by Nora Roberts
“I’ll go with you.”
Emma reached over to take her hand. “I was hoping you would. For a little while.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
It was dark in the bedroom. And filthy. Jane’s last day maid had quit the week before, nipping a couple of silver candlesticks on her way out the door. Jane wasn’t aware of the theft. She rarely left the bedroom these days. She made occasional runs to the kitchen for food, wheezing and panting on the stairs. Like a hermit, she horded the drugs and bottles and food in her room.
It had once been ornately decorated. She’d had a fancy for red velvet. It still hung at the windows, heavy creases caked with dust. But in a rage she’d torn down the curtains that had draped the plump, round bed. Now, because she was so often cold, she huddled under them.
The red and silver flocked wallpaper was stained. Jane had a habit of throwing things at her lovers—lamps, bric-a-brac, and bottles. Which was why she had such a difficult time keeping anyone in her bed for more than two nights running.
The last one, a tall, muscular dealer named Hitch, had tolerated her temper fits longer than most, then, philosophically, had knocked her unconscious, stolen the diamond off her finger, and had gone off to look for sunnier climes and more sympathetic company.
But he’d left her the drugs. Hitch, in his way, was a humanitarian.
Jane hadn’t had sex in over two months. It didn’t particularly bother her. If she wanted an orgasm, she only had to pop the needle under her skin and cruise. She didn’t care that no one came to see her, no one called. Except during that brief time after the drug started to wear off and before she craved another fix. Then she would become weepy and full of self-pity. And anger. Most of what she felt was anger.
The movie hadn’t done nearly as well as predicted. It had jumped, with almost rude haste, from theater to video. She had been in such a hurry to see the movie made, she had all but signed over the video rights. Her agent had been unhappy with the deal, but Jane had fired him and gone her own way.
The movie hadn’t made her rich. A lousy hundred thousand pounds didn’t last long with someone of her taste—and appetites. Her new book was being rewritten, again. She wouldn’t see the bulk of her advance until the stupid ghost writer had completed the job.
Her oldest source had dried up. There were no more checks from Brian. She’d depended on them. Not only for the money, Jane thought, but because she’d known that as long as he’d been paying, he’d been thinking of her.
She was glad he’d never found real happiness. She was proud that she’d had some part in seeing him denied. If she couldn’t have him, she at least had the pleasure of knowing no other woman had held him for very long.
There were still times when she fantasized about him coming to his senses, coming back to her and begging her forgiveness. In those fantasies she saw them making love in the red velvet bed, the hot, frantic sex they had shared so many years before. Her body was curvy and smooth, a young girl’s. Jane always imagined herself that way.
She’d grown grotesquely fat. Her breasts, like soggy balloons, hung down to what had been her waist. Fish-white, her belly drooped low and was ringed with row after row of loose flesh. Her arms and thighs were massive and shook like jelly with flab whenever she stirred herself to move them. It had become so difficult to find a vein through the layers of fat that she had taken up freebasing. She could still skin pop, slide the needle under the skin, but mainlining was rare.
She missed it, mourned it like a mother mourns a lost child.
Rising, she turned on the bedside lamp. She didn’t like the light, but she needed it to get to her pipe. Her hair hung limply and was blond only on the last few inches. She had wanted to bleach it with Clairol’s Bombshell Beige, but had lost the box somewhere in her cluttered bedroom. She wore a black lace nightie the size of a two-man pup tent. When she lit the torch, she looked like some mad, pornographic welder.
The smoke calmed her. She’d been lying in bed planning. She was shrewd enough to know she needed money, a great deal of money if she wanted to pay her supplier. And she wanted pretty clothes again, pretty clothes and pretty boys to come and sink into her. She wanted to go to parties. To have people pay attention.
She smoked, and smiled.
She knew how to get the money, but she’d have to be clever, very clever. The drug made her feel smart. It was time to pull out her ace in the hole.
