The Stroke of Midnight Page 11

  Tanya sniffled and raised her head. “No, he didn’t. He called me on Saturday and said he’d gone to see a buddy in Scranton. He...” Her red-rimmed eyes toughened. “You’re not gonna use this, are you, Riker?”

  He made a negative motion with his head, caught Devon’s eye and murmured the required, “Promise. What was he doing in Scranton?”

  “What you figure.”

  “And his buddy?”

  “They went to school together.”

  Jacob bit back the obvious retort. “What else did Brando say?”

  Tanya drew a stuttering breath and looked to Devon for support. “He promised last month that he’d get off the stuff—for a New Year’s resolution. We were going to quit smoking and everything. Then, suddenly, he took off. When he called, he told me he fell into a premium supply. I know his buddy. He’s hard-core. Brando knows we need money. He said he only sold the guy enough so we could pay our rent and maybe go to one of those glitzy clubs on New Year’s Eve.”

  When she hesitated, Devon smoothed her tangled hair. “Is there more?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t understand it.” Tanya wiped her eyes. “Before he hung up, Brando said I’d get a kick out of his ‘source.’” She made quotation marks with her fingers. “He said the thin blue line was getting thinner by the day, and that I shouldn’t be so gung-ho to turn into one of them, when a lot of the so-called best of them are ten times worse than any of us. He was babbling, I think. He said something about squeezing blood from a stone, figured he might just take a shot at it when he got back.” She choked on a sob. “He sort of laughed, then he hung up. That’s the last I heard from him. Okay, maybe he slipped in Scranton and again last night. He’s human, right? But he didn’t fall into the river. If he was in the water, it’s because he was pushed in.”

  Jacob considered the notion. It sounded to him as if Brando had put the squeeze on the wrong stone. The question was, had it been the same stone that attacked Devon? Certainly, the possibility existed, though proof might be difficult to come by. He’d need Rudy for this one. And Dugan.

  At a look of urging from Devon, he separated himself from the women, gravitating to the tinseled window with its grimy glass panes and peeling brown frame. The apartment smelled like nutmeg and Lysol with an undercurrent of stale beer. For all his past’s major flaws, he hadn’t known a life like this. As a child, he’d only felt true despair the day his mother had driven her car over a cliff and left her children in the custody of her weird but wealthy Aunt Ida.

  Riker had been lucky to come from a large if adopted family. Lots of kids, two parents. Jacob suspected that his own father, whom he hadn’t laid eyes on for more than thirty years, was still alive somewhere. He no longer cared where. Laura had died next and finally Ida a year later. That left only Rudy for family. And Devon for—God help him—he didn’t know what yet.

  Not a lover, he promised himself, fighting a twist of discomfort in his torso. He couldn’t love her and lie to her at the same time; therefore, his feelings had nothing to do with love. Or was that simply another lie?

  “Riker?”

  His bicep tensed where she touched it. Behind her, a wispy old woman minus several of her top teeth sat with her arm around Tanya’s thin shoulders. “Who’s that?”

  “A neighbor. She’ll take Tanya to her place for a few days. She doesn’t think Brando fell into the river either.”

  Jacob used his thumb and middle finger to erase the dull ache behind his eyelids. He couldn’t recall suffering from headaches before undertaking this charade. “I’ll check it out,” he promised, then slanted her a direct look. “Right after I drive you home.”

  “Back to the station,” she corrected. “My car’s there. First, though—” she hitched her shoulder bag higher, a sure sign of stubborn intent “—we’re going shopping.”

  Jacob stared, narrow-eyed. “Now?”

  She ground her teeth. “For groceries, Riker.”

  He opened his mouth, prepared to argue the point, glanced into the kitchen with its cockeyed cupboard doors and pitiful fridge, and immediately closed it again. Groceries it was. Then he’d move on to Rudy and Dugan and endeavor to salve his wounded conscience—assuming that was possible at this stage.

  On impulse, he went to his haunches in front of Tanya. She was huddled now on a moth-eaten sofa bed. “If there’s a way,” he promised, “I’ll find out what happened to Brando.”

