The Edge of Midnight

by Beverly Jenkins

  Drake shrugged. “Well, if Saint brought her to you as a legitimate candidate, maybe it will work out.”

  Myk cracked, “Right. I’ll bet she doesn’t know a soup bowl from a dinner fork. You know what scares me the most, though?”

  Drake shook his head, no.

  “The way she’s dressed. What kind of woman comes to meet a prospective husband wearing jeans, an old leather jacket, and a black T-shirt that says, IF A MAN’S HOUSE IS HIS CASTLE—LET HIM CLEAN IT!!”

  Drake grinned. “No idea, but if you marry her, you get to find out. Sounds like an African-American Pygmalion to me.”

  Myk didn’t think any of this was funny.

  Drake picked up his doctor’s bag. “It’s getting late. I’m going home. Good night Professor Higgins.”

  “Night.” Myk smiled, finally succumbing to his brother’s whacko humor. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

  Drake flashed a grin and headed for the door.

  Myk sat in the silence for a while longer, wondering about the woman upstairs.

  Four

  It was raining in the city of Chicago; a gray raw day that made the residents hunch forward as they hurried into their places of business. In an office on the top floor of one of the city’s high-rises, wealthy businessman Clark Nelson reached into the bottom drawer of his imported teak desk and took out the vial of pills prescribed for the pain in his withered left leg. He’d contracted an infection in it during a forced stay in a Honduran prison many years ago, and the leg had been useless ever since.

  Clark removed the brown vial’s white plastic top, then washed down the two large green pills with the still-warm coffee in his cup. It would take the medication at least forty minutes to kick in. While he waited for the relief he turned his attention to a more troublesome matter.

  To the city’s movers and shakers, the short, thirty-eight-year-old Nelson was a successful entrepreneur. His import-export business supplied exotic and expensive objets d’art to high-toned interior designers from Toronto to Beverly Hills. He lived within the law, paid his taxes, and gave back to the community, but to men like Marvin Rand, Nelson was a drug dealer, pimp, predator, ruthless in his dealings with the people living on the dark under-belly of society, and chairman of the board of one of the largest drug syndicates in the nation.

  The syndicate had been operating for nearly a decade without a hitch, but now there were problems. Clark reached across his neatly arranged desk top and picked up the small Ziploc bag. He studied the contents, a black ace of spades, through the clear plastic. The card had been sent to him by Marvin Rand a few days after his product had been stolen right from under his large Afrikaner nose last May. Nelson was still furious about the incident. The fact that Rand’s dogs had been drugged and his mansion’s fancy alarm system overridden electronically hadn’t mattered at all to Clark. What did matter was that Rand had been robbed, and he had no idea who the thief or thieves were.

  Clark visually scanned the card. Every time he looked at it, a chill ran down his spine. Old people called that tingle someone walking over your grave; a warning of bad times ahead, but Clark was an educated man. He didn’t deal in the superstitions of ignorant country folk. Yet this card, found on Marvin Rand’s pillow the night the diamonds disappeared, left Clark with an unsettling feeling he couldn’t deny. He slowly turned it over. It was a standard, everyday playing card. There were literally millions of them in stores, bars, and homes all over the world. There’d be no way to trace it, and of course, there were no fingerprints on the one left for Rand. The card’s surface had been spotless, just like the other three in his possession. Clark reached over and picked up the small clear bags that held the others. He shook the cards out, then lined them up. Four black aces of spades. All were from different decks and told him nothing. Rand had been the first hit, since then, three others at the top of the food chain had also been robbed, and now, the Fishbein mess. In his attempt to find a clean route to send the diamonds to Toronto, then on to his connect in Antwerp, Clark enlisted the help of a few Russian gambling friends, who in turn picked Fishbein to be the courier because of his anonymity. No one imagined Fishbein would go to Detroit and disappear, but he had, and so had another shipment of diamonds. Clark was furious; the people in Antwerp were furious, and so were the Russians, whom Clark placated by paying off Fishbein’s debt anyway per the original agreement.

