The Dark Room(51)

“Then who?”

“Harry did—this was on it.”

She took a yellow sticky-note out of her jacket pocket. It had been folded in half, but when she opened it and set it on the table, he could see the words. The handwriting, in black ink, was a half-drunk scrawl.



M.M.—

Get Cain. He needs to know.

—H.C.





“That’s Harry’s handwriting?”

She nodded, and Fischer asked a question.

“What time did you leave City Hall last night?”

“Right after you were done with me—seven thirty, eight. I went to see Harry, asked if he needed anything. Sometimes he just wants to sit and talk. Sometimes, there’s more.”

“But not last night,” Cain said.

“No—he wanted to be left alone.”

“What were his exact words?”

“Leave me alone,” she said. Something crossed her face. A memory, maybe, of Castelli. “You have to understand Harry. He’s not a complicated man.”

“You checked your inbox before you left?”

“Yes.”

“So he put this in sometime after eight last night,” Cain said. “Is that right?”

“Sometime before he went home.”

Cain looked at the sticky-note. Get Cain. He needs to know. What the hell kind of suicide note was that?

“You looked inside but didn’t take anything out?” Cain asked.

“I didn’t need to take anything out. I saw the pictures, and I knew what it was.”

“You got gloves?” Fischer asked him. “Mine are in the car.”

“One set left.”

He took them from his jacket pocket and stretched them over his hands, glancing around the shop to see if any of the customers were standing close enough to see. There were a dozen people in line. By the window, a college-aged kid was leaning against the standup counter. He was only an arm’s length away, but he was busy with his phone. Texting with one hand and holding coffee with the other. He had an art student’s shoulder bag, paintbrushes poking from the canvas pockets. He turned and saw Cain watching him. He finished his text without looking at his phone’s screen, set his coffee on the counter, and went out the door.

Cain picked up the envelope.

The address was a half-assed job—Mr. Mayor, City Hall, San Francisco, CA 94102—as if the sender wanted to make sure someone other than the mayor, some underling, opened the letter before him. But somehow Castelli had seen it first. It was sliced open along the end, too clean of a cut to be anything but a sharp knife. Cain nudged it open, eased out four glossy black-and-white photographs and a laser-printed note. He read the note first.



Mayor Castelli:

5 – 6 – 7 – 8!

I said I’d give these to everyone, but guess what? I lied. They’re so embarrassing, I thought I’d give you one more chance. The rest are coming soon—if you don’t get them in the mail, don’t worry. Check the paper.

Think how much easier it would be if you didn’t have to see any more, if you’re not around when they figure out what you did.

BANG!

—A friend





He put the note on the table in front of Fischer, then looked through the four photographs. Each had a circled number in the lower right corner. And in each, the girl was still handcuffed to the bed. She was unconscious throughout the series. Maybe that was a good thing. Cain could see her face in each shot: eyes closed and mouth slack.

The difference this time was that now she was completely nude. Her panties hung from the bed’s iron foot post. And there was someone else in the shot—a white man, tall and well muscled. Dark hair, neatly cut. But he never gave his face to the camera. It was just his naked backside as he lay on top of her, as he knelt between her thighs and held her ankles off to either side.

“Jesus,” Cain said. He looked at Fischer. She was studying the first shot he’d handed her. Melissa was staring at the surface of her coffee, not looking at the pictures at all. Her lips were pressed together, her mouth a small, tight line.

There was one identifying mark. The man had a tattoo across his right shoulder blade. It was hard to make out, except in the last shot. Cain finished looking at it and put it on the stack in front of Fischer.

The man had been inked with three Greek letters.

“Is that Harry Castelli?” Cain asked, tilting his head so he could catch Melissa’s downturned eyes.

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve seen him naked?”

“Inspector Cain—”

“Have you or haven’t you?” Fischer said. “We’ll find out one way or another.”

“Harry and I—we—it was just sometimes. Okay? And we’d stopped, more than a year ago.”

“Is that him?”

“If it is, they’re old pictures. This man’s young. But Harry’s—”

She stopped and brought her coffee up. She took a careful sip and then put it back down.

“But what?” Cain said. “You were about to say something else.”

“He’s got a tattoo like that.”

The room seemed to go quiet, but Cain knew it was just his mind pulling into focus. He looked from Fischer to Melissa Montgomery. They were both staring at the photographs on the table. He picked them up and slid them back into the envelope, along with the second letter.