The 8th Circle

by Sarah Cain

  A flash exploded in his face. The light blinded him for a moment before Andy took him by the arm and led him through the crowded ballroom toward the bar. He caught glimpses of the cell phones trained on him and sighed. No escape.

  “Good thing for you it’s only the society reporters tonight—and the citizen bloggers, of course,” Andy said. “I’ve managed to keep our coverage of your involvement with the heart lady to a minimum. I hope I don’t live to regret it.”

  “I don’t know how she got in my bed.”

  “You’re going to disappoint me. I can feel it. Well, come have a drink. No pussy club soda. You gotta have vices, babe.” Andy draped his arm around Danny’s shoulder. “Have you got any? Vices, I mean.”

  “I think we all know I’m a little bit nuts.”

  “That’s pathos, not vice.” Andy leaned closer. “Come on, Daniel. Haven’t you ever crossed the line? What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” He backed Danny up against the bar. “You do the nasty with the heart chick? Before she was croaked?”

  “Jesus, Andy.”

  “Did you?” Andy waved his hand to the bartender. “Scotch for me and bourbon for my friend here. Straight. We’ll do shots. Why don’t you like to drink? That’s always bothered me. Never trust a man who doesn’t drink. I wonder if he’s keeping notes, and you do, don’t you?”

  “That’s my job.” Danny wondered how many shots he could manage before he began to see stars. “Don’t you think it’s a little early to get hammered?”

  In the semidark, Andy’s face reflected the twinkling gold lights on the ceiling. They gave his eyes a peculiar glow, like lit coals. He seemed so pleased with himself that Danny supposed this was one of Andy’s new tests of manhood.

  Andy always was big on tests of manhood for Michael and him. Crazy-ass shit like who could come up with the most depraved murder on the police beat. Michael wilted under the tests, but Danny always preferred hunting down a story—even if it was an insane one—to hanging at the clubs with Andy and his crew of merry sycophants.

  The bartender set down two shot glasses, and Andy picked up both. He handed one to Danny.

  “Down the hatch,” he said.

  Danny bolted the bourbon. It burned down his throat.

  Andy held up two fingers to the bartender. He winked at Danny, looking a little like a satyr. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Which question was that?”

  “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

  “How is that your business?”

  “It’s not. You’re my business. I own your ass.”

  “Slavery was abolished a while back.”

  “You think so? Maybe you’re not as smart as you think.”

  The bartender set down two more glasses, and Danny wanted to beg him to pour more slowly.

  “Drink up, pal. The night is young,” Andy said.

  The second shot went down easier. Danny set down his glass, and Andy held up his hand to signal for two more.

  “You ever do cocaine, Daniel?”

  Danny shook his head. Heavy-duty drugs were his sister Theresa’s province. “I used to sell dope in high school. Does that count?”

  Andy’s face brightened. “Ah, yes, the famous essay. Heroin?”

  “Pills. Weed.” Danny felt almost embarrassed by Andy’s look of contempt, like he should have been a big-time dealer. He had sold a little coke, but in his neighborhood, most of the kids couldn’t afford it.

  “Michael used to smoke dope. Poor bastard. He loved you. Did you know that?”

  “I know. Michael was a sad guy.” The bourbon was already buzzing around his system, and Danny cursed himself for not eating.

  “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” Andy’s eyes bore into him, not accusing. Probing. “Did you ever hit Beth?” Andy’s hand clamped down on his arm. “Did you?”

  The bartender set down two more drinks. Danny pushed Andy’s hand aside and downed the bourbon. It was a game. He knew that, but he still wanted smash the empty glass into Andy’s face. “I never hit Beth.”

  “But she—I thought—”

  “You thought wrong.”

  Andy swallowed his scotch and slammed down his empty glass. He signaled for two more. “Goddamn you! Why didn’t you say something? Everyone thought—well, everyone but Linda.”

  “Christ, Andy. What difference does it make now?”

  “She had pictures, you idiot.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She had pictures. She said you beat her. I saw them, Daniel. She was bruised. Her wrists. Her back.”

  The drinks arrived, and they swallowed them in unison.