Scrounging through her dresser, she found a box of stationery. It was pretty, rainbow-colored paper with her name across the top. She admired it for a time, then took another hit from the pipe before searching for a pen, muttering to herself. A little insurance, she thought as she began to write. Of course, she’d have to tear her name off the top. She wasn’t a fool.
She wrote like a child, slowly, her tongue caught between her teeth as she formed the letters. When she’d finished she was so pleased with her neatness, she forgot about the letterhead. There were stamps inside the box. She hummed as she attached three of them. They looked so pretty, she added another, then studied her craftsmanship. For a time she puzzled over the address, then began to write again.
Kesselring, Police Detective
Los Angeles, California
U.S.A.
After some thought, she added “Urgent!” in the corner and underlined it.
She took it downstairs with her, thinking she would find some clever hiding place. On a detour into the kitchen, she ate an entire carton of ice cream, shoveling it into her mouth with a serving spoon. Spotting the envelope, she began to mutter.
“Stupid girl,” she mumbled, thinking of her last maid. “Can’t even post a damn letter. Going to sack her.” Indignant, she waddled out, and with considerable effort, bent to push the envelope under the front door. She went back upstairs and smoked herself into oblivion.
It was a week before she remembered her plan. In her mind she remembered writing the letter. The insurance. She’d hidden it. Though she couldn’t quite remember where, that didn’t worry her. What worried her was that she was nearly out of food, and drugs. Her last bottle of gin had been drained. Jane picked up the phone. After a few hours, she thought, she’d never have to worry about money again.
It was answered on the third ring. “Hello, dear. It’s Jane.”
“What do you want?”
“Ooh, that’s a nice way to speak to an old friend.”
There was a sigh, bitten off. “I said, what do you want?”
“Just a chat, luv, just a chat.” She giggled. Blackmail was so much fun. “I’m running a bit low on funds.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“Oh, I think it is. You see, when I run low on funds, my conscience starts acting up. Just lately, I’ve been feeling bad about what happened to Brian’s poor little boy. I’ve been feeling real bad about it.”
“You never gave a damn about that boy.”
“That’s a hard thing to say, dear. After all, I’m a mother. Thinking of my own sweet Emma, a grown-up married lady now, makes me think about that boy. Why, he’d be grown-up himself, if he’d lived.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“Better make time.” Her voice changed, roughened. “I’ve been thinking that I should drop that detective in the U.S. a note. You remember him, don’t you, dearie? Kesselring was his name. Imagine me remembering his name all these years.” She smiled to herself. Everyone thought she was stupid. They wouldn’t think it for long.
He hesitated too long, and cursed himself. “There’s nothing you can tell him.”
“No? Well, we’ll have to see, won’t we? I thought I might write him a letter. They might reopen the case if they had a couple of names to go by. Your name, for instance, and—”
“You stir this up, it’s going to come back on you.” His voice was still calm, but he was sweating. “You were every bit as involved as I.”
“Oh no. I wasn’t there, was I? I never laid a finger on that boy.” What the hell had the boy been
named? Donald or Dennis, she thought. It hardly mattered. “No, I didn’t lay a hand on him. But you did. It’s murder. Even after all these years, it’s murder.”
“They’ve never proven anything. They never will.”
“With a little help they might. Want to chance it, dear?”
No, he didn’t. She would know that he couldn’t chance it. He was exactly where he wanted to be, and intended to stay there. Whatever it took. “How much?”
She smiled. “I think a million pounds would do it.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“It was my plan,” she screeched into the phone. “It was my idea and I never got a frigging penny. It’s time to settle accounts, dearie. You’re a rich man. You can spare it.”
“There was never any ransom to collect,” he reminded her.
“Because you screwed up. I haven’t got a penny out of Brian in two years. Now that Emma’s grown up, he’s cut me out cold. We can just think of your payment to me as a retirement account. That much money will keep me for a long time, and I won’t have to bother you again. You bring it here tomorrow night, and I won’t have to mail my little note.”
