Down the Rabbit Hole Read online

  “I don’t know, exactly. It’s another character in the story.”

  “Figured. And here, the last thing she wrote. ‘Day and night, darkness bright, he has the sight and feeds it on their sorrow. Bright and mad, deceiving sad, take what they had and bring them death tomorrow.’”

  Eve glanced up. “Then she writes ‘WHY CAN’T I REMEMBER?’ in all caps, and circles it again and again.”

  “So he used her, probably to solicit rich clients—the dormouse counting the money—and somehow blocked her memory of it.”

  “Something like that,” Eve agreed. “But the keys here are ‘he.’ So it’s a man, like Mira predicted, and more, there are three. If we take this literally. Mad Hatter, March Hare, Dormouse. Three of them working this.”

  “It’s weird to the mega. Where do you want me to start?”

  “Take the kitchen,” Eve told her as the morgue team did their work. “We’re going to send samples of any tea, coffee, herbs—hell, pretty much any consumables. And we’ll get the sweepers in here, in case there’s anything.”

  McNab, who could’ve passed for a weird psychic in his sunburst shirt and the hip-swinging vest covered with neon blue stars, came to the doorway, then sidestepped for the morgue team and body bag.

  “We may have something.”

  “What something?” Eve demanded.

  “We found a memo cube in the room across the hall. A recording. Roarke says it’s your vic’s voice. It’s weird, like she was in a trance.”

  Eve nudged by him and went into the room where Roarke stood working his PPC.

  “Her circle of light,” he said.

  “Yeah, I saw that. This cube?”

  When he nodded, she picked it up and activated it.

  “In my circle the door is closed. Nothing passes through. Safe and quiet mind, safe and quiet mind. Too much blood! Too much. What have I done? Help me see. Blue smoke, blue light. Too many voices. Quiet, be still.”

  Just breathing now, long, deep, a shuddering breath, and more steady ones.

  “Blue smoke, blue light. See through it. See true. Bright, bright, bright. Not true. A lie, another lie. I am not weak.”

  Weeping now, the words thick with tears.

  “I found my strength after the lies. These are just more. I didn’t see. I didn’t know. Bright. It hurts to see. It hurts to know. Blood on my hands. So much blood. Bright blood. A lie, see through the lie to truth. Simon. Zacari. Roland. Carroll, and more and more. One truth in the lies. Where is the truth? All are death. That is the truth.

  “Now rest, just rest, mind, body, spirit. Know his truth is death, and don’t follow.”

  “Peabody, run those names and all combinations. Simon, Zacari, Roland, Carroll—add bright into them. She says bright too often for it not to mean something.”

  “I already am.” Roarke continued to work his PPC. “Give us a few minutes here, it’s a dicey job on a handheld.”

  “McNab, tag Feeney. Let him know we need the lab. It’ll go faster at Central.”

  “Considerably,” Roarke agreed.

  “We’ll load up her electronics, take them with us. Let’s move. Peabody, let Dawson know the sweepers need to send samples of anything she’d have consumed to the lab. Officer . . .” She read the name tag of the uniform on the door. “Kinsey. Hold here for the sweepers.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They hauled down Dupres’s tablets, ’links, desk comp.

  “Roarke, narrow the search, crossing the names with psychic and/or medium work and licenses.”

  “I didn’t just come down in the last shower of rain,” he replied, and slid into the passenger seat.

  “What does that even mean?” She gauged the traffic, cursed it, then shot away from the curb. She felt the first real crack in the case, needed to widen it—and snarled at the fat, sticky knot of vehicles in her way.

  “I’m going in hot,” she announced, hitting lights and sirens.

  In the back, Peabody said, “Oh boy,” and clamped her hand on McNab’s. Focused on the work, Roarke simply tightened his seat belt without glancing up.

  “I might have something on Zacari. One Anton Zacari, lived and worked as a spiritual consultant in Prague from 2049 to 2052. Closed up shop, relocated to Kashmir.”

  “Where?”