  “I never beat her. You want the truth? She was having an affair. Maybe he did it.”

  Danny had to grip the edge of the bar. He’d said the words he hadn’t admitted to anyone. Beth was having an affair. Michael had told him six months before the accident, offered to show him photos, but Danny had been unable to bring himself to look. He hadn’t wanted to acknowledge the truth. He’d known somewhere that life was falling apart, but he had always believed he could fix the cracks.

  He knew where she got the bruises. That night in the Mercedes after they had fought. They both had them, but if Beth had pictures, that could only mean she planned to file for divorce and claim spousal abuse. He’d believed they could turn their marriage around because he hadn’t wanted to face the truth, and she’d played him. His stomach felt like it had caught fire.

  “Jesus Christ, Andy. I loved her. I always loved her.” He heard his voice crack.

  Andy said nothing for a moment, but he didn’t signal the bartender. He drummed his fingers on the bar, then slipped his hand into his pocket. “Here.” Andy slapped a sheath of cardboard containing a plastic room key into Danny’s hand. “Stay here tonight. I don’t want to worry about you driving.”

  Danny started to shake his head. “I’m okay.”

  “Yeah, you think, but you’re a candy-ass. Can’t drink worth shit. I don’t want you on my conscience.”

  “Who else is on your conscience, Andy?”

  “Find Linda and say hello. She’ll be upset if you don’t. Make sure you tell her how good she looks.” Andy ran his hands through his hair and managed to make it stand up around his head in white spikes. “Go ahead. Pick up someone and have sex. You’re still young. You don’t have to be a goddamn celibate.”

  Danny wanted to ask if he’d passed the test or not, but Andy had already turned to the bartender and ordered another scotch.

  *

  “Don’t you look handsome tonight.” Linda Cohen kissed Danny and rested her hands on his shoulders. “I do love a man in a tuxedo.”

  “You look terrific yourself,” he said, but he thought Linda looked more worn than she had at Michael’s funeral.

  “I’m so glad you’re coming back to us.”

  “Andy’s a hard man to refuse.”

  “He needs you. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “I let him down.” Where did that come from? The bourbon? Danny felt fuzzy around the edges. Still trying to comprehend Beth’s treachery. Still hurting.

  “You never let Andy down. Damn it, he’s such an idiot.” Linda drew a shaking breath. “All this nonsense with the police. About that woman, I mean. Whatever you need, we’ll be there for you.”

  He bowed his head against hers, overwhelmed.

  She fumbled in her purse. “Take this.” She handed him a plastic CD case. “I took it from Michael’s computer before the police confiscated it.”

  “What is this?”

  Linda took another breath, then smiled and squared her shoulders. “I want you to use the CD, no matter what.”

  “What do you think I’m going to find?”

  “Just promise.”

  “I promise, but—”

  “Linda, darling, you look fabulous!” Three women surrounded her, cooing and fawning, and Danny watched her compose herself.

  S
he mouthed, “Later.” Danny nodded. He slipped the disc into his pocket and then stepped away to blend into the crowd.

  *

  “Danny Ryan?”

  Danny turned at the sound of the low voice to face a blonde in a black velvet dress that hugged her slender body and puffed out in ruffles of taffeta at her hips. Under a million layers of makeup, she had eyes the color of aquamarines and skin so flawless it could have been made of wax.

  When she laid her hand on Danny’s arm, he noticed her long, white fingers, so smooth they seemed not to have knuckles. They tapered almost to points made more obvious by her frosted white nails. Then her perfume hit him in a wave that smelled like death—it probably had some stupid name like Agony.

  “Do we know each other?” He forced a smile.

  She bared white teeth under her wet, red mouth. “We’ve met.”

  “Not to sound clichéd, but I’m sure I’d remember you.”

  “You’re looking so well tonight. Come to steal some hearts?”

  The blonde licked her lips, like she was sizing him up for dinner. Danny shuddered. “What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Maybe you’d tell me where we met?”

  “Why? It’s much more fun watching you try to remember.”

