The Night Bird (Frost Easton #1)(66)

She crossed the courtyard and took note of the wine glass, which had lipstick on the rim. The interior of the living room was visible. She saw Native American pottery. Frontier oil paintings. Hand-blown glass art. The walls were painted in vibrant color, and the carpet was a garish pink. She didn’t see anyone moving inside.

And then she heard it. Loudly, surrounding her in the courtyard from hidden speakers. As if she’d triggered it herself.

Music.

Her heart froze in her chest. She recognized the singer and the song. Carole King’s mellow voice lilted from the trellises, crooning about the night bird making its way home. It was the song that had driven three women—three people who had trusted Frankie with their deepest fears—to madness.

“Nightingale.”

She had to get inside the house.

Frankie started to run forward, but as she did, a hand slapped over her mouth from behind, and she felt her entire body being dragged backward.





34


“Don’t say a word,” Frost whispered in Dr. Stein’s ear.

He peeled his hand away from her mouth and turned her around so she could see him. Despite his warning, she opened her mouth to talk, and he put a finger to her lips. He glanced at the house, then grabbed her elbow and dragged her down the stone steps. He walked her all the way back to the street.

“How did you find me?” she asked, confronting him with her hands on her hips.

“You followed him. I followed you. I picked you up when you ran the red light near Dogpatch. What the hell do you think you’re doing, Dr. Stein?”

“You heard the song. The Night Bird is inside that house.”

“Darren Newman?” Frost said. He saw her flinch with surprise. “Yes, I know about Newman. I talked to your husband. If you suspected someone, you should have called me, not gone after him yourself.”

“Don’t you think I wanted to call you? That’s not how doctor–patient privilege works.”

“Well, now you’ve tipped Newman off, and you could have gotten yourself killed in the process. The best thing you can do right now is get out of here. Go home.”

“I’m sorry, but you need me. If he has a woman in there—if he’s using my methods to torture her—then I need to be there to help.”

Frost had no time to argue with her or to wait for the Berkeley police to knock politely on Newman’s front door. He could hear the song playing in the garden above him. If a woman really was being tortured in the house, he knew who that woman was. Lucy.

“Wait for me in your car,” he snapped. “Don’t get out until I come back.”

He turned to the driveway, but Dr. Stein held his arm. “Inspector, listen to me. I’m not wrong about this. That button you showed me? I saw Darren’s sport coat. It’s missing a button just like that one.”

“I said, go back to your car, Dr. Stein.”

He watched her walk away unhappily, with her head down and her hands in her pockets. When she disappeared, he jogged up the slick driveway to the patio gate and let himself inside. He climbed the steps, listening to the music, which came from everywhere, in multiple speakers hidden inside the arbor. The song ended and then repeated from the beginning. The Night Bird kept singing. Taunting him.

A flagstone walkway led from the courtyard to the house. At the living room window, he peered inside. He could see all the way to the open back windows, overlooking the canyon. A pass-through connected the room to the kitchen, which was dark. He could see a hallway leading to the bedrooms, but he didn’t see anyone inside.

Then, through the speakers, a woman screamed.

It sounded as if she were next to him. Behind him. Above him. Her odd, strangled cry got louder until it drowned out the music, and then, with a gasp, it fell silent. He didn’t recognize the distorted voice; he didn’t know if it was Lucy.

Frost drew his gun. He bolted to the double front doors and pounded on them with his fist. “Police! Open the door!”

No one answered.

He twisted the knob with his hand, and it turned. The door was open. He shoved it with his shoulder and spilled inside. Cool, clifftop air whipped through the house from the rear windows. Fresh orchids scented the foyer. Down the dark hallway, a dog barked wildly at the unexpected intruder, scratching to claw its way through a closed door. He shouted again.

“Police!”

Carole King stopped singing. A door at the end of the hallway opened, letting out a triangle of light. Frost aimed his gun at the doorway and balanced his wrist with his other hand. “Come out slowly, and put your hands in the air.”

He saw a bare foot nudge the door wider. A man stood in the doorway, his hands up, his body lost in shadows. He wore only loose-fitting boxers. “Come closer,” Frost demanded. “Slowly.”

The man approached him step by step. The light of the foyer splashed over his face, and Frost recognized Darren Newman. Newman’s mouth was creased into a smile. He didn’t show fear or surprise at a confrontation with an armed policeman inside his house. The dog kept barking from the other bedroom, but Newman silenced it with a snap of his fingers.

“Is there a problem?” Newman asked.

Frost didn’t lower his gun. “Who else is in this house?”

“My secretary.”

“I heard a woman scream,” Frost said.