  “Check out the billiard hall.” Her tone bitter, Tanya throttled his soggy handkerchief. “Cops and junkies aren’t the only ones who hang out at the tables. Dock rats and lawyers go there, too. Brando got hold of some top stuff, he said. He didn’t score it from his regular street sources. It was someone with clout or money who got it for him. Now he’s dead. That’s all whoever killed him cares about. Brando’s dead, and who in this city except for me cares about that?”

  Devon squeezed her hands. “I care, Tanya.”

  “So do I,” Jacob told her. And for the first time was forced to accept the fact that he really did, an admission only fractionally as frightening—he darted a look at Devon’s delicately sculpted profile—as acknowledging the reason why.

  “DEVON?” From his messy art deco desk, Warren flapped a loose wrist. “Would you mind stepping into my office for a moment?”

  “Not my day,” Devon murmured to Teddi beside her. “Have fun tonight.”

  “Yeah, sure, fun.” Teddi pulled an exaggerated face. “Practice reading ‘Christmas in Connecticut,’ the condensed version. Kick Warren in the shins for me, will you, Dev? I heard this book-a-night thing was his last-minute harebrained scheme.”

  Devon had time for a quick grin before Warren’s beaming countenance turned amusement to a beleaguered smile.

  Lopsided in his chair, he wagged a finger at her. “Shame on you, Devon. It’s almost ten o’clock. You should have been out of here hours ago. You know what they say about all work and no play.”

  Could a ridiculous encounter like this be deemed sexual harassment? She couldn’t see how, not with Warren practically splatted in his chair, his jacket off, his tie askew and his shirt sleeves crookedly rolled up on his hairy forearms. Devon settled for crossing to his desk and demanding, “What is it, Warren? I’m busy.”

  “My point exactly.” He took a stab at rising but teetered back into the cushions. “Damn. Could you—” He extended a hopeful hand.

  He reminded her of a beached whale. Masking a bubble of sudden laughter behind a cough, Devon shook her head. “Sorry, no, Warren. But I’ll call someone to help you.”

  “Don’t bother.” He flopped back limply. “I just wanted to give you a message.”

  A chill of undetermined origin rippled over her skin. She’d heard that line recently, from the waiter at the Holly Tree Restaurant.

  “A message?” she asked cautiously.

  “Doctor something-or-other. He dropped by after your show today, but you’d already left. I found him outside your office. Flabby fellow. Two chins. Mid-thirties, I’d guess. Kept staring at my teeth.”

  Devon’s bangs fluttered as she blew out an impatient breath. “Andrew McGruder. What’s the message?”

  The silly grin returned to Warren’s classically handsome features. “By God, you’ve got a voice, Devon. Better tonic for the nerves than my best Napoleon brandy. The radio loves you.” He lumbered to his feet, swayed and wound up banging his hip against the desk when he tried to circle it.

  Devon measured the distance between desk and door. “You said you had a message, Warren.”

  “I’m getting to it.” He nodded at the coat rack which stood just inside the threshold. “It’s in my jacket.” He staggered, then tipped toward her across the corner of the desk. “Er, would you care to partake of a late-night cocktail with me, pretty Devon?”

  She could handle a drunk in his late fifties, Devon reflected. On the down side, Warren was a rather large, powerful-looking drunk, with a light in his dun-brown eyes that spoke plainly of the lewd thoughts behind
them.

  Wisdom prevailed and she turned. “Forget it, Warren. I don’t play sexual games.” She glanced over her shoulder. “If you have a message, give it to me. If not, I have things to do.”

  Did his lips thin a fraction, the light in his eyes intensify for a split second of time? His intercom buzzed before she could decide.

  He stiffened, as if stuck by a knife in the small of his back. “What?” he snapped, then located the red button and offered a more sheepish. “What?”

  “Ms. Severen on two-six, sir,” the receptionist informed him.

  The last of the air rushed out of his chest, leaving him deflated and obviously discouraged. “Right-hand pocket, Devon. Er, hello, Alma?” he said hollowly into the speaker.

  Devon snagged the envelope and escaped swiftly to the corridor. What a roller coaster of a day. First news of Brando’s death, then the empathetic depression of talking to Tanya and now, coupled with that almost-ugly scene in Warren’s office, a note from Andrew. She should have listened to Riker and gone home to Hannah’s wild rice and mushroom casserole and a good video.

