I slunk down to him. In the dark with the firelight tossing our shadows about, I pulled my nightgown over my head, and gently came close. I kissed my fingertips, then touched the deepest scar by his knee and then lay down next to him. I softly opened his nightshirt to caress his chest. Then I brought my lips to his chest and neck. He softly groaned as his arms came around me, pulling me on top of him. He definitely liked being woken up that way.
CHAPTER 41
Back once again in my blue and white room in the heart of New York City, I held the book in my hands. I turned it over and over, still enthralled with the strange beauty of the navy blue binding and the creamy pages. I loved that book; it was a mysterious thing, creepy and provocative. Even the cover made you think of the possibility of great beauty, but intertwined with it, a twisted darkness. The tale was one of seeking freedom and adventure, but also a sinister evil that lurked at the edges. The terror and mystery wasn’t from a killer like Jack the Ripper, but an evil from the inside that proved even more fearsome. The impetus that made a murderer.
As I looked at the volume, I noticed it had come down in stature, no longer having the capital B in my mind. It was no longer the Book. I scrawled a quick note on a page, smiling thoughtfully to myself. I was finished with it. I set it carefully down on my nightstand, keeping my hand on it a moment longer in a silent benediction.
I stood up and brushed my hair in front of the mirror on my dresser, thinking of the flight back to New York. I laughed to myself at the gymnastics my stomach went through when the plane took off. I had never felt those sensations of speed and liftoff other than on the Cyclone at Coney Island and I could hardly contain myself. It was so freeing. All three of the seasoned travelers with me were very smirky as they watched my obvious delight.
Just getting ready to go on the flight was a pleasure, all of us decked out in our best clothes. It was quite a sophisticated and important event to travel by plane. It felt so exhilarating as I walked through the airport with Finn looking dashing in his dark gray suit and hat. I wore a favorite ice blue skirt suit with matching pillbox hat and my white kid gloves. I drank in every detail, not wanting to miss out on anything.
Right when we arrived home, we had a council of war with Fio and Roarke. Both looked at me with wary eyes as they joined us in the comfy little back room off the kitchen, reminding me of the first visit I had to Rochester and the dramatic effect it had on me. I reassured them that I was all right and told them about our high adventures and new friends. They both looked rather wistful that they’d missed out on the fun. I couldn’t wait to get Father MacQueen and Fio together. Roarke had heard all about him from the Baldy Benson crew, but hadn’t had the opportunity to meet him. I felt sure he would be working on making Father MacQueen’s acquaintance soon.
I could tell Fio had been more affected by the Hambro mystery than he let on; he had lines of strain around his mouth and eyes, and his countenance was like a tight wire. He had convinced himself that the cryptic red envelope with its “We are watching” message had been a prank. We all knew it wasn’t. At least on the outside, it looked exactly like the one Mr. Hambro received both at his home and at the bank.
The one thing that no one had spoken of, but I was certain we were all considering, was the whereabouts of Tucker. He had managed to escape from Rochester and he most certainly was capable of disappearing and eluding the police. My question was whether he was working on his own or in cahoots with Donagan and Eliza? And what had he been looking for? The pawn? The silver gun? The artwork? A can of soup?
And damn it! I was still mad at myself; I should have seen it coming! It had been Tucker all along. In fiction, the villain was always someone you knew. I had thought Tucker’s acquaintance was a random one; I hadn’t seen through his deception at all. And then I committed the error I judge the most harshly with the characters within a good movie or novel: declaring to the bad guy that you know he’s the bad guy. What was I thinking? I blurted out right to him, “You’re the new Rex Ruby.” Like a dummy.
I rolled my eyes and slipped into my warm, soft bed pulling the comforter up around my chin, cozying down into the pillow. It had been a long day, a long week.
