Ghost Walk Page 4

  Lacey looked around. Cinderblock walls, concrete floor, open beams in the ceiling. No windows; this place was a fortress. A workbench along one wall, cluttered with dusty junk, a furnace in the opposite corner. A washer and dryer in another corner, obviously used by the lack of dust on top. The stairs she trod were wooden and she could see through the risers. The handrails were two-by-fours, dry and splintery with age.

  Sam walked slowly down to the concrete floor, turning slightly this way and that. Ghost radar, Lacey thought. She followed a few steps behind. When he stood at the bottom, he scanned the room, more with his mind, she thought, than his eyes. She noticed he paid particular attention to the corner behind them. Was that where Isabel had been?

  Suddenly he moved off toward the wall. He stood before it momentarily, then hunkered down on the balls of his feet. Lacey carefully stepped up behind him.

  He surprised her by reaching out his hand, although he stopped short of touching the wall. He held his open palm just a few scant inches from the wall, moving it minutely over the surface. Finally he stopped.

  “Look,” he said.

  Lacey bent closer, peering over his shoulder.

  “See these holes?” he asked. Two holes were bored into the cinderblock, each about an inch in diameter and about three inches apart.

  “Yes.”

  “Chains were bolted here,” he said.

  “Chains?” she squeaked.

  “Manacles.”

  He moved further down the wall, still stooped over, his hand leading the way.

  “Here, too,” he said, stopping before another set of holes.

  Lacey scribbled notes.

  “Write this down,” he ordered. “Esther, Laura… Debbie. Susan… No, Sharon.”

  Lacey jotted the names quickly, trying not to get hung up on the last names that she knew went with them.

  Sam let his hand drop to his knee, then pushed himself to his feet. He stood and turned slowly—that ghost radar thing again—and scanned the room with half-closed eyes. Lacey stepped back.

  “That’s all,” he said. He moved toward the stairs and began climbing. Lacey followed.

  At the top of the stairs, he stepped through the doorway but then just stood on the faded area rug that covered most of the hall’s hardwood floor. He turned his head toward other doors and seemed to be listening. After a moment, he said over his shoulder, “Outside,” and strode back toward the living room.

  Lacey turned out the light and pulled the basement door closed, then hurried after him. He went unerringly toward the kitchen, past Mrs. Levinson, and stopped before the back door.

  “Open it.”

  Lacey reached around him and pulled the door open. He stepped out onto the concrete back porch.

  Lacey glanced around. Morning glory vines threaded through trellises on the outside wall of the garage, their flowers closed up for the day. Roses bloomed in neat beds at the base. The back fence was obscured by a thick privet hedge, and a sturdy wooden shed on a concrete slab squatted in front of it.

  All around was quiet mayhem. Several men squatted around a wide hole next to the shed. Two dug with spades, their hands in thin, blue gloves. Another took pictures. Others paced the yard, cell phones to ears, and glanced up in surprise at Sam and Lacey on the porch.

  Sam ignored them and scanned the yard. Lacey watched him. When he stopped, she followed the direction he was looking.

  Back right corner of the yard, she wrote. Where hedge and more roses meet.

  Sam stared for a moment, his nostrils flaring slightly. Then he turned back to the house.

  Lacey was surprised that he opened the door and let himself—and her—in. She closed the door behind them and met up with him and Mrs. Levinson in the kitchen.

  “Water?” the woman offered. She held out a glass to each of them.

  “Thank you,” Lacey said. She took hers and sipped it, noticing Sam did the same. “Can we sit?”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Levinson led them back to the living room. She sat in a scuffed recliner opposite the TV, leaving Sam and Lacey the aging couch. Lacey looked around at the dim room made dimmer by dark-colored furniture. The only bright spots were hand-crocheted doilies on the arms of the chair and couch. The faint odor of lavender permeated the air.

  Sam took off the microphone and handed it and the recorder to Lacey. She unplugged the mic and laid the recorder down on the couch next to her, knowing the condenser mic would continue to pick up the conversation.

