According to the file, his current address was on Los Robles, in one of those pricey mixed-use condo/shopping developments clustered around the Paseo Colorado mall. He had a fictitious business name on file with the county: Manning Security Consulting. The address associated with the business was a Mailbox Plus mail drop only a few blocks away from the condo. The Range Rover had been purchased with cash a little over six months ago. Ortiz let out a low whistle. Apparently the security consulting business was doing well for Jerome Manning.
No wonder Rigo thought he was a cop. Ortiz flipped through the meager pages of the file, hoping he would see some kind of pattern, some kind of clue that would make sense of his connection to Christine Daly’s disappearance. Unfortunately, it would take a court order for the police to investigate Manning’s bank records and tax statements, and Ortiz wasn’t sure he had enough evidence yet to make a strong case for that kind of invasion of privacy.
There wasn’t much here. The paperwork indicated that Manning had left the FBI voluntarily and with sterling recommendations. He certainly wasn’t a disgruntled ex-Bureau officer with a hate on for law enforcement in general. Obviously he had decided he could make more money working in the private sector, and apparently he had been correct. And he certainly did not seem the type to develop an obsessive interest in a local college student, no matter how beautiful and talented she might be. He was still single at forty, which was a little unusual, but not much, considering his line of work. A lot of men in that field found it easier to pursue their careers unencumbered by a family. Hell, he could even be gay, although Ortiz had definitely not gotten that vibe from him.
All of which left Ortiz with basically nothing to go on. There was also the possibility that Jerome was just the go-between, someone who had been hired to handle the kidnapping of Christine Daly. Maybe it was really Erik Deitrich who paid the bills, although Ortiz wasn’t sure how he’d ever be able to prove that. Even if he had access to Manning’s bank records, Ortiz was pretty sure that that sort of transaction would have been handled on a cash-only basis—possibly with funds changing hands through offshore accounts. People with that kind of money had access to all sorts of ingenious methods of subverting the government, and he’d been around long enough to know that they were hardly ever caught. The general public would probably be staggered to know how much illegal financial activity went unpunished.
It seemed the direct route would be the best here. All he could do was put an APB out on Manning’s vehicle, stake out a few officers near his condo, and then wait. Manning obviously spent a good deal of time in Pasadena and its environs; hell, his condo was only a few blocks from the police station itself. Sooner or later someone would be able to tag him and bring him in for questioning. Not that Ortiz pinned all of his hopes on that, either. Interrogating an ex-FBI agent would be anything but easy.
He ran his hands through his thinning hair and sighed. Just once, he thought, I’d like something about this case to be simple. Just once.
Long experience, however, told him that his wishes weren’t very likely to be granted.
Jerome put down the phone receiver and turned to face Erik. “The hospital wants to keep Ennis for another night.”
“Did they say why?” Erik laid aside his newspaper and looked at Jerome with some concern. Part of him was still so buoyed up by the events of the night before that a setback like this was only mildly worrisome, but on the other hand, he did want Ennis home and safe as soon as possible.
“His blood pressure isn’t quite where they want it to be, so they’re keeping him another twenty-four hours just to be safe. But I’ll be able to pick him up tomorrow afternoon around two.”
“Well, I suppose we can survive another night without him if we must,” Erik replied, but inwardly he was a little pleased. He would have another night alone with Christine at least. Now if he could just get rid of Jerome—
“I noticed that you didn’t lock Christine’s door last night,” Jerome said, his tone somewhat ominous.
“Not necessary.” In answer to Jerome’s continued frown, Erik added, “We seem to have worked out our…issues. There’s no need to fear another escape attempt.”
For a moment it looked as if Jerome wanted to argue the point further, but then he just lifted his shoulders. “So now what?”
“So now you get the rest of the day off. I’d like to be alone with Christine.”
“What about Anna and Consuelo?”
For a second Erik looked at Jerome blankly, then realized he must be talking about the maids. “Oh, give them the day off as well. With pay, of course.”
“Of course. And Michel?”
He definitely needed the cook here, if only until dinner was ready. Then he, too, could get out. Erik wanted champagne tonight, to celebrate his and Christine’s blossoming relationship, but which? The delicate and lovely ’97 Perrier-Jouet Belle Époque, or the magnificent ’90 Veuve Clicquot rosé? After a moment’s deliberation, he thought he would go with the rosé. He doubted whether Christine had ever had anything like the Veuve Clicquot, and he wanted the evening to be as memorable as he could possibly make it. And to go with it? Lobster perhaps, although the rosé could stand up to a delicately roasted duck if Michel had a gentle hand with the sauce....
He realized that Jerome was still watching him, waiting for an answer. “Michel, of course. Tell him we’ll be having the ’90 Veuve Clicquot, and that I was thinking duck. He can take it from there.”
“Very good, Mr. Deitrich. Anything else?”
“I don’t think so. After you’ve spoken with Michel, you can go. If I need anything, I can call you on your cell.”
Jerome nodded and went out, this time leaving the office doors open behind him. He probably thought there was no need to keep everything closed up, now that Christine apparently had the run of the house.