Tucker. Where was that man and what was he up to? I would never get over the shock of seeing that transformation, like a mask dropping from his face. Where I hadn’t seen it before, he instantly looked like Eliza and their deranged mother, Daphne. Her long mane of white blond hair and her maniacal laugh. Yet, I felt sorry for him, too. His eyes—they looked tormented and tired. Had it all really been an act? Or not? Which Tucker, or which parts, were real? Any? I’m not usually so taken in and I was not pleased that he had duped me. I felt foolish. And what actions would he take now? What would motivate him? Anger? Despair? Revenge.
I shuddered as I closed my eyes, but then heard Ripley nose the door open and come over to lie down by the side of my bed with a huff. I reached an arm out of my cozy cocoon and laid my hand on his sturdy back.
I yawned. “Good night, Rip.”
CHAPTER 42
“Damn it!” she said with so much vehemence as she slammed the telegram down that she knocked her glass of brandy off the table with a tinkling crash.
“Bad news?” drawled Donagan without taking his eyes off his newspaper.
“No, I broke a nail. Whaddaya think?” she said waspishly.
A dead pause. “Eliza. What did you say . . . my dear?” he said quietly but with wicked precision, still not taking his eyes of his paper.
“Oh, uh . . .” she said with wild eyes shifting around. “Donagan. I’m sorry. I’m just so fed up with Lane and now . . . my brother,” she said with exaggerated repugnance. She soothingly said her apologies to Donagan as she slunk around behind him, taking her slender fingers and bringing them slowly down the back of his head, along his neck, and massaging his muscular shoulders. What her words might have lacked in calming influence, her actions were well suited to do. He felt himself relax and a small part of his irritation with her petulance started to dissipate.
She purred close to his ear, “The telegram just said that he was not able to locate the pawn and that they know who he is. His cover has been blown.” In her aggravation, she started to massage his shoulders with more enthusiasm. If he had been a smaller person it might have actually been painful, but his muscles enjoyed the workout.
He murmured with disdain, “Disappointing. As usual.”
Her hands faltered a little, hearing a dangerous edge to his voice. His animosity toward her brother was no secret, but still . . . he was her brother.
“Well,” she said, resuming her massage, “we’ll see. I’m sure he has some surprises up his sleeve. He always does.”
“Hmph. Yes, we’ll see.” She decided to distract him as she was quite capable of doing. She ran her hands down his chest, massaging and circling. She bent down and kissed his neck, licked his ear. He groaned softly and pulled her around on his lap.
Much later they were asleep on the bed in the enormous and extravagantly appointed room. Donagan rolled over and got up, pulling his black velvet robe around his naked body. He walked out and down the hall to his study, knowing each step of the way in the darkness. He opened the door and turned on the brass lamp on his desk. He reached into the ebony cigar case and pulled out a thick brown Cuban cigar from Nat Sherman’s. He clipped off the end with the sharp cigar guillotine and lit it.
He puffed thoughtfully, tasting the rich tobacco of his favorite blend. He pondered and considered an idea that had been taking shape over the last week or so. Tucker was getting in the way, that was for sure, had been a real pain in the ass for years. Something had to be done.
Donagan was alone, yet he looked around like someone might be watching him. Under his desk, his fingers found the hidden latch and pressed it. On one side was a sawed-off shotgun that could blow out the knees of anyone audacious enough to threaten him at his desk. The other side held a small box. He retrieved it and set it on top of his desk. He opene
d the slim blue box and took out the letter, written in Rex’s own hand. Rex Ruby. A man he had grown to love like a father. He looked at the spidery script of an elderly gentleman.
Take this to Putnam and Raulson’s with the proof. I want you to have it all. Don’t fail me, Donagan.
He knew he had to get his hands on that final piece to achieve everything he had ever hoped and dreamed for, what he had labored on for years with Rex. It was all his, he just needed this one thing, that damn proof. And he would be it. He would be The One: heir apparent to the world’s greatest legacy. He would be the new Rex Ruby. He could almost feel the riches and fame clasped in his groping, avaricious fingers.
But there were people constantly in his way. And a great, dirty trick oozed into his mind. The idea filled him with a devious satisfaction. He laughed as he thought through the details, relishing the idea. He reached over to the black phone and rang up a number.