  “Thanks so much for letting us do this, Mrs. Levinson.” Lacey set her glass of water down and laid her notepad in her lap. She was fully in cop mode now. “All right, you’ve lived here since 1999, correct?”

  “Yes.” The old lady’s eyes were faded, but she seemed sharp enough. “My husband and I bought the house in May of that year.”

  Lacey glanced around. “Is your husband… here?”

  “He died four years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She cleared her throat. “So, what were the things that prompted you to call Sam? What were you experiencing?”

  Mrs. Levinson sighed. “I’d almost always felt strange things in this house. Like eyes on me. It never really bothered me too much until Arvis died. I, uh, had trouble with depression. Crying, you know.”

  “Yes, of course,” Lacey said. “Perfectly understandable.”

  “But it was worse in some places. Outside in the back yard. I tried to make it pretty out there, peaceful, but it never felt right. I always just felt sad out there. I never wanted to stay out and enjoy it.”

  She shifted in her chair. “The basement was worse. I kept telling myself it was just my imagination, but I’d go down there and just burst into tears. Even before Arvis died, I hated to go down there. He said I was being silly. He said there was nothing there, nothing to worry about, so I would just do whatever I needed to do and come back up. After he died, though, it got worse. It was like I got heavier with every step down. By the time I got to the bottom, I felt like I could barely move. I would just be overwhelmed with sadness. Sometimes I felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

  She paused and dragged in a tortured breath, as if shoring herself up.

  “Then, just a few weeks ago, I went down there and felt something grab me. Grab my arm.”

  Lacey schooled her features to remain calm. “Grab your arm… where? How?”

  Mrs. Levinson held up both hands, then clamped one around the other wrist. “Here, like this.”

  Manacles.

  “Can you describe the feeling?” Lacey asked softly.

  “It was strange,” she said. “It felt threatening, but also… imploring. I wanted to run away, but I also felt like… someone needed help. It scared me. I couldn’t stay there. I had to get out. But I felt terribly sad. When I closed the door, I almost felt as if I were locking someone in there.”

  Lacey nodded, jotting notes. “And after Sam came?”

  “He told me there was a body buried in the back yard. He showed me where, said she was the one who needed help. He said she wanted her parents to know. So I began digging.”

  “And found bones,” Lacey supplied.

  “Yes.” The old woman shivered. “Then I called the police.”

  Lacey took a sip of water. “Have you noticed any difference in the way things feel around here since then?”

  “Sometimes I think so, but I’m not sure. It makes me nervous, having all these people around. I just want them to find all the bones and go away.”

  Lacey kept herself from glancing over at Sam. If he was right, there was going to be a lot more digging, and a lot more bones.

  “Is there any place you can go while the investigation continues?” Lacey asked. “Could you visit friends, your children? That might be easier for you.”

  “But it can’t go on much longer, can it?” she asked anxiously. “It’s been a week already.”

  “Did you and your husband put that shed in the back?” Sam’s sudden question startled Lacey.

>   “No. No, that was already here. It’s one of those sturdy wooden ones, you know? Not those thin metal things.”

  Lacey laid her pad aside and leaned toward the woman. “Mrs. Levinson, we don’t know for sure, but it’s possible there may be another body buried out there. I’m afraid the investigation could go on for a while longer. I’d really like you to think about going to visit someone if you can. Just for a little while. Is there someone?”

  Mrs. Levinson frowned. “My daughter lives in Santa Barbara. My son is in Seattle.”

  “Do they know what’s going on here? Have you told them?”

  “Yes, I did. They couldn’t believe it.”

  Lacey nodded, sitting back. “I’m not surprised. It’s pretty shocking.” She wrote her phone number on a blank sheet of her notepad. “Here’s my number, ma’am. If you have any questions, or if I can help in any way, please call me. But I really think it would be less stressful for you if you went to stay with your kids for a while. I think you’d sleep better, and it would probably be more enjoyable than watching those men out in the back yard.”

