Edge Of Midnight (The Mccloud Series Book 4)

by Shannon McKenna

  Cold fingers were doing the creepy, tickly dance up and down her spine. “Never mind,” she said. “I don’t want to cause you any—”

  “I’ll ask around,” Bolivar said. “It was a long time ago.”

  Cindy felt guilty that Bolivar felt obligated to do something that made him nervous, but gee, a curse? She dug in her pocket, found a dog-eared business card. It was simple, just her name, a sexy picture of her playing the sax, and her cell number. Miles had taken the picture.

  Miles had typeset and printed up the cards for her, too.

  “Call me if you find anything out, OK?” she said.

  Bolivar nodded, tucked it into his pocket. Cindy loped towards her room, wishing she had something to show for this stunt. All she had were feelings, vibes, rumors. Tickles on the back of her neck.

  It was frustrating. Maybe that was what real detective work was like. It would drive her nuts. Thank God she was a musician.

  Man, she hoped the band would be blazing tonight. It was going to take a serious, exalted groove to play all of today’s worries away.

  Chapter 19

  Professor Sidney Beck stared through the glass at the willowy seductress’s beautifully presented ass as she rode away on her bicycle.

  Then he shuffled back to the living room. Sat down, heavily.

  He drank several glasses of tea. Ate the remaining pecan puffs, crunching them mechanically. He poured the last half glass, took it to the bar, topped it off with rum. He felt steadier after gulping that down.

  He went to the bathroom, when the call of nature became too urgent to ignore, and pissed. His heart raced, but the thumping felt feeble, insignificant and faraway. Mice, skittering on tiny feet. The pumping action didn’t get as far as his brain, his leaden limbs.

  He stared at his heavy slab of a face. His double chin. The broken veins in his cheeks. Emiliana’s pecan puffs had transformed into corrosive acid sludge that churned and frothed, burning his esophagus.

  McCloud. Dead fifteen years, and still forcing him to look at the corrupt, mediocre fraud that he was. Not that he’d ever rubbed Beck’s nose in it. Kevin hadn’t been arrogant about his genius. He had not the slightest need to be. It had never occurred to him to look down on other mortals less gifted than he, because everyone was less gifted than he.

  All that genius, calm self-assurance, and youth and good looks, too. He’d been so jealous of McCloud, he could have murdered him.

  Maybe he had.

  Oh, no. No need to take on that burden. All he’d done was give him Osterman’s number, told him that the research might intrigue him. That there was money involved. Minimal time commitment. That was the extent of his responsibility. He hadn’t known what would happen.

  He hadn’t forced Kevin to call, to get embroiled. To get hurt.

  True, Osterman had asked specifically for highly intelligent young people without a lot of family ties, but Beck hadn’t taken that to mean the man was up to no good. Why should he?

  He could never have guessed how sick the whole thing would become. His career, his house, the stock options in Helix, the toys, the indulgences, hot tubs filled with smiling young women—all of it built around one unspeakable secret. If that crumbled, everything crumbled.

  After all. The damage was done. The milk was spilled. If he was going to hell anyway, why not cut his losses and try to enjoy it?

  His face looked so blank. Slack. Old, though he was barely into his fifties. He stumbled into his office, the one overlooking Endicott River. If he opened the windows, he could hear the roar of the falls.

  He saw and heard none of this. Just booted up the computer, picked up the phone, and dialed.

  “Office of Undergraduate Studies,” said a crisp, female voice.

  “Eileen? Hello, this is Sidney Beck,” he said, in his best hearty, jovial tone. “I hope you had a lovely summer.”

  “Hello, Professor! I did, thanks. Anything I can do for you?”

  “Yes, in fact. Would you e-mail me the academic records of one of my former students? I have a friend who’s interviewing her for a job.”

  “Why, certainly, Professor. What’s the name?”

  “Cynthia Riggs,” he said.

  “One moment.” He listened to Muzak, foot tapping compulsively.

  Eileen came back on the line. “Professor? Are you sure you’ve got the right person? This girl was a music major. And on her transcript, I see that she barely passed the course she took from you.”

  “Actually, ah, my friend is a musician,” he improvised.

  “Ah. I see. Well, I’m sending the file. Do you want the photo?”