  “Himalayas, darling. And there he went missing on a mountain trek, and is presumed dead.”

  “The dead don’t kill.” Judging an opening, she punched for more speed. “Got an image of him?”

  “I do. Age forty-eight when he dropped off the grid. No marriage, no co-habs, no criminal. Hmmm.”

  “Try an image match with the other names,” she began, then caught his quiet stare as she hit a fast vertical to circumvent vehicles that wouldn’t get the hell out of her way. “Fine. If you’re so damn smart, why aren’t you a cop?”

  “You’ve just answered your own question. Image matches will go smoother and faster in the lab, but I’ve got something here on Roland. Angus Roland, spiritualist, Edinburgh, 2045 to 2048. Relocated to Istanbul, where he drowned in a boating incident in the Sea of Marmara. Body never recovered. Isn’t that interesting?”

  “It’s bollocks, that’s what it is. Image?”

  “At a glance, no match, but . . . with a bit of work. Ages are wrong by a few years, but only a few.”

  “Changes appearance and ID, fakes death after a relocation. The world’s his sick playground.” Eve ignored the wide eyes of a pedestrian foolish enough to try to beat the sirens, swung hard to miss said idiot, then zipped back to avoid a collision with an oncoming Rapid Cab.

  “Stop muttering, Peabody,” Eve ordered.

  “She’s praying, Dallas.” She caught McNab’s grin in the rearview. “This is some wicked ride.”

  She hit vertical again, did a kind of midair, two-wheeler turn to take the corner tight enough to have the glida-cart operator doing business on it scramble back.

  “Wasn’t that close,” Eve said under her breath. “Glorified grifter, that’s what he is. If the other names don’t run the same, I’ll kiss McNab’s bony white ass.”

  From the backseat, McNab snickered. “How can I lose?”

  The comment pulled a reluctant laugh out of Eve as she arrowed toward Central’s garage. And with a scream of tires and a squeal of brakes, she shot into her slot.

  “Thank you, Jesus, Buddha, and the goddess Morgana.” On shaky knees, Peabody climbed out. “I covered my bets.”

  “Lab.” Eve doubled-timed it to the elevator. “Three or four years in one location. How long’s he been in New York? How long does he stay after he scores?”

  She rode up to her level, cops and staff and civilians clambering on and off. “I need five in my office.” She bulled her way off. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  “She needs to put Dupres on her board,” Roarke commented. “Acknowledgment.”

  “We’ll get him.” Since Eve wasn’t there, McNab wound his arm around Peabody’s shoulders, gave her a squeeze. “On the scent now.”

  When they got off and turned toward the lab, e-geek Callendar crossed paths. She wore a hat with snowmen dancing around the brim and a scarf of purple, yellow, and green in lightning bolt stripes—both courtesy of Peabody’s talent with yarn.

  “Yo. Heard you caught a hot one.”

  “Scalding. You out?”

  “Was. Scalding?”

  “Total,” McNab confirmed. “Multi-search, single name cross, global, image matches with variance. Background, deep, on the bogus front—missing and presumed.”

  “True? Psychic deal, yeah?”

  “True. Fresh DB on the slab.”

  “Want assist?”

  “Won’t say no.”

  “All in.” She pivoted, walked with them to the lab. She gave Roarke a sunny smile. “Dallas?”

&nbs
p; “Had to make a stop. She’ll be along.”

  “Chill.”

  When they reached the lab, Callendar pulled off her green coat with its purple sleeves and unwound her scarf. Under it she sported a cap-sleeve sweater in puce over a long-sleeve turquoise tee, lime green baggies, and buttercup yellow knee boots.

  Between her and McNab it looked as if neon had invaded the planet. Then Feeney stepped in wearing his habitual shit brown jacket and wrinkled beige shirt. The contrast only made the neon glow more fiercely.

  He scratched his fingers through his wiry mop of silver-threaded ginger and studied the transported electronics with his baggy, basset hound eyes.

