Into the Light (The Light #1) Read online

  His having the old school building under his control guaranteed its abandoned appearance, and he also had control of the two buildings with the passage between, and the perfect cover for production of anything he wanted.

  If I took my theory to the next logical step, and the witnesses’ mother was also correct, there was a connection between The Light and the missing women. I wasn’t convinced it also included the dead women. Perhaps that was me trying to incorporate too much, but I knew that at the very least I had something for Bernard, and that story alone could get him entry to the old school building on Glendale. If the only thing that was being done inside its walls was the making of delicious preserves, then we had a missing-persons story, possible tax fraud of a not-for-profit, and tax evasion of Gabriel Clark/Garrison Clarkson. If instead there was a connection to the drug story I’d originally begun researching, then Bernard Cooper would hit pay dirt. With a week and a half to spare on Bernard’s deadline, this story that had taken me months had the potential to give him national exposure.

  Since the pieces were just now falling into place, I hadn’t shared them, but I’d saved everything on my laptop. Each day I also e-mailed the zip files to myself, knowing that in the case of fire or burglary, they’d at least exist in cyberspace. As one last precaution, I backed everything up on a hard drive that stayed hidden in my underwear drawer. Though it seemed excessive, I knew this was big. For that reason I purposely didn’t have any information on my work computer. I feared the server wasn’t secure.

  The rush of it all made me almost giddy. I made my way through the medical center in search of Tracy. I found her sitting in the waiting area with her knee bobbing up and down. As soon as our eyes met, she got up and hurried in my direction. My elation evaporated at the lines around her eyes and her furrowed brow.

  “Tracy, what is it? Is someone you know . . . ?”

  That didn’t make sense. She wouldn’t call me.

  “No,” she said, taking my hand and leading me through a pair of double doors. “I have a good friend who’s an emergency room doctor. We went to med school together.” Her voice was a low whisper. “We were talking a few weeks ago about unusual cases; I mentioned some of the things we’d discussed. Then last night she called me.” As we moved along the quiet corridor, she looked about nervously. “I promised her that you wouldn’t use her name. HIPAA violations are seriously frowned upon, but when she told me about the woman’s fingertips, I came to see. That’s when I called you.” We stopped at a private room where beeps came from behind the door. Tracy squeezed my hand and whispered excitedly, “Wait until you see this!”

  My heart raced as we approached the woman in the bed. She was connected to multiple tubes and equipment. Her right cheek was swollen and purple and her eyes were closed. Tracy reached for the unconscious woman’s hand and turned it palm upward. Her fingertips were white, the skin freshly burned.

  I gasped. “Has she spoken? Does anyone know what happened?”

  Tracy shook her head. “No, she was found near Woodward Avenue and Richton Street, running and stumbling with no coat or shoes. A motorist picked her up and brought her here. The man said that she was barely conscious when he found her, but by the time he arrived, she was passed out.”

  “Did she say anything to him? Have the police been called?”

  “I don’t know any more from the man who brought her here. Even what I’ve told you is classified. DPD came when she first arrived, but nothing can be done without her statement.”

  I scanned her from head to toe: only her upper chest, head, and arms were visible. “Other injuries?”

  Tracy nodded. “Again, I haven’t been told much. We need to get out of here before someone finds us. That’s why I wanted you to come now, before the morning commotion.”

  “We passed the nurses’ station,” I reminded her.

  “I have a few friends. Officially we’ve never been here.”

  I touched the woman’s arm and thought about the victims in Tracy’s morgue. Thankfully, despite what she’d been through, this woman was warm.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Tracy said. “As long as you promise her anonymity, my friend who was the attending doctor last night said she’d talk with you.”

  I agreed.

  A few minutes later we were seated in the hospital’s cafeteria, nursing cups of hot coffee and talking with Dr. Jennings, a young woman of Asian descent, with tired eyes and pulled-back hair.

  “I can’t go on record,” she began.

  I shook my head. “You won’t. I promise. Thank you for speaking to me.”

  She nodded toward Tracy. “She told me what you’ve been trying to do. As soon as I saw the fingertips, I remembered Tracy’s stories. That’s why I called.”

  “Did the patient say anything?”

  “No, she’s been unconscious since she arrived. Not only is she injured, but she was suffering from hypothermia. I think it was near twenty degrees last night.”

  I took a deep breath. “What about the Good Samaritan who brought her in? Did she say anything to him?”

  Dr. Jennings shook her head. “He said she was incoherent, all she talked about was a light.” Dr. Jennings rubbed her temples. “The poor man said he kept telling her not to go toward it. I think he was afraid she might die right there in his car.”

  My entire body trembled. I needed to speak with this woman or even the man who had saved her. A light had to be The Light, it just had to be. This would be the connection to the dead women.

  Dr. Jennings agreed that I could wait for the woman to regain consciousness, and if that happened before her identity was learned and her family or the police stepped in with an order prohibiting visitors, I could talk to her.

  I waited impatiently, wishing I’d brought my laptop to record my observations and nursing my third cup of coffee. Without food, my stomach continued to twist, creating knots upon knots. Perhaps that was why I startled when one of the nurses from the ICU tapped my shoulder. “Miss Montgomery?”

