Pandora rose unsteadily to her feet and crossed the living room to the phone. She dialed Regina’s number and cursed silently when a recorded message came on. At the beep, unable to bridle the tremor in her voice, she said, “Regina, it’s Pandora Cudahay. Call me, it’s urgent. I’ll be at home until six-thirty.” Barely audible, she added, “I saw his face.”
He dialed, patiently listened to Regina Van Raven’s recorded message, and, at the tone, pressed the two digit-code that would retrieve any messages on the machine. He heard the message from Pandora Cudahay. The words “I saw his face” pounded in his head. Pandora Cudahay. Who was this woman? The name was familiar. Cudahay? And then it came to him: the psychic from the ‘City Gallery’ show. Was it possible that through telepathic means it was his face she had seen? Impossible. He refused to believe in such garbage. But, he told himself disconcertingly, he could not afford to take any unnecessary chances.
He reached for the phone book, turned to the Cs, and ran his finger down a column. There were three Cudahays. He dialed the first number. After only two rings the phone was answered. The woman, sounding breathless, said hello several times. He hung up. He had heard enough to know hers was the voice on Van Raven’s answering machine. He noted the address, then left the house.
At 6:38, no longer able to wait for Regina’s call. Pandora slipped on a white angora cardigan, tucked her clutch purse under her arm, picked up the folder containing her notes for tonight’s speech at the Psychic Research Institute, and walked to the apartment door.
Since touching the glove, she’d had an unrelenting premonition of danger and doom. So overwhelming were these ominous vibrations, that her stomach quaked and her head throbbed. As her fingers touched the doorknob, a shower of black images exploded in her head. The razor slashing wildly. Those sadistic eyes. That horrid grin. A wave of dizziness passed over her, and she wondered if she would be able to make the presentation after all. None of her visions had ever been this intense, this internal.
Stop, she told herself. Put it from your mind. The killer was a madman, but Regina would survive. This she strongly sensed.
Before she could change her mind and cancel her speaking commitment. Pandora grabbed the doorknob and twisted, pulling the door open quickly.
The razor came at her from the other side of the threshold. Pandora’s first stunned impression was that it was suspended in air, slashing at her throat on its own volition. But then she realized through a haze of terror that the blackness on the other side of the razor was human, and he was pushing his way inside.
Her scream was nothing more than a foamy gurgle of blood.
On the way back to the city Regina could hear John talking, but she found it difficult to concentrate on his words. After a time he too fell silent. They stopped for an early dinner at an Italian restaurant on Redwood Highway. In a secluded booth, over eggplant rigatoni that Regina was too preoccupied to enjoy, they talked quietly.
“Marilyn Keane had never heard of Corde,” she said.
“There must be a connection. Why would Wilma give you her name?”
“It may have nothing to do with Corde. Wilma knew Marilyn was a contestant in a beauty contest and that she was attacked, not with acid, but in a manner just as effective.” Regina sipped her red wine. “Objective was to disfigure. A coincidence?”
“From what Marilyn said, he appeared crazed, cursing and striking out in a frenzy. The M.O. is different.”
“The woman in Novato,” Regina said, rubbing her aching temple as she stared off in the distance, “she was slashed. Her throat cut.”
John was silent.
Back in the car, John hesitated before starting it. He reached over, slipped his hand into hers, and squeezed. “You’re worried about Kristy, aren’t you?”
She looked at him and saw deep caring in his light blue eyes. She returned the pressure of his hand and nodded. “I’ve denied her very little over the years,” she said solemnly. “Fortunately, she asked for little. But this time I have to renege on a promise. Kristy will drop out of this contest, or by God, I’ll send her to my parents until this bastard is caught.”
“What about yourself? He’s after you, you know.”
“Do you want me to go?”
“I don’t want anything to happen to you. I couldn’t stand it if I ...” John pulled her to him. He cupped her face and kissed her. His lips, tender at first, turned fierce. Regina sensed in his kiss an urgency of bonding rather than desire, and she felt a longing of such absolute magnitude that she moaned low in her throat.
“Nothing will happen to me as long as I’m with you,” she whispered in his ear.
Forty-five minutes later they crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and drove to Twin Peaks. They found a parking space on the next block and walked to Pandora Cudahay’s high-rise. At the double glass doors, the doorman asked who it was they wished to see.
“Cudahay, eighteen-oh-six, I’m Regina Van Raven, I dropped off a glove, earlier, remember?”
The doorman smiled. “Yes so you did, I took it upstairs myself and gave it to her.”
“Could you ring her apartment, please?” He lifted the phone, pressed buttons, Regina could hear it ringing, “Sorry, no answer. She must be out.”
“She left no message for me?”
He shook his head.
“Any idea when she’ll he back?” John asked,
“No, sir. Though she’s not one to stay out late.”
“Do you see her leave?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“May I use your phone?” Regina asked. The doorman stepped aside.
Regina called home, coded the machine, and listened to Pandora’s tremulous message. She pressed a button to repeat the message, then handed the phone to John. As he listened to the message, his gaze locked with Regina’s. “Corde?” she said softly.