  He was startled. “You have a photo?”

  “We have a photo on file of all our students. Do you want it?”

  “Uh, why, yes,” he said distractedly. “Please, send it along.”

  And there it was, in his inbox. He opened the jpg, and stared at Cynthia’s pretty face. He thought of how warm the skin of her shoulders had been. How in a couple of days, that warm skin would be stone cold.

  That curvy, slender body, laid out on a coroner’s table.

  He was going to hell anyway. It didn’t matter anymore what sins he committed. And besides, no one had forced that idiot girl to ask her stupid questions. He’d done nothing. She’d brought it all on herself.

  He dialed. The phone was promptly answered. “Beck?”

  “Yes! Dr. Osterman? How are you? I haven’t heard from you in—”

  “Cut right to it, Beck,” Osterman said. “I’m very busy.”

  Beck swallowed his anger at the man’s arrogance. “Ah. Yes.” He cleared his throat, and laughed nervously. “I thought you might like to know about an odd visit I got, from a former student of mine. She was asking questions about Kevin McCloud.”

  Osterman waited. “What questions? Who is she? Spit it out.”

  “She asked about the Midnight Project,” Beck blurted out.

  The quality of Osterman’s silence changed. It made Beck feel guilty. As if this mess were his fault. “She said she found his notebook. She wants to write a book.” He laughed again. “I doubt her interest runs very deep, knowing the young lady in question,” he babbled. “Not the brightest bulb, though she does compensate in other ways—”

  “Her name, Beck. Don’t waste my time.”

  He stared at the girl’s bright smile and took another step towards the crackling flames. “Cynthia Riggs. She’s teaching up at the Colfax. Probably staying in student summer housing. I…I have a photo.”

  “Send it. What else do you have?”

  Beck studied the files. “Academic records, parents’ address—”

  “Send it all.” Osterman had a smug, satisfied tone. “I don’t have to tell you how important discretion is, do I?”

  Beck forwarded the files to the appropriate address, hit send and gulped back a rush of bile. “No,” he said hoarsely.

  Osterman paused, sensing the conflict in the other man. “You are contributing to crucial, life-enhancing research,” he lectured. “There are always ethical conundrums to be faced. Hard decisions to be made.”

  “Of course.” Beck’s voice felt strangled.

  “You do enjoy your tenure? Your position? Your interest income?”

  “What a question.” Beck tried to laugh. “I’m very appreciative of—”

  “Good. Have a good day, Professor.”

  The line went dead. Leaving him sitting there, empty, staring and staring at the smiling face of the girl who was about to die.

  Far off, in the back of his mind, he could hear her screaming.

  Osterman studied the photograph, then clicked through the files. He was buzzing with excitement. About time that sack of lard he’d invested so much money in made himself marginally useful.

  So she’d found his notebook, had she? Colfax Building, Midnight Project, it had to be the famous lost notebook at last, but who else had seen it? And who was she? How could McCloud’s notebook have fallen into the hands of some random
female? It was incomprehensible.

  He would normally have called Jared to do the Internet research, but he couldn’t wait. He typed her name into the search engine and began to sort through the hits. Spin, a music review mag. “…the third cut, “Wild Card,” an exceptional solo flight by sax player Cynthia Riggs, creating a blazing counterpart to the lead guitar…” Folk Music Today, “…of particular mention, the title song, “Falling Away,” by Cynthia Riggs, is the strongest piece in this overall strong debut album…the Vicious Rumors have shown themselves to be a band to watch…”

  Yes, yes. Beck had mentioned that she was a musician. He flicked over the other references to her musical career until he found La Pineta Folk Festival, which had a photograph attached. He clicked to enlarge.

  It was a shot of the band playing on stage. He recognized the girl in Beck’s photo instantly, blowing into her instrument with almost sexual abandon.

  Hmm. Gordon was going to enjoy this assignment.

  The next hit caught his eye, from the Endicott Falls Sentinel, dated last year. He clicked on the article and read it, heart pounding.

  “…Erin Riggs, daughter of Edward and Barbara Riggs of Seattle, to Connor McCloud, son of the late Eamon and Jeannie McCloud of Endicott Falls. Attending the bride was her sister, Cynthia Riggs…”

  He clicked to enlarge the attached photo, and started to laugh.

