Silent Stalker Read online

  “Like hell you didn’t!” said his brother. “I saw you!”

  When they saw Lee and Detective Butts, they ceased chattering and looked uncertainly at Davillia. She drew herself up with dignity and spoke with calm authority.

  “These gentlemen are from the NYPD.” She turned to Butts. “This is one of the pairs of identical twins I told you about, Keith and Fred Wilson.”

  “Detective Leonard Butts, Homicide,” Butts said.

  “No kidding?” exclaimed the taller and thinner of the twins. “Has someone been killed?”

  “If you don’t mind, Keith, I’m going to wait until all of the actors are here to break the news,” said Davillia.

  They didn’t have long to wait. A middle-aged black man with a noble profile and an impressive head of salt-and-pepper hair entered, followed by another set of male twins, short, muscular redheads with pink skin and pale blue eyes. The only noticeable difference between them was that one of them wore glasses. The last to arrive was a lovely young woman who bore a striking resemblance to the murdered girl, with white skin and curly black hair. She looked around nervously upon entering, and when she saw Butts and Lee standing there she joined her colleagues.

  “What’s going on?” she said timidly.

  “I’ll tell you in a minute, Sara,” Davillia replied gently. “Is everyone here?”

  “Yes,” said one of the redheaded twins. “Present and accounted for.”

  “Thanks, Danny,” said Davillia. “That’s Danny Atkins,” she explained to Lee and Butts. “He’s also our stage manager.” She turned back to her actors. “I think some of you may want to sit down.”

  “Why? What’s happened?” cried Sara. She looked terrified, whereas the rest of the cast looked merely apprehensive.

  “I’m afraid Mindy has been murdered,” said Davillia.

  A collective gasp arose from the group, and several who were still standing sank into the audience seats. But the most dramatic response came from Sara, who gave a horrified scream and fell into the arms of one of the redheaded twins.

  “Mindy was playing her sister in the play,” Davillia told Lee and Butts.

  “It’s not that,” Sara said. “It‘s—it’s—”

  “What is it, dear?” asked Davillia. “What’s wrong?”

  “I found this in my mailbox today,” Sara said. With trembling hands, she produced a folded piece of paper from her purse and handed it to the director. Davillia read it and handed it to Butts, who glanced at it and held it up for Lee to read it. On the paper, printed in block letters, were two words.

  YOU’RE NEXT

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It took a while to calm Sara, and several other cast members appeared equally shaken. Davillia was remarkably adept at soothing the frayed nerves of her actors. Lee could see why she was a director—she was very good at handling people.

  Detective Butts was irritated that the paper containing the message to Sara had been contaminated by so many sets of fingerprints. He pulled on a latex glove, snatched it away from Davillia, and dropped it into an evidence bag.

  “Damn thing won’t be much use now,” he grumbled.

  “Too many prints on it already.” The detective pulled out his cell phone. “I’m calling the precinct,” he told Lee. “Maybe they can send a sergeant to help interview the actors. Since they’re all here now, it’ll save time.”

  What he didn’t say was that catching potential suspects off guard was always a good idea. If they postponed the interviews, it would give the perpetrator time to come up with an alibi—that is, if he was one of the actors. The precinct desk sergeant agreed to send over Sergeant McKinney, who Butts had worked with before.

  Some of the actors were dismayed to hear they would be detained for questioning, though others seemed eager to help. First to volunteer for an interview were the redheaded twins, but they looked disappointed when Butts said they would have to be questioned separately.

  “But we do everything together,” said Danny, the twin with the glasses.

  “Not this,” Butts growled. “So, do you want to talk here or later down at the station?”

  “We want to help in any way we can, Detective,” Ryan replied, nudging his brother with his elbow. “Right, Danny? ”

  “Sure,” said Danny. “Of course we do.”

  Just as they were about to divide up the actors, an extremely tall police officer entered the theatre. Even without the uniform, Lee would have spotted him as a cop. He had that combination of authority and wariness, striding down the aisle with a half-swagger, watching everyone’s reaction to him as he took them in with his carefully composed gaze, calculated to give away nothing.

