Night Hunter

by Carol Davis Luce

  NIGHT HUNTER

  Carol Davis Luce

  SUDALU Media

  NIGHT HUNTER

  Formerly titled SKIN DEEP

  Copyright © 1990 by Carol Davis Luce

  Sudalu Media publication: 2010

  Sudalu Media publication: 2012

  This is a newer edition. Completely revised, edited, trimmed, and repackaged.

  1st Printing: Windsor Publishing Corp. 1990

  2nd Printing: October 1992

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author.

  *This edition includes the mystery short story, Shattered Crystal.

  With love to the four R’s in my life . . Robert, Reg, Rob, Ron

  —Rascals all.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I wish to thank doctors Harry Huneycutt, Gary Pomeranz, and Eugene Le May for medical advice and lab demonstrations.

  Special thanks go to these friends: Patti and Michael Specchio for their continued support; Priscilla Walden for her west coast public relations; The Farrells, Schmanskis and Martinezs; my reader, amateur therapist, and alter ego, Katina Schafer, for all those things; and, again, to my husband Robert for being there.

  There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.

  — Francis Bacon

  Prologue

  San Francisco 1970

  Miss Classic

  Corrine

  The cheers and applause still echoed in her ears. White dots from the bright, popping flashcubes danced before her eyes. Her jaw ached from smiling for the cameras. Her legs, weak from hours on her feet in high heels, began to cramp. But it was worth it. Every minute of it. She was flying high.

  Corinne Odett hugged the long-stemmed roses and breathed in their sweet fragrance. She touched the crown on her head. It was hers. Really hers. The crown, the money, the prizes, even a screen test at a Hollywood movie studio; but most important of all, the title. Miss Classic San Francisco.

  She looked around. The changing room of the auditorium was finally empty of people. The four runners-up, Regina, Amelia, Tammy, and Donna, had left on the heels of the news media for the Coronation Ball upstairs in the hotel. Corinne waited, pacing nervously.

  The pay phone on the wall rang. She snatched it off the hook, said a terse hello.

  The voice she hoped to hear tentatively spoke her name.

  “Jack? Oh Jack, I was afraid you wouldn’t, that you—” Corinne’s chaperon poked her head in the door and tapped her watch.

  “I’ll be right there, Mrs. Myer.”

  The chaperon nodded, backed out, closing the door,

  “I did it, Jack, I won. Me, Corinne Odett, Miss Classic. If only you could’ve been here.” Before he could respond, she rushed on, breathless, “I know, I know, and I understand now, I really do. I was awful, wasn’t I? I’m so glad you’re not mad at me. Jack…” she said with a slight tremor in her voice, “will you escort me to the ball?”

  His answer was a simple yes.

  “I’ll wait for you in the changing room. Jack, please hurry.”

  Too keyed up and restless to sit, Corinne paced. After several minutes, she forced herself to sit at the long vanity. The quiet began to feel heavy — oppressive. As she waited, she studied her image. She glanced sideways to see her mirrored reflection multiplied and refracted smaller and smaller as it lined up into infinity. Her own beauty, the magnitude of it, never failed to surprise her. A product of poor, uneducated parents, she had learned early in life that her looks were special. Regal, even. The San Francisco Chronicle had likened her to Grace Kelly. With her gift of beauty, she was told, she would go far. Far indeed.

  But without Jack, it meant nothing.

  She heard a soft tapping at the door.

  “It’s open,” she called out.

  Another tap.

  With a sigh, still gazing at herself in the mirror, Corinne rose. She straightened the crown, then crossed the room and pulled open the door. The hallway was dark and empty.

  “Mrs. Myer? Jack?” Corinne said, stepping across the threshold. “Anybody there?”

  She detected a movement to her left. A flash of dark clothing, a glint of sparkling glass, and then something wet and warm splashed against her face.

  She gasped, stunned.