Hours later she couldn’t remember if she made the call or dreamed it. And the letter. Where had she hidden the letter? She went back to the pipe, hoping it would help her think. It seemed the best thing to do was write the letter again. And if he didn’t come soon, if he didn’t come very soon, she would make another call.
Jane sat down to write, and soon fell asleep.
It was the doorbell that woke her. Ringing and ringing and ringing. She wondered why that damn, stupid girl didn’t answer it. It seemed to Jane that nothing got done if she didn’t do it herself. Huffing and puffing, she groped her way down the stairs.
She remembered when she saw him. He was standing at the door, his eyes grim, a briefcase in his hand. And she remembered. Yes indeed, you had to do things yourself. “Come on in, ducks. It’s been a while.”
“I didn’t come to visit.” He could only think she looked like a pig, fat, dirty, all of her chins quivering as she laughed.
“Come on, old friends like us. We’ll have a drink. The liquor’s up in my room. I conduct all my business in my boudoir.”
In a coy invitation, she put a hand on his lapel. He tolerated it, knowing he would burn the suit. “We’ll conduct business anywhere you like. But let’s get it done.”
“You always were in a hurry.” She started up, mammoth hips swaying. He watched her, seeing the way her hand gripped tight to the banister, hearing her breath puffing. One push, he considered, and she’d go tumbling down. No one would question it as anything but an accident. He nearly reached out, nearly touched her. Then he steadied himself. He had a better way. A surer way.
“Here we are, dear.” Red-faced and wheezing, she dropped on the bed. “Name your poison.”
The stench almost gagged him. The room was lit by a single lamp, and in the shadows he could see tangles of dirty clothes and dishes, empty cartons and cans and bottles. A fetid odor hung in the room, like the cobwebs in the corners. He could almost see it as he breathed slowly, between his teeth.
“I’ll pass on the drink.” He was careful not to touch anything. Not just because, of fingerprints now, but from fear of soiling himself.
“Suit yourself. What have you brought me?”
He set the briefcase beside her. He would burn that as well. He spun the combination, then flipped the lid. “It’s part of the money.”
“I told you—”
“It’s impossible to raise a million in cash overnight. You’ll have to be patient.” He turned the case toward her. “But I brought you something else, to tide you over. A sign of good faith.”
She saw the bag, plump with white powder on the neat stack of bills. Her heart began to race unsteadily, her mouth filled with saliva. “That’s a pretty sight.”
Before she could snatch it up, he moved the case out of reach. “Now who’s in a hurry?” He enjoyed taunting her. He could see the fine sweat popping out on her face, dribbling down her jowls. He’d dealt with junkies before, and knew just how to handle them. “It’s top-grade heroin, the best money can buy. One shot of this and you’ll go straight to heaven.” Or hell, he thought, if one believed in such things. “You can have it, Jane. All of it. But you’ve got to give me something back.”
Her heart was a trip-hammer in her breast, making her short of breath and giddy. “What do you want?”
“The letter. You give me the letter, and another few days to raise the rest of the money, and the smack is all yours.”
“The letter?” She had forgotten about it. All she could do was stare at the bag of white powder and imagine what it would be like to have it swimming in her veins. “There isn’t any letter. I didn’t write a letter.” Insurance, she remembered, and sent him a sly glance. “Yet. I didn’t write it yet. But I will. Let me have a hit, then we’ll talk.”
“Talk first.” Oh, it would be a pleasure to kill her, he thought as he studied the flecks of spittle on her mouth. The boy had been an accident, a tragic one, and one he sincerely regretted. He wasn’t a violent man, never had been. But it would have given him enormous satisfaction to have choked the life from Jane Palmer with his own hands.
“I started to write it.” Confused and anxious, Jane glanced toward the desk. “I started to, but I was waiting for you. I won’t finish it, if we have a deal.”
She wouldn’t lie, he thought as he studied her face. She wasn’t clever enough. “We have a deal.” He turned the case around again. “Go ahead. Take it.”
