She learned early on that her sweet smile, her magic fingers, her will to please, attracted men to her. For a while, anyway. They took what was offered and then they went away.
An hour later the phone rang. Tammy prayed it would be Gary. But the caller was a stranger with a deep, gravelly voice, asking for the time schedule of her aerobics class at The Fitness Center.
After hanging up, she called Gary. The answering machine came on. At the beep she said softly, “Gary, pick up the phone. I know you’re there. Please talk to me. Gary? Honey?” She rubbed her swollen throat. “Honey, I’m not mad at you. Please talk to me.”
The man was a psychopath—a vicious, brutal maniac who lustedXXXZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Christ!
The blue screen remained blank save for that one idiotic sentence and that damnable blinking cursor. Another unproductive afternoon.
Holding a red pistachio to his front teeth, John opened it and worked the nut out with his tongue. He chewed slowly, washing it down with coffee. He put his hands back on the keyboard, the fingers stained with the pistachio’s red dye, and typed C-o-r-i-n-n-e O-d-e-t-t. He hit the return, then typed the name. Donna Lake. Two spaces down he added three more names: Tamara Kowalski, Amelia Corde and Regina Van Raven. These three ended with a question mark.
His door buzzer sounded. John rose, crossed the room, opened the door, and looked out to the entry. Through the long panes of glass set in the door he saw two men in business suits. One man, Asian, his face to the glass, was peering inside. Their eyes met. John pressed the button to the right of his door, buzzing them in.
John had known instantly who they were. They were both reaching into their pockets for identification. Cops.
“Mr. John Davie?” the thin Asian with the flattop asked.
“Yes.”
The badges were flashed. John didn’t bother to look.
“May we ask you a few questions?”
“About what?”
Looking into the vestibule, John saw a woman in an off-white top and pants enter. There was no mistaking the pretty features of his upstairs neighbor.
One detective turned, nodded his head. “Afternoon, Mrs. Van Raven.”
“Good afternoon, Detective Lillard,” she said as she passed the three men. For a fleeting moment her eyes met John’s before she started up the stairway. John stared after her.
“What do you know about the assault on Donna Lake?” the other detective asked John.
Her sandaled foot missed a step.
“Not a thing.” John watched her entire ascent up the stairs. At the top she glanced down at him before disappearing around the banister.
“Come on in.”
They followed him inside, their trained eyes darting about the apartment.
John spotted the luminous blue screen of his monitor. From where he stood the white printing was not legible, but if the police should move closer they’d see the names of two Miss Classic finalists—victims of acid. And the three who were not victims —not yet.
He strode across the wide expanse of living room, deliberately using his body to shield the screen, and pressed the “escape” key. The screen blinked before displaying the IBM program menu.
“What was that?” Lillard asked, moving closer.
“A novel I’m working on.”
“Writer, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Ever get published?”
“A few times.”
“Anything I’d know about?”
“I have no idea,” John said leaning on the desk. “You had questions about a crime?”
“Yeah. Are you acquainted with Donna Lake?” Lillard asked. It appeared to John that he was to be the designated spokesman for the two.
“Never met her.”
“Know who she is?”
“I’ve seen her on TV.”
“Ever hear of something like this happening before?”
John waited, knowing damn well the cops knew he had.
“You knew the other one, didn’t you, John?”
John stared at him.
“Yes or no, John?”
“Yes.”
“You got an alibi for your whereabouts yesterday between four and five P.M.?”
“I can save you a lot of time by telling you that yesterday I was at KSCO.”
The two detectives looked at each other. So they hadn’t known, John thought, surprised. He was certain Regina had called them.
“And what were you doing there?”
“I pass the station every day on my way to the Bull’s Blood bar where I work.”
“What time was that?”
“About four-fifteen. The emergency vans were just pulling up. I felt compelled to see what was going on.”
“I see,” the detective said. He moved to the desk, picked up several pistachios from the bag and, holding them up, said, “May I?” John nodded. Lillard ate the nuts, then tossed the shells on a red mound in a large ceramic bowl. “It’s quite a coincidence that you would be present just moments after a woman gets acid tossed in her face —on two separate occasions.”
John sighed. “This time it was a coincidence.”
“And the other time?”
“I knew Corinne Odett.”
From the desk Lillard lifted a copy of John’s novel, Evil Tidings. He stared at the author’s picture on the back of the jacket. “See much of Miss Odett?”
“No.”
“When was the last time?”
“Before the assault.”
“Why is that, John?”
“That’s none of your business,” John said, feeling his anger surface. “I had nothing to do with her attack. We went through all this shit twenty years ago. It’s over. You can’t drag me back into it.”
“It’s never over. Especially now that we know you popped up at another acid splash. You’re back in it again, Mr. Davie.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“What’s your hurry? Be a sport. Give us a chance to put a good, concrete case together. You slipped through the cracks last time out—no eyewitness and not enough evidence. This time, though, we just might luck out.”
