The Night Bird (Frost Easton #1)(75)

“Dr. Stein?” Todd said again, when Frankie didn’t answer. His honey voice was almost a whisper. “Do you know what it’s like when something terrible happens to you? You relive it over and over. It won’t go away. It starts to take over your whole life.”

“Yes, I know.”

That was why patients came to her. To wipe those memories clean like chalk from a blackboard.

“I can’t keep waking up with these nightmares in my head,” Todd said. “I don’t know who I am anymore. I have to do something about it.”

She didn’t like what she heard in his voice or saw in his eyes. “Exactly what are you saying, Todd?”

“I’m going crazy,” he told her. “I’d rather die than go on feeling like this. I have to make it stop.”

“If you want to do something, talk to the police. Tell them your story.”

Todd bolted out of the chair. His voice got louder. “Are you kidding? Do you want them to arrest me? Don’t you get it? I’ve been doing terrible things to these women. I’m the Night Bird.”

“That’s not the only explanation,” Frankie replied.

“Come on, Dr. Stein, nothing else makes sense! You know it, too. You just want me to turn myself in. You can’t do it yourself, so you want me to go to the police and admit everything. Hell, maybe I should, but that wouldn’t get rid of the nightmares. Don’t you get it? I’m scared of what’s going on in my own mind.”

Frankie got out of her chair and came around the desk. She put both hands on Todd’s shoulders. “What I’m saying is, it’s possible that someone is manipulating you. He wants you to believe that you’re guilty.”

Todd’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What are you talking about?”

Frankie switched on the video player in her office. She didn’t need to go far to find what she wanted. She froze the screen on the image that Todd had taken in the bathroom of the bar.

“Do you recognize this video?”

He cocked his head. “Sure, it’s mine.”

“What about that man?”

Todd stared at Darren Newman. He took two steps closer to the screen without saying anything. He shouldn’t have recognized Newman. The man should have been one of thousands of strangers who passed in and out of a person’s life in a few seconds. But seeing him, Todd couldn’t let go. He inched closer to the television. Newman’s face held him with the power of a magnet.

“Who is he?” Todd murmured.

“Do you recognize him?” Frankie repeated.

“What’s his name?”

She hesitated. “His name is Darren Newman. Have you seen him before?”

“No, I’ve never seen him,” Todd said, “but I know him. Why do I know him?”

“He’s been in the news. Last year, a lot of people thought he was guilty of murder.”

“You think it’s him, don’t you?” Todd said. “You think he’s the one who’s been doing this to these women. And to me.”

“It’s possible.”

“It’s more than possible, isn’t it? That’s why he’s in my video. He’s been stalking me. Why don’t I remember him?”

“He may be using drugs and hypnosis to change your memory,” Frankie said.

Todd spun around. His face was black. “Like you do.”

“Yes,” she acknowledged. “Like I do.”

He loomed over her, and for a moment, she was afraid of what he would do. She saw a man who was about to lose control, who would lash out at anyone in front of him. Then Todd spun away from her and charged toward her office door.

“Todd, where you are you going?” she asked.

“I’m going to kill him,” he said.





38


“How’s the girl?” Lieutenant Jess Salceda asked Frost.

She sucked on her cigarette. The two of them stood outside the police headquarters building in Mission Bay near the water. Giants fans swarmed the street, heading to an afternoon game at the waterfront stadium two blocks away. The parking lot across the street smelled of popcorn, hot dogs, and beer. Hip-hop music blared from portable speakers. The afternoon was cloudy and cold, with rain storms on the way, but that didn’t stop the tailgaters.

“She’s at the hospital,” Frost told her. “I’m heading over there to take her home. The docs found traces of barbiturates in her system.”

“Any sexual assault?” Jess asked.

“No.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“What about the Malibu?” Frost asked her. “What’s the report on the car? Did we find any evidence?”

“Oh, yeah, lots,” Jess replied. “Prints, DNA. But I bet it all traces back to the car’s owner, not our guy.”

She leaned back against the building’s concrete wall as she smoked. She was short—at least six inches shorter than Frost—but tough and strong for her size-ten uniform. In her early forties, she wore her hair short, with dyed brown-and-gold streaks and bangs hanging down to her eyes. She had a slightly hooked nose and a round copper face that didn’t smile often. She was usually angry. Angry about crime. Angry about poverty. Angry about men who treated women like punching bags. And she wasn’t quiet about the things in the city that she didn’t like. Her mouth regularly got her in trouble with the captains and commanders, but the street cops and investigators all knew she was fearless, and they respected her blue blood. She’d been a cop since she was eighteen, just like her father had been a cop since he was eighteen.