John hung up the phone. To the doorman he said, “Did a man in a black Rolls-Royce come here?”
The doorman shook his head, “There have been no Rolls-Royces here tonight. And no one, aside from yourselves, has called on Miss Cudahay today.”
“C’mon,” John said to Regina, grabbing her hand and pulling her in the direction of her car.
“Where are we going?” she said, running to keep up.
“Wilma’s.”
Minutes later they were in the Marina, knocking on the door of a large Victorian house. They had come unannounced, yet Wilma Greenwood greeted John and Regina as though she had expected them. She settled them in the den, then listened to what they had to say regarding their visit with Marilyn Keane.
“Why did you send us there?” John asked.
Wilma said nothing for a minute. Finally, looking from one to the other, she replied, “First tell me everything you know. Don’t leave out a thing.”
John and Regina took turns talking. Twenty minutes later they were recapping that day’s events: taking the judge’s glove; the psychic; Marilyn Keane; the message from Pandora on Regina’s answering machine.
“And then we came to you,” Regina finished.
Wilma stood and began to pace the room, her fingers plucking at the strand of pearls at her throat. She stopped at the window and gazed out, “Judge Corde is capable of doing everything you’ve told me.”
“You suspect he had something to do with the attack on Marilyn Keane?” John said.
Wilma nodded.
“And yet you did nothing?”
She began to pace again. “You have to understand that the courthouse grapevine is phenomenal. There are spies and loose lips everywhere. To investigate a judge is to alert him that he is under suspicion.”
“And you feared that if he suspected you were on to him, he’d stop before you could prove anything?” Regina said.
“I wish that were all. It’s much more complicated than that.” Wilma returned to her desk.
“Someone else was suspicious of—” John stood, an expression of revelation on his face. “It was you, wasn’t it? You were the
one planting the clues and directing the show, prodding, keeping us on the right track? The anonymous informer.”
Wilma dropped her gaze, toyed with a crystal paperweight on the desk blotter.
“I should have guessed when you gave Regina Marilyn Keane’s name. You suspected him all along, yet for some unfathomable reason, which I damn well want to hear, you wouldn’t get involved? Christ,” John said, his voice rising angrily. “What is this shit?” He slammed his fist on the desk. “Wilma, I’m a suspect in the acid attacks. Regina is an intended victim—”
“I know,” she said quietly. “That’s why I decided to use you. You both had motives for wanting to find the perpetrator, and I took advantage of those motives. I’m sorry, but I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Why the hell didn’t you just tell the cops that you suspected Corde? What gave you the right to withhold information? To jeopardize lives? Innocent women are being slashed, burned. Regina could’ve been burned —worse, she could’ve been killed.”
“I realize that now. It’s true, I was wrong, but I had my reasons. Unfortunately, when you hear them, you won’t think any better of me. I kept quiet to save my own skin. I hoped that you and Regina could flush Corde out. I wanted him found out. Yet it was essential I be far removed from any investigation.”
Wilma pulled in a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “For Matthew Corde it started many years ago with bribery, blackmail, and extortion. His victims are women. I, regrettably, was one of the first.”
Regina and John waited.
“I wasn’t long out of law school. Corde and I were assistants, working in the public defender’s office. I did something that could have resulted in my disbarment. I fell for this guy, a land developer, and ... well, I destroyed evidence that could have convicted him on a tax evasion charge. Although it’s not relevant, and certainly doesn’t change anything, I’m positive Corde had me set up. He offered an ultimatum. Become his sex slave or suffer the consequences. I’ll spare you the sordid details.”
“The other victims?” John asked.
“Young, attractive women, always. Women about to go before him in court with charges ranging from simple misdemeanor to felony. He knew which ones had the most to lose by a jail-term decision. Women with children, with good jobs or reputations, first offenders. No decent woman wants to spend time in jail for a stupid mistake. And God knows he had the power to put them there.”
“The woman in the newspaper clipping?” John asked.
“Yes, Carmenita Flores. A lovely girl in her late twenties. She was scheduled for trial on a health insurance fraud charge. Her two-year-old daughter had a congenital heart defect and the medical bills were astronomical.” Wilma went on. “Judge Corde gave her probation.”
“They struck a deal with her,” John said matter-of-factly.
“Precisely. Sad thing is she would probably have gotten probation no matter who the judge.”
“Isn’t what he did illegal?”
“Not if he doesn’t take money. It’s more a matter for the ethics board.”
“So why did he kill her?”
“I wish I knew. Though I suspect she didn’t want to play his nasty game any longer.” Wilma’s face was drawn and pale as she twisted at the string of pearls. “I’m scared to death of the man. He’d kill me in a second if he suspected I talked to the authorities about him.” There was a popping sound. A shower of pearls danced across the stained desk blotter and bounced to the floor. Wilma ignored them.
No one said anything for several drawn-out moments. Then, almost as though she was talking to herself, Regina said, “How do you go after a judge?”
“It’s not easy. Blackmail victims don’t talk. There were no witnesses in the Flores murder, no physical evidence, either. And in Marilyn Keane’s case ... well, you talked to her. She thinks she was attacked by the devil.”