The two detectives moved to the door, halfway out, the other one said, “If you think of something you want to tell Detective Lillard, or me, Detective Foyota, call.” He dropped a business card on the rocking chair.
The door closed softly behind them. Instead of the footsteps moving toward the front door, John heard them on the stairway, climbing.
“My God, Fletch, the publicity,” Amelia said excitedly into the cordless phone.
It was late afternoon and Matthew was in the basement tinkering, like King Midas, with his coins and precious metals and whatever else he kept in his room down there.
Amelia was in the closet going through his clothes. Instead of discarding or giving them away, she would sell them to a clothes outlet. With the receiver clamped between ear and shoulder, she dug through the pockets of his suits and shirts. “At first I thought it was a waste of time. But do you realize how much free publicity we’ve already gotten from that show? My face has been on nationwide TV.”
“Adverse publicity, Amelia.”
“For Donna, yes, but not for me —for us. When we’re prepared to go public, advertisers everywhere will know me. I just can’t believe how this is turning out.”
“You could show some compassion for the victim.”
“Darling, I do. I’ve just sent her a very expensive floral arrangement with my profound condolences. Will you stop looking at this in a negative light. Everything happens for the best, you know. Something good might even come out of this for Donna.”
“I can’t imagine what.”
“I wonder who will be taking over for her while she’s recovering?”
“Maybe you could apply for the position.”
She didn’t miss the sarcasm in Fletcher’s voice. “Maybe I will” she said coolly.
He laughed good-naturedl
y. “Sometimes I underestimate you. You have what it takes to make any business a success. I’m extremely fortunate to have you on my side.”
She chuckled low in her throat. “Matthew has a testimonial dinner tonight. I’ll be at your place around nine.”
“Oh damn, what timing. I made arrangements to meet with Tapperman at his club tonight.”
“Who the hell is Tapperman?”
“Elia Tapperman, the promotional manager to RAM Electronics. A contract I promised to deliver.”
“Change it to another night.”
“It’s taken me weeks to pin him down. An invite to his private club is quite a coup, and an indication he’s interested. I called him when you canceled the weekend.”
“I see. Well, good luck. How is everything else coming along?”
“The lease has been signed and we open the account on Monday. We’re about ready to open our doors for business, Mrs. President.”
“I like the sound of that.” She smiled, pulling a ten-dollar bill from the front pocket of Matthew’s wool blazer. “It’s so much better than Mrs. Corde.”
“How does Mrs. Kincade strike you?”
“It strikes me fine,” she said sweetly, though deep down she wondered if she’d ever marry again once she’d gotten Matthew’s claws out of her. “I’ll see you on Monday, Fletch darling.” She hung up, and as she stuffed the bill into the toe of a sheepskin boot, she thought of the first time she had met Fletcher.
It had been at one of the endless charity functions that Matthew felt compelled to attend. While standing at the bar waiting for her third vodka Gibson, she had overheard Kincade telling another man that he was looking for a partner to match his investment capital in the modeling business. The other man had shown an obvious interest. Amelia’s fingers had trembled as she lifted her drink to her lips. When Kincade stepped to the bar for a refill, Amelia slipped him a note with her phone number and the words “Business Proposition.” He’d called the following day. The wheels had begun to turn almost immediately. Both in bed and out of it.
Fletcher was a bright man, handsome and sexy as all hell. But he wasn’t the only man in the world. Fortunately for Amelia, the world of stage, screen, and modeling harbored a whole realm of sexy, exciting, and handsome young men.
The front door was open a crack. Corinne stood behind it, ready to slam it shut if he tried to come inside.
“Ma’am, please,” Detective Lillard said. “Just a minute of your time.”
“Go away. I don’t want to talk.”
“I could get a subpoena and have you hauled downtown.”
She thought he might be bluffing, but did she want to take that chance? She’d rather die than be forced to appear at police headquarters where people could stare at her with pity and revulsion. And she sure as shit didn’t want any of them snooping around in her house.
“What questions?”
“May I come in?”
“No.” She inched the door closer to the frame.
“Okay, look, we can talk here. Okay?”
“What questions?” she repeated.
“Donna Lake’s assault.”
She remained silent.
“She was assaulted, with acid, the same as you. We’d like your help in finding her assailant.”
“You didn’t find my assailant, yet you want me to help you find hers. Why? Is Miss Donna Lake more important than me?”
“We believe both assailants are one and the same, Miss Odett.”
“So? If I had any idea who did this to me, don’t you think I’d’ve told you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I don’t know anything.”
He cleared his throat. “We’ve placed John Davie at the crime scene Friday.”
Corinne’s heart thumped beneath her breastbone.
“Did you hear me, Miss Odett? John Davie admitted to being--”
“Jack?” she whispered.
“Yes, Jack, John. Let me in so we can discuss this.”
