ALSO BY MARY JANE CLARK
Do You Want to Know a Secret?
Do You Promise Not to Tell?
Let Me Whisper in Your Ear
Close to You
Nobody Knows
Nowhere to Run
Hide Yourself Away
Dancing in the Dark
MARY JANE CLARK
ST. MARTIN’S PRESS NEW YORK
LIGHTS OUT TONIGHT. Copyright © 2006 by Mary Jane Clark. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Clark, Mary Jane Behrends.
Lights out tonight / Mary Jane Clark.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-312-32317-2
ISBN-10: 0-312-32317-4
1. Women television journalists—Fiction.
2. Stepmothers—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3553.L2873L54 2006b
813′.54—dc22 2006043421
First Edition: July 2006
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
For Elizabeth,
who raised the curtain on this story,
with much love, admiration, and joy
P R O L O G U E
Sunday, July 30
It was just a few feet from the front door of the convenience store to the shiny, new car parked in the spot marked “handicapped.” Two perfectly good legs strode to the vehicle and swung themselves inside. An able body leaned back against the car seat as two steady hands twisted the cap off a soda bottle and lifted it to a parched mouth. The first cold drink tasted good, but the second was ruined by the voice that came through the open window.
“Hey. Can’t you read? The spot says ‘handicapped.’” A lanky young man dressed in shorts, a black “I Love New York” T-shirt, and hiking boots stood beside the car and glared at the driver. Ignoring him didn’t work.
“Hey. I’m talking to you.”
“Give me a break, will you please?”
“It looks to me like you’ve already been given a break. All your body parts seem to be working amazingly well.”
“Come on, Tommy,” said a young woman in shorts and mud-caked tennis shoes who pulled at his shirtsleeve. “It’s not worth it. Let’s go.”
“No, Amy. It’s wrong, and I can’t stand it when I see some lazy, inconsiderate idiot using a space meant to be there for someone who really needs it.”
“Stop showing off for your girlfriend, will you, Sir Galahad? Mind your own business.”
The car backed out of the parking space, leaving the indignant couple standing openmouthed. As the vehicle pulled away, the driver glanced in the rearview mirror.
Was that what it looked like? Was that stupid girl taking a picture with her cell phone? What if they were angry enough to go to the police with it? There would be a picture of the car. With the way technology was these days, they’d probably be able to enhance the image enough to make out the license plate. Not good.
If the police came around now, it could ruin everything.
Tommy and Amy drove by in their old yellow convertible, engrossed in conversation, oblivious to the fact they were being watched. Nor did either of them seem to realize they were being followed for the next few miles on the meandering country road.
The route was familiar. After the next farmhouse and barn, there would be no buildings for several miles. A long stretch of road dropped off sharply at one side. That would be the place to do it.
If they were so damned insistent on doing the right thing, why were they passing that joint back and forth? They were actually flaunting their marijuana smoking as they drove with the top down, secure in the knowledge that police cars, or any cars for that matter, on this road were few and far between. So much the better. If autopsies were done, they would show marijuana in the kids’ systems, and that would be blamed for the accident.
The young man raised his arm, wrapped it around his girlfriend, and pulled her closer. Now was as good a time as any to floor the accelerator. The car sped toward the yellow convertible, catching up and ramming the already dented rear fender.
Tommy looked into his rearview mirror, and Amy twisted around to see what was happening. It took them just an instant to recognize their assailant. The young man held his middle finger up in anger and defiance as the car rammed into the yellow convertible again.
Gripping the steering wheel with both hands now, Tommy tried to maintain control, but the third collision pushed the convertible to the side of the road. The fourth sent it hurtling over the edge of the precipice.
The wheels were still spinning on the overturned convertible as the killer reached in to check Amy’s and Tommy’s pulses and retrieve the cell phone.
Monday morning, July 31
The body shop owner inspected the badly dented grill, two smashed headlights, and mangled fender.
“What did you hit?”
“Another car.”
“Anybody hurt?”
The lie came easily. “No, thank goodness.”
“I can have it ready for you at the end of the week.”
“I need it sooner than that.”
“Look around.” The owner pointed to the other cars jammed into the parking lot.
“I’ll pay extra. Name your price.”
While the repairmen worked, there was time to go around the corner to a coffee shop and get some breakfast. Waiting for the scrambled eggs to come provided the opportunity to study the cell phone that had been in the dead girl’s pocket. The last message had been sent not to a phone number but to an Internet address.
[email protected].
It had been sent at 5:47 P.M. Had Amy managed to get off a message even as she and her boyfriend were being run off the road? Had she transmitted the picture of her attacker’s car?
Who was Brightlights?
WEDNESDAY
—— AUGUST 2 ——
C H A P T E R
1
The alarm clock screeched, and Caroline squeezed her eyelids more tightly. It couldn’t be time to get up already. She uttered a low groan as she turned her head to read the insistent green electronic numbers glowing from the clock on the nightstand. Four o’clock. She had to get up. In half an hour Rodney would be waiting downstairs.