  He was a bulky man, not only tall but beefy—but not in an athletic way. His uniform fit awkwardly, the pants gripping his legs, the jacket tight around his fleshy shoulders. His was an ungraceful form, and his buzz-cut dark hair only emphasized his ungainliness. He lumbered up to Detective Butts.

  “About time, McKinney,” Butts grumbled, turning to the actors, who had been staring at Sergeant McKinney with apprehension. The appearance of an officer in uniform seemed to sober up even the recalcitrant Danny, who stared at him meekly.

  “You got another room in here?” Butts asked Davillia.

  “There’s a greenroom backstage,” she replied. “It’s not very big, but—”

  “Okay,” said Butts. “McKinney, you take that room and I’ll stay in here.” He turned to the actors and pointed to Sara, who was on the verge of tears. “Go with him, would you, sweetheart? When you’re done we’ll get you some protection before you leave.”

  “Do you think the killer will come after me?” she whimpered.

  “Don’t worry—we’ll put a watch on you ’round the clock just to make sure you’re okay.”

  “Is that really necessary?” asked Davillia.

  “Hell, if it was my daughter I’d sent her to a damn convent,” said Butts.

  “Get thee to a nunnery,” murmured Keith, the taller of the dark-haired twins. “It’s a quote from Hamlet,” he explained in response to a glare from Butts.

  “This killer isn’t playacting,” the detective said. “The sooner you all get that into your heads, the better.”

  Lee stayed in the theatre with Butts to observe the first couple of interviews, which he conducted at a table at the far end of the stage. The actors remained seated in the audience, drinking coffee and talking nervously with one another while they waited their turn.

  Butts began with the older, dignified-looking black man, whose name was Carl Hawkins. Mr. Hawkins told them he was playing the role of the Duke of Ephesus, as well as some other minor roles. He hadn’t known any of the other actors before this production, and had been “jobbed in”—as the only member of Actors’ Equity in the cast, he was actually getting paid.

  “I don’t like to bring it up around the others,” he said. “It’s not a secret, but I don’t want them to feel bad.”

  “Or jealous?” Butts mused, studying him.

  “That too. It breeds bad blood.” His voice was articulate, educated, and slightly Southern.

  “Sounds to me like there’s already some bad blood,” Butts remarked. “Can you think of anyone in the cast you’d suspect of doin’ something like this?”

  “I don’t know them that well—we’ve only been in rehearsal for a couple of weeks.”

  “Off the top of your head, say. Any suspicious behavior?”

  “Not really. Though Ryan Atkins did seem to have a crush on her.”

  “He’s one of the redheads?”

  “Right.”

  Butts made an entry on his notepad. “Did she reciprocate?”

  “Not that I could see. Davillia frowns on that kind of thing during rehearsal, so I don’t know what happened outside of here.”

  “Hear any gossip about it?”

  Hawkins smiled. “Detective, I’m old enough to have fathered most of these young people. If you want gossip, you’d best talk to one of th
em.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “The Wilson twins are always whispering together. I guess a Harvard degree doesn’t mean you’re immune to tittle-tattle.”

  “They both went there?” asked Lee.

  “Class of ’96. I wonder if their folks feel the investment is being squandered in a squalid off-Broadway theatre in Hell’s Kitchen.”

  “Thanks,” said Butts, handing him a business card. “Give me a call if you think of anything else.”

  The detective took Mr. Hawkins’s advice and called over one of the Wilson twins, while Lee decided to see how Sergeant McKinney was getting on. The smell of sawdust and shellac hung in the air as he picked his way past half-painted flats of scenery, weaving between backstage ropes and pulleys before squeezing through the tight corridor that led to the greenroom.