  “Callendar, let’s you and me give these toys a what-for while the others get set up.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

  Roarke found it surprisingly easy to fall into work rhythm with a lab of cops. He shifted away from that work for a moment and ordered three large pizzas with a variety of toppings. His wife would mutter about it, but she’d eat.

  In the shorthand geek-speak that made Eve’s eyes glass over, he and McNab worked out a plan of attack and, with Peabody on auxiliary, settled into it.

  Through the glass walls of the lab, Eve noted the sharp and colorful Callendar chair dancing as she worked beside Feeney. Peabody huddled over a comp while McNab stood, that bony white ass tick-tocking, and Roarke—suit jacket shed, sleeves rolled up, hair back in a leather thong—sat on a stool dancing his fingers over a keyboard and a touch screen.

  She stepped in and frowned at the chatter. Why couldn’t geeks just speak regular English?

  “Status?”

  “We’re running deep on your vic’s e’s,” Callendar told her. “In case something’s buried or pinched.”

  “Doing background, underlayment,” Peabody said, “on the two Roarke pulled.”

  “Image matches on auto.” Roarke continued to work. “Analysis of facial elements, probability run on possible reconstruction.”

  “Got reports on the missings and presumed,” McNab added. “And jiving into search and cross on remaining names.”

  “And there. See it?”Roarke asked.

  McNab shifted toward Roarke. “And there’s the bingo. Collect the stuffed elephant.”

  “Carroll, Niles George, licensed psychic and hypnotherapist, London, 2039 through 2044. You could toss this image in the mix, Ian.”

  “All about it.”

  “A bit of trouble here.”

  “Yeah, I see that.” Eve stepped closer to read the data on the screen. “Had a client walk out of his place, go to her son’s place, and, Jesus, set fire to it. The son, his wife, and two children got out. The client didn’t.”

  She felt the pieces fall into place as she read on. “Hallucinogens found in her system. By the time they traced her steps back to this Carroll—and you have to wonder about anybody with three first names—he was in the wind. He could blow pretty far with the three-quarters of a million he’d pulled from the dead client over six months. Some other clients dumped another five million and change on him during his London stint.”

  “See here?” Roarke brought up another report. “The son was taking legal steps to take over his mother’s finances, citing mental and emotional instability.”

  “Which gives Carroll—or whatever the hell name—motive to get rid of the son, and the client while he’s at it. Drain them, eliminate them, and blow. He doesn’t just blow, doesn’t just shift away from one client to an easier mark, because deluding the client into killing a loved one is part of the whole. Maybe his end game.”

  “His name wasn’t Carroll.” Peabody swiveled on her stool. “Niles George Carroll with that ID number didn’t exist before 2038. It’s pretty good fake data, but there are holes, and when you go into them, it falls apart.”

  “Got more names here.” Feeney leaned back in his chair. “Dupres encoded them, sandwiched between other data.”

  “Looks like she did the input about three this morning,” Callendar added. “The way it reads, Dallas, these are all pre–your bogus Carroll dude. Six in total.”

  “Let’s throw them in. Which is the first?”

  “First, if we figure this is chrono order, is Ravenwood.”

  Eve pulled up a stool next to Roarke’s.

  “I can run it,” he began.

  “Yeah, do that. I’m taking Bright. If this is chrono, and Bright wasn’t just a rhyme, this could be who he is now.”

  “Hit on Simon.” McNab did his little boogie. “Got your pattern, clear as they come. François Simon, psychic advisor and spiritualist, New Orleans, 2053 to 2057, went missing on a sabbatical to South America. Presumed dead.”

  “Three to four years, each spot habitually,” Eve said as she worked. “He’s still here, but probably not for long. Callendar, I want you to—”

  “Run a search for murder/suicides each location just prior to the fuckhead’s exit. On it.”

  Roarke hit on two others, with the pattern holding.

  When the pizza arrived, Eve did indeed mutter—but grabbed a slice of pepperoni. The lab might have smelled like a pizzeria, with a sugary topping of fizzies, but the work got done.

  “Louis Carroll Ravenwood,” Roarke announced. “McNab, do a double, would you, to confirm this is the first?”

