Missing, Adam Nicholls [book recommendations website txt] 📗
- Author: Adam Nicholls
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“You don’t like it!” she said as a matter of fact and got up to remove the DVD.
The patch where she had been lying turned cold at once. Mason sat up, adjusting his shirt. “It’s fine, honey. I swear.”
“It’s no big deal, Dad. I’ll find another movie.”
“If you say so.” Mason watched her fumble to remove the DVD from the tray and grinned.
“Die Hard, or James Bond?” she asked, holding up the DVD cases with a smile of her own.
Mason smirked, about to choose Bond, but was interrupted by a pounding on the door.
He looked at his watch again—just after ten. Who’d turn up at this time of night? Groaning as he stood, Mason went to the door and opened it to a familiar face. “Bill.”
Detective Bill Harvey was a friend—a good one who’d helped him track down Marvin Wendell, the Lullaby Killer. What they did with the body when they found him was still a secret only they shared.
“Sorry, Mason, I know it’s late. Can I come in?”
“Of course.” He held open the door and took a step back.
“Hi, Amy.”
“Bill!” Amy clambered to her feet and ran toward him, enveloping him in a tight hug.
“Mind if I borrow your father for a minute?” Bill asked, pulling away.
“Sure,” she said and made herself scarce in the spare bedroom.
They moved through to the kitchen. “So,” Mason said, flicking on the kettle. “It’s good to see you, Bill… Dare I ask?”
Bill’s forehead creased.
Mason just nodded, unscrewed the coffee jar, and spooned the granules into a mug. “I’m guessing you need help with an investigation?”
“Actually,” Bill said, moving into the doorway. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. “I’ve been assigned to investigate you.”
Mason studied the mass of photos spreading out before him. His coffee had gone cold and he’d barely noticed—he was far more interested in the murder scene he was looking at.
“These were taken a couple of hours ago,” Bill said, sliding over the photographs one at a time. “As you can see, the neck was sliced from ear to ear.”
“Grisly.” Mason studied the scene behind the body. “Why does it seem familiar?”
“The steps?”
“Yes.”
“Because you worked there for a long, long time, Mason.” Bill slid over another picture, this one taken from a distance. It showed the police station, a line of patrol cars parked in a perfect row along the left wall, and a crowd gathering by the entrance. That was where the body had been dumped and, as expected, where the body lies the crowds gather.
“Has the body been identified?” Mason felt himself reaching for his cigarettes, which weren’t there. It was force of habit—he’d given up years ago and forgotten about them entirely. Until now.
“Johnny Walker, twenty-one, rich parents.”
“You think somebody had beef with the folks? Took out a little revenge by hitting where it hurts most?”
“That was my first guess until I saw this.”
One last photo came sliding across the dining table, stopping right in front of Mason. He took it, lifted it to the light, and felt his body go weak at the sight. “What the hell is this?”
“That”—Bill stood and began to pace—“is why I’m here now. So… what do you make of it?”
“I’d say it’s some sick fucking joke.” Mason looked at it again. He let his eyes crawl over it—the pool of blood, the sliced flesh, and the message scribed into the torso of a corpse:
MASON BLACK IS A MURDERER.
A smaller message was carved beneath it: FROM LADY LUCK.
Mason’s mouth went dry. “Lady Luck?”
“An alias, probably. But it gets worse. There was another photo.”
“And where is it?” Mason looked up, impatient.
“You misunderstood. I said there was another photo. As in, I had to destroy it.”
“Hey, that’s police evidence. Why would you—”
“Because it was a picture of you.” Bill folded his arms and let out a long breath. “It showed you going into the container at the shipping yard, where we killed—”
“No!” Mason barked, cutting him off. He shot to his feet, marched across the room, and grabbed Bill’s arm, dragging him out of the apartment and pulling the door shut. “We do not talk about that with my girl in the next room. Is that understood?”
“Sorry, I… Look, it was lucky I was first on the scene. Whoever set this whole thing up is out to get you. They want the police to know what you did.”
“Something personal.”
“Well, they haven’t asked for anything.” Bill leaned against the railing, looking out over the city. It was a nice night, if you ignored the potential stalker. “I would’ve thought it had something to do with Wendell.”
“Then why aren’t you—”
“Being targeted, too?” Bill shook his head. “No idea. Maybe somebody just rushed to hurt you before they got the whole scoop. So far, you’re the only lead. Captain Cox knows this, which is why I’m here.”
Mason placed his palms against his back, stretching out. “Okay,” he said, coming to Bill’s side. “So, you’re the lead investigator on this. How long do I have before I’m officially dragged in for questioning?”
“Not long.”
“Great. So, if I decide to look into this?”
“Then you’d have to do it fast. I can make some excuses—claim I haven’t managed to get in touch—but sooner or later I’ll be replaced by somebody who will bring you in.”
Mason clenched the railing and gazed into the distance. He’d really been looking forward to spending this weekend with Amy. In a strange sort of way, he’d forgotten all about this business with the Lullaby Killer. But for everything to spring open again so suddenly, landing him—and only him—in trouble, well, that was enough to spoil anyone’s day.
“We spoke to the victim’s best friend,” Bill said. “Apparently, this Johnny Walker kid was thinking about hiring a prostitute. It’s not much, but—”
“It’s a start.” Mason pushed back from the railing and headed inside. “Thanks, Bill.”
“No problem. Just be careful.”
It was a case he had no choice but to take. That was, if he wanted to stay out of the spotlight.
Mason dropped Amy off at her mother’s and watched as she bounded up the steps. Sandra would probably be surprised to see her daughter home so soon, but it couldn’t be helped. Mason quietly hoped it might ruin any fun Sandra and Joshua—the replacement boyfriend—might have been looking forward to.
An hour later, following a long and frustrating stretch of heavy traffic, he parked the Mustang on Barley Street, one of the many go-to places for prostitution or drugs—if you knew anything about this city anyway. Mason got out and started from the nearest end of the road.
“Excuse me,” he said to a pair of particularly overweight hookers. They jolted to attention, clearly on edge, which was exactly why Mason had elected not to show his badge to everyone. Instead, he used only the photograph of Johnny Walker Bill had given him. “Have you seen this kid?”
“Who’s askin’?” the larger one said, blowing impressive pink bubbles of gum.
“A concerned friend.”
They looked at each other, turned back to him, then shook their heads.
“Thank you.”
It was farther up the road, after an hour or more, when Mason found his first potential lead. There was something ratty about this girl, but in a sweet, keep-your-hands-to-yourself sort of way. Her arms folded defiantly across her flat chest.
“This boy,” he said, holding the photo out with a tired arm. “Have you seen him?”
She peered at it, impassive. “Might have.”
“Twenty bucks if you tell me you didn’t. Fifty if you point me in the right direction.”
Her eyes dropped, studying him from boot to head. She had every reason to be suspicious, but she was in no danger from Mason. “You a cop?”
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