Dead Before Dark

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “Probably a little of both.”

  “I don’t know,” she tells Vic, who’s neither. “I was going to rent a car of my own—”

  He reaches abruptly into his pocket, and she instinctively winces—before she sees that he’s merely pulled out his wallet.

  “What? Did you think I was going for a weapon?”

  “Yes,” she admits.

  “Good. Your guard is up. It should be.” He opens the wallet. “This is my ID. Just so you know that I am who I say I am and not…”

  “The Night Watchman.” She leans in to inspect his identification.

  “Satisfied?”

  “How do I know this isn’t fake? How can I be sure you’re not really him, trying to trick me?”

  “I guess you can never really be sure of anything, where he’s concerned. And you shouldn’t assume anything…except that he’s going to kill again, and again, and there’s not a minute to waste.”

  She thinks that over for a long moment.

  Surely her instincts would warn her loud and clear if she were this close to the killer himself.

  Remembering that another woman’s life might be hanging in the balance, she makes up her mind.

  “All right. Let’s go.”

  As he drives high into the mountains west of Denver, with the radio turned up to drown out the sound of thumping from the trunk, he has plenty of time to think.

  He thinks about Scarlet.

  She moved into the building when he was seventeen and beginning to think that he’d never have what the other boys had.

  Sure, he wanted a girlfriend. Had wanted one for a while by then.

  But girls didn’t like him.

  He was too tall and gawky-looking, and he never knew what to say or how to behave when he was around them, other than to laugh. His laughter made them nervous. Anyway, he was rarely around girls because he didn’t have the freedom everyone else on the block had.

  Mama’s boy, the kids always called him, when they weren’t calling him Hyena.

  He didn’t mind so much when he was younger. Why would he? His mother took care of him—cooked for him and disciplined him when he was bad and kept him locked inside to protect him from all the scary things that were out there, beyond the door of their South Bronx apartment.

  She couldn’t protect his father, though. He’d been gunned down on the street one sunny afternoon.

  He remembers how they were walking along one minute, holding hands. And then there was a loud explosion, and then his father pulled him down as he fell. He remembers his father’s blood everywhere, on the sidewalk, a red river spilling into the gutter.

  He remembers it, warm and sticky on his hands. Remembers putting his fingers into his mouth to get it off, remembers the salty taste of his father’s blood.

  Remembers the sirens and his mother’s screams.

  She wasn’t the same, after that day.

  Neither was he. He was bad—really, really bad. His mother had to discipline him all the time, for his own good.

  “Don’t you cry,” she’d warn him. “Only babies cry.”

  He remembers the salty taste of his own blood, too.

  Blood.

  Red.

  Scarlet.

  It always comes back to her. Beautiful Scarlet, as tall as he and a few years older, with a throaty, sexy voice and long, flowing hair and exotic false eyelashes and red lipstick to match her skintight dresses.

  “Do you wear red all the time because of your name?” he asked her one day, as he helped her carry her groceries up the stairs to her apartment.

  “I have my name because I wear red all the time,” was her cryptic answer.

  “You mean Scarlet isn’t your real name?”

  She smiled. “No.”

  “What is it?”

  But she refused to tell him. He’d beg and tease, and she’d laugh at his guesses. It became a game with them.

  “Is it Agnes?” he’d ask. “Helga? Hortense?”

  He never got it right. He was hoping he wouldn’t, because then the game would have to end.

  Once, when he picked her a bouquet of wild sweet peas he found growing in the vacant lot, she kissed his cheek.

  “Thank you, lover boy,” she said.

  Later, he looked in the mirror and saw that her red, red lips were imprinted there, on his skin. He didn’t wash it off.

  Then his mother came home and saw it. “What is that?” she demanded suspiciously, gripping his jaw in the vise of her thumb and forefinger. “Where did it come from?”

  He pretended he had no idea.

  Of course, she didn’t believe him.

  Of course, she punished him.

  For once, he didn’t even flinch. It was worth it, because he had Scarlet now.

  Then the punishment was over—or so he believed—and his mother made him get up off the floor.

  “You can march into the bathroom and wash that away right this instant,” she told him, and he thought she was talking about the blood coming from the slashes on his arms where his father’s old belt had ripped open his skin.

  But she was talking about the lipstick on his face.

  When he wouldn’t, couldn’t move, she dragged him to the bathroom, and she scrubbed his face with scalding hot water and soap until the red lipstick kiss was gone.

  Only then did he flinch.

  Only then did he feel as though he was being punished.

  Still, he didn’t cry.

  Only babies cry.

  And besides, he had Scarlet.

  Lucinda gradually allows herself to relax as Victor Shattuck drives along the streets of Denver in the glare of late day sun, heading for the address Neal had given her.

  Danielle Hendry, the woman whose phone sent the text message, has gone missing.

  She overslept this morning, told a friend she was on her way to work, then never showed up. The friend did say that she had an acrimonious relationship with her ex-husband back in L.A., and that a former boyfriend had been stalking her.

  Vic Shattuck, of course, had known about none of this.

  He, in turn, has information for Lucinda: she isn’t the only one who’s been hearing from the Night Watchman these past few months. He’s received several messages, the first of which coincided with Carla Barakat’s death.