  “Night, Dev.” Jimmy waved to her from the distant elevator bank. “Don’t work too late.”

  “I won’t,” she called back.

  Uninterested, she thumbed open Andrew’s note. In his customary spidery script, he’d written, “Dinner? Tomorrow? My place?” Then in brackets below it, “I have a present for you....”

  One by one, the overhead lights dimmed. No air moved to speak of, yet the paper in her hand trembled. She saw it but couldn’t prevent it.

  Andrew’s words rolled through her head, a scratchy old record played at slow speed. She heard the slow pulse of blood in her ears and felt it in the hollow of her throat.

  More lights winked out. Devon crumpled the notepaper, realized her knuckles had gone white and swore under her breath. For heaven’s sake, think. Would the murderer be stupid enough to advertise his name side by side with his intent? Good Lord, she pressed cold fingers to her forehead, she was in worse shape than she’d thought.

  The hallway, broad as it was, stood now in eerie shadow. People swarmed out like locusts once the skeleton night crew came on-shift at 10:00 p.m. She wasn’t alone by any means, but a phone call and a familiar voice certainly wouldn’t hurt.

  She hastened to the elevator bank and the wall phone beside it. Hannah’s line was busy, as it had been since before nine o’clock, and Riker didn’t answer on his cell phone or at his apartment. She waited a beat, released a shaky breath and dialed the police station.

  The desk sergeant sounded harassed but not unkind. “Riker’s on assignment, ma’am. Do you want someone else?”

  She considered the alternative. “Rudy Brown?”

  He chuckled. “The old sarge. Sorry again, ma’am, but he retired two years ago.”

  Devon froze. “Are you...?” Yes, of course he was sure. “Thank you, sergeant. I’ll—try him at home.”

  She hung up, her hand strangling the receiver column. Had Riker mentioned that his partner was retired? Could cops be reactivated for special duty?

  Shivering slightly, she found Rudy’s number.

  A groggy female voice answered on the fifth ring. “Hello?”

  Devon twined the cord around her fingers. “Yes, I’m trying to reach Rudy Brown. Or Detective Riker,” she added as an afterthought.

  “Detective who?” The woman yawned.

  “Joel Riker.”

  “Know the name, not the...uh...right. Joel. Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “Rudy’s not here right now. Can I take a message?”

  Torn, Devon gave in to her nerves. “Look, I’m awfully sorry to bother you, but I need to find him. Is he...” how to put this. “Do you know if he’s involved in a police investigation at the moment?”

  The pause was drawn out. “I couldn’t really say,” the woman told her. “He’s a cop down to his toes, if that means anything. Hey, your voice sounds familiar. Do I know you?”

  “I’m Devon Tremayne.”

  “Really? Fancy that.” The woman gave a delighted laugh. “Rudy said he’d met you.”

  “Did he?” A click like a pencil sharply snapped had her whipping her head around. Devon’s eyes combed the fluttering shadows. “Has Rudy spoken to you about my—me?”

  Another laugh. “He said you knocked his socks off when he saw you up close. ‘She’s as beautiful as she sounds on her show,’ he told me. Which is a helluva compliment coming from Rude. I think he might be with Ja—uh, somebody else tonight.” She rushed on as Devon made another uneasy sweep of the area, “I’ll tell him to call you, if you want. My name’s Mandy, by the way. I listen to your show every day. It makes me feel good.”

  “Thanks.” Devon wished she felt good right then. “Have him call my apartment, okay? I’m at the radio station right now, but I’ll be out of here in less than ten minutes.”

  “I’ll pass that on,” Mandy promised. She sounded almost as jumpy as Devon felt. Unless her nerves were impeding her judgment.

  Devon hung up and turned, running clammy palms down the legs of her black pants. She hated feeling scared like this, but so many things had happened to her lately. And the clock was ticking inexorably toward midnight. If that meant anything to the murderer. No one really seemed to know. He’d killed his first four victims at midnight and the last three at any hour that apparently struck his fancy.

  Certain her heart was going to knock out a rib, Devon sought the nearest sanctuary; the broadcast booth and Tim Woodrow who worked the 10:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. shift.

