Cusp of Night, page 8
“All you care about is fame.” Lucinda flopped onto a settee. It had been a tiring night, but one that had left her sitters impressed.
“We’ve been over this before, my dear.” Simon passed her a cup of hot tea, reward for a stellar performance. “My desire is for us to live comfortably among society’s elite.”
She set the cup aside on a dark ebony table without taking a sip of the beverage. When they’d first arrived in Philadelphia, she’d been amazed by the towering buildings, orderly streets, sleek carriages, and fashionable men and women in swank finery. Simon had bought her a parasol that first day, and she’d fawned at his generosity for so thoughtful a gift. He seemed to enjoy giving her things, though he was sparser with physical affection, a characteristic that left her fighting confusion.
“We were living comfortably before we came to Philadelphia. Now we have fine clothes, a carriage, even a fancy house with a manservant and a maid.” She’d never understood where his money came from, but they never seemed to lack for anything. Although she’d been performing séances for the last month to growing fanfare, she did not charge for her services. Not yet. Simon said it was important she first establish a reputation for authenticity in a vocation rife with frauds. When her fame reached its peak and everyone from preeminent families to heads of state clamored for private sittings, it would be time to begin collecting payment.
“By then,” he’d said, “you’ll be able to name your price.”
Sitting down beside her, he looped an arm over the back of the settee. Like everything else in their home, it was of fine quality with tufted cushions and a medallion back framed in hardwood. Grateful for his closeness, she leaned into his side.
“Sometimes I think you married me to be a performer and not a wife.” It seemed they were always testing this or that deception. How to produce spirit lights or levitate a table. How to maneuver a spirit hand to touch a sitter or have the face of a departed loved one bob into existence overhead. The constant perfecting of their act left little time for affection.
“That could not be further from the truth.” Simon kissed the top of her head. “You are exquisite, dear Lucinda.”
No more “Lucy” for her. Appearance was everything, a veneer Simon insisted on even in private.
“Philadelphia is enraptured of you, as am I,” he continued. “We will have our moments together, but in the meantime, the city has never seen anyone like you.”
Whereas she’d been reviled for her blue skin before, that color now opened doors to people who found her exotic and mysterious. She was courted at tea parties and evening socials. Women flocked to her, hoping to learn the secrets of Summerland, and men found her bewitching. In a few short weeks, coached by Simon and introduced to Philadelphia society as a talented medium and loving wife, she’d become “The Blue Lady,” Lucinda Glass.
Lowering her eyes, she traced a finger over her hand. “I’ve often wondered why my skin is this color. My parents said it’s because I’m cursed. A spawn of the devil.”
“Your parents are ignorant heathens.” Simon tightened his arm around her shoulders. “I bless the day God brought you into my life. We have had enough of such talk for the night, and you must be tired after such a skilled performance. Perhaps we should retire.” He drew back slightly to gaze down at her. “I should like to take you to bed, Mrs. Glass.”
How could she have thought for a minute he didn’t love her? Before she could answer, he broke into a fit of coughing. Quickly turning his head, he balled a handkerchief against his mouth.
“Simon.” She sat up straight. Whereas she’d once considered the attacks a barrier when he didn’t want to talk, they were becoming more frequent and were clearly not contrived. “Your cough has been getting worse. I wish you would see a doctor.”
“It’s nothing.” He shrugged the comment aside. “The air has grown colder, and I have yet to adapt.” Standing, he extended his hand. “Let us go to bed now.”
Later, secure in his arms, Simon having drifted to sleep in their bed, Lucinda smiled drowsily at the memory of their lovemaking. She kissed his cheek lightly, mesmerized by the strong line of his jaw, the dark waves of his hair. A touch of gray filtered the strands near his temples, but the silver only made him more distinguished. Her heart swelled with love.
“I will love you always,” she whispered near his ear.
He stirred slightly, not fully awake. “And I, you.” His voice dropped, slurring into a groggy murmur. “…Josette.”
* * * *
Present Day
Collin paced at the foot of his father’s hospital bed. It was somewhere after twelve o’clock on Tuesday afternoon and his father had been awake since five. Twenty minutes earlier, Collin’s mother had been picked up by a friend in a silver Chrysler who promised to keep her occupied with shopping. He was glad she had a diversion, worried what his dad might reveal when questioned by David Gregg.
The detective arrived shortly after his father finished lunch. The remains of an egg salad sandwich and tomato soup shared space on a rollaway table with a cup of ginger ale and a plastic yellow pitcher of water. Gregg made small talk for a few minutes, asking Leland how he was feeling, then he took a seat by the bed and pulled a small tablet from his shirt pocket.
“Do you want to tell me where you’d been Friday evening?”
“Working late.” Leland’s answer was short, the sign of a man used to delivering minimal information. He’d changed from his hospital gown into a dark blue pair of Derek Rose pajamas, the only brand he considered worth buying. His silver hair was neatly combed, and he wore rimless glasses with gunmetal arms. Hints of shadow grooved the flesh beneath his eyes, but he might have been conducting a board meeting for his staunch composure. “I don’t remember the time I left my office. Just that it was dark.”
