grass.

Clint would stop at Natalie’s office and check in with her after he visited with his old friend. He had a few questions for Farago, and frankly he intended to enjoy watching the guy squirm.

The moment he entered the posh lobby the receptionist looked up. “Good morning, sir, how may I help you?”

Another receptionist manned the ringing phones, ensuring someone was always available to greet arriving clients. The building spanned from 6th to 29th, filling the corner of the busy intersection much like New York’s Flatiron building. The lobby’s glass walls looked out over the hectic pace of downtown Birmingham.

“Clint Hayes,” he said. “I need a moment of Mr. Farago’s time this morning.”

The receptionist made a sad face. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Hayes, but Mr. Farago is completely booked today. May I set up something for you later in the week?”

Clint gave his head a shake. “Let him know I’m here. I trust he’ll be able to spare a minute or two.” For old time’s sake, he opted not to add.

The receptionist, Kendra, ducked her head in acquiescence. “Of course, sir. Would you like a coffee or a latte while you wait?”

“I’m good.”

While Kendra made the necessary call, Clint moved toward the wall of fame on the far side of the massive lobby. Dozens of photos of the partners attending various fundraisers and city events adorned the sleek beige wall that served as a canvas. Numerous framed accolades of the firm’s accomplishments hung proudly among the photos. Despite his best efforts, bitterness reared its ugly head. Clint rarely allowed that old prick of defeat to needle him anymore. He turned away from the reminders of what he would never have. He was only human; the occasional regression was unavoidable.

He’d done well enough for himself. His law degree had come in handy more than once in his law enforcement career. It gave him an edge in his new venture as a private investigator. If money had been his solitary goal, he would have accepted one of the far more lucrative opportunities he had been offered during his college years.

“Mr. Hayes?”

Clint grinned, then checked the expression as he turned to Kendra. “Yes.”

“Mr. Farago will see you now.” She gestured to the marble-floored corridor that disappeared into the belly of the enormous building. “Take the elevator to the fourth floor and Darrius, his assistant, will be waiting for you.”

With a nod, Clint fastened the top one of the two buttons on his jacket and followed the lady’s directions. When he reached the fourth floor the doors slid open with a soft whoosh and revealed a more intimate, but equally luxurious lobby.

Smiling broadly, a young man, twenty-two or -three, met him in the corridor. His slim-fit charcoal-gray suit had the look and style of an Italian label way above his pay grade, suggesting he either came from money or his boss handed out nice bonuses.

“Good morning, Mr. Hayes. My name is Darrius. May I get you a refreshment?”

“No thanks.” Clearly Farago’s tastes hadn’t changed. The assistant, a paralegal most likely, was young, handsome and no doubt hungry. A man did things when he was hungry he might not otherwise do. Clint knew this better than most.

“Very well. This way, sir.”

A few steps to the right and Darrius rapped on the first door to the left and then opened it. He gifted Clint with a final smile and disappeared, closing the door behind him.

Farago got to his feet and reached across his desk. “Clint, it’s been a while.” They exchanged a quick handshake.

“I hear you’re scheduled to make partner before the year is out.” Clint had nudged a few contacts last night in addition to his internet research. Farago was on his way up at this esteemed firm. Good for him. He’d done his time. Going on eight years now. Still, Clint couldn’t help wondering how far his old friend had gone this time to ensure his next step up the corporate ladder. He seriously doubted this leopard had changed his spots.

Farago gestured to the chair in front of his desk and settled back into his own. “It’s a carrot they dangle when you reach a certain level. Time will tell, I guess.”

Clint grunted an acknowledgement.

“So.” Farago leaned back in his leather chair. “What brings you to see me after all these years?”

There were many things Clint could have said—payback, for example—but he elected to keep the threats to himself. He had learned that all things come back around in time. Karma truly was a bitch.

As if Farago had read his mind, he fidgeted a bit. Clint could almost swear he saw a sheen of sweat forming on the man’s forehead.

“I have a few questions—between old friends—about your colleague, Natalie Drummond.”

Farago lifted his head and said, “Ah. I’m certain you’re aware, of course, the firm requires we sign confidentiality agreements.”

“No doubt.” Clint stared straight into his eyes. “I’m equally certain you understand I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t essential. So, why don’t we cut to the chase? I need information and you need to give it to me.”

The flush of anger climbed from the collar of Farago’s crisp white shirt and quickly spread across his face. “I see.”