A gravelly, curt voice answered on the second ring.
“I have a plan.”
CHAPTER 43
I was back to work again before I scarcely knew what happened. What a week, I thought for the hundredth time.
I crossed my ankles under the seat as I sat squished between two very hippy ladies on either side of me. Despite the chilly December weather, the subway car was toasty. Too toasty. I found myself longing for some breathing room as both of my elbows were pinned against my stomach, clutching at my purse on my lap.
Even though I felt marginally grumpy with the tight fit of the commute, I was actually grateful for the extra people around. I hadn’t forgotten what had precipitated my departure just after Thanksgiving: Donagan had come after me. He knew where to find me and he surely knew I had returned to New York. The good thing was that we all determined we have something he wants, so there was a tiny scrap of security in that. And well, you just can’t stay hidden forever.
On the way to the train, I noticed a couple of familiar forms following me: Peter and one of his buddies, Scott, whom I had bumped into at the Central Park police station and danced with the night Donagan tried to kidnap me and Valerie. I pretended that I hadn’t seen them, but Pete’s six-foot-five-inch frame wasn’t exactly invisible. I had no problem at all with a couple of good guys following me around. One run-in with Donagan was enough. I didn’t see my tail on the train, but that wasn’t shocking given the state of my cramped posture. If I had been standing, it was one of those mornings where you were so tightly packed in that you needn’t have a hold for your hands; the mere pressure of the people standing around you was enough to keep you upright through all the jolts, stops, and turns of the train.
We finally arrived at the City Hall stop where I dislodged myself with a heave and made my way out to the refreshing cold air. I already felt like I had worked a few hours and I hadn’t even begun the day. I started mentally ticking off the things I needed to attend to when I got to my office. I spotted a vendor selling coffee and tea and I stopped. He was a tall, thin gentleman with a great gray and black handlebar mustache. He spoke loudly with an Eastern European accent, greeting everyone who stopped as if he knew them all by name—he probably did. And there were several children standing about, one really cute freckled boy with one tooth missing. I wondered vaguely if the vendor might be the sort of kind man who gave away the older cups of coffee once the good stuff was bought.
I stepped up and ordered a tea, having developed quite a thirst on my commute. I leaned in toward the man and whispered something to him, then handed him my money. He chuckled and I bid him a good morning. I walked a bit farther, then stopped by the lamppost to take a sip and I turned back to watch the vendor. I saw Pete’s form go right by him. The vendor hailed him and handed him two coffees. With a funny look, Peter looked around. I waved when he saw me.
I yelled, “Morning! You’re welcome!” then turned around and went up the stairs.
Valerie and Roxy were a sight for sore eyes and I promised to fill them in on everything at lunch. The rest of the day was full, getting acclimated to the pulsing energy of the mayor’s office once again. I loved it. The sleepiness of Rochester was nice to visit, but this is where I felt alive and well. I was in my element and with my new-found insight about my past, I felt ready to tackle more.
Which was a good thing, because Fio came bouncing into the office. “Good morning, Laney Lane, my girl!”
“Grrrrr,” I replied.
“Lane! The police commissioner himself called.”
“Really? What about?” I asked.
“They found fingerprints on Hambro’s knife. They are over at his house right now gathering copies of his prints to see if there are any alien prints on it.”
“Great! He can’t have killed Marty.”
Just then, Roarke came into the office, too. He rushed in, obviously excited to relay important information. “Mr. La Guardia, Lane, I found out something about Hambro.” He didn’t wait for us to respond, just took a quick seat in the chair by my desk and carried on. “When the stabbing incident occurred, I had a few contacts go around to some nearby hospitals just to see if they could unearth some information. They didn’t find anything. However, one guy was sick the night of the stabbing and ended up at Lenox Hill Hospital, much farther uptown than I’d thought to look. While he was waiting, he saw a man who had a knife wound in the shoulder, definitely not a bullet. If it had been a bullet wound or a lethal hit, he would’ve been getting a very different kind of attention. My guy didn’t know I was looking for information until yesterday when it came up in conversation with a different informant. And get this, the reason the guy in the hospital stood out to my contact was that he was so nice.”
