"Can I help you?" she said.
He was thin, haggard-looking, but clean-shaven and smelling of a spicy after-shave. A bulky overcoat rounded off the sharp edges of his wiry frame.
"You can if you're Miss Lisa Whitman."
"Lisl. That's me. Who are you?"
He fished a black leather folder from within his coat and flashed a badge at her.
"Detective Augustino, Miss Whitman. State Police."
She caught a fleeting glimpse of a blue and gold shield before the flap covered it again, then the folder was on its way back inside the coat.
A sudden surge of panic lanced through Lisl.
Police! They know about the stealing!
She glanced down at her sweater where the gold butterfly with the filigree wings was pinned. She had an urge to cover it with her hand—but that would be like pointing it out to him, wouldn't it?
This was it: shame, disgrace, a criminal record, the end of her career.
"What…" Her mouth was dry. "What do you want with me?"
"Are you the lady who made the complaint about a crank phone call on December sixteenth?"
Crank phone call? December 16th? What on earth was he—?
"Oh, the party! The call at the party! Oh, that's right! Ohmigod, I thought you were—" She cut herself off.
"Thought I was what, Miss Whitman?"
"Nothing! Nothing!" Lisl fought an insane urge to burst out laughing. "Nothing at all!"
"May I come in, Miss Whitman?"
"Yes! Come on in!" she said, opening the door wider and stepping back. She was so weak with relief she had to sit down. "And call me Lisl."
He glanced at the notepad in his hand.
"So it really is Lisl, with an '1' on the end? I thought it was a misprint."
"No. My mother was Scandinavian."
Lisl realized with a shock that she had referred to her mother in the past tense, as if she were dead. After that trip home for Christmas last week, maybe she was dead, in a sense. She brushed the thought away.
"Have a seat, Detective…?"
"Augustino. Sergeant Augustino."
As he sat on her tiny couch and took out a pen, Lisl tried to pin down his accent. There was something strange about the way he talked.
"Now, about that phone call—" he began.
"Why are the police involved?" Lisl said. "I reported it to the phone company."
"Yes, but there's been more than one incident like yours. Southern Bell felt it was serious enough to refer it to the State Police."
Lisl remembered the terror in that child's voice.
"I'm glad they did. It was awful."
"I'm sure it was. Could you describe to me exactly what happened, including the surrounding events? In detail?"
"I already gave that information to the phone company."
"I know, but their report is vague. I need your firsthand account to be sure this is the same. Start at the beginning, please."
Lisl shrank from the thought of reliving that call, but if it would help track down the twisted mind that would pull such a sick stunt, she was all for it.
She told Augustino about the party at Rafe's place, the crowded living room, about the strange endless ring that had set everyone's teeth on edge. She watched him leaning farther and farther forward as she spoke. He was so intent that he wasn't taking any notes.
"And since no one else seemed to want to do it," she said, "I picked up the phone. And that's when I heard that voice." She paused, shivering. "How can I describe the terror in that child's voice?"
Lisl glanced at Sergeant Augustino and knew immediately that she didn't have to describe the voice to him. She saw it in his eyes—the look. Almost like the look she caught in Will Ryerson's eyes every so often.
She said, "You've heard it too, haven't you?"
The woman's words jolted Renny.
How the hell did she know? How could she tell?
Shit, yes, he'd heard that voice. He'd had the unnerving experience five years ago—Christ, it was almost five years ago to the freaking day!—of lifting the receiver on one of those drawn-out rings. He'd heard it. And he'd never forget it. How could he? The voice replayed night after night in his sleep.
He studied Lisl Whitman with renewed respect. This was one sharp gal. Good-looking too.
Looks and smarts—a deadly combination. Renny knew he'd have to watch himself. Not only did he lack any official capacity here in North Carolina, he was impersonating a state cop. And that was molto illegal.
"No, not really," he lied—not well, he knew. "But I've heard the description so many times I almost feel like I have."
She nodded absently. He could tell she didn't believe him.
"Who's behind this?" she said.
"A very sick man. We're trying to track him down."
She looked him squarely in the eyes and said, "Was that a… a real child on the phone?"
"No," Renny said, hoping his eyes didn't betray him. "That was a recording." It has to be.
"But what about my phone cord?"
"What about it?"
"Didn't they tell you? It was disconnected."
He didn't remember the phone company rep mentioning anything about that.
"I don't understand."
"The phone… it wasn't plugged into the wall when I got the call. How is that possible?"
An awful lot of things about this case aren't possible, lady.
"It's not," he told her. "It must have come loose at the end of the call."
"But it didn't. I distinctly remember looking down and seeing the phone cord coiled on the floor a couple of feet away from the phone."
A chill skittered across Renny's shoulders. She had to be mistaken. But after what he'd seen five years ago, wasn't anything possible?
He pulled himself together. This was no way to think. He'd always followed the old Sherlock Holmes dictum to eliminate the impossible. Well, what she was telling him was pretty goddam impossible. It would only muddy the waters if he gave it any space.
Renny shook his head and changed the subject.
"But this is not the address at which the incident occurred, am I correct?"
Renny congratulated himself on how official that sounded.
"No," she said. "It was at Rafe Losmara's. That should be in the report too."
"It is. But every time I call Mr. Losmara or stop by his place, there's no one home."
"That's strange…" she said.
"How long have you known Mr. Losmara?"
"Only a few months."
"Only a few months." Renny sensed he was getting warm. He could feel the excitement building. "So you don't know him that well."
He saw her back stiffen.
"I know him very well."
"Could you describe him to me?" Renny said.
He'd been looking for an answer to that question for nearly two weeks now.
She described Losmara in glowing terms. Obviously these two had a thing going. Lucky Losmara. But Renny found his hot trail cooling rapidly. The man she described was too short, too dark, too small, and about twenty-five years too young.
Not Ryan. No way.
So much for that theory. But that didn't mean that Ryan hadn't been there. Maybe he didn't own the place, but he'd been at that party. No question. Renny would stake his life on it.
"Could I have a guest list?"
"You can't think that anyone at the party—?"
"Of course not. But it's all we have to go on for now. It might be useful."
She rose and went to a small desk in the corner of the living room and began rummaging through the papers that cluttered its surface. Abruptly she held up a sheet of paper.
"Got it! I always knew there was a reason never to throw anything away."
She handed it to him.
"I'll tell you what, though," he said, glancing down at the long list of names. "You could do me a favor and pare this down by eliminating anyone you've known for more than five years or who you're certain has been in the area at least that long."