  “Oh! Yes, is the patient awake?”

  “No, ma’am, not yet; however, there’s a call for you at the nurses’ station.”

  I straightened my shoulders. “For me?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He asked that I get you.”

  I nodded. “OK”—I stood—“thank you.”

  As I followed the larger woman in dark-blue scrubs, my mind searched for who could possibly be calling me at the hospital. It wasn’t yet seven in the morning, and I hadn’t even told Bernard or Foster where I was.

  “Hello?” I asked tentatively.

  “Stella Montgomery?”

  My forehead furrowed. “Yes?”

  “My name’s Paul. I’m the man who found the woman last night on Woodward. I have a few minutes before work if you’d like to get my statement.”

  My tired mind came to life. “Yes, Paul. Thank you, I’d love to do that. Thank you so much for helping her and talking to me. Can I get your last name, and where I can meet you?”

  “I’d rather do this off the record, so no last name. But I want to help that lady. I work at a dry cleaner on Grand Boulevard in New Center. Martin’s. Can you meet me there?”

  My body tingled with excitement. “Yes, I understand. I won’t use your name. I’ll be there in less than half an hour.”

  “It’s kind of busy this time of day, but there’s a flat lot two blocks away behind Market on State Street.”

  Behind Market on State, I made a mental note.

  “Thank you, Paul, I’ll be right there.”

  It was probably all the coffee and the lack of food, but my grip tightened on my steering wheel as I approached Market. It wasn’t a street, but a big building filled with different establishments. It had another name, but people who were familiar with the area called it the Market. Over the years, locals shortened that to just Market. Turning off the main street, I turned onto State. In this area of town it was more of an alleyway than a street. The flat lot had an attendant.
/>   Rolling down my window, I asked, “May I park here?”

  “Five bucks for an hour, thirty for all day,” the man said, handing me a ticket.

  As I put the ticket on the dashboard, the screen in my car lit, indicating a new text message. Out of habit, I hit the button for my car to speak.

  Text message from Tracy Howell: I SPOKE WITH PAUL SWIVEL, THE MAN WHO FOUND THE WOMAN LAST NIGHT. HE SAID HE’D THINK ABOUT GIVING YOU A STATEMENT. I’LL KEEP YOU POSTED.

  As I looked back up at the attendant, the large black man suddenly seemed vaguely familiar.

  There was a sharp pain in my neck and my world went black.

  CHAPTER 30

  Bernard

  I sent another text message to Stella; that made four. She’d never refused to answer me before. I knew I’d been a hard-ass about the deadline, but there were other stories out there that she could research. She said it wasn’t because of Mindy that she continued to pursue these leads, but I knew in my gut it was. I also knew that if she could connect the dots—if there were dots to connect—it’d be one hell of a story. That’s why I’d given her so much time. It wasn’t as if I had to answer to anyone. She worked for me. I worked for the station, but WCJB wouldn’t question my allocation of hours.

  I picked up the desk phone and called Foster. “Have you heard from Stella today?”

  “No, she’s probably checking out one of her leads. She’s been getting excited about things coming together.”

  “Has she told you any of it?” I asked.

  “Some. I know she was checking out properties owned by Entermann’s Realty. There was something about a private landing strip in Bloomfield Hills. That’s all she’s shared.”

  “I wish she’d text me back.”

  “Bernard, she’s not Mindy. She’s smart and has a good gut. Besides, she’s got Richards looking out for her. Give her some space. She’ll text back.”

  I rubbed my temples. He was probably right. Mindy’s disappearance had us all on edge. “Hey, speaking of Richards, what did you learn about him?”

  “Nothing that we don’t already know. There was that one quirky thing about a utility bill on some mansion, but none of it checked out. Stella told me his parents were deceased. That checked out. Everything else was pretty boring.”

  I shook my head. “Fine. If you hear from her, let me know.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Meetings, calls, and general business ensued. It was nearing five in the evening when Foster knocked on my door.

  “I’m heading out. I never heard from Stella, have you?”

  Shit!

  “No, hang on a second. Let me call her again.” I’d already called three times and had no idea the number of text messages I’d sent. Just like the other three times, the call went straight to voice mail. I shook my head.

  “What about—?” Foster asked.

  “Richards? I’ve got his number here someplace.”

  Foster placed a Post-it note on my desk. “I’ll admit it, the Mindy thing has me worried too. Stella’s a smart girl. I’m sure everything is fine. I’d just like to know.”

  Nodding, I dialed the number on the Post-it note. Richards answered on the third ring.

  “Richards.”

  “This is Bernard Cooper. I was wondering if you’ve spoken to Stella today.”

  “This morning, why?”

  “When this morning?”

  “Why? Where did you send her?” Richards’s volume rose.

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t send her anywhere.” My eyes met Foster’s.

  “Sure you did,” Dylan Richards replied. “She got a call early this morning. I don’t know, like three o’clock or something. Hell, I don’t remember. I went back to sleep.”

  My heartbeat quickened. “What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t call her at three in the morning.”

  “Well, fuck, someone did. She took off.”