“Nice?” I asked.
He nodded, and said, “Yeah. Nice. The man was dressed like a working-class man. Not too dirty, not too rich, not too anything. He’d had a wad of cloth held to his shoulder, but there’d been enough blood to get attention pretty quick. He’d been nice to the others waiting around. A kind word here ’n’ there, he even had a few little blue candies in his pocket that he gave to a little girl who had burned her hand.”
“Okay then! We have a nice man, with a bloody wound, who happened to have little blue mints on hand, just like Hambro always does,” I summed up.
“Yep. Has to be Hambro,” said Fio.
“And if that was Hambro, he was the victim, the guy dressed as a hobo. Someone wanted Marty out of the way and used Hambro’s own knife against him. But why? What’s the motive?” I asked.
Roarke shook his head. “I don’t know. But Hambro is definitely running in some dangerous circles.”
“Agreed,” declared Fio. “Good work, Roarke. All right. I have to get to my meeting. I’m going in.” He never really liked meetings, but it was a necessary evil.
A group of commissioners and various city representatives were waiting for him in the conference room. Fio’s meetings tended to have a clamorous volume on the whole, as if everyone was in trouble and getting a helluva talking-to. But there were obvious differences and I’d learned to classify them much as storms and hurricanes are categorized. A C1 was your everyday typical, loud, yelling, getting-business-done meeting. A C2 held a more ominous note, maybe a pen being flung at the door out of frustration, some yelling . . . and then capped off with the entire office running around all day putting out the fires that someone’s incompetence started. But a C3 . . . now, that was surprisingly rare and, even to me, quite frightening.
When a C3 occurred, there wasn’t a lot of bellowing and you’d think that would be a good thing, but the office had gotten used to the intense volume and passion of Fio. The only sound of a C3 was serious, quiet, and stern talking from behind Fio’s door. It would send chills down our spines. At the first thump of a fist against his desk, I knew what we were in for.
Roarke looked at me and quipped, “Just a C2, probably. Right?”
“Yeah! Maybe just a C1, in fact,” I said. With a quick farewell to Roarke, I handed him a “C1/C2” note to hand to Val when he
left, notifying the rest of the office of Storm Fio. Then I dove into my own long list of things to get done.
When the commissioners took a break, we had a special event. The mayor and I headed down the stairs to the lobby with the great rotunda looking down on us. A large group of school students and teachers had assembled. A special award ceremony was to take place for the winners of an essay contest on “Safeguarding the Home Against Fire.” I talked with a group of boys and girls to get them ready for the presentation. One skinny girl stood next to me and we struck up a conversation before things got started.
“Hi, you’re Ann, right?” I asked, remembering her short brown hair, green eyes and impish grin.
“Yes, nice to meet you. It’s actually Anna. Anna Theresa Higgins. But I don’t like Anna. I asked the Sisters to take off the A in my name, so they did. I’m Ann now. And when I feel super saucy, I say my name is Ann Terese,” she said with a regal air of importance. This girl would go far.
“You don’t know a gal named Morgan, do you?”
She shook her head. “No, but I like her name.”
“Yeah, you two would get along swimmingly.”
The presentation went perfectly. Fiorello and the fire commissioner bestowed medals to each of the winners. Fio loved reaching out to the city kids. It’s why he read the funny papers over the radio. A lot of families couldn’t afford a paper, but a big family could gather around a single radio and have a little fun. It was important in these times. Fio fought for the little guy. He was a good mayor, but it was those little things he did that made him great.
Later on, Roxy and another secretary had been arranging the coffee and bringing in some materials for the second half of the commissioners’ meeting. Fiorello had run back into his office, retrieving some notes when Roxy stalked out of the conference room, her face red as a beet and her eyes moist with indignation.
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