She grabbed the bag in both hands. For a moment he thought she might tear it apart with her teeth and gobble it like candy. Instead, she moved as fast as her bulk would carry her and began to search through drawers for her works.
He waited, both appalled and fascinated by the procedure she went through. She paid no attention to him now, but mumbled to herself. Her hands shook, so that she spilled a little. Her breath came loud and harsh as she cooked the first spoon. She didn’t want to skin-pop it; she didn’t want to smoke it. This she would mainline.
Squat on the floor, licking her lips as though she were about to dine, she filled the syringe. There were tears in her eyes as she searched for a vein. Then she closed them, leaning back against the dresser as she waited for the kick.
It did, swelling, speeding, bursting through her. Her eyes popped wide, her body convulsed. She screamed once, riding the enormous crest.
He watched her die, but found he didn’t enjoy it after all. It was an ugly process. Jane Palmer had no more dignity in death than she had in life. Turning his back on her, he took the surgical gloves out of his pocket and snapped them on. He picked up the half-written letter first and placed it in the briefcase. Fighting revulsion, he began to search, picking over her things to make certain she’d left nothing else in the house that might incriminate him.
Brian groaned when the phone woke him. He tried to sit up, but the hangover screamed through his head like a chain saw. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he groped for the phone.
“What?”
“Bri. I’m P.M.”
“Call me back when I’m not dying.”
“Bri—I guess you haven’t read the morning paper.”
“Right the first time. I’ll read tomorrow morning’s paper. That’s when I plan to wake up.”
“Jane’s dead, Brian.”
“Jane?” His mind stayed blank for ten full seconds. “Dead? She’s dead? How?”
“OD’d. Somebody found her last night, an ex-lover or a dealer or something. She’d been dead a couple of days.”
With the heels of his hands he tried to rid his eyes of grit. “Jesus.”
“I thought you should pull it together before the press starts on you. And I figured you’d want to be the one to tell Emma.”
“Emma.” Brian pushed himself up against the headboard. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll call her. Thanks for letting me know.”
> “Sure. Bri …” He trailed off. He’d started to tell Brian he was sorry, but he doubted anyone really was. “See you around.”
“Right.”
Brian lay in bed a moment trying to imagine it. He had known Jane longer than anyone but Johnno. He had loved her once, and he had hated her. But he couldn’t imagine her dead.
Rising, he walked to the window. The sunlight hurt his eyes and churned the hangover up to blinding. Without thought, he poured out two fingers of whiskey and downed it. He was almost sorry that he couldn’t feel anything but the pain in his head, dulling now under the coat of whiskey.
She’d been the first woman he’d lain with.
Turning his head, he looked at the brunette sleeping under the rumpled satin sheets of his bed. He didn’t have any feelings for her, either. He was always careful to choose women who wouldn’t want an attachment, who would be as satisfied as he by a few nights of sex. The dark, dangerous, careless sex that had nothing to do with affection.
He’d made the mistake of choosing a woman who wanted more once. Jane had never let him get on with his life, let him fully enjoy what he had.
Then he’d found Bev. She’d wanted more too, but with her, so had he. My God, so had he. She had never let him get on with his life, either. Not once in seventeen years had a day gone by when he hadn’t thought of her. And wanted her.
Jane had shadowed his life by refusing to get out of it. Bev had ruined it by refusing to share it.
So he had his music, and more money than he had ever dreamed of. And he had a succession of women who meant absolutely nothing to him.
Now Jane was dead.
He wished that he could stir his heart, feel some regret for the girl he had known once. The desperate, eager girl who had claimed to love him above all else. But there was nothing to feel. The girl, and the boy he had been, had been dead a long time.
So he would call Emma. It was best that she hear it from him, though he doubted she would feel any true grief. When he had called her, and made certain she didn’t need him, he would go to Ireland. To Darren. And spend some quiet days sitting in the tall green grass.