  A stinging sensation spread across her face and ripped into her throat, constricting her vocal cords. She breathed in sharply as delicate sinuses exploded in pain. The skin over the left side of her face seemed to shrink, to pull tight, to throb. It was sheer torture to breathe. She held her breath. Her heart pumped wildly.

  No, oh dear God, no. NO!

  In anguish and disbelief, shock dulling the pain, Corinne whirled around and, with faltering steps, rushed to the vanity.

  She glared into the mirror. From somewhere deep in her body came a low moan filled with utter despair.

  The image before her wore her gown and banner. She saw the rhinestone crown, glittering defiantly atop a cascade of sun-streaked curls. One green eye was as bright as cut glass. But the other eye ... the face ... the throat ...

  Through a flashfire of agony, with a devastating sense of wretchedness and sorrow, Miss Classic 1970, in that split second before the instinctive act of self-preservation took over, realized that the world was no longer hers.

  CHAPTER 1

  San Francisco 1990

  The Finalists

  Regina

  As Regina Van Raven climbed the brick steps of the two-story apartment house alongside her daughter, she heard the creak and clatter of a window sash rising to her right. She caught a glimpse of a man’s naked back as he moved away from the window.

  “It looks nice from the outside, Mom,” seventeen-year-old Kristy said.

  “Wilma wouldn’t live in a place that wasn’t nice.”

  Regina felt the cotton blouse sticking to her back. They opened the outer door, walked into the entry, and pressed a button under Szabo--manager. A moment later they were buzzed through another door into a wide hall.

  It was cool inside and smelled of wood polish and Pinesol. Before Regina could knock, the door to lA opened and a pleasant-looking, heavyset woman in her late sixties came out. “Mrs. Van Raven, yes?”

  Regina nodded. “Mrs. Szabo, this is my daughter Kristy.”

  The woman clasped her hands at her chest and said with a thick European accent, “Oh, the little one is such a beauty.”

  Kristy smiled and looked down.

  “Come, come, come,” Mrs. Szabo said, leading the way to the staircase. “Second floor. Mrs. Axelrod, she say she’ll move her furniture out in three days.”

  Mother and daughter hurried to keep up.

  At the end of the hall toward the front of the apartment house, the landlady opened the door to 2B. Bright sunlight poured out into the dim hall. Regina stepped inside, taking in the clean, airy living room. Large windows wrapped the south and east corner, facing the distant bay. Under fringed area rugs, hardwood floors gleamed.

  “We’ll take it,” Kristy said.

  “Kristy, I’d like to see it first,” Regina said evenly, trying to keep the enthusiasm from her voice.

  Kristy smiled sheepishly.

  Regina strolled through the two-bedroom apartment, her excitement mounting. It was everything she had hoped it would be. And the price was right. Coming back into the living room, she heard her daughter talking to the landlady.

  “Right now we live in this monstrous house in Berkeley,” Kristy said. “My dad died six months ago, and I’ll be leaving in September for college, Cal Poly, that’s in San Luis Obispo, so she’s gonna need a smaller place. When her friend, Wilma—y’know Wilma, the woman who lives here? —well,
when she told her about this apartment coming up for grabs, well ... jeeze — and it’s so close to the station where she works. My mom’s a co-producer at—”

  “We’ll take it,” Regina quickly cut in. “If for no other reason than to spare Mrs. Szabo the entire family history.”

  “You love it,” Kristy teased. “Admit it.”

  “I love it.”

  Regina looked at her watch. 3:20. If she didn’t get moving now, she’d be late for the taping of “City Gallery.” Donna Lake depended on her to soothe the guests and smooth out any preshow hassles. “I can give you a deposit now, then come back after work and sign the lease,” she said to the landlady, reaching for her checkbook.

  CHAPTER 2

  Donna

  Inside the studio at KSCO TV, under the bright lights of the set, Donna Lake felt her hair cling wetly to the back of her neck. Although her antiperspirant hadn’t failed, her underarms itched maddeningly. She was dry, but miserable.