  She smelled hot coffee when she poked her head inside, but there was no Tim. He often lined up anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour of uninterrupted music when he went on-air. Whatever the time frame, his microphone was dead, his chair cool and empty. So much for companionship.

  The tension knots in Devon’s stomach cinched the longer she prowled the booth. This was ridiculous. Who knew when Tim would return? She needed to get out of here and go home.

  Muscles taut, she started for her office. She should try Riker’s cell phone again. It would calm her jitters to hear his voice. Forget questions and vague mistrust. She would tackle the Rudy question later, when every pulse in her body wasn’t clamoring to drown out its nearest neighbor.

  Visions of Andrew’s sickly smile flashed like a neon sign in her head. She heard his whirring dentist’s drill and shuddered deeply.

  Then Warren’s face appeared to leer at her. Overlapping that, she saw Jimmy’s whipped-puppy expression after she’d reproached him this afternoon. Even a picture of Brando crawled in, his face gray and bloated, followed by Tanya sobbing brokenly on her shoulder.

  Finally, over all those things, another image emerged, a shadowy figure, indefinite but sinister. It was...

  Devon halted, her breathing suspended. The darkness seemed to close in, a tangible force, suffocating in its stillness. Had she seen that last thing or imagined it?

  She grappled with the lump in her throat. Imagined it, surely. Shadows could form shapes at will, and heaven knew her nerves were zinging at this moment.

  Even so, Devon’s heart continued to race. Her eyes darted about, scouring the most obscure corners. It was darker here than in the central corridors, the price she paid for being out of the heavy traffic zone. Tiny lights twinkled ahead, but only a limited number. Fireflies would have been as effective in the late-night murk.

  She still had Andrew’s note balled in her fist, Devon realized. Add to that a host of images too gruesome to dwell on and she’d be running in a minute; back the way she’d come.

  She was alone; she needed to believe that. If the shadows shifted, it was because open doors led to unshaded windows, and the city moved beyond the studio walls, especially at Christmas time.

  Her office lay directly ahead. A pool of golden light spilled into the hallway. “Thank heaven,” Devon whispered. Her pent-up breath rushed out. She pressed a palm to her fluttering stomach, and actually managed a shaky laugh. Ghosts and gobl
ins. She’d listened to too many fairy tales as a child.

  Her footsteps steadied as she neared the comforting light of her office. At least here she could recover for a few minutes, close the door, lock it, and make a quick...

  The thought vanished with an icy tink, like broken crystal. She stopped dead, as terror formed a hard, black fist in her stomach.

  Her office door was open. She always extinguished the lights when she left, then closed the door behind her. Always!

  Backing up a pace, she spun and prepared to bolt.

  “Devon...”

  She whirled again, breathing in frightened spurts. She knew at once that it was a mistake, but she tended to respond on instinct, even, apparently, in a desperate state of mind.

  He stood for a split second, illuminated, a prophetic figure wearing a ski mask and a bulky black coat that skimmed the muted honey carpet. In that brief instant, Devon received a fleeting impression of height—taller than her by a few inches—followed by a menace greater than anything she’d previously envisioned.

  He moved with lightning speed, snatching a knife from his pocket and holding it in such a way that the blade gleamed brilliant gold.

  “A different present this time, Devon,” he promised, raspy-voiced. “Like the very first time. One thrust of gold through the heart. A merciful death for you. A nightmare just begun for the other pretender. Rebirth and hope for me. Goodbye again, Angela.”

  The knife flashed. His muscles twitched as he raised both his arms. “Let this be the last time I must kill you!”

  Chapter Nine

  “Yeah, I killed her. Did all seven of ’em. Voices on the radio’s what they were, talking to me, calling to me, telling me they wanted me. But they didn’t really want me. They made fun of me behind my back. Women always do that. Said I was nothing and they were the angels of the airwaves.”

  Blue cigar smoke spiraled around the two-dimensional face of Casey Coombes, confessed Christmas Murderer. Jacob straddled a hard-backed chair in his apartment, elbows on the table, half a bottle of beer positioned between his cupped palms. Rudy’s cop friend, Dugan, noticed his disgusted expression and removed the cigar from his mouth.