  Mrs. Levinson frowned down at the note. “You’re not with the police?” she asked.

  “I’m a private investigator,” Lacey lied. “The LAPD isn’t in the habit of seeking help from mediums like Sam but, like you, I’m willing to try unorthodox methods if it’ll solve the mystery. That’s all we’re trying to do—solve the mystery. Get your home back to normal.”

  “All right.” Mrs. Levinson stood and Sam and Lacey rose as well. They all started toward the door.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Levinson.” Lacey took the woman’s hand in both of hers. “Call me if you have any questions. We’ll keep in touch.”

  Mrs. Levinson glanced at Sam. “Do I need to pay you for…?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Lacey said. “You just take care of you.”

  She let out a long breath as they walked down the porch steps toward the street. Sam walked unerringly toward the crime tape, lifted it up and ducked under, not even waiting for Lacey. She trotted after him.

  “All done?” Bob called. They’d exited so fast, he hadn’t even had time to meet them at the curb.

  “Yes, thanks, Bobby. See ya.” She waved and hurried to catch up with Sam. He was striding toward a battered pickup truck.

  “Sam? Sam!” She hesitated to touch him, but was ready to grab his arm if he didn’t stop. Luckily once he reached his truck, he took hold of the handle but didn’t open the door. Without looking back, he waited for her.

  “Hey,” she said, catching her breath. “I don’t know how you normally process, but can we talk about it? Go somewhere?”

  He turned flinty eyes on her. “Process? That’s a pretty benign way to describe it. What do you do after you’ve stared for hours at photos of children raped and mutilated? Go out for sushi?”

  Lacey tensed at the words hurled at her, at the angry flash of his eyes, the tightness of his jaw.

  “Hey,” she said quietly. “I’m on your side, remember? I want to catch the son of a bitch who did this. I’d love it if neither you nor I ever had to see or feel another murdered kid again. Ever.”

  She stared him down. Not in defiance, not in resistance, but in compassion. Compassion for those poor lost kids, compassion for him for taking on their pain, compassion for her and all the officers who had to participate in the recovery. This wasn’t easy for any of them.

  He blew out a deep breath and Lacey saw his shoulders sag. “Sorry,” he said, but his voice was still brittle, the word bitten off. He looked around the neighborhood as if only just realizing where he was.

  “I, uh, don’t normally do this with anyone, you know?”

  “I understand,” she said, taking a step closer. “This is new territory for both of us. But we need to talk, need to gather up all the clues. We don’t have to do it right now if you don’t want to, but I feel like we should do it soon. You tell me what works for you.”

  She stood very still, trying not to shift her weight from one foot to the other. Sam stared down at the ground, but the hand on the truck’s door handle tightened and released, over and over.

  “All right,” he said. “But no place public. I don’t want to be around people. I don’t want to have to pretend this is an ordinary day.”

  “Sure,” she said. “Your place? My place? I’m about fifteen miles away.”

  He gave her a wry look that on anyone else might have passed for a smile. “My place is pretty much a disaster area. Where’s yours?”

  She gave him the address and a quick rundown of major cross streets.

  “I’ll follow you,” he said, opening the truck door. As he climbed inside, she ran to her car, fumbling her keys out of her purse as she went.

  She thought she lost him once on a busy main street. She slowed, letting the car behind her pass, then another one. Then she saw the dark blue cab of the truck a couple more cars back. When she turned on the next street, he swung around the corner behind her.

  Too late, she tried to remember what state she’d left her apartment in. A cluttered counter to be sure, but no dirty clothes anywhere. She hoped. She pulled into the parking lot of her building and parked in her numbered spot. Just seconds later, Sam pulled his truck to the curb behind her.

  She walked to her door, knowing Sam could see her, and unlocked it. Without waiting, she pushed on in, but left the door open. As she set her things down on the kitchen counter, he stepped into the entry and closed the door behind him.

