Dark Whispers. Debra Webb
in greeting. “I thought I’d get settled here.”
Buddy clapped him on the back. “Glad to have you, Hayes.”
“We’ve set up several desks in the large office at the end of the hall,” Jess explained. She and Buddy had taken the two smaller offices. The larger one would allow for several investigators to share the space. A third smaller office would serve as a conference space for meeting with clients. Closer to the lobby was a tiny kitchenette with a narrow hall to the only bathroom and a rear exit. “Take your pick.”
“Just like old times.” Clint flashed Jess a grin and headed that way. Buddy followed, filling him in on the open house planned for a week from today.
For now, Clint was their only investigator. Buddy was working on recruiting. They had interviewed three others so far. Their secretary, Rebecca Scott, who would also serve as a receptionist and occasionally as a babysitter when Lily and Katherine were tied up, was scheduled to start tomorrow. Jess was immensely grateful to find someone willing to wear so many hats and whom she trusted with her child while she met with clients and assigned investigators.
Assessing cases and determining the best way to proceed wouldn’t be that different from her profiler days—other than the fact that they wouldn’t likely be tracking serial killers and hunting murderers. Then again, throughout her career she always seemed to have a penchant for attracting the faces of evil.
The bell over the door jingled again, drawing Jess from the memory of one serial killer in particular. Four and a half months ago Ted Holmes had done all within his power to reach the highest level of evil by resurrecting the persona of Eric Spears and reenacting his obsession with Jess.
Banishing the memories once more, Jess produced a smile for the woman, thirty or so, who stood just inside the door as if she couldn’t decide what to do next. She was petite, around Jess’s height of five-four. Her black hair was long and lush; she was attractive. Her manner of dress, a soft beige pencil skirt with matching jacket and heels, suggested a career woman. Her gaze moved around the lobby, eventually landing on Jess. The fear and hesitation in her expression gave Jess pause.
“I need a private investigator,” she said, her voice trembling the slightest bit.
Jess was on the verge of telling her they didn’t open until the day after tomorrow when the woman added, “I shot a man.”
When she swayed, Jess hurried to usher her into the nearest chair. “Why don’t you have a seat? I’ll get you a bottle of water.”
Their first potential client shook her head. “No. Please.” She put her hand on Jess’s arm. “I need help.”
“Let’s start with your name.” Jess settled into a seat on the opposite side of the reclaimed factory cart that served as a coffee table.
“Natalie Drummond.”
“Well, Ms. Drummond, it sounds as if you might need the police rather than our services. I’ll be happy to call someone for you.” Jess’s first thought was to call Lori. Detective Lori Wells now worked in the Crimes Against Persons division. Jess considered her a dear friend and she was one of the best detectives in the department. It didn’t hurt that Lori’s husband, Chet Harper, was the ranking detective in the BPD’s major crimes team—as well as a good friend.
Drummond shook her head. “You don’t understand. I did call the police, but they can’t help me.”
The woman looked sincere and certainly terrified, but her story didn’t quite make sense. “I’m not sure I’m following you. Why can’t the police help you?”
Drummond wrung her hands in her lap. “The man I shot is missing. They found no evidence of an intruder in my home...even the gun I used was missing.” She shook her head, tears bright in her eyes. “I don’t understand how that’s possible. I shot him.” She looked straight at Jess. “I know I shot him. He fell to the floor. He...he was bleeding. I ran out of the house and waited for the police to arrive.” Her eyebrows drew together in a worried frown. “When they arrived he was gone.”
“Can you remember the detective’s name who came to the scene?” Whatever happened, Ms. Drummond was visibly shaken. That level of fear wasn’t easily manufactured.
“Lieutenant Grady Russell.”
Jess was acquainted with Russell. He was a detective in the Crimes Against Persons division. Russell was a good cop. “Why don’t I give the lieutenant a call and see what I can find out?”
Drummond nodded, visibly relieved. “Thank you.”
Jess stood. “Come with me and I’ll introduce you to one of our investigators.” No reason to mention that he was their only investigator.
Buddy was in his office on the phone as they passed. Jess escorted Drummond to the end of the hall where Clint was organizing his desk.
“Clint, this is Natalie Drummond.”
“Ms. Drummond.” Clint gifted her with a nod.
“Ms. Drummond will explain her situation to you while I make a call to Lieutenant Russell.”
Clint invited Drummond to have a seat. Rather than go to her office, Jess went to Buddy’s and closed the door. When he’d ended his call, she said, “We need a conference call with Russell about our first client. She says she shot a man who is now missing.”
Buddy raised his eyebrows as he set the phone to speaker and made the call. “You always did attract the strange ones.”
He needn’t remind her.
Three rings and Russell answered. Jess quickly explained the situation and asked for any insights the lieutenant could provide.
“We received the call early this morning,” Russell confirmed. “I have to tell you, I think maybe the lady is a little wrong in the head.”
Jess was immensely grateful for the thick brick walls of the historic building that helped ensure privacy between offices. “What does that mean, Lieutenant?” If the man said Drummond was hormonal or flighty, Jess might just walk the few blocks to the Birmingham Police Department and kick his butt on principal.
“About two years ago Natalie Drummond had a fall down the stairs of that mansion her daddy left her. She was banged up pretty good, but it was the brain injury that left her with big problems. According to her family, she still suffers with the occasional memory lapse and reasoning issue.”
“She had a traumatic brain injury?” Jess frowned and rubbed at the resulting lines spanning her forehead. Even two years later, an injury like that could explain Drummond’s uncertainty as to the sequence of recent events.
“That’s the story according to her brother, Heath Drummond,” Russell confirmed.
Now there was a name Jess recognized. “As in Drummond Industries?”
“The one and only,” Russell confirmed. “The brother says she hasn’t been the same since the fall. She spent months in rehab. He thinks maybe she’s having some kind of relapse. About two months ago, she started insisting that someone was coming into her house at night. Every time she told the story it was a little different. The brother decided she was hallucinating. Apparently that can happen with TBIs. This morning she called 9-1-1 and claimed she’d shot a man. We arrive and there’s no body. No blood. No signs of an altercation. Nothing. There was no weapon found on the premises, yet she swears she discharged a .38 at an intruder. She also swears she left him bleeding on the floor.”
Jess exchanged a look with Buddy.
“You believe she imagined the whole thing,” Buddy said.
“At this point, yeah, that’s the only explanation that makes sense.”
“Thanks so much, Lieutenant.” Before ending the call, Jess assured him she would pass along any information she might discover relevant to the case. To Buddy she said, “Whether she shot anyone or not, it sounds