  McKinney was interviewing Danny Atkins, the redheaded twin who wore glasses. The “greenroom” was a musty area backstage that also appeared to double as a dressing room, with a row of mirrors bordered by bare lightbulbs along one wall. A moth-eaten oriental carpet covered most of the floor, and a pair of shabby couches with protruding springs faced each other in the center of the room. Theatrical posters adorned the walls. Sergeant McKinney was seated at a long folding table, with Danny seated opposite him.

  “Did you notice anyone suspicious hanging around the theatre?” McKinney asked.

  Danny’s eyes moved up and to the left as he pondered the question. “Not that I can remember. I wish I could be more helpful.”

  “Anyone in the cast sweet on the vic—uh, Ms. Lewis?” the sergeant said.

  Danny looked away. “Not really.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” said McKinney. “I heard your brother Ryan asked her out.”

  “Oh, yeah, I guess he did.”

  “Did she go out with him?”

  “I don’t really know. My brother and I aren’t joined at the hip.”

  “I thought twins shared everything.”

  “That is a misconception promulgated by the mainstream media.”

  Sergeant McKinney smiled and scribbled something in his notebook. “You got some ten-dollar words there.”

  Danny Atkins looked down at his hands. “Look, Detective—”

  “Sergeant.”

  “Sergeant. Things have been kind of rough since our mother died, and my brother hasn’t been all that talkative lately.”

  “When was that?” Lee asked.

  “A couple of weeks ago, right before we began rehearsals.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” McKinney. “You’re the stage manager for this group?”

  “Yes—why?”

  “You’d have access to everyone’s address.”

  “Sergeant, there’s a cast contact list—we all have that information.” Danny removed his glasses and wiped the sweat from the frames. “Is this going to go much longer?”

  “Just one more question,” said McKinney. “If you had to put odds on who in this company might want to kill Mindy Lewis, who would it be?”

  Danny replaced his glasses and folded his hands in his lap. “I’m sorry, Sergeant, but I’m not a betting man.”

  “That’s interesting,” Lee said after Danny had left.

  “Earlier he claimed that he and Ryan did everything together, but just now he went out of his way to avoid giving that impression.”

  McKinney nodded. “Wonder what he’s trying to hide?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Next up was Fred Wilson, the slightly shorter of the Wilson twins. He seemed amiable enough, even eager to help, as he settled his long form on the metal folding chair opposite Sergeant McKinney. Though Wilson was well over six feet, Lee figured McKinney was a good four inches taller.

  “Now then, Mr. Wilson, is there anything you want to tell me?” asked the sergeant.

  “Uh, no—only that we all liked Mindy. At least, I think everyone did.”

  “Maybe one of you liked her enough to kill her.”

  Wilson looked confused by the remark. “I don’t get it.”

  McKinney leaned in closer. “Maybe you had a thing for Mindy?”

  Fred looked horrified. “No! I have a girlfriend. I would never—”

  “Anyone who can confirm that?”

  “My brother—anyone who knows me.” As he spoke, he twisted a signet ring embossed with the theatrical comedy mask.

  “Nice ring,” McKinney remarked. “Where’d you get it?”

  “It was a gift from our mother. My brother has one of the tragic mask.”

  “Ever trade rings?” McKinney asked.

  “Not really. Why?”

  “It would be pretty easy for you to pose as one another, confuse people about which one is which.”

  Fred cocked his head to one side. “Why would we want to do that?”

  Obviously, the sergeant knew about the mask found on Mindy’s body. That was the kind of detail that might not be released to the public, so Lee said nothing.

  “Don’t twins do that—switch places just for fun sometimes?” McKinney asked.

  “I think that happens more often in the movies,” Fred replied. “Though once Danny and Ryan switched places to see if anyone would notice.”

  “Did they? Notice, I mean?”

  “Not at first. Ryan wore Danny’s glasses to rehearsal, and everyone thought he was his brother. It’s especially hard when the other twin isn’t around. Even I was fooled for a while.”

  “What gave it away?”

  “I’m not sure. . . different mannerisms, and their voices aren’t quite the same, I guess.”

