The basement was dry, swept, and empty; there was nothing on the first floor, and they went up to the second and looked into empty, immaculate bedrooms. They pulled down the folding stairs to the attic and Lucci went up because the stairs looked flimsy for Latovsky’s weight. Lucci found the switch, a shaft of light came through the opening and fell on the hallway floor, then Lucci’s head appeared at the top of the steps and Latovsky had to remind himself to breathe.
“Nothing,” Lucci said. “Not a single carton, old sewing machine, or dressmaker’s dummy. Ever hear of an empty attic?”
They searched Fuller’s room; the bed cover was smooth, the dresser clear except for a framed picture of a large man about forty with a couple of kids. Fuller’s clothes were hung with space between them so they wouldn’t get crushed; clean shirts on hangers were covered in plastic from the laundry. His shoes were racked and lined up with military precision like Latovsky’s shoes. He’d get rid of his shoe rack when he got home, he thought.
There was an address book in the bedtable drawer with numbers for Mike at work in Sawyerville, Bunner, the hospital, and Ellsworth Harris. Latovsky scrawled that one in his notebook.
They left the room and went back downstairs, not knowing where to look or what to look for. The silent, immaculate house mocked them, and Latovsky knew she’d never been there.
Fuller had killed her where he’d found her; Berger and company would find the body in a patch of woods in northern Connecticut.
The thought brought him to a shuddering standstill and he had to lean against the wall for support.
“All done, Dave?” Lucci said hopefully.
“Not yet.” He forced himself away from the wall and took up the search again. They came to the den and Latovsky finally fixed on the tape deck and shelf of cassettes; he stopped so abruptly that Lucci ran into him.
“What now?” Lucci asked.
Latovsky went to the shelf and ran his finger along slipcases until he came to Yo Yo Ma/Bach in white letters on a black background. He shook out his handkerchief, wound it around his hand, and slid it out. “Jesus, Dave, what now?”
Still using the handkerchief, Latovsky took out the cassette, pushed it into the front-loading player, and Lucci said, “You got an urge to listen to Bach while we’re shitting all over our careers here?” Latovsky didn’t answer. The tape hissed over the heads, then Bunner’s voice came through the speaker. “... most of the story. You were in front of a house on Raven Lake...”
“That’s not Bach,” Lucci cried. “Who is it?”
“Terence Bunner.”
“Why’d Fuller make a tape... ?”
Then it dawned on him, and his fine sallow face got very still; he looked up at Latovsky through his thick lashes and said, “He didn’t make it, did he; he took it... he’s...”
“That’s who he is, Mike.”
“He killed Bunner.”
And the women in the woods and the Rileys. But it was too much to lay on Lucci at once. Latovsky could see it getting funny and Lucci finally asking, “Think he killed Cock Robin too?”
“I’m sure the hospital switchboard told you Dr. Fuller wasn’t there,” Ellsworth Harris said.
“They did,” Latovsky said, “but he’s not home either and we thought you might know where he’s gone, Doctor.”
They were in the Harrises’ foyer under a brass-and crystal chandelier shaped like a tarantula. The Harrises wore golf clothes and Mrs. Harris hovered in the background, twisting her golf gloves and trying to keep her face politely expressionless. She should take lessons from Frances Tilden, Latovsky thought.
“I can’t imagine what Adam’s done to attract the attention of the state police,” Harris sneered. “Run up too many traffic tickets, I imagine.”
Eight murders and one kidnapping, Latovsky thought and said, “Not traffic tickets.”
“I see. Well, before I discuss Dr. Fuller or his whereabouts, I think I should know what this is about.”
Oh, should you... Latovsky felt his control slip and saw himself grab this asshole by the lime-green golf shirt with the little polo player insignia and slam him against the wall. He clenched his fists, cleared his throat a couple of times, and said pretty calmly, “Play it like that, Doctor, and I’m going to arrest you for obstruction of justice, obstruction of an officer in the performance of his duty, and maybe throw in accessory to a class-A felony.”
Harris blanched. “Uh... maybe I better call my lawyer.”
“Maybe you better tell me where Fuller is and we can do the whole lawyer dance later.”
Harris looked at the huge cop; his fists were clenched and the tendons stood out in his neck like rope. His gaze shifted to the skinny sidekick who had the soft, long-lashed dark eyes of a mob-movie hit man.
“Sawyerville,” Harris croaked. “His father’s sick and he took leave.”
“When?”
“Friday.”
And he’d grabbed Eve on Saturday, twenty-four hours ago. It was inconceivable that she was still alive and Latovsky felt the hope and energy drain out of him. He couldn’t let them—he’d wind up in a helpless, fetal-shaped heap on the floor, and he made himself remember Rud Tyler, his best teacher at the academy. Vote your hopes, Rud used to say. You can always give up; it’s what people do best. Eighty out of a hundred mutts walk because someone gives up. Vote your hopes.
He tried. It was not inconceivable that she was alive. She had a weapon no one else had, and Fuller might want to cut himself a piece of it, the way Latovsky had. If she played it smart, she could be alive and stay alive, and might even figure a way to get him before he got her. “I need to use your phone,” he said.
“Of course.”
Harris led him into a pickled-pine-paneled room with white carpet and furniture, and a mantel faced in stainless steel that smearily reflected the room. Mrs. Harris had a sweet face, was probably a sweet woman, but her taste was abysmal.
“There.” Harris nodded at a small white phone that looked impossibly flimsy. The newest thing in minitech, Latovsky thought. As he headed for it, Harris called softly after him, “Lieutenant.” Latovsky paused.
Harris said, “I have to say this. I don’t know what you think Adam’s done but he’s a fine and caring doctor. The best on our staff.” He meant it, and Latovsky allowed himself a second to stare at Harris. Adam Fuller was a “caring” doctor; which must mean he tried with all his might to save his patients, then gentled them into death when he couldn’t. And in between, he killed people. It was too stupendously weird to begin to contemplate and Latovsky didn’t try.
He picked up the phone; his hand swallowed the tiny receiver with a mouthpiece that was small and flat and stuck out oddly from the handle. He looked at Harris. “Excuse me?”
“Of course.” Harris edged out of the room and shut the door.
Latovsky got an information operator with a heavy West Indian accent who had trouble with Sawyerville. He finally got through the language barrier and a toneless computer voice gave Latovsky the number of the house he’d gone to last Sunday to ask about Raven Lake.
Raven Lake.
Adam Fuller had gone there on Thursday, maybe out of curiosity or to recapture a childhood summer... or to look for Eve. Didn’t matter why; he’d gone and found an empty, isolated house on a lake the color of a raven’s wing.
Raven Lake.
But Harris said Sawyerville and the phone started to ring in the house on Barracks Lane. Latovsky would try Sawyerville because he was not going to jump the gun this time; no shortcuts, everything by the book. He even let the phone ring the requisite five times; it was a small house but he wasn’t going to screw up because Donald Fuller was on the can or drunk or hobbled by the spring-damp mizries and couldn’t get to the phone on three rings. He let the fifth ring die away, then he depressed the key, popped it, and started to dial the general code to get Jed Brannigan’s troop at Echo Lake ten minutes from Raven Lake.