Into the Dark: A Novel of Suspense by Alison Gaylin

Author:Alison Gaylin [Gaylin, Alison]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, General
ISBN: 9780061878251
Publisher: Harper
Published: 2013-01-22T03:00:10+00:00

Chapter 14

As soon as Brenna arrived at the MoonGlow, she saw the coroner’s van parked outside. Oh God, Errol, she thought. What have you done? She hurried into the lobby, pushing past a group of uniform cops and joining five crime scene techs as they jammed into a waiting elevator. The whole while, she was scanning the group for a six-foot-eight-inch man in handcuffs—Errol wasn’t someone who was easy to miss—but she didn’t see him. One of the crime scene techs hit floor four—a heavy girl with butter-blonde hair and a sweet face. “I’m here for Errol Ludlow,” Brenna said to her, trying to sound official.

The girl scrunched up her forehead. “Yeah,” she said. “Us too.”

The doors opened. Down the dingy hallway, Brenna saw police tape covering one of the rooms, medical examiners hustling in with a gurney. She headed down the hall, where a very young guy in a cheap blue suit was talking to another lab tech, just outside the door to the room.

Brenna heard, “Unusual, considering the age and overall health.”

She started to talk to them, but Cheap Blue Suit looked up first. “Miss Spector?” he said.

She blinked at him.

“Sorry,” he said. “I recognized you from TV.” He smiled—a goofy, guileless smile. “Detective Tim Waxman. We talked on the phone.”

“Oh, right.”

Detective Tim Waxman looked young enough to use Clearasil on a regular basis. If Maya brought him to the eighth grade mixer, Brenna wouldn’t have batted an eye, and yet here he was, in his best bad suit with the sleeves too short and the shirt cuffs frayed, standing in this dismal purgatory of a sticky-sheet motel, cleaning up some awful mess made by Errol Ludlow . . . She felt like covering his eyes. “So, you were familiar with Mr. Ludlow,” Tim said.

“Yes, I used to work for him years ago . . . Wait.”

“Yes?”

“Did you just say ‘were’?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Not ‘Are you familiar.’ Were you familiar.”

He looked at the floor. “Yes.”

“Is that significant?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Did . . . That ME was saying . . . Whose age? Whose overall health?”

“I just need to ask you a few simple questions, ma’am.”

“Is Errol dead?”

“Did Mr. Ludlow say anything odd during your phone conversation yesterday?”

“Answer my question.”

“Did he complain of shortness of breath?”

“Oh my God. How did he die?”

“Did he say he felt funny in any way?”

Brenna stared at him.

“Miss Spector?”

“No,” she said quietly. “He . . . he didn’t say he felt funny.”

“Did he have any unhealthy habits?”

The past tense. “He didn’t smoke. He drank occasionally.” She looked at him. “How did he die?”

“We don’t know,” he said. “But it . . . it was peaceful . . .”

The door to the room opened, room 419, a group of uniforms moving aside to make room for the gurney. “Oh my God,” Brenna whispered.

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