  Clark paused for a moment in his thoughts in order to massage the ache in his left leg. He reached over and grabbed the ivory, snake-headed cane with which he could not maneuver. Using it for balance, he left the chair and limped the few steps to the window. He put the pain out of his mind and looked out over the rain and the Chicago skyline. Somewhere out there were people plotting the demise of his empire; people capable of striking at him from anywhere, if all four thefts were related, and he sensed they were. At first, he thought the government might be involved in the thefts, and he still hadn’t ruled out the possibility; however, it didn’t feel like a government operation. For one thing, the hits had been clean, no mistakes, no traces of anything left behind that might point to their identity or the ultimate goal. Except for those damn cards. If the whole matter weren’t so serious, he’d have laughed at the ridiculous trademark. The cards were like something out of an old movie, but neither he nor his people were laughing. The cash flow problems resulting from all the thefts of product were affecting the bottom line. Having to hire additional security for houses and shipments, coupled with the diamonds not reaching market, exacerbated the problems. Some of his big investors in the syndicate were running scared, especially after the hit at Rand’s estate.

  The sound of the soft knock on his closed office door made him turn. His secretary apologized for disturbing him, then gave him a quiet reminder about the speech he was scheduled to deliver at that afternoon’s Chamber of Commerce luncheon. He took the prompt silently, his gaze back on the rainy skyline. He then asked her to clear his calendar for the next two weeks. It was time to take matters into his own hands. The thief or thieves had to be found. Later, he would put in a call to the pilot of his private jet to prepare for a midnight flight to Detroit. The diamonds and Fishbein had disappeared there, and that’s where he’d begin the search.

  The bedroom Sarita had been given looked like something out of an upscale home furnishings magazine. Snow-white curtains covered the floor-to-ceiling windows. A huge stone fireplace was built into one wall. In front of it were two elegant chairs and a love seat, both covered with a soft emerald green fabric. Tall torchere lamps with Tiffany shades stood like sentinels on either side of the fireplace. The place reeked of money, but Sarita didn’t want to smell anything but freedom.

  She’d been locked in here for three days. True, she’d always dreamed about taking a long, lazy vacation with no phones, newspapers, or TV, but this was more of a nightmare. That first night, after Chandler dumped her in here, she’d pounded on the door until her hands were red and sore. She’d also screamed herself hoarse, but it hadn’t mattered. He never returned. In the end, she’d given up. She’d fallen across the room’s big sleigh-shaped bed, angry, frustrated, and admittedly a bit scared. At some point, she’d fallen asleep only to awaken in the middle of the night to find herself covered by a soft warm blanket. Her shoes had also been removed. Sarita guessed Lily; Chandler didn’t impress her as the solicitous type.

  So for three days, she’d been in this fashion plate of a room with no way out. The windows were locked—she’d tried them, and room’s door, too. The only person capable of engineering her escape would be Harry Houdini, or Saint, and him she planned to strangle on sight. She then thought about Silas and the rest of her people. Her sudden disappearance probably had them worried sick. Had they gone to the police? She pushed those disquieting thoughts away. She was already on her way to being a basket case. Worrying about the folks at the center wouldn’t help.

  Sarita pushed the bedcovers aside and got up. She wondered if today would be any different. All o
f this solitary confinement wasn’t working for her. She wasn’t accustomed to being the bird in a gilded cage.

  Barefoot, she padded across the plush green carpet and into the adjoining bathroom. Although this was her third morning of captivity, the enormous space still filled her with awe. Above her head was an etched-glass dome that gave her a peek at the gray October sky. Surrounding her were gleaming wall-size mirrors and a veritable jungle of healthy, leafy green plants. There was a large stand-up shower housed in smoke gray glass; a closet stuffed with soft fluffy towels, and, dominating the room, an onyx sunken tub so large her high school swim team could have done laps in it. The tub’s gold-and-crystal appointments gleamed like jewels.

  So far, Sarita had successfully fought off the urge to bask in the big tub, mainly because she knew just how much she would enjoy it. Since she wasn’t there to enjoy herself, she walked over to the shower and used it instead.