  I shook my head. “And you have no idea where she went?”

  “Listen,” Richards said, modulating his voice. “Tell me she said something about wherever she went once she got to the station.”

  “That’s just it. She never came to WCJB. I haven’t been able to reach her all day.”

  “How about her apartment?”

  I shook my head. “What about it?”

  “Maybe she went back there and fell asleep. It was early when she left.”

  I took a deep breath, my eyes still fixed on Foster’s. “Foster’s with me. We’ll meet you there.”

  “OK, shit. I have a key. I can be there in forty minutes.”

  “Richards, I’m calling DPD to meet us.” My chest clenched at my next sentence. “In case it’s a crime . . .” I couldn’t say it.

  “Fine, I won’t go in, but I’m knocking the shit out of that damn door. This better be some big fuck-up, or else . . .”

  My neck straightened. “Or else what?”

  “You know where you’ve been sending her. Don’t you give a fuck about her safety?”

  “Richards, shut the hell up. We’ll be there with DPD in forty minutes.”

  “I am DPD. I’ll have someone with me.”

  One week later—still nothing. The evening at Stella’s apartment had come up empty. I might not have liked Dylan Richards, but the man was a basket case. Between the DPD officers who’d accompanied him and ours, we’d had a shit-ton of officers there. He kept it together better than most would in his situation with his girlfriend missing, but once the crowds thinned he did little to hide the frustration and desperation on his face. I’d talked to him almost every day since.

  DPD taped off her apartment and searched it thoroughly. Her laptop was missing. I’d seen it with her sometimes while she worked. All we could assume was that she took it with her that morning. Richards said he didn’t know. He’d fallen back asleep after she’d left. No flash drives or backup hard drives were found.

  The DPD forensics team was able to get her MAC address from her router. With that the team searched for her computer. All it would take to find it, would be for it to be turned on and connected to Wi-Fi. It hadn’t been since the night before she disappeared.

  Foster gained access to her personal and work e-mails as well as her search history on her computer at WCJB. The search history confirmed her research into Entermann’s Realty and Wilkens Industries. She’d searched Google Earth, but specifics couldn’t be found. When Foster went back in time he found her preliminary research into the property on Glendale Avenue in Highland Heights. It was what had prompted her to dig into Entermann’s Realty. Foster said he’d seen a list of their holdings, yet it wasn’t in her e-mail. We could only presume she’d deleted the e-mail to protect her source. Of course her e-mail trash was empty. One of the oldest and usually most reliable ways to back up information is to e-mail it to yourself. There was no evidence that Stella had done that.

  The only other source of information was her phone. A call had been placed to her at 2:48 a.m. the morning of her disappearance. It had come from the assistant forensic pathologist at the Wayne County Medical Examiner’s private cell number. Dr. Tracy Howell claimed she and Stella had become friends and admitted to calling her and asking Stella to meet her at the medical center to see a patient. Unfortunately, the patient she mentioned had never been identified and was now in the Wayne County Morgue. There was an ongoing internal investigation at the medical center, but primary information indicated the patient had suffered a severe allergic reaction to pain medication. Anaphylactic shock had occurred before treatment could commence, and resulted in death.

  No calls or text messages had been sent from Stella’s phone the day of her disappearance. Calls from Richards, Foster, me, and Tracy Howell had been received but never answered. Some of us had left voice mails. Text messages had been received from Dr. Howell, Richards, and me. There was absolutely nothing else.

  Her car had been found the day after her disappearance in a flat lot in New Center. The crime lab dusted i
t—nothing. Unfortunately, Stella had chosen one of the few lots in the New Center area without video or even picture surveillance.

  Each day was worse than the one before. Two women working for WCJB were officially missing. Vanished from sight. Disappeared into thin air. While speculations ran wild, for those of us who knew them, it was devastating.

  CHAPTER 31

  Sara

  One morning in June, Dinah and I met Raquel and Elizabeth in the coffee shop before work. Since the Assemblymen needed to be at Assembly early, the night before at prayer Raquel had mentioned that we should start our day with friends. To my delight our husbands had agreed to this unusual impromptu outing. Standing at a tall table, I stirred cream into my coffee and half listened as the other wives chatted about nothing in particular. When something was said about the dark, my ears perked up.

  I leaned over the table and spoke quietly. “I know I shouldn’t, but I wish I remembered. I think it’s cool that you do.”

  “I don’t remember either,” Dinah said. “I think I blocked it out.”

  Elizabeth sighed, her green eyes moist.

  I reached out and touched her hand. “What’s the matter?”

  She looked up. “Nothing.”

  Raquel hugged Elizabeth. “Maybe we should go somewhere a little more private?”

  Standing taller than her already tall height, Elizabeth swallowed and nodded.

  “We’ll see you later,” Raquel said as she led Elizabeth away.

  I turned to Dinah. “What was that? I’ve never seen Elizabeth that way.”

  Dinah leaned close. “I feel so dumb. I wasn’t even thinking.”

  My eyes silently questioned.

  “She’s not allowed to talk about it, but she did open up once in prayer meeting. You must not remember.”

  “I don’t, but if she said it in front of me once, would it be wrong if you shared?”