From behind her, in a room just off the kitchen, a muffled cry reached her ears.
“No.” The door closed a little more. “I can’t talk to you now. I can’t .”
“All right. No problem. Here’s my card. Will you call me and talk?”
Her hand shook as she snatched the business card that appeared through the crack. She closed and locked the door, leaning against it.
Oh, Jesus. Jack at the TV station? He lived in the area, so it had to have been a coincidence.
She crossed to a knick-knack shelf and took down a book, the cover worn and grimy from much handling. Years ago, when she’d read that he had become an author, she’d sent away for his suspense novel. His face on the book jacket was that of a serious man with strength and purpose —no trace of the boy she’d had etched in her mind. Yet even in a photograph his charm, his charisma, were apparent. Then she had opened it and had cried when she read a dedication to someone named Darlene. Darlene and Andrew. Wife and son? She never read Evil Tidings.
The phone rang. The damn press again, she thought. She snatched it up angrily, barked out a “What?”
“Corinne?”
She felt as if she’d been gut shot. Jack. There was no mistaking his voice. He said her name once more.
“Don’t ever call me again,” she said low in her throat. “You can’t do this to me.” She hung up softly. Then she turned slowly, running the palms of her hands over her breasts roughly, shaking her head.
She went to her father’s room, leaned against the door frame, and watched him struggle silently on the bed.
Sauntering in, she looked down at him. His eyes watched her warily. With a jerk of her hand she stripped off the silver duct tape from his mouth. He pulled back, but said nothing.
“Well, aren’t you going to call out? Shout the house down, maybe? Now’s your chance. That was a real, bona fide cop out there.”
“You gonna keep my insulin from me?” he asked in a whimper.
“Nooo,” she said, as though talking to a child. “You’d die if I did that.”
“How ‘bout my pills?”
“Don’t you want to know why the police were at the door?”
He stared up at her.
“Donna Lake, the TV gal, got a dose of acid in her face. Just like me. What’dya think about that?”
“My legs hurt, Cory. They hurt bad.”
“Well, let’s have a look.” She pulled out one corner of the blanket that was wrapped snugly around his entire body. The stump of the leg that had been amputated was swollen and red, but it looked a million times better than the swollen, discolored foot on his other leg.
“It looks bad, Daddy. Bad like the other one just before the doctors said it had to go. Real close to gangrene, I’d say.” She tucked the blanket back under mattress. “Too bad we don’t have any money to fix it up. I’ll get you an aspirin.” She turned to leave the room.
“Cory? Please?”
“Now you stop that whining. What good’s it gonna do, Daddy?” she replied in a gushy, overly sympathetic tone, mimicking his backwoods grammar. “Even if the doctor does fix it up, it’s never gonna be normal. So why waste the money?”
“Cory, baby, I’m sorry. Jesus fucking Christ, how many times I gotta tell you I’m sorry?” Mucus smeared over his stubbled face. “If I’da known how important having those operations was to you, I’da gone and let you have em. If yer momma were alive—”
“Don’t talk to me about Momma,” she said tightly. “You hear?”
“Why you gotta blame me for everything?”
She downed the rest of her beer, crushed the can, then right hooked it into the plastic wastebasket. “I’ll get that aspirin.”
CHAPTER 19
John was on the roof, lying on his back, his toes hooked under the barbell. With one last burst of energy, the tendons on each side of his neck standing out like taut leather straps, he bent forward and touched his toes.“Hundred,” he wheezed and collapsed back down. Above his head,
perched on the edge of the heating unit, two pigeons eyed him curiously and cooed.
It was all coming back to haunt him.
Early in 1970, up from San Jose to visit his aunt and uncle, John met Corinne Odett at a party in a rough neighborhood of Berkeley. She was twenty, he was eighteen. She was the most breathtaking female he’d ever seen. In addition to her beauty, she had spunk and tenacity. She was going to win a beauty contest and go to Hollywood to be a major star. At the time he never doubted that anything she wanted could be hers.
A salty rivulet ran into his eye, stinging. He rolled over on his stomach and shook his head, slinging sweat over his bare arms and shoulders. A brisk ocean breeze cooled his drenched body. He pushed off from the mat, bounding to his feet.
It was Wednesday, five days since Donna Lake had been attacked, and that incident, instead of diminishing in his mind, seemed to intensify with each passing day. If his suspicions were correct, what had happened to Donna would not be an isolated event.
There was no putting it off any longer. He glanced at his watch. 7:35. Regina would be going to work soon. If he hurried he could grab a quick shower, dress, and catch her before she left.
With the towel draped around his neck, he left the roof, jogged down a flight of stairs to the second floor, and nearly knocked Regina over as she rounded the banister to the stairway. Her large leather handbag hit the hardwood floor, its contents spewing everywhere.
She gasped, stumbling back, a stunned look on her face.
He grabbed her arm to steady her. “You okay?”
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