“There must be something we can do,” Regina said.
John stood. “The man is after Regina. He’s already made at least one attempt to get to her.”
Wilma sighed heavily. “You’re right. I can’t stay out of it any longer. And I no longer have the luxury of trying to build a solid case against him. There’s too much at stake now. Give me tonight to get what I have together. First thing tomorrow morning I’ll go to Detective Lillard and fill him in. It’s not likely Corde will do anything crazy before morning.”
“Should we warn Amelia?”
“We can’t take that chance. She may be in on it and she’d only tip him off.”
“I still have to talk to Pandora Cudahay,” Regina said. “She saw his face.”
“I can’t use psychic visions in a court of law, but I’d be interested to know what she saw. Who she saw. Let me know when you hear from her.”
Regina nodded. She rose to stand beside John.
Wilma, a weak smile on her lips, said, “You two make a nice couple. Take care of her, John.”
His arm went around Regina protectively. “I intend to.”
CHAPTER 31
At 6:30 in the morning, careful not to wake John sleeping beside her, Regina slipped quietly from bed, went into the kitchen, and called Kristy at Sonya’s.
“Kristy, you have to get out of that contest.”
“What?” Kristy said, her voice shrill.
“Sonya, too.”
“Mom, I don’t believe you. The winner will be announced in five days.”
“I don’t care if it’s today. You’re in danger. One of the contestants was attacked and—”
“I know that.”
“What do you mean you know that? How could you know?”
“The police interviewed all the contestants. It was a random assault. The pageant committee said so, and so did the police.”
“You knew and you didn’t tell me?” Regina tried to control her voice.
“I know how protective you can be, Mom. You were already paranoid just remembering your pageant. This has nothing to do with that. No one else has been hurt.”
“Damnit, Kristy, you listen to me. There’s a madman out there and he’s hurting, and now killing, women. I know who it is—” A hand touched the back of her neck.
Regina gasped and spun around.
John stood behind her. He reached out, touched her face apologetically.
“Mom? Mom, are you all right?”
Regina inhaled deeply. She smiled at John, patted his hand. “I’m all right. Look, Kristy, just promise me you won’t do anything until we have a chance to talk. That goes for Sonya too. I’ll meet you at The Farm House at noon.”
“Okay, sure. Mom.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, I promise.”
She hung up. The phone rang under her fingers. It was Wilma.
In a solemn tone she said, “Regina, I’m afraid I have bad news.”
“He’s killed again?”
“Yes.” Wilma paused. “Your psychic friend.”
“Pandora?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, no.”
“She was found in the foyer of her apartment. Killed with a—like the Flores woman.”
Regina felt weak, sick to her stomach. Pandora had died trying to help her. She was caught in a swirl of emotions: anger, sorrow, fear, and guilt. This maniac had to be stopped before another innocent woman died.
She felt John’s hand on her shoulder and she squeezed it.
“Lillard will want to talk with both of you today. Can you make yourselves available?”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Regina said. “Wilma, does he know our suspicions about Corde?”
“We’ll go over all that when you get here. I’ll call.”
Regina hung up. John turned her around, folded her in his arms and held her securely, gently swaying as he stroked her hair and back.
“A hundred and fifty,” the jeweler said, putting down his loupe.
“You mean fifteen hundred?” Amelia said.
“I mean one hundred and fifty dollars.”
&n
bsp; “But those are diamond earrings.”
“Cubic zirconia is what they are.”
Amelia was too stunned to speak. Matthew had never given her imitations before. There had to be a mistake.
She had come out into the damp, drizzly morning to sell the earrings. As always, she was prepared to take much less than their actual worth. She was unprepared to discover they were practically worthless.
“They retail for approximately a hundred and fifty.” He handed the case with the earrings back to her.
She took them absently. The earrings had come from the same high-priced jewelry store where Matthew bought all her jewelry. The “love gifts,” always genuine. Why cheap imitations this time? He could certainly afford the real thing.
“A pawn shop might give you twenty, twenty-five dollars for them,” the jeweler said.
She shoved the case into her gray lizard handbag and strode from the store. Out on the street she stood at the curb, nonplussed, oblivious to the light drizzle, wondering what to do next. It was half-past ten. She had an appointment with Max Conner at the station at four, without Nolan.
Nolan was of no use to her any longer. He had called her that morning, obviously shaken, to say that Donna, released from the hospital the day before, had suggested a trial separation. Without his hold on Donna, Amelia realized, the man had no ground to stand on. She had gone around him to the executive producer. Max would be a pushover.
She walked to the end of Maiden Lane, stood on the sidewalk taking in the green of Union Square with its hundreds of greedy pigeons and the surrounding chic boutiques and department stores. She sighed audibly. After the rejection on the massage table, Matthew, naturally, had withheld the credit card. And there was no telling how long before he would relent and give it to her. There was only one sure way to dissolve his anger and that was to play the victim. The “victim”—where she allowed herself to be bound, gagged, and totally at the mercy of his sick sexual appetite. It was the role she consented to only when the stakes were extremely high.
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