Caroline willed herself to throw back the light down blanket and sit up on the edge of the queen-size bed. She sighed as she reached out to switch on the lamp, knowing she had herself to blame. If she had finished her review before she left the office yesterday, she could have had another two, or even three, hours of sleep now. Better yet, she could have taped the review in the afternoon and not have had to go in at all this morning. As it was, she was barely leaving herself enough time to compose something worthy of airing on KEY to America. The nation’s highly rated morning news broadcast, in the person of its fanatical executive producer, Linus Nazareth, demanded her best. But a heated conversation with Linus was the reason she had bolted from the Broadcast Center yesterday before writing her review. Caroline had figured it was better to leave then than to say something she would regret.
The warm spray of the shower, usually so soothing, felt like an assault on her pale skin at this ungodly hour. Caroline braced herself as she bowed her head under the needles of water. She applied sham
poo with conditioner, quickly worked it through her dark brown hair, and rinsed. Grabbing one towel and wrapping it turban-style around her head, she took another and moved it up and down her body. She didn’t wipe the steam from the mirror. If her eyes and face were swollen from the crying she’d done last night, she didn’t want to know, but she could thank Linus for it. She was angry with herself now for having let him get to her like that. She didn’t even respect the guy. Linus Nazareth possessed none of the characteristics she valued, with the possible exception of being bright. But sometimes Caroline wondered if he really was all that smart. Perhaps his roaring directives and brash manners were his way of masking his insecurities.
Enough time wasted on Linus Nazareth, Caroline thought. She gathered up her toiletries and deposited them in her travel kit, which she then placed in the open suitcase lying on the bedroom floor. Tonight I’ll be with Nick. She folded the lace nightgown, Nick’s favorite, and carefully laid it on top of the pile of clothing. She was zipping the suitcase closed when she remembered the sandals Meg wanted her to bring up. Caroline walked down the hallway to her stepdaughter’s bedroom and went to the double closet. She spotted the soft leather sandals she and Nick had bought for Meg when they’d been in Capri on their honeymoon. As Caroline bent down to get the sandals from the floor,she noticed a ziplock bag. She picked it up and immediately knew what she was seeing through the clear plastic.
Marijuana and rolling papers.
Her body tensed as she stared at the bag in her hands. What should she do? Confront Meg? Tell Nick? Caroline had no idea what her response should be. Either choice could blow up in her face. But this was a big problem, one that wasn’t going to go away.
Conscious of the time, Caroline put the bag back where she had found it. For now, the bottom of the closet was as good a place as any to leave it. She scooped up the sandals and closed the closet door.
She walked back to the master bedroom. Dressing in the violet-colored blouse and white skirt she had laid out last night before she crawled into bed, Caroline slipped on a pair of high-heeled sandals, pulled a comb through her wet hair, grabbed her shoulder bag, and hurried out of the apartment, rolling her suitcase behind her. When the elevator doors slid open on the first floor, she looked across the lobby to the heavy glass doors. The driver was waiting at the curb outside.
“Mornin’.” The man smiled as he opened the rear door of the dark blue sedan.
“Nice to see you again, Rodney. It’s been a while. Thanks,” said Caroline, getting into the backseat as the chauffeur took her suitcase and stashed it in the trunk. Most days—the days she was better organized and less rushed—Caroline took a taxi to work; but in the very early morning hours, it was better, safer, and more reliable to arrange for the car service. As the sedan traveled down Central Park West, Caroline heard the buzzing inside her bag and fumbled around until she found her cell phone.
“Hello?”
“Hey there, Sunshine. How’s my girl?”
“Nick.” Pleasure registered on Caroline’s face as she leaned back against the faux leather seat. “What are you doing up?”
“I haven’t gone to bed yet, my love. Remember, it’s only one-thirty here.”
“I couldn’t forget for a second where you are, Nick, when I’m wishing you were here with me instead. But you didn’t answer my question. What are you doing up?”
Caroline heard her husband sigh three thousand miles away. “The screenplay. The director wanted a change in that scene at the Laundromat, but I think I have it fixed now. It better be, anyway, because I’m not hanging around to do any more work on it. I’m determined to catch that flight out of LAX this afternoon. I can’t wait to get there.”
“Me, too.” Caroline lowered her voice. “It seems like it’s been forever.”
“That’s because it has been,” Nick answered. “These three weeks have been an eternity. I miss you.”
Caroline looked out the car window as the driver turned west on Sixty-third Street and then south on Columbus Avenue. “Well, when you’ve only been married for three months, three weeks is a long time. A fourth of our married life spent apart, Nick. What’s wrong with that picture?”
“I know, I know,” he said. “We are going to have to do something about that. But I couldn’t get out of this trip, Sunshine. You said you understood.”
“I do. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Caroline watched as Lincoln Center passed by her window.
“Okay, it’s settled. We both hate being apart.” Nick laughed. “But it won’t be long before I’m staring into those beautiful blue eyes of yours. And by the way, what are you doing up so early? I tried your cell thinking I’d leave a message before I turned in. I didn’t expect you to answer.”