  The shower and the rest of her morning needs didn’t take long. She wrapped her wet body in one of the sumptuous towels and padded back into the main room.

  She was not surprised to find Lily waiting for her return. The housekeeper had made similarly timed appearances the past two mornings, usually to bring in breakfast and clothing. In a way, Lily’s seemingly magical appearances reminded Sarita of Saint. That snake! Sarita hadn’t seen Chandler at all.

  The ever-cheery Lily asked, “How are you this morning, Miss Grayson?”

  “I’d be doing a whole lot better if I could leave here, but other than that?” She shrugged as if that were explanation enough. “How are you?”

  “Fine. I’m a little worried about my daughter April, down in Atlanta though. She’s due to make me a grandma any day.”

  “Your first grand?”

  Lily looked proud. “Yep. April’s a lawyer. She’s been working on her career, so I’ve been waiting a long time to be a gran.”

  Sarita could not help but smile at the housekeeper’s beaming face. “Congratulations,” she offered genuinely, then asked, “What’s he got planned for me today?” Sarita hoped the plans included clothes. Her own had “mysteriously” disappeared while she was taking a shower the first morning of her captivity. She hadn’t a clue as to why they’d been confiscated, and, no matter how many times she asked about them, Lily always said they were in the wash.

  That had been three days ago. What she’d been given to wear instead were gowns. The most recent version, in keeping with the others, looked like a long silk slip. It was pearl gray, had spaghetti straps that left her arms and shoulders bare, and had a toe-brushing hem edged with lace scallops the same color as the gown. The first day’s set had been the color of midnight, the second, a dark emerald green. Each had come with a matching robe. The ensembles had a slinky rich elegance that made her feel like she’d just stepped out of an old Dorothy Dandridge movie.

  Sarita ducked into the bathroom and slipped on the gown and collared robe. She tied the silk belt and wondered who these gowns really belonged to.

  When she stepped out again, Lily smiled. “You look lovely as always.”

  Sarita shrugged. “Thanks.” Although Lily had firmly refused to answer any of Sarita’s questions about Chandler’s plans, the woman had been kind. Over the past few days, she’d brought Sarita her meals, a deck of cards, and some magazines to pass the time.

  Sarita glanced over at the small end table by the fireplace. Usually Lily placed the breakfast tray there, but this morning the tray was missing. “No breakfast this morning, Lily? He planning on starving me now, too?”

  “No, dear. You’re having breakfast together.”

  Sarita stiffened. “He’s coming here?”

  “No. He asked that I bring you to him when you’re ready.”

  This was the confrontation Sarita had been waiting for, or had she? She didn’t know whether to jump for joy or head for the hills. Her clothing added to her dilemma. She could hardly negotiate from a position of strength dressed like Diahann Carroll playing Dominique Devereaux.

  “Lily, I need my clothes back.”

  “Miss Grayson, believe me, it won’t matter what you’re wearing.”

  Tight-lipped, Sarita stuck her bare feet into the gown-matching low-heeled mules and grimly followed Lily out of the door.

  The last time Sarita had been in the hallway she’d been hanging upside down and yelling at the top of her lungs. Now, as she trailed Lily through the beautifully restored old house, she could see the walls held art pieces from myriad cultures: African fetishes, Mexican oils, and pre-Columbian masks. She wanted to stop Lily and ask about a few of the more outstanding pieces—especially the Olmec head that drew her particular interest, but the housekeeper didn’t act like this was a pleasure trip, so Sarita kept her questions to herself. She’d ask her later; surely Chandler wouldn’t mind Lily talking about the house’s art.

  Sarita’s thoughts on the subject were set aside as they descended the staircase and she was shown into a small room on the first floor. A beautifully set table for two sat waiting. She had a clear view of the sky for the first time in three days. Sarita took up a position before the windows and looked out at the Detroit River. There was a barge slowly churning downriver. She was admittedly nervous about the whole situation, but Saint had promised her things would be all right; she just hoped he knew what he was talking about.