  The girl in the photo was an older, plumper version of Cynthia. And the grinning man who clutched her bore a striking resemblance to Kevin McCloud. The girl was the sister of Kevin’s sister-in-law. Well, then. Perhaps the matter was still more contained than he had feared.

  Still, Cynthia could not be allowed to run around babbling about the Midnight Project. She had to disappear. And if all else failed, she was an excellent lever to draw in the real prize. Sean McCloud.

  He dialed Gordon. The man picked up. “What?” he barked.

  “Don’t sulk, Gordon,” he purred. “I have a juicy piece of meat to throw to you. You’re going to absolutely love this job.”

  Proof on the tapes in EFPV. HC behind count birds B63.

  Liv tried to make her brain soft and receptive. Looking for that relaxed, creative place where insights came from. She stared at one of Kev’s pictures. The lake, with ducks swimming on it.

  The rumble of male voices in the background had blurred. She no longer heard individual words. She fought discouragement. The McClouds guys had spent months poring over this stuff, they’d known their brother since birth. Plus, they were all brilliant. If they’d had no luck, what the hell did she think she could accomplish?

  Then again, what else did she have to do? It was all she had to offer. Not being a commando warrior like everybody else around here.

  She rested her eyes and stared out the huge window that looked out over the cliffs. The fog had rolled in, so they seemed to be floating in the clouds. Insubstantial wisps of mist were woven and braided through the dark trees of the mountains that thrust through the mass of white.

  The door to the room slammed open. Tamara stormed in, and placed her fists on her hips, glaring at the men who sprawled on her couches and chairs, guzzling coffee and muttering amongst themselves.

  “Your womenfolk have arrived, gentlemen,” she announced. “Have you invited anyone else to my secret hiding place without asking my permission? Should I call the caterers?”

  Seth sat up, scowling. “We told them to stay on the island today!”

  Connor flopped back on the couch. “It’s like talking to the wall.”

  Tam stomped out of the room, muttering under her breath.

  Sean noted Liv’s bewildered face. “Don’t worry,” he assured her. “She likes Raine and Margot and Erin. Way more than she likes us guys. She just has to make a fuss, on principle. Pay her no mind.”

  “Uh, OK.” Paying Tam no mind was a real toughie. “Whatever.”

  “Come on.” He slid his arm around her waist. “Let’s go down and meet them. I want to introduce you.”

  They crowded into the foyer as Tam disarmed the security. The pieces of the space-age door retracted. A square of greenery quivered at the end of the long garage. A sporty little silver Volkswagen pulled in.

  Three women climbed out. A pretty dark-haired woman who was clearly pregnant, a voluptuous freckled beauty with a bushy red mop of hair, and a slender blonde, her fuzzy cloud of pale hair pulled back into a loose braid. Their eyes fastened on to Liv, alight with interest. She braced herself as they crowded into the little room, looking her over.

  “Were you followed? Did you bother to check? Did it minimally occur to you?” Tam barked at the tall redhead in the fore.

  The woman beamed, and gave her a bear hug. Tam stiffened, holding out her arms like she didn’t know what to do with them. “Great to see you, Tam. We miss you.” She frowned, spanning Tam’s waist with her hands. “You’ve gotten teensy. What is up with that? You been sick?”

  “Sick of hearing about it, that’s for sure.” Tam’s eyes narrowed as she returned Margot’s scrutiny. “Oh, God. You’re pregnant.”

  Margot’s eyes widened. “But we’re not sure yet.”

  “Be sure.”

  “How?” Margot demanded. “Did Davy say something to you?”

  “No. He didn’t have to. It’s written all over you. Like neon.”

  Liv studied the redhead’s amazonian body, but she didn’t see any neon. Just strong, sexy curves. The brunette, who had to be Erin, grabbed Tam as well, hugging her with the same fearless abandon.

  Tam returned the hug, albeit somewhat stiffly. “How’s gestation?” she asked, patting Erin’s rounded belly in a gingerly way.

  Erin’s smile was complacent. “Cowlike. Blissful. A boy.”