“You chose not to go to the Fiend Festival that night despite Mayor Rossi’s acknowledgement of Hode Development as a sponsor.” Gregg clearly saw this as an oddity. “Was that because of the bad press you’ve been getting?”
Leland scowled. “If you’re talking about Pin Oaks and Dante DeLuca—”
“And Len Kovack.”
“Nothing I haven’t encountered before. I didn’t go to the festival because there were several matters related to Pin Oaks requiring my attention.”
“Would you care to elaborate?”
“I don’t believe the business practices of Hode Development are relevant, Detective.”
At the foot of the bed, Collin clenched his jaw. His father came across polite and defensive at the same time. True, the world at large didn’t need to know their plans for the Pin Oaks project—not yet—but his father’s rebuttal was couched to conceal a lie. He hadn’t been working the night of the attack, a fact Collin knew all too well.
“All right.” Gregg scratched his chin. “Tell me about the alley. What you were doing there and what you remember. Your car was found a block away on North Avenue.”
“Yeah…” The first sign of hesitation from his dad. “I walked.”
Collin rubbed the back of his neck, torn between getting to the bottom of the attack and protecting his father in the event he’d been caught in something illicit.
“I was driving home.” Leland cleared his throat, pausing to pour water into a clear plastic cup. “I saw this kid and thought he looked like he was in trouble.”
Gregg’s brows drew together. “How so?”
“I don’t know. Drunk maybe.” Leland took a sip of water. “He was staggering. I pulled over and asked if he needed help, but he waved me off. I stayed where I was and watched him for a while. When I saw him go into the alley, I followed, thinking someone might take him for an easy mark.” He rolled his shoulders. “It was stupid. I guess the whole thing was a set-up.”
“Are you saying he mugged you?”
Collin tensed, aware his father hadn’t been robbed. The whole scenario felt contrived, his father’s answers too pat, as if he’d rehearsed them.
“He tried,” Leland said. “But the girl came…scared him off.”
Gregg made a notation on the tablet. “Do you remember what time it was?”
“I told you I don’t.”
“Describe the kid.”
Leland narrowed his eyes, shifted slightly. “The whole thing’s foggy. I think he was short. Muscular, but in a gym-rat way. Like he didn’t take working out too seriously.”
“Was he armed?”
“Yeah. He had a knife.”
“The girl didn’t mention that.” Gregg looked down at his notes. “She said the attacker was a big man. She used the word mammoth.”
“No.” Leland shook his head. “The shadows must have confused her. It was dark in the alley, but I’d seen him on the street. This was a short guy.” He poured more water. “His T-shirt had some kind of saying on the front. And he had blond hair.”
“No mask or a cape?”
Leland frowned. “What?”
“Was he wearing a mask or a cape?”
“Oh. You mean like from the Fiend Festival?”
Even Collin could see that the man who was used to giving short answers appeared to be scrabbling for information.
“No.” Leland looked away. “Not that I remember. Like I said, my memory’s foggy.”
Gregg flipped through the tablet. “But you remember he was short with blond hair and wore a T-shirt with a saying on the front?”
Collin coughed into his hand. The whole thing smacked of lies. “I think you have enough to go on, Detective Gregg.” Stepping to his father’s side, he slid the tray table out of the way. “It’s already been a long day for my father.” He kept the strain from his voice and shifted his attention to the man in the bed. “Dad, I think you should get some rest.”
“That’s probably a good idea, Mr. Hode.” Gregg spoke before Leland could answer. Standing, he tucked the tablet into his shirt pocket. “I appreciate the information. Naturally, we want to find your attacker. If you think of anything else, your son knows how to reach me.”
Collin waited until he’d left before taking the chair he’d vacated. Wedging an elbow on the arm, he rubbed his eyes. “Dad, if you’re involved in something illegal, now’s the time to tell me.”
Leland balked as though physically attacked. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Friday night.” There was no easy way to put it. “You said you were working late.”
“I was.”
“I went to your office. You hadn’t been there all evening.”
“So, now you’re checking up on me?” The question crackled with belligerence. “Doubting the truthfulness of what I tell you?”
“Dad—”
“You were right. It has been a long day.” Leland rolled onto his side, presenting his back. “I’m going to grab a few hours’ sleep. Tell your mother to come back at dinner time, and close the door when you leave.”
Collin tensed, irritated by the abrupt dismissal. His father had a habit of curtly turning people away, but he wasn’t a subordinate or a reporter. “Fine. But remember whatever affects Hode Development also affects our family, and that includes me and Mom.” He stood, looking down at the still figure in the bed. “If you’re involved in something that threatens that livelihood, I won’t let you drag us down with you.”
Leland didn’t turn. “You’re out of line, Collin. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No. But I intend to find out.”
And he knew the perfect place to start.
