The Silence That Speaks (Forensic Instincts 4)

“You bet.” She paused. “Marc is going to be meeting with Casper. Talk to Marc and figure out a way that you can go together. I want to know how strong an energy you pick up there—and if it matches whatever you got from Bitch Doctor.”

* * *

A Starbucks was just three blocks from the hospital. One venti Americano and blueberry scone later, Trix sat down at the round table in the middle of the café. Trix put down the snack and pulled out a digital recorder, turning it on and placing it on the table.

It was time to collect a sample to test the capabilities of Audio Detracktor. Trix needed to know just how accurate the app would be in separating and enhancing even the most insignificant of sounds. It would be interesting to hear what noise would be the Starbucks equivalent of a guitar pick bouncing off the stage, just as the Sound on Sound review had described.

All the sounds of Starbucks filled the café. The squeal of the steam wands. The rush of hot coffee being poured from urns. The beep of the oven popping out freshly warmed pastries. The whirring of blenders mixing frappuccinos for the local teenagers.

Two such teens were at the next table over, taking selfies and shrieking at their iPhones as friends sent them photos via Snapchat. The recorder captured the girls’ conversation—something about their plans over the holiday break. Two more girls joined them at the table carrying bright pink blended beverages—cotton candy frappuccinos OMG—and Trix heard the sound of their tall green straws as the girls slurped up the diabetes-inducing liquid. Talk about a sugar rush. Trix pitied their parents. But the straw sounds were perfect for the audio test.

Satisfied that there was enough material captured, Trix finished the scone, packed up the recorder and began the walk to the subway, Americano in hand.

* * *

It was November, so darkness fell early. Cold. Windy. Naked trees casting shadows everywhere. And not even a sliver of moonlight to lessen the creepiness of the night.

Madeline rubbed her arms to warm the internal chill that pervaded her body. Then she looked out her bedroom window and down at the street for the fifth time in the past hour.

The same car was there, parked by the curb. A black sedan—maybe a Mercedes or a BMW. Madeline couldn’t make it out in the blackness, nor see how many occupants were inside. But the vehicle had been in the same spot for several hours now, right next to a fire hydrant. Once, a police car had made its rounds, turning down the street. Clearly having spotted the officers, the driver of the sedan had eased away, heading smoothly down the block.

Ten minutes later, it was back.

It couldn’t be a coincidence. The driver of that car was watching her apartment. Watching her.

Trembling violently, Madeline turned away, trying to be rational. So a car was parked outside. It could be an airport service picking up a passenger. It could be someone who was waiting for a friend and didn’t want to go to a parking garage.

Or it could be someone scrutinizing her apartment and her.

She drew the blinds, telling herself that she was being paranoid. Why would someone be watching her apartment?

Because they were trying to figure out the logistics of what was going on inside. They were trying to discern if there was a guard stationed in the apartment. And they were trying to determine how to get inside and finish what they started.

Was someone planning to kill her right here in her apartment?

Panic rising inside her, Madeline walked back to the window like a child who was terrified of a movie, but had to peek through their fingers to see what was happening, anyway. She shifted the blinds aside and pressed close to the window, squinting as she desperately tried to make out the driver or the license plate or something that could help her identify who and why the driver was there.

Abruptly the car headlights came on, as if they’d spotted her and were zeroing in on her.

Freezing in place, Madeline lost it entirely.

She rushed to the bedroom door, yanked it open and hurried into the foyer.

John was posted near the door, sitting on a folding chair and reading something on his iPad.

“Ms. Westfield?” He stood up, seeing her ashen coloring. “Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know.” Madeline was still rubbing her arms, more vigorously now. “There’s a car outside. It’s been sitting there for hours in direct view of my apartment.”

John went straight to Madeline’s bedroom, and moved the curtain at her window ever so slightly. “The black sedan?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call Patrick. He’ll cruise by and s

ee what’s up. I’ll stay here with you.” He’d already punched on his phone.

“No. Wait.” Madeline had no idea what she was doing. She only knew she was doing it. “Before you call Patrick, I want to call another member of the FI team. He can stay with me while you and Patrick go out together.”