their café tables to find melted ice cream or cold plates of linguine with clam sauce.
Jack turned his attention back toward the police. The yellow plastic tape was in place, but two men and a woman ducked under it. The crime scene investigation team had its job to do, which was the protocol for an unwitnessed death in a public place. But for an apparent heart attack, it seemed to Jack that they’d arrived in quite the hurry. Jack walked around to the other side of the fountain and approached the doctor again.
“Excuse me, but did anything about this seem suspicious to you?” Jack asked him.
The doctor shrugged. “Not really. Other than the fact that he was in his late twenties, maybe thirty. Pretty young to have a heart attack. I’d be surprised if the toxicology report doesn’t show something.”
Jack thought back to the earlier phone conversation in his grandfather’s bathroom. The voice on the line had definitely not been an older man’s.
“Yeah,” said Jack. “Something.”
Jack checked his watch: 8:10 P.M. The meeting time was to have been eight o’clock. Jack took one more look at the busy crime scene, then walked away and returned to his table at the café. The fizz had gone out of his sparkling water, but it couldn’t hurt to sit and wait a little longer. Deep down, however, he knew that his informant would be a no-show.
A quick glance at the napkin confirmed it, and Jack felt chills.
On the white paper napkin beneath his water glass was a handwritten note—and Jack was certain that it hadn’t been there before. With a CSI team nearby, Jack had the presence of mind not to touch the napkin or the glass. Condensation from the melted ice had blurred one of the words, and the penmanship wasn’t that good to begin with, but he was still able to read the entire message:
Are you afraid of The Dark?
“Is everything okay?” asked the waiter.
Jack was still staring at the napkin, absorbing the final two words of warning: Back off.
“Sir? Is everything okay?”
Jack glanced toward the crime scene, then back at the waiter. “Did you see anyone come by this table while I was away?”
“No, but to be honest, I was off watching the paramedics, just like everyone else.”
“Almost everyone else,” said Jack, his gaze returning to the napkin. Part of him wanted to get up and scour the mall for clues, but he would make it his job to protect this message from contamination until it could be properly collected and checked for fingerprints and forensic analysis.
“Do me a favor,” he told the waiter. “Ask one of those cops to come over here. And tell him to bring an evidence bag.”
Chapter Sixteen
V incent Paulo hated Sunday nights. Always had. It was the thought of Monday morning that dragged him down. Tonight, however, the culprit was Saturday night—the fallout from what had happened yesterday evening at Lincoln Road Mall, to be exact.
“Are you coming to bed?” asked Alicia.
It was almost eleven, and he was seated in a rocking chair on the screened-in porch, facing their backyard. Crickets made their music in the bushes. Water gurgled from the fountain in the garden. Vince was on his third beer since the Miami Heat had fallen hopelessly behind in the third quarter of the LeBron James show.
“In a little while,” he said.
His wife waited, and he sensed her concern. Finally, her footsteps trailed away to the kitchen, and Vince returned to his thoughts.
Actually, when Vince was a little boy, it wasn’t just Sunday nights that he’d hated. Bedtime in general was a problem. Vince was afraid of the dark. He would lay awake for the longest time—for hours, it seemed, the covers pulled over his head, too scared to make a move. “Just close your eyes and go to sleep,” his mother would say. But Vince couldn’t do it. The Scooby-Doo night-light was of some comfort. But closing his eyes would have meant total darkness, and it was in that black, empty world that monsters
Jack turned his attention back toward the police. The yellow plastic tape was in place, but two men and a woman ducked under it. The crime scene investigation team had its job to do, which was the protocol for an unwitnessed death in a public place. But for an apparent heart attack, it seemed to Jack that they’d arrived in quite the hurry. Jack walked around to the other side of the fountain and approached the doctor again.
“Excuse me, but did anything about this seem suspicious to you?” Jack asked him.
The doctor shrugged. “Not really. Other than the fact that he was in his late twenties, maybe thirty. Pretty young to have a heart attack. I’d be surprised if the toxicology report doesn’t show something.”
Jack thought back to the earlier phone conversation in his grandfather’s bathroom. The voice on the line had definitely not been an older man’s.
“Yeah,” said Jack. “Something.”
Jack checked his watch: 8:10 P.M. The meeting time was to have been eight o’clock. Jack took one more look at the busy crime scene, then walked away and returned to his table at the café. The fizz had gone out of his sparkling water, but it couldn’t hurt to sit and wait a little longer. Deep down, however, he knew that his informant would be a no-show.
A quick glance at the napkin confirmed it, and Jack felt chills.
On the white paper napkin beneath his water glass was a handwritten note—and Jack was certain that it hadn’t been there before. With a CSI team nearby, Jack had the presence of mind not to touch the napkin or the glass. Condensation from the melted ice had blurred one of the words, and the penmanship wasn’t that good to begin with, but he was still able to read the entire message:
Are you afraid of The Dark?
“Is everything okay?” asked the waiter.
Jack was still staring at the napkin, absorbing the final two words of warning: Back off.
“Sir? Is everything okay?”
Jack glanced toward the crime scene, then back at the waiter. “Did you see anyone come by this table while I was away?”
“No, but to be honest, I was off watching the paramedics, just like everyone else.”
“Almost everyone else,” said Jack, his gaze returning to the napkin. Part of him wanted to get up and scour the mall for clues, but he would make it his job to protect this message from contamination until it could be properly collected and checked for fingerprints and forensic analysis.
“Do me a favor,” he told the waiter. “Ask one of those cops to come over here. And tell him to bring an evidence bag.”
Chapter Sixteen
V incent Paulo hated Sunday nights. Always had. It was the thought of Monday morning that dragged him down. Tonight, however, the culprit was Saturday night—the fallout from what had happened yesterday evening at Lincoln Road Mall, to be exact.
“Are you coming to bed?” asked Alicia.
It was almost eleven, and he was seated in a rocking chair on the screened-in porch, facing their backyard. Crickets made their music in the bushes. Water gurgled from the fountain in the garden. Vince was on his third beer since the Miami Heat had fallen hopelessly behind in the third quarter of the LeBron James show.
“In a little while,” he said.
His wife waited, and he sensed her concern. Finally, her footsteps trailed away to the kitchen, and Vince returned to his thoughts.
Actually, when Vince was a little boy, it wasn’t just Sunday nights that he’d hated. Bedtime in general was a problem. Vince was afraid of the dark. He would lay awake for the longest time—for hours, it seemed, the covers pulled over his head, too scared to make a move. “Just close your eyes and go to sleep,” his mother would say. But Vince couldn’t do it. The Scooby-Doo night-light was of some comfort. But closing his eyes would have meant total darkness, and it was in that black, empty world that monsters
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