“I’ve got a review in the second hour of the show, and I haven’t even written it yet.”
“Naughty girl. That doesn’t sound like you. What happened?”
“At the last minute, Meg called from Warrenstown and asked if I could bring some things up when I came. That daughter of yours has very specific tastes, and I wanted to make sure I got her exactly what she wanted. It took some time.” Caroline omitted telling Nick about the pot she’d found in his daughter’s room. Nor did she mention the cutting criticism her boss had hurled her way yesterday. She knew she would tell him all about that when they were together. But she didn’t want to get into a discussion about Linus over the phone.
“That was good of you, Caroline. I know how hard you’re trying with Meg, and I so appreciate it, honey. She’s bound to come around, sweetheart. But …” His voice trailed off.
“But I’m not her mother.” Caroline finished the sentence for him. And I never will be, she thought as the sedan stopped across the street from the Broadcast Center.
Caroline knew that she could never take Meg’s mother’s place. She had lost her own mother at just about Meg’s age from the same horrible disease. Caroline had started college with two parents and graduated an orphan. Pancreatic cancer took her mother when Caroline was a sophomore. A heart attack claimed her father eighteen months later. There still wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t miss them. Caroline knew she always would.
So, in the months Caroline and Nick had dated and then married, she had understood the resentment Meg felt toward the woman who had taken her mother’s place in her father’s affections. She had been trying to be sensitive to Meg’s emotions, excusing her moodiness and sarcasm, but she was becoming resentful herself. Dealing with a hostile stepchild was energy-sapping, and Caroline had found herself relieved when Meg left for Warrenstown for the summer. Now, having found the pot in Meg’s closet, Caroline felt a new tension. It only compounded her anxiety about the possibility of losing her job.
C H A P T E R
2
Nick scanned the well-stocked minibar and selected a tiny bottle of vodka from the refrigerator shelf. He poured the clear liquid over a few ice cubes and brought the glass to his lips. Walking across the hotel room, he took a seat in the comfortable armchair, kicked off his shoes, and picked up the carefully stacked pages he had placed on the coffee table. Even in the age of the computer, he made hard copies of everything he wrote. He’d learned his lesson the hard way. Hitting a key by mistake could wipe out a day’s work.
Nick read through the pages again and was satisfied. He got up, walked over to the computer on the desk, and with a few clicks of the mouse, sent the reworked screenplay scene to the director. Then he returned to the minibar and took out another bottle of vodka. Going back to the armchair, Nick sat and stared at the images on the television screen.
This project had been a long, hard slog. He hoped these latest changes would be the last he’d have to make. At this point, he knew the movie that was being shot was far different from his original vision. Over the years, he’d gotten used to the reality that his screenplays could dramatically change at the whims of the director and the producers. He’d sold his screenplay and his talents, and in the end, th
ough he tried to keep some artistic control, he had to accommodate changes if he wanted to see his work appear on the movie screen. That didn’t mean he had to like it, though.
Two summers ago, when they’d had that first reading on the Warrenstown stage, he’d had such high hopes for this screenplay. The actors had read the lines just as he’d written them, without throwing in any of their own improvisations. It had been an hour and twenty minutes of pure bliss as he watched his work come to life in the voices of the skilled professionals. At the end of the reading, when he came up to take his writer’s bow and answer questions from the audience, Nick had felt the deepest satisfaction. That was what he tried to remember, not all the unpleasantness and upheaval that had followed.
Swallowing the last of his drink, Nick put the glass next to the sink and went into the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he walked. Emptying his pockets and tossing his wallet and some coins on the dresser, he looked at himself in the mirror that hung on the wall. Looking good for forty-six, he thought, though he acknowledged the last few years had taken their toll. His face was more lined, and there was much more white in his black hair now. In fact, white was predominant.
He turned to the side to get a profile view. Those trips to the gym were keeping a lot of the softness at bay, and the golf games ensured he had a tan that accentuated his blue eyes and white teeth. All in all, it was about as good as you could expect at this stage of the game.
Nick figured he was more than halfway through his life. He’d never really planned ahead, just trusted that things would work out and that he would be able to handle whatever came along. That strategy had served him nicely. He’d married well, had a child, built a successful career. Maggie had died, but within a year he’d met Caroline Enright at a movie premiere party.
He had been attracted to Caroline the moment she walked over and introduced herself. She’d been working for the newspaper then and wanted to know if she could schedule an interview with him. Nick had had no real desire to be interviewed, but he did want the chance to spend some time with the first woman who had interested him since Maggie died. He’d suggested lunch at the Four Seasons. As they sat beside the reflecting pool in the dining room, the conversation had quickly shifted from the movies to their personal lives. He’d told her about the amazingly short amount of time between Maggie’s cancer diagnosis and her death. He’d shared that his college-age daughter was having a tough time of it.
Lights Out Tonight Page 1
