Whisper in the Dark (A Thriller) by Robert Gregory Browne Page B

my ass or any other part of my anatomy, I swear to God I’ll file papers against you so fast you won’t know which way is up.”
    Blackburn stifled a smile, but Carmody caught it.
    “What?” she barked. “What’s so funny?”
    “Do you ever stop and listen to yourself?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You just said ‘crack about my ass.’ Even you’ve gotta admit that’s pretty fuckin’ hilarious.”
    Carmody’s face hardened. “You’re emotionally retarded, you know that?”
    “I’ve been accused of much worse. But tell me something. If you despise me so goddamn much . . .” He hesitated.
    “What?”
    “Why the hell did you sleep with me?”
    The question was a surprise. Even for Blackburn, who wasn’t quite sure why he’d asked it.
    A renewed spark of anger lit Carmody’s eyes—a look Blackburn knew all too well. If he pushed much harder, the nest would burst and there’d be hell to pay.
    “I mean it, Frank. Don’t fuck with me. I did you a favor transferring to Homicide without making a fuss. But if you start getting cute again, I will not hesitate to take you down.”
    “You didn’t answer the question.”
    “And I’m not going to,” she said. “We made a mistake. One I regret and you just can’t seem to let go of. But as far as I’m concerned, that whole conversation is permanently off the table.”
    Ouch.
    “All right, all right,” Blackburn said. “Don’t get your pretty little panties in a wad. I’m about as happy as you are about this situation, but I promise to behave.”
    “I wish I could believe you.”
    “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”
    “What the hell does that mean?”
    “My mother used to say it. Mostly around Christmas and birthdays. What it means is that you don’t always get what you want. But I’m making you a promise to be a good little soldier. And in return for that promise, I’m asking you to do me just one favor.”
    She studied him dubiously. “What?”
    “Loosen the fuck up.”
     

18
     
    S HORTLY AFTER HE got off the phone with Blackburn, there was a knock at Tolan’s door. He jerked in surprise, then immediately felt foolish for allowing it to startle him.
    He wasn’t normally the jumpy type. But then this situation wasn’t exactly normal, was it?
    There was no mistaking Vincent’s threat.
    He wanted Tolan dead.
    And when someone as skilled and dangerous as Vincent Van Gogh wants you dead, well . . . It’s usually a matter of where and when.
    Tolan stared at the link at the bottom of his computer screen.
     
    ABBY TOLAN
     
    He thought again of the night the police had called him. The shower running behind him, a naked stranger waiting, the sudden shame he’d felt soak into his bones as his cell phone rang.
    You. You hurt me.
    He hadn’t been asked to identify the body. That’s how bad it was. The killing had been so brutal, so unrelenting, that they’d been forced to confirm Abby’s identity through dental records. She had been found in her studio darkroom, her body in pieces and burned by photo chemicals.
    Tolan had never seen the crime scene photos. Hadn’t wanted to. Yet when Vincent had directed him to that link, which he knew would lead him straight to the horror in Abby’s darkroom, he had to admit that he’d been tempted to look.
    Only sheer willpower kept him from clicking it.
    Another short knock snapped him out of his thoughts. Then the door opened and Lisa stuck her head in.
    Tolan immediately closed his laptop.
    “You’ve been in here half the morning,” she said. “Some of your patients are getting anxious. Especially Bobby Fremont.”
    “Bobby’s always anxious. I really wish you’d be careful around him.”
    “He’s not going to hurt me. I’m the only friend he has in this place. And he wants to know why you canceled group.”
    “What did you tell him?”
    “That you’d explain at this afternoon’s session.”
    Tolan nodded. “Assuming there is one.”
    She frowned at him. “What’s