No need for secrets any longer, he thought, and he looked around his office with some wonder. Only last night they had stood by the now-cold hearth, and Christine had taken his scarred face in her hands and kissed him, healing him with her embraces. Only last night she had whispered “I love you” and smiled to hear him say it in return.
Even now he wasn’t sure whether it had all been a dream, some lovely vision that would surely melt with the return of day. But no—he knew it to be true. Earlier he had heard her singing a few bars from Marguerite’s aria as she went down the stairs to find herself some breakfast. Never an early riser, he had still been in bed when she went by, but just hearing her, just knowing that she was in the house and singing joyfully the morning after their declarations of love, had been enough for him. The thought that this was but the first of many such mornings filled him with such happiness he thought it might be more than he could bear. All through his wretched, lonely life he had never imagined what the love of such a woman could mean—and now that he actually had achieved it, even through all his wrongdoing and selfishness, all he could do was endeavor to make himself worthy of her—now and forever.
It had been a lovely, idyllic day. Clouds chased themselves across a deep blue sky that spoke more of March than December; although many of the trees on the property were bare, they were still elegant in their nakedness, and the grass was almost supernaturally green following all the rain. I followed Erik as he took me over the house, showing me all the rooms I hadn’t yet explored—the library, the sumptuous spare bedrooms and salons, the greenhouse where apparently Ennis liked to putter with the orchids. It was if he had to put on display everything he had to offer me—as if he didn’t think he was worthy enough on his own.
I didn’t try to disabuse him of the notion. It would come in time—eventually he would learn that, magnificent as it was, the house and all the wealth it represented meant very little to me, compared to the strength of my feelings for him. It was enough now to be with him, to listen to the marvelous timber of his voice and see the warmth in his eyes every time he looked at me. Our love was still new and a little fragile, and I only wanted to
reassure him with every glance and touch how much I really cared for him.
Perhaps I was myself a little surprised by the depth of my feelings for Erik. Only a few days ago I had tried so hard to hate him, to hate what he had done to me, but now I could not imagine what my life would be without him.
Who can say, really, what it is that causes two people to come together? Sometimes the matches that seem logical are the ones that flicker out and die quickly, while the improbable pairings endure. Although on the surface we seemed to have very little in common, save our love of music, I knew that in some ways we were both broken—he by the deformity that had shaped his very existence, I by crippling losses and the grief and isolation that had inevitably followed. We had both known despair. Was it so surprising that we had reached out to one another, hoping for some warmth in the darkness?
At the end of the afternoon, he told me that he had planned a special dinner and would like me to dress for it.
“That sounds so decadent,” I replied. Who in this day and age dressed for dinner? Especially here in Southern California, where I’d actually seen people wearing jeans to the opera.
“Indulge me,” he’d said, running one finger down my arm.
“For you, anything.” And the words had been truer than even he could have guessed.
So at seven I appeared in the red dining room, appropriately attired in the beaded red gown I had pushed aside as too provocative the night before. The dress was so bare that all I could wear under it was a pair of bikini panties, and I had to admit it made me feel a little devilish. This time it was rubies that dripped from my throat and ears and flashed from two of my fingers. I found no need to deny myself the treasures of the jewelry chest any longer and delighted in choosing the correct pieces to go with my gown.
The room looked magnificent. It seemed as if every candelabra in the house had been forced into service to light the space, and they shimmered from the sideboards and down the center of the table. Erik rose from his place at the head of the table as I entered. He looked magnificent in a black double-breasted tuxedo, a red rose on his lapel. In the background I heard the delicate strains of a Mozart piano concerto.
“You’re stunning,” he said, moving to pull my chair out for me.
“So are you,” I replied, although I was a little disappointed to see that he still wore the mask. How much convincing would it take to make him understand that his scars didn’t matter to me?
At his left elbow was a gorgeous silver wine bucket, now filled with ice and a huge bottle of champagne. After seating me, he lifted it from the ice, holding a small towel to protect himself from the moisture.
“That is the biggest bottle of champagne I have ever seen,” I remarked.
“That, as you put it, is a magnum of ’90 Veuve Clicquot rosé. I thought you might enjoy it. Many experts say that a champagne can only reach its true potential when bottled in a magnum.” He nimbly worked the cork with both his thumbs, slowly loosening it, until it popped out almost quietly, only shooting a few feet before it dropped to the Persian rug.
I assumed that this was not the sort of champagne one would waste in a spray of foam. “Was it very expensive?”
He lifted his shoulders. “I suppose. A little over 600 euros.”
Six hundred—I didn’t know what the exchange rate was right now, but I knew that bottle of champagne could have paid for the rent on my little bungalow. Clearly, Erik and I moved in very different worlds.
I managed a smile and said, “I’ll try not to be too scared to drink it.”
He gave me an answering smile and poured some champagne into the cut-crystal flute in front of me. “Don’t ever be afraid. Open yourself to new experiences.”
I suddenly got the feeling that he was talking about much more than just champagne, but in answer I picked up the flute and took a sip. Up until that point my chief experience with champagne had been the cheap stuff you get included with champagne brunches, and this was about as far from that as my tiny bungalow was from Erik’s mansion. First of all, it was so light it almost felt as if the bubbles were just evaporating in my mouth without my even having to swallow. But with that was also a delicate fruitiness that I had not been expecting, a shimmer of black currant against my palate.