  Her guest on ‘City Gallery’ that afternoon was tattoo artist Mark Coontz, whose claim to fame was his urbane tattoo salon, just off Union Square, where, catering to the rich and famous, he specialized in the permanent application of eyeliner, eyebrows, lip lining, strategically placed beauty marks and, naturally, the avant-garde tattoo.

  The floor director signaled Donna to wind it up.

  “Fascinating subject, Mark. Unfortunately, we’ve run out of time.” She turned to the camera. “Mark Coontz, proprietor of The Mark of Beauty Shop--”

  “Salon,” he amended.

  “—Mark of Beauty Salon. Next week our guest will be Crystal Downey, former beauty queen, top model, and most recently the author of the best selling beauty book, Crystal Clear. Until then, this is Donna Lake with City Gallery.”

  The lights blinked out. Before Donna could remove her mike and thank her guest, her husband swooped down on her, his handsome face like granite.

  “Forget Crystal Downey.”

  Donna stood and quickly walked off the set. She knew all too well that expression, that tone. The last thing she wanted was a confrontation within earshot of the guests and crew. She stepped into a dark control room, waited for him to enter, then closed the door.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Crystal canceled, that’s what happened. She was hot to trot when I talked to her. Then she talks to Regina and it’s suddenly a no-go.”

  “Honey, Regina warned us she was a flake and couldn’t be counted on.”

  He slapped his clipboard down on the counter. “Okay, so any suggestions?”

  She looked at him, surprised. Nolan rarely asked her advice or opinion. In a quiet voice she said, “I’ll check with Regina. She has—”

  “Regina, Regina,” he cut in. “Always Regina.” He snatched up the clipboard and consulted it. “We’ll go with the Classic finalists. Same premise. The five of you could easily fill the time slot.”

  “They’re scheduled for next month. I just wrote to them two days ago.”

  “Call them. Have your precious Regina get her butt in gear.”

  “I’m sure we can get the runners-up, it’s Corinne I have my doubts—”

  “Corinne’s a must.”

  “I don’t want to push this—”

  “Push it,” he said. “Move in fast before she has a chance to think it over.” His voice softened. “Sweetheart, you’re wonderful at what you do. No one can touch you in the talent department. But, please, leave the decision making to me, okay? This is our chance to put some meat into the show. We have six days. Use everything you’ve got to convince her. And if she’ll agree to come on alone, then dump the others.” He strode across the room. At the door he stopped, looked at her, and smiled. “Great show today. You looked sensational.” Then he was gone.

  She turned, facing the large window which looked out onto the now dark set and stared at her reflection in the glass. She saw a pretty woman with windblown blond hair, wide-set blue eyes, and a full mouth with even, white teeth. Her smile, Nolan reminded her daily, was her best feature. In this light, gazing into the tinted glass, she could pass for the girl, twenty years ago, who was voted fourth runner-up in the Miss Classic Beauty Pageant.

  She thought of the other finalists. Regina Van Raven was the show’s co-producer and her best friend. Amelia Corde did volunteer work for PBS — Regina hinted she had a sapphire blue eye on Donna’s job at KSCO. Tammy Kowalski, in the throes of marital problems, bounced in and out of their lives like a fishing bobber. And last, but certainly not least, Corinne. There had been no contact aside from that one encounter the day following the assault. Donna tried not to think about that. After two decades she still felt a wave of nausea whenever she thought of that brief visit at San Francisco General where Corinne, heavily sedated, moaning in pain, her swollen face a mass of ...

  But Corinne had recovered. And Donna heard she’d undergone reconstructive surgery prior to her release three months later.

  Yes, maybe it was time they all got together again.

  Regina sat at her desk sorting through a stack of office memos. The third one got her attention. She reread it, puzzled.