  Tam smacked her forehead. “As if the world needed another McCloud male.” She turned to the blonde, and suffered patiently to be hugged a third time. “You’re not breeding yet, are you? Say you’re not.”

  A pained smile flitted over the woman’s face. “Ah, nope. Not yet.”

  Tam’s eyes sharpened as she looked her over. “Hmph,” she murmured. “Not from lack of trying, I bet.” She spun around and indicated Liv with a flourish of her arm. “Well, ladies, here she is. The main event. The mild-mannered librarian who sent a contract killer running with his tail tucked. Our kind of girl. Cute, isn’t she?”

  “She sure is,” Margot said, her eyes flicking up to Sean’s with a delighted twinkle in them. “Nice work, buddy. She’s yummy.”

  “I didn’t, really. Send him running, I mean.” Liv hastened to clarify. “It was just, you know. Dumb luck.”

  The women looked at each other. “That’s all it ever is,” Erin told her solemnly. They chortled, as if at some private joke, and smirked at Sean, slapping his ass as they filed by. He suffered this with a look of stoic martyrdom, and followed them down the hall towards the kitchen.

  Margot flung an arm over Liv’s shoulder. “Excuse the invasion,” she said. “We were practically peeing our pants from curiosity. Any woman who could wrangle this spaz into shape must have an amazing set of ovaries. We just had to come and gawk.”

  Liv blushed. “After the stories Sean tells, I’m gawking too.”

  “Oh, Sean talks too much,” Erin said cheerfully. “Don’t listen.”

  Tam spun around and blocked the parade. “Erin. I finished a new piece recently,” she announced. “I want to name it for you. May I?”

  Erin looked startled. “I suppose. Wow. Could I see it?”

  Tam’s smile took on a catlike satisfaction. “Certainly. Right this way.” She led them down a corridor, and up into the octagonal tower, a workroom paneled in dark wood, the effect both stark and lavish.

  Entire walls were covered with tiny catalogued drawers. Bars of powerful lighting hung from the high ceiling. Mysterious chunks of machinery were bolted to the heavy worktables. Strange, twisted metal things like tormented mobiles from a goblin’s dreams spun lazily in the breeze from the window. With the tree poking through th
e clouds, the smell of metal and chemicals, and the backdrop of the sound of the heaving surf down below, it seemed like an ancient alchemist’s lair.

  “The finished pieces are here.” Tam led them to a table draped with black velvet and lit with its own bar of lights. Several polished wooden boxes sat on it. Tam flipped one open, and presented it to Erin.

  Liv’s breath stopped, the piece was so startling, although upon second glance, the design was simple. It was a torque, meant to be worn around the neck, of twisted white gold, smaller threads of subtly colored gold woven through it. The finials were an intricate snarl of golden knotwork, with glowing red stones.

  “It’s like Novak’s torque,” Erin said. “Except…different. Oh, Tam. It’s gorgeous.”

  Tam looked pleased. A flick of her thumb opened the torque. She fitted it around Erin’s neck. “Watch carefully. If you’re ever in a tight spot, press the garnet, push on this lever here, and there you go.” The finial came off, proving to be the decorated hilt of a small, curved blade.

  “Wow,” Erin stared at the wicked looking knife. “I’m honored.”

  “You should be,” Tam said. “Asking price is two hundred K.”

  Liv’s jaw dropped. “People pay that kind of money?”

  “You bet.” Tam dug into her pocket, and passed the cards around. Deadly Beauty: Wearable Weaponry. Tamara Steele. “Most people capable of paying that much money for a piece of novelty jewelry are very insecure. Take your standard mafioso mistress whose lover could be mowed down by a rival boss from one day to the next. An item like this will make her feel safer. Even if the safety is totally fictitious.”

  “Are there a lot of mafioso mistresses out there?” Liv asked.

  “Plenty. Mafioso wives, too. Lots of money and fear in the criminal underworld. Perfect market for Deadly Beauty. I call this series ‘Margot.’ With your permission, of course.”

  They gasped at the assortment of hair ornaments. They seemed to pulse with trapped light. The designs were intensely sensual; feminine curves, slashing angles. Simplicity juxtaposed with tormented intricacy.

  “Where did you learn how to do this stuff?” Raine asked.