  Without a word, she fixed them each a glass of ice water. She let him saunter from the living room to the dining room, looking out the slider to the back. When she brought the glasses and handed him one, he took it and sat at the dining room table. She slid into the chair across the corner from him.

  They both sipped the water in silence. They both stared outside. Now that they were here, Lacey felt no urgency. They could sit like this until sundown if he wanted.

  She tried to imagine what this was like for him, tapping into this kind of energy. She knew how she felt every time she stared into the eyes of those missing girls, but she suspected men felt it differently. Men didn’t often find themselves in the role of victim, but most women could relate at some level. Whenever she thought of those girls, she felt their pain as if it were her own. Pain, helplessness, and deep sadness.

  “Do you want to record this?”

  The sudden sound of his voice startled her. She pulled her unseeing gaze from the back yard and settled it on him.

  “No. We don’t need to.” She got up and retrieved her notepad and a pen from her purse. Once she’d settled in her chair again, she flipped through the pages.

  “How do you want to do this?” she asked. “Do you want to just talk through it, you want me to ask questions, what? We can do it however you want.”

  He took another drink of water and set his glass down, ice cubes tinkling.

  “Ask your questions,” he said.

  She nodded. “You gave some names: Esther, Laura, Debbie, Sharon. Did you get any last names?”

  “Gold,” he said. “I imagined an ingot of gold.”

  Lacey jotted that down, trying not to show the excitement she felt. Debbie’s last name was Gold. “Any others?” she asked.

  He thought a moment, then shook his head. “No.”

  “Do you know who’s buried in the far right corner?”

  He swiveled to face her, his expression blank but intent.

  Didn’t think I noticed you looking there? she thought.

  “Esther.”

  Esther Eisenburg. Second to last disappearance. She wondered if these last two were more accessible because they were the most recent.

  “Any idea where the others are?”

  He stared out the window again, both hands around the glass of water.

  “Under the shed.”

  She glanced up. “Under the shed?”

  He nodded. “Underneath the cement pad. They’ll have to bust it up and pry
it out of there.”

  “Jesus,” she breathed, writing that down. No doubt about it, they were going to have to dig up Mrs. Levinson’s entire back yard. Lacey really hoped the old lady would take her advice and get away for a while. A long while.

  What else, she mused, looking over her notes. “I’m not sure how this works,” she said, “but do you get anything about the guy? The perp?”

  Sam stared down at the table top. “Middle-aged, forties or early fifties. Overweight. Single.” He snorted. “No big surprise.”

  Lacey wrote it all down, all but the last, although she silently agreed. “Any name?”

  “No. They may not have even known his name.”

  That brought up a question. “Did they know him? Was he familiar to them at all?” She knew that very often kidnappers did know their victims.

  Sam shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay.” She leaned back in her chair and flipped through her notes again. “I can’t think of anything else. Can you?” She raised her eyes to his.

  He pushed his empty glass away. “No. What time is it?” He glanced around and for the first time Lacey noticed he didn’t wear a watch. She checked hers.

  “Quarter to four.”

  “I gotta go.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. At the same time, his phone chimed from his pocket. He thumbed it open and put it to his ear.

  “Hey, Danny,” he said. “Yeah, okay, I know... No, not yet... I’ll be there in a few. Bye.”

  Lacey had taken both their glasses to the kitchen so as not to eavesdrop, but she could still hear the one-sided conversation. She dumped the ice in the sink and turned back to see Sam pulling his keys out.

  “Is that your son?” she asked.

  He glanced at her, a frown creasing his brow. “How would you know that?” he asked tightly.

  She shrugged. “Research. I ran across him on Facebook when I was trying to find you. Except on Facebook he goes by Daniel.”

  He nodded, the hostility easing. “Yeah, he hates to be called Danny anymore.”

  She walked over to him. “He’s twelve?”

  Sam regarded her for a moment. “That’s on Facebook, too?”

  “Yeah.” She gave him a lopsided smile. “I was thinking you ought to have a talk with him about his privacy settings.”