  “How did you know it was from him?”

  “Red lipstick.”

  “Of course.” Lucinda nods, glad he can’t see her expression behind her sunglasses as he darts a glance at her.

  “Of course?” he echoes.

  “The Night Watchman smeared it on his victims’ lips.”

  “How did you know that?”

  She didn’t, for sure.

  Not until now.

  “And there were no exceptions,” she guesses, her thoughts racing.

  “No. Why?”

  Before she can reply, he follows up with a question of his own. “The victims in Beach Haven and Chicago—they were smeared with red lipstick too, weren’t they?”

  She hesitates.

  Then she levels a look at him. “How did you know that?”

  He gives a satisfied nod. “Touché.”

  “So we have a pattern. He strikes when there’s a full moon, women who live alone, and he has a red lipstick fetish. No sexual contact with the victims, though. Isn’t that unusual?”

  “No. It’s a myth that serial killers are always sexually motivated. Most are, but some aren’t.”

  “So he’s unusual.”

  “In more ways than that. Most serial killers tend to stick fairly close to home—within their comfort zone. The Night Watchman never did. He struck randomly up and down the East Coast. This time, he appears to be moving east to west instead, but he once again favors metropolitan areas—probably because the population is transient and he’ll be less visible.”

  “And did he leave an engraved wristwatch on the wrists of his victims?”

  Vic looks at her, and she has her answer. He didn’t know abo
ut this.

  “That’s a new trick. Watch. Watchman. He wants no mistake made about who is behind this new wave. What does the engraving say?”

  “Date the victim was killed, and the longitude and latitude. And he removes the battery after the victim dies so that the watch stops.”

  Looking thoughtful, Vic asks her to repeat that. Then he shakes his head decisively.

  “He isn’t removing the battery after the victim dies. He’s removing it before.”

  “What do you mean? How do you know?”

  “Because three days before Jaime Dobiak died, he sent me a message that gave not just the date, but the exact time of her death. Did she die at 7:05 P.M.?”

  “Around then.” Her thoughts tumble over each other. “So he’s planning the murders right down to the minute?”

  “It looks that way. The numbers have some significance to him.”

  “We have to tell the FBI.”

  Vic flashes her a grim smile. “Trust me. They’re on it. They have all the pieces and the technology and manpower and resources to put them together. I guarantee you they’re way ahead of us.”

  Maybe so, she thinks. But they’re operating with just five senses.

  Lucinda has six.

  “Can I ask you something about the Night Watchman’s crimes in the past, Mr. Shattuck?”

  “Call me Vic.”

  She tells him, briefly, about Ava Neary, and her original suspicion that she might have been one of the Night Watchman’s earliest victims.

  He’s shaking his head before she even finishes speaking. “I don’t think so. You said he threw her from a rooftop.”

  “Yes.”

  “Too many things don’t fit. The Night Watchman always used a knife, he always killed the victim in her home, and he always staged the victim with the lipstick. It would be awfully challenging to stage a body that’s fallen out of the sky, for one thing. And for another, this took place a while after he killed his last known victim, Judy Steinberg. He never let more than a month or two go by between murders. Unless he committed a bunch of murders that were undetected between Judy Steinberg and Ava Neary—and unless he completely changed his M.O.—I’d say there’s no way in hell he killed Ava.”

  Then who did? Lucinda wonders grimly as they turn onto Danielle Hendry’s street.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Dr. William Zubin?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  It is. It’s him.

  Cam grips the edge of the kitchen counter to steady herself.

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  Ignoring the question, she tells him, just as she practiced, “I attended a discussion you recently gave at the Museum of Natural History, and I was wondering if you would mind meeting with me to answer a few questions I have.”

  She holds her breath, praying he’ll say yes, knowing that it’s a long shot.

  “Are you a student?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your name is…?”

  “Clair Montgomery.” She was prepared for the question.

  Mont—clair. Clair—Montgomery.

  The lies are stacking up, but she doesn’t dare tell him any semblance of the truth, mindful that if he really did have anything to do with Ava’s death—and any inkling that she’s Ava’s sister—he’d never in a million years agree to speak with her.

  It might even be dangerous.

  “I could meet with you at your convenience, Dr. Zubin, and I won’t take up much of your time at all.”

  “My dear, I have all the time in the world these days,” he tells her with a good-natured chuckle.

  Hearing it, she wonders if she’s barking up the wrong tree. Does she really believe this kindly-sounding old man is a coldhearted killer?

  You believe—no, you know—that he cheated on his wife and took advantage of an innocent young girl.

  Okay, true. But everyone makes mistakes. A lot of people are immoral. It doesn’t make them murderers.

  “Why don’t you name the time and place, Ms. Montgomery?”

  She hesitates, wondering if she should just forget the whole thing.

  But regardless of whether he had anything to do with her sister’s death, he was involved with Ava shortly before it happened.

  He might know something.

  She suggests meeting at the Starbucks on Astor Place at seven-thirty. Mike will be home by then. Ordinarily, Cam wouldn’t hesitate to leave the baby with just Tess, but she isn’t sure Tess can handle the responsibility. These days, she can barely take care of herself.