  Sergeant McKinney made a note in his notebook, which appeared to make Fred nervous—Lee noticed he wiped his palms on his pants a couple of times.

  The interviews went on the rest of the afternoon. They didn’t seem to produce much useful information, but you could never tell. Butts and McKinney went back to the precinct together, while Lee headed home.

  Back at his apartment, he locked the door behind him and tossed his mail on the kitchen counter. He reached for the bottle of Glenkinchie and was about to pour a glass when an envelope caught his eye. It was thin and square, with blue and red stripes on the edges—international airmail. The return address was 37 rue Leopold Robert, Paris.

  Intrigued, he tore it open. It was handwritten in light blue ink, the script firm, simple yet graceful. He read it standing at the kitchen counter.

  Cher Monsieur Campbell,

  I am very hoping that you may forgive me for writing to you and that you will respond. I don’t know how much of me you know, but my name is Chloe Soigné. I imagine if you do know of me you have nothing but bad thoughts, and for that I do not blame you. I would feel no different in your place. I do love Duncan Campbell, but that is no excuse for my actions so many years ago. Perhaps I am an evil woman, but if so, I am being punished for my sins, for I am now dying.

  I tell you this not because I hope for sympathy but because I wish before I die to know that Duncan has made contact with his children. He does not expect you to forgive him or want to see him again, but I am hoping you may perhaps forgive him in time. I have seen over the years how the decision to leave has gnawed away at him, and left him no peace. But he is too proud to admit it, and so I have watched him suffer these many years, knowing how desperately he wanted to see his children. He would never speak of this with me, but I knew it all the same.

  I managed to find your address but not your sister’s, so I am writing to you, and very much hope that you will show this letter to her. Perhaps she will find in her heart the compassion for your father, if you do not. Sometimes women have a more tender regard for the sins of others.

  Very truly yours,

  Chloe Soigné

  Lee stood with the letter in his hand, anger flooding his stomach like hot acid. So this was the woman his father had left his mother for, that day he walked out on the entire family, when Lee was only nine years old.

  The letter came as a complete shoc
k. He had an impulse to crush it, to tear it into bits, but he took a deep breath and slid it back in the envelope. He reached for the scotch and poured himself a double, neat, draining it in one swallow.

  What nerve this woman had, writing to him on his father’s behalf! Didn’t she realize how much Lee loathed Duncan Campbell, how many times he had wished him dead? What made her think he would give a damn about the man who had come close to ruining the lives of everyone Lee cared about most?

  He refilled the glass and went into the living room, heading straight for the piano.

  The Well-Tempered Clavier was open on the rack, but he needed something loud and fast and angry, so he took out a book of Chopin preludes and banged away at the G minor Prelude, with its pounding descending bass line. Then he played a couple of blues tunes gospel-style, lingering on the dissonance created by the simultaneous major and minor thirds. Finally he turned to Bach, who always put him in a calmer mood. After an hour at the keyboard, he felt better. He rose from the piano bench and stood at the front window, gazing out at the Ukrainian church across the street. The building was dark, its round stained-glass window illuminated only by reflected light from streetlamps. A light snow had begun to fall, muting the sound of passing cars, creating a halo around the streetlights, softening their glare to a hazy yellow glow.

  He thought about the power of words to disturb and frighten. Of course they could also comfort and reassure, but the last two letters he had seen were disturbing. He knew Chloe hadn’t meant to upset him with her letter, but she must have realized that it would. As for the killer who was presumably stalking Sara Wittier now, the very brevity of his message was part of its chilling effect. You’re next.

  He fed on her fear—clearly that was part of the fun for him. Lee turned from the window and sank into the red leather armchair, with its faded armrests and cracked leather footstool. He would have thrown it out long ago if it weren’t for the fact that Laura had loved this chair. When she’d visited him it had been her favorite place to sit, and she had searched the downtown thrift stores for one just like it. When she moved into the city to attend NYU, he’d planned on giving it to her for her apartment, but she’d disappeared before he had a chance.