  Danny tried to force his mental Rolodex to function. Normally, he was good with faces. He wished he hadn’t done those shots with Andy.

  Then he saw Kate walk into the room. His shoulders relaxed, and the tension began to drain from his body. It was like the relief of a cool rain that washed away the dank humidity of a long summer night. When Kate blew him a kiss, the blonde gave him a feral smile.

  “Someone you’ve been waiting for?” she asked.

  “A friend.”

  “I won’t keep you from your friend.” The blonde kissed him full on the lips. Her nails dug into the back of his neck. “Think about me, Danny, and I’ll think about you.” She winked and sauntered away.

  Danny pulled a napkin off a tray to wipe his mouth. In the dim light, the lipstick looked like blood.

  *

  Danny walked up behind Kate and kissed the side of her neck. She leaned back against him. He slid his hands down her arms, and his knuckles just skimmed the sides of her breasts. Her perfume made him think of moonlit gardens. He wanted to breathe her in, lose himself in her. Christ, he was half in the bag.

  “You have a bad habit of not calling, Ryan,” she said, but she didn’t really sound angry.

  He was glad he stood behind her so she couldn’t see his face tighten. “I suppose you’ve seen the news.”

  She turned in his arms and put her hand on his cheek. “You should’ve called anyway.”

  He couldn’t stop staring, and he wondered what she’d say if he told her that he had a room for the night. Probably slap his face. “You look nice, Kate. I mean terrific.” Danny winced. The great Pulitzer Prize winner sounded like a moron.

  “Now there’s a line to knock a girl off her feet. I hope you did better with that blonde.”

  “I’m pacing myself.”

  She picked up her glass. “Why? You think you’re going to get lucky?”

  He wanted to come back with something, but all the cracks that came so easily when it didn’t matter fled him. He cleared his throat. “Maybe you’d like to dance?”

  *

  Danny knew he’d pay for the champagne on top of the four shots of bourbon, but right now, he didn’t give a damn. He let his palms rest against Kate’s back and let the longing soak into him. She was smaller, more fragile than Beth, her warm skin so pale against the green velvet of her dress. They gave up the pretense of dancing but instead clung to each other, as if making up for lost time. That sweet ache convulsed his chest. He couldn’t put a name to it, but it was like feeling the sun break through the heavy purple clouds on a winter morning. Despite the bitter cold, there was a hope of spring.

  He glanced up and saw Robert and Patricia Harlan enter the room. The senator wore his benevolent face tonight, and Mrs. Senator, her frosted-blonde helmet firmly in place, was the picture of decorum in a tasteful ice-blue gown.

  Patsy Harlan liked to tell people she was from an old Southern family, but Danny knew she was raised on a Georgia pig farm. He figured there was nothing wrong with growing up on a pig farm until you began to intimate it was really Tara, with the darkies singing “Swing Low Sweet Chariot” in the cotton fields.

  Still, he’d always felt sorry for Patsy. He knew she’d worked hard to mold herself into a perfect senator’s wife, always smiling, always complimenting, never able to let down her guard. Maybe that was why she hated him. She knew he recognized her as a fellow outsider.

  “Your boss is here,” Danny said. “He has his wife with him.”

  Kate’s eyes narrowed. “And you’re suggesting?”

  “I’m suggesting that being with me won’t do your career any good. I wasn’t their favorite son-in-law.”

  Kate slid her hands back around his neck. “Do I look worried?”

  37

  Kate staggered a little. Too much champagne. It always made her lightheaded. He’d held her like she was made of spun sugar, a confection of sweet and delicate perfection. How long had it been since a man treated her like she was something that exquisite?

  God almighty. Now what was she going to do?

  Kate walked down the hall to the ladies’ room. She just couldn’t let things get out of hand. She’d have to slip out like Cinderella, no matter how much she wanted to be with him. The problem was that she didn’t know if she had the willpower.

  No. Dammit. That wasn’t true. She could get through anything. She saw her da and two brothers shot on the street in front of their flat. She’d been hungry enough to go begging and needy enough to sell herself. She was a survivor above all.

  So what to say? Hey, Prince Charming, now that your wife is dead, you can carry me away and we’ll live happily ever after.