  “I’m afraid I have other plans this evening,” Dr. Zubin tells her. “I could meet you there tomorrow, though, at noon, if that works.”

  “That’s fine.” She’ll just have to bring Grace with her. Maybe that’s better. In broad daylight, with the baby in tow…It’s probably safer.

  She hangs up the telephone.

  “We’re going to find out what happened to your aunt,” she tells little Grace, who looks up solemnly from her bouncy seat on the floor beside the desk. “One way or another.”

  Vic slows the car as they cruise alongside a row of brick townhouses—their destination ahead made obvious by a couple of dark Suburbans and a police cruiser parked at the curb.

  A rugged cop, who looks like he’d be right at home in a saddle out on the cattle range, steps out into the road, holding out his hand.

  Vic rolls down the window.

  “Do you live down this way, folks?”

  “No, but we know there’s an investigation—they’re expecting us.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Victor Shattuck. Retired FBI.” He shows I.D.

  “And I’m Detective Lucinda Sloan,” she says, leaning across from the seat beside him.

  “Wait here.”

  As the cop steps away from the car and speaks into his radio, Vic reminds her in a low voice, “They’re not expecting me.”

  “They need all the help they can get. You’ll be fine.”

  “Is that a psychic observation?”

  She hesitates, then flashes him a grin. “Sure. Why not.”

  Moments later, the cop simply waves them past.

  Vic looks at Lucinda. “You’re either the real deal or your name has some serious pull.”

  “Both,” she tells him with a satisfied smile.

  The scene in front of the townhouse is discreet, as Vic expected. It isn’t a crime scene—yet. He suspects they’ll be canvassing the neighborhood if they aren’t already.

  As Vic pulls into a parking space, he spots Annabelle Wyatt stepping out of the townhouse in a tailored black pantsuit, wearing an expectant look on her face.

  “Who’s that?” Lucinda asks.

  “My old boss.”

  “Strictly no nonsense with her, huh?”

  “Is that a psychic observation?”

  “No,” Lucinda says flatly, “that’s obvious.”

  Annabelle strides toward them, arriving just as Vic turns off the ignition.

  “I didn’t realize you two knew each other,” she greets him as he opens the car door.

  “Lucinda and me? Oh, we go way back.”

  “Really?”

  “No. That was a joke.”

  She just looks at him.

  I see she hasn’t lost her sparkling sense of humor, Vic thinks.

  “Actually, we just met.” He gestures at Lucinda, coming around from the other side of the car. “Lucinda, this is Special Agent Annabelle Wyatt. Annabelle, Lucinda Sloan, the famous psychic detective.”

  Annabelle, he notices, doesn’t bat an eye. So she knows exactly who—and what—Lucinda is. Interesting.

  “I don’t ordinarily work with psychics,” she tells Lucinda, “though some agents have. But your colleague Detective Bullard tells me that you’ve got quite a track record with missing persons and frankly, we’ve got nothing to lose. I’d like you to come inside and see what you can tell us.”

  “Absolutely.”

  An
nabelle turns to Vic. “I’d appreciate your input, as well.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “I heard what happened last night—the e-mail. We know who we’re dealing with. He’s back, and he’s obviously playing cat and mouse with you—with both of you.” She sweeps a long, elegant hand to include Lucinda. “His moves are growing bolder. So will ours. Let’s go.”

  Sitting on the rug before the open bureau drawer, Randy packs the last of Carla’s jeans into a cardboard box to be donated to a women’s shelter.

  He saved the bedroom—her clothes—for last.

  The rest of the house was relatively easy. There wasn’t much to pack up, other than in the kitchen. Nothing sentimental about pots and pans, plates, and utensils. No memories there.

  In the bathroom, where she died, he hurriedly swept the contents of the medicine cabinet and vanity into a black Hefty bag. Cosmetics, cleaning supplies, medication—everything went, even the shrink-wrapped new bottle of cough medicine and unopened box of Advil. He simply couldn’t bring himself to linger there long enough to sort through anything.

  It’s different in the bedroom, with Carla’s clothes.

  He’s made a separate little pile of things to keep: her favorite sweater, crocheted by her mother, that she pretty much lived in every winter; the tennis bracelet he’d given her on their first anniversary; her wedding dress and veil, of course.

  He was surprised to find that she hadn’t gotten rid of them. How could he be the one to toss them?

  There’s no one upon whom he can bestow these things, but it would feel wrong to give them to strangers. He supposes he’ll keep them as mementos of the woman with whom he shared his life for a while.

  The box is full.

  The drawer is empty.

  He closes it, stands, and looks around.

  Tomorrow, they’ll come to cart the furniture away into a storage unit he rented. He’ll have his cottage through Memorial Day weekend. After that, the owners return, and he’ll have to find a new place to live. It won’t be easy, during the high season on the island.

  Maybe he should move away.

  To the mainland.

  Back to Philly, maybe.

  But Lucinda made it clear that she isn’t ready to let anyone—not even him—into her life.

  It’s just not time yet, Randy thinks, as he walks back through the empty house. It’s still too soon.