  “Can do.”

  “Daresbury, England—which, as I’ve spent a little time boning up on Lewis Carroll—was where Carroll was born and raised.”

  “Not a coincidence,” Eve stated.

  “I’d say not. Spiritualist, offering readings, consultations, séances, and past-life regressions; 2022 to 2028.”

  “His longest stint.”

  “It seems. Pulling related data, I have an article or two. He claimed to be a connection of Carroll himself, through one of Carroll’s sisters. And was called to Daresbury by Carroll’s spirit, whom he also claimed to channel. He worked with his sister, not surprisingly called Alice.”

  “There’s no sister mentioned in any of the other data on the other names.”

  “Wouldn’t be,” Roarke confirmed, “as she died in Daresbury in 2028. Suicide.”

  “Bang.” Eve’s eyes narrowed. “Mira will make buckets of shrink juice with that.”

  “And more so as it was discovered Alice Ravenwood had been an addict with a taste for meth and LSD. She suffered from acute depression and, after lacing a pot of tea with sedatives, served it to herself and her brother. She died; he nearly did. He left Daresbury soon after. There’s nothing on him, under that name, past that.”

  “I want to see the police report. Maybe he dosed the sister. Either way, it gave him his springboard for all the rest. Crazy bastard skins the clients, then picks one to re-create the— Fucking A, I’ve got him. Carroll Bright. Claims to be a ‘Doctor of Paranormal Studies.’ I’ve got a goddamn address.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Bright sighed as he entered the lovely parlor where Ms. Harriet March was setting out the service for tea.

  “My dear March, the time has come for us to move on. How do you feel about Budapest?”

  “Hungry for goulash.”

  He chortled, giggled, slapped his thighs. “That’s the spirit! I’ve given notice. We’ll begin packing after our session with the delightful Mrs. Melton.”

  “Our Mouse signaled they’re on their way.”

  “Excellent.”

  “And will Mrs. Melton join her sister in the Wonderland?”

  He smiled at the avid look in her eyes. He’d been right to keep her. He’d sensed her potential when she’d first come to him—seeking communication with a lost love. A shadow of darkness inside her, so easily deepened with time and patience.

  And of course the tonic she’d become so fond of.

  “She and her husband will make their journey tonight, even as we make our own.”


  Eyes shining, she clapped her hands. “We’ve never sent two clients down the rabbit hole so close together.”

  “Isn’t it fun! Our time in New York has been so lucrative, and we waited so long for the first to go. I thought sending another would be our little farewell party. And there she is now! Would you get the door, Ms. March?”

  “Of course, Doctor Bright. The tea and cakes are all prepared.”

  Naturally, he thought, and swallowed the little tablet that would offset the tea. He checked himself in the mirror—his favorite looking glass had traveled with him around the world. And he decided he’d use his favorite top hat for this last session in New York.

  Then he turned to greet the marvelously wealthy and wonderfully hopeful Mrs. Melton.

  She came to him, both hands outstretched. “Oh, Doctor Bright, I’ve so looked forward to today. I’m so anxious to speak with my sister again.”

  “There’s nothing like a sister,” he said with a wide, wide grin. “Let’s have some tea.”

  It would, he thought, be a lovely party.

  * * *

  Eve planned her approach carefully. She and Peabody would go to the house, gain access.

  She circled the conference room where she’d assembled her team. “I want him in the box. Once we get him out, the search team—with the warrants—goes in. The detectives from Illegals will handle the search for the drugs. McNab and Callendar take the electronics. And since the expert consultant civilian wants in, he’s on finances. We want to establish Fitzwilliams paid him that nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars a session and do a secondary check to see if he scammed his way into her will, probably through the foundation.

  “Look for false IDs—licenses, passports—and a client list. Check for recordings of the Fitzwilliamses’ murders, and any others.” She glanced around the room, nodded. “Peabody.”

  “Set.”

  “Let’s hit in.”

  Roarke moved up beside her as they headed out. “He must have abilities. He’ll try to read you.”