  Still holding the memo, Regina walked around the partition to Donna’s tiny cubicle. Standing in the doorway, she caught a glimpse of herself in the oval mirror on the opposite wall. Her dark brown hair, pulled into a clip at the nape of her neck, was dull and frizzy. With today’s heat, humidity, and the rushing around, she felt washed out, unattractive. She quickly looked away.

  “What’s this, a joke?” Regina asked Donna, holding up the paper.

  Donna leaned back in her chair, and motioned for Regina to come in. “No joke.”

  “The Classic Beauty Pageant,” Regina said, reading. “Jeeze, Donna, that was fifteen years ago.”

  “Twenty.”

  “God.”

  “I know I should’ve consulted you first. After all, you are the co-producer, the talent coordinator, and the chief cook and bottle washer—but you would’ve nixed it. There’s one major change. We’re aiming for next week’s time slot. We’ve got to make some calls.”

  “You’ve already invited the others?”

  Donna nodded.

  “Corinne?” Regina asked.

  Donna nodded again, this time solemnly.

  “Why? Why in God’s name--”

  Donna held up a hand to silence her. “I know. I know. Let’s just say I’m in a position to bring us together again — publicly —and I want to, that’s all.”

  “What’s the slant?” Regina asked.

  “We have two options. If Corinne declines, we interview four local, former beauty contestants--”

  Behind Regina a male voice said flatly, “But if Corinne agrees to come on the show and talk about the acid incident, we go for it.”

  Regina turned to face Nolan Lake. “And that’s what you’re really shooting for, isn’t it?”

  Nolan shrugged.

  “Are we resorting to sensationalism?”

  “That’s the kind of business we’re in,” Nolan said. “It sells.”

  “I like to think ‘City Gallery’ is above that sort of thing.”

  “That’s why it’s Donna’s show and not yours,” Nolan said with a thin smile.

  “Nolan, please,” Donna said quietly.

  Nolan perched on the edge of the desk and massaged the back of Donna’s neck. “It’s going to be a great show. Period.”

  Regina looked from his determined face to Donna’s hopeful one. For Donna she would do it.

  “I’ll start making the calls,” Regina said dryly, turning to leave.

  Nolan blocked her way. “You were the first runner-up, Regina,” he said. “Haven’t you ever wondered what course your life would have taken if you had won the title instead of Corinne?”

  Fixing him with a direct, gaze, Regina said, “No.” Then she moved around him and walked away.

  CHAPTER 3

  Amelia

  Amelia Corde cautiously moved the key ring. With
out picking up the gray snakeskin wallet she opened it flat and, with long, burgundy fingernails, wriggled the thick sheath of bills out far enough to see the denominations. There were hundreds, then fifties, and on down to the fives. Matthew never carried ones in his wallet. He probably tossed them away. The man was frivolous with his cash, except where his wife was concerned.

  She counted the money. Four hundred and eighty dollars. She slipped one of the three fifties from the stack, dropped it on the floor, then nudged it under the dresser with a stockinged toe.

  A toilet flushed in the bathroom. Amelia quickly stuffed the rest of the money back into the wallet, closed it, then positioned the key ring exactly as it had been. She had just crossed to her vanity and snatched up the morning mail when Matthew Corde strolled into the room. Their eyes met briefly before he disappeared into the walk-in closet.

  She forced herself to breathe normally as she sorted through the brochures and business-size envelopes. The one addressed to her from KSCO TV caught her eye. Amelia slit it open with a thumbnail. She read the letter quickly, then reread it more slowly.

  Donna Lake wanted her on the show. Well, it was about time. This was perfect. The interview could only enhance her prospective venture. The publicity was just what she needed.

  She turned to the mirror, staring at her image critically. Although she had recently passed the forty mark, little had changed about her. A few gray hairs, plucked immediately when they appeared, several fine lines at the corners of her eyes, but essentially, she was still as slim and beautiful as the girl in the contest. Her shoulder-length black hair would need a touch-up. Perhaps she’d go with mahogany highlights this time.