  Lily asked quietly, “Are you ready?”

  Sarita replied truthfully, “No, but let’s not keep him waiting.”

  “Then I’ll get him.”

  “Thank you,” Sarita said softly.

  It didn’t take him long. When he entered the room, Sarita’s first thoughts were just how gorgeous a man Chandler was—the deep rich skin, the lip-framing mustache. He had the features and build of a dark god. During the mayoral campaign, she remembered seeing a few of the city’s TV anchorwomen reduced to giggling teenagers while interviewing him.

  He was wearing a soft brown turtleneck topped by a matching suede jacket. The black wool slacks were perfectly tailored. His only jewelry was a small gold hoop in his ear and the silver black stone ring on the third finger of his right hand. He appeared confident, distant, and rich.

  Dressed as she was, Sarita felt at a distinct disadvantage.

  “Have a seat, please,” he told her, gesturing to one of the chairs at the table.

  Sarita was determined to brazen this out, so she took a deep breath and, with her head held high, walked to the table. She sat stiffly, then startled a bit as he moved to help her with her chair. The heat of his body wafted over her like a hot July day. The nearness of him set her insides to shaking, but outwardly she was cool.

  Myk took his seat on the opposite side of the table. Her attitude surprised him. By all rights she should be crying and hysterical after being locked up for three days; but there she sat, regal and calm as a queen. Mad, too, by the look of her tightly set brown jaw.

  She broke the silence. “When are you letting me out of here?”

  Myk unfolded his linen napkin and placed it across his lap. “Right now, I’m going to eat. You might want to do the same.”

  Sarita watched him begin to fill his plate from the covered silver dishes. She wanted to argue, but didn’t. It made more sense to let him show his hand first.

  But she was so tense and so nervous, she couldn’t eat. Her stomach knotted up the moment Lily had informed her of this little breakfast meeting. As a result Sarita could only swallow a bit of toast and a few bites of the bacon. She noted that he seemed to be having no such difficulties however. He ate his breakfast and read his morning paper as if the world were his.

  When he finished, he set the paper beside his cleaned plate, and she felt her spine tighten in response.

  Myk scanned the challenge and defiance simmering in her dark eyes and thought to himself, This will not be easy.

  He gently tossed the packet of legal documents to her side of the table. “Your new lease,” he pointed out, then poured himself more coffee. “As of nine yeste
rday morning, I own your warehouse.”

  Alarmed, Sarita picked up the packet and tried to read the legalese swimming before her eyes. What she found at the bottom of page two stopped her heart. He held title not only to the building, but to the land surrounding it, too, giving him legal dominion over everything she held dear. The included lease, drawn up on Chandler Works letterhead, had a bottom line of twelve thousand dollars a year! “You don’t really expect me to pay you twelve thousand a year?”

  “I expect agreement to all my terms.”

  The deadly calm in his words sent a chill through her soul. “And if I don’t agree?”

  “Then I evict your people at noon today.” He took a moment to check the face of the expensive-looking watch on his wrist. “Right now, it’s eight-thirty.”

  She wondered what type of man could talk so casually about forcing seniors and children out onto the streets. In that regard, he was no better than Fletcher. “And if I do agree?”

  “Then they get to stay, and I’ll pump enough money into your programs to run them they way they should be run.”

  That statement totally surprised her. “Why?”

  He shrugged his brown suede shoulders. “One, it will look good at tax time. Two, my foundation’s always willing to support well-run programs. And yours,” he added, eyes straying to her mouth, “is reportedly one of the best.”

  Sarita knew it had to be her imagination, but she sensed something emanating from his dark presence that had nothing to do with what they were discussing. She shook herself free. “I know you aren’t adopting us out of the goodness of your heart, so what’s the real reason?”

  Myk didn’t find her skepticism surprising. The reports he’d gotten on her said she was very bright. “The real reason? The control I gain over you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Over me?”

  He nodded. “According to Saint and everyone else I’ve talked to, that center and its people are your whole life. You’d do anything for them—even make a stupid deal with someone like Fletcher.”