My expression must have been enough to inform Erik of my reaction, for then he said, “Impressive, isn’t it? I have to say that it’s one of my favorites.”
“It’s wonderful.”
With that Michel came out, pushing the dinner cart. I supposed that Erik had drafted him to handle some of the serving duties with Ennis still in the hospital. There was an expression dangerously close to a pout on his handsome features, but he dished up the lobster bisque without comment before disappearing back into the kitchen.
I looked at Erik, who lifted an eyebrow. I had an overwhelming urge to burst into laughter, but I thought perhaps that might ruin the mood, so instead I took another sip of champagne. “Michel doesn’t seem terribly happy about having to serve this evening.”
“As to that—” He waved a hand. “Michel considers himself an artist. Anyone who serves food is merely the help. No offense.”
“None taken.” Possibly being a waitress was a cliché—poor struggling college student has to wait tables to support herself—but the truth was that it could pay pretty well, if you worked at a good restaurant and were reasonably skilled at your job. It was certainly better than the minimum-wage retail gigs I had considered before going into waitressing.
The lobster bisque was excellent, however, as was the roast duck that followed. Throughout the meal we drank an alarming amount of champagne without seeming to really get anywhere; that was the downside (or possibly upside, depending on how one looked at it) of drinking a magnum. By the time we finished the strawberries for dessert—the only dessert one could reasonably consume while drinking champagne, according to Erik—I was feeling more than a little tipsy. It was different from the effect of the Bordeaux I had drunk in this room so many days ago, however. I felt light as the air itself, floating, the candles in the room shimmering around me with an unearthly glow.
Erik helped me to my feet, arms strong around me. We kissed then, my body crushed against his. The dress I wore was so thin it was almost as if nothing separated us, as if my bare breasts were pressed against his tuxedo jacket.
He paused then for a moment, looking down at me. I gazed back at him, flushed with desire and champagne, and it was if some flash of lightning passed between us. I could feel myself nod, and he took a deep breath. Then he lifted me into his arms and swept me out of the dining room.
I had felt his strength before, but nothing like this. It was seemingly without effort that he carried me up the stairs and down the corridor, past the entrance to my own room, all the way to the end of the hall. There we entered a chamber I had never seen before, but recognized immediately. Erik’s bedroom.
It had a somber, elegant quality very different from my own pretty blue and rose rooms. A fire burned low in the hearth, and again candelabras provided the illumination, showing darkly carved antique furniture and a huge four-poster bed with coverings that looked deep blood-red in the gloom.
Once there, he set me down next to the bed. We were silent for a moment, facing each other, and then he said, “If it’s too soon—”
“It’s not,” I said immediately. Then I reached up and lifted the mask from his face. Now, with the moment here at last, I wanted no barriers between us.
There was a long, awful second when I thought I had gone too far, when he just stared at me as if still expecting me to scream or faint or some such other Victorian nonsense. Then he pulled me against him, his mouth on mine with almost punishing force, as his hands moved up and down my body, seeking the curves of my form through the thin beaded silk.
Then his fingers found the zipper and yanked it down, the gown falling to the floor in a slither of jet and crimson. My own hands seemed to move with a life of their own as I unbuttoned his tuxedo ja
cket, then struggled with the tighter fastening of his dress shirt. All the while our mouths were locked together, his tongue meeting mine, the urgency building as we finally sank down onto the bed, free at last of the confines of our clothing.
His body was lean and well-muscled, pale in the flickering light of the fire. I could feel him struggle to pull the heavy bedclothes aside, even as his mouth left mine and traveled down my neck, his breath hot against my flesh until he closed on my breast.
I had never imagined such exquisite sensations. I arched against him, fingers knotting in his heavy dark hair as he brought me to the edge of ecstasy. And even then his other hand reached lower, lower...
From somewhere I could hear moaning, and then realized the sound was coming from me. I leaned back against the pillows, letting him touch me, letting him explore my body, exulting in the waves of pleasure that washed over me. And then I was boldly touching him, feeling him writhe against me, feeling the muscles of his body tense as I brought him closer and closer to release.
Finally he heaved himself on top of me. I looked up to see his face in the uncertain candlelight, a face that was half demon, half angel—I no longer knew or cared which.
“Yes,” I whispered, and then he was inside me, our bodies joined in a way I had never known was possible, until the waves of ecstasy crashed over us both and pulled us away into the darkness, all knowledge of the world lost, so that there was only Erik, only me. And then there was nothing left at all.
Chapter 25
The insistent shrilling of a telephone was the first thing to brought me back to consciousness. I opened my eyes and blinked several times at the unfamiliar ceiling above me, a gorgeous expanse of coffered mahogany, nothing like the softly draped rose silk of my own canopy bed that met my gaze every morning. Beside me, Erik stirred, the scarred side of his face turned toward the wall. All I could see was an immaculate profile of aquiline nose and well-defined chin, the latter now faintly covered with dark stubble.
No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale Page 26