* * * *
Collin sent his mother to the hospital, bowing out of accompanying her by saying she needed time alone with her husband. His parents’ marriage had never seemed more than a matter of convenience to him, and he hoped the downtime, away from the pressures of Hode Development, would bring them closer together. He didn’t doubt they’d loved each other at one time. As a young boy, he remembered laughter between them. Long looks and stolen kisses when they thought he wasn’t around.
Then the displays of affection stopped. His mother grew short and withdrawn, and his father began disappearing for long hours at a time. Love cooled to a distance, then dwindled to a façade. Even as a child, he’d understood the reason for the change.
Ford Horatio Hode.
The child they didn’t speak of. The son who’d died three hours after birth. Collin had been seven, excited by the prospect of becoming an older brother. Instead, his mother remained in the hospital, and his father vanished for several days, leaving Collin in the care of a nanny. There hadn’t been a funeral for Ford, no burial. Just a cinerary urn placed in a columbarium. Afterward, Collin was instructed never to mention him again. His parents carried on with life as if he’d never existed, even for those precious three hours. Occasionally, Collin visited the columbarium, but his parents never did. By burying their pain, they’d buried any remaining love in their marriage.
Shaking off the memories, Collin stepped into his father’s den, then closed the heavy double doors behind him. The staff his mother employed—a nutritionist/cook, housekeeper, and groundskeeper—had finished for the day, but he preferred the solitude and privacy of a secure room. It wasn’t as if he’d never visited his father’s sanctuary before, but never with the goal of unearthing secrets.
Maybe it was gut instinct, but after witnessing his father’s performance at the hospital, he was certain the man was hiding something. His father wasn’t completely indifferent to those less fortunate, but he would never follow a stranger into a dark alley on the chance of offering help, any more than he would volunteer time at a soup kitchen. His answer to social and cultural problems was to write a check, then claim the donation as a tax deduction.
Collin eased into a butter-soft leather chair behind the desk. His father’s love of hardwoods was evident in the beamed ceiling, wide-plank floor, and towering bookcases. A thick rug patterned in navy, red, and gold complemented armchairs of oxblood leather and dark walnut tables. The kidney-shaped desk held six drawers in the pedestal ends—three facing front, three facing back—all finished with brass ring pulls.
He took his time going through the contents, unearthing old bills and receipts, files on Hode Development projects that had ended years past, even a few photos. There was the usual assortment of pens, paperclips, rubber bands, and envelopes. He came across a multi-purpose tool and a bottle of Excedrin, but nothing of note.
He flicked on the computer, then waited for it to boot up. As expected, the system was password protected. Keying in a few random entries got him nowhere. If his father was hiding something, it could be anywhere. He turned his attention to a raised wooden panel on the wall behind the desk—the front façade to his father’s personal safe. The most obvious place to look, but useless without the correct combination.
Collin opened the wooden panel, then placed his fingertips on the dial, trying to think like his father. It was hard getting into the mind of a man whose primary drive was for success, not family. Even so, when putting together a sequence of numbers, he fell back on family milestones—his father’s birthdate, his mother’s birthdate, their wedding anniversary, his own birthdate, even the date his father succeeded Collin’s grandfather as owner of Hode Development.
Nothing.
Expelling a breath, he leaned a shoulder against the wall and tried to dredge up other dates from memory.
Ford’s birthdate, 02-02-92, was also a dead-end. After five minutes of fruitless experimenting, he dropped into the desk chair with an aggravated sigh. Whatever his father was involved in, Collin was going to have to bide his time and hope he eventually came clean.
He shut down the computer, then made sure the desk drawers were closed. Turning to leave, he spied a photograph wedged under the desk. Probably dropped from the random shots he’d pulled from a bottom drawer.
He retrieved the photo, then switched on the desk lamp, angling the print for a closer look. A much younger Leland sat at a table with a yellowed newspaper spread open on the surface. Behind him, a man with thick dark hair leaned forward, one hand on the back of Leland’s chair, the other planted on the table. The two seemed to be conferring over the paper.
An odd familiarity niggled at the back of Collin’s mind.
He’d seen the man before, somewhere long ago, though the surroundings in the photograph were unfamiliar. From habit, he turned the print over, discovering his father’s blocky handwriting on the back. It told him exactly who the man was.
With Salvador DeLuca.
April 23, 1992
Wickham.
* * * *
Maya rolled over in bed, tugged the covers to her chin, and burrowed deeper against the cold. The room was positively frigid. Half asleep, she cursed the air conditioning. The system had to be malfunctioning. She’d turned it up, not down, before going to bed. Tiredly, she glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand.
2:22 a.m. The same time she’d awakened the previous night. With a shock, she realized the numbers also correlated to the lapse when her heart had stopped beating—two minutes and twenty-two seconds. That couldn’t be coincidental.
She shivered.
The old HVAC system must have kicked into overdrive. She half expected to see her breath plume in the air. Dragging herself from the warmth of the blankets, she turned the switch on the bedside lamp.