  Good God. She sounded as crazy as Michael.

  Maybe he’d turn out to be a creep. Why should he be any different than all the others? Why ruin it with all that ugly reality when the dream was a lovely iridescent soap bubble, too fragile to touch.

  Kate leaned against the wall. She didn’t need Danny Ryan. She didn’t need anyone.

  Her isolation had never bothered her until now. Strange how wanting someone made her feel so ragged. Like she stood on the other side of a window and stared in at a sumptuous feast. Kate, the little match girl.

  Or maybe she never thought she’d ever be close enough to get what she wanted. Danny and she must have walked the same paths thousands of times, entering and exiting rooms within minutes of each other, and it took Michael Cohen of all people to bring them together. Not a promising omen.

  Kate opened the ladies’ room door and froze when she heard a peculiar gurgling, almost like a clogged drain. She expected to find a puddle of water and instead saw the woman who slumped against a cushioned chair, her hand pressed against her throat. Blood spilled between her pale fingers. Linda Cohen.

  Kate screamed.

  38

  Voices swirled around him like the bits of ice caught in the howling wind outside. Danny squeezed the velvet curtain and tried to force himself to breathe. In. Out. His chest ached.

  In another life, he would have been interviewing the assembled multitude.

  How close were you to Linda Cohen? Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt her? How do you feel about this?

  Once he had to interview a family whose twelve-year-old son had been killed in gang crossfire. Just another day at the office, but he’d researched the kid. “I’m so sorry about Darnell,” he’d said to the mother who hadn’t talked to any reporters. “Look, I know you must be going through hell, but I don’t want to go over that night again. Won’t you tell me about your boy? TV says he wanted to be a wideout for the Eagles, but I hear he wanted to study physics and could build anything out of Legos.” She’d paused for a fu
ll minute, and he’d been about to hang up when she invited him to come to the house. He’d gotten an exclusive.

  “You’re the first one who really knowed anything about my baby,” she’d said. “I look in your eyes and see somethin’ real. Mebbe you’ll understand.”

  Even he hadn’t known whether he’d felt anything real or had been faking it to get a column. Now he was paying for all those days. He couldn’t think about Linda without feeling his throat close.

  She’d been the first person he’d called after the accident. His one act of self-preservation. Jesus, she’d looked so fragile on that gurney when they wheeled her out, and he could do nothing except pray she wouldn’t die—only prayer wasn’t going to help now. Grief would only hold him back. Danny couldn’t afford to mourn Linda, or Beowulf, or even his family. He could only stumble forward. He fumbled for the CD in his pocket.

  Don’t let me fuck it up.

  *

  “This is a terrible tragedy. Just terrible.” Danny heard the voice by his elbow and looked down to see an elderly man in a wheelchair. He recognized Bartlett Scott because he was a fixture in Philadelphia’s philanthropic circles: he was building a new world-class performing arts center down on Walnut Street; he had raised the money for the Scott Cancer Research Wing at Children’s Hospital; he had created the Scott Center for Academic Excellence in West Philadelphia to help bright kids from struggling families make it to college. Bartlett Scott was the closest thing Philadelphia had to a saint.

  Now, felled by a stroke a little less than a year ago, his left arm curled up against his chest, but his face was still red cheeked and benevolent, his glowing white hair full and wavy. He nodded at Danny, his pale-blue eyes filled with concern. “Daniel Ryan? I thought it was you. My goodness. Terrible to see you under such circumstances.” He spoke slowly but clearly.

  Danny squatted down to better hear him. He took hold of Bartlett Scott’s proffered right hand. “Yes, sir. It’s an awful night. Would you like me to speak to the police? Perhaps they could move you to more comfortable quarters.”

  Bartlett Scott shook his head. “I’m a witness here like everyone else.” He glanced over at a middle-aged blonde sitting near him at the table. “My daughter Melissa may feel differently, of course, but I don’t mind waiting. Poor Andy. God awful thing.” He paused and looked at Danny. “Waiting is hard, isn’t it? Waiting to hear? I daresay you know all about that.”