The Stroke of Midnight Read online

  He was almost cranky enough not to notice when she dragged him into the poorly lit bar and grill. The smell of greasy burgers and fries made his stomach clutch. The prospect of a sudsy beer settled it somewhat.

  “Just a cola,” Devon said when he asked her. She glanced at the scuffed linoleum, cracked orange vinyl benches and table crumbs as she blew on her fingers, smiled and added, “In a can.”

  Jacob’s lips twitched. Admirable how she kept a straight face, really. This place couldn’t be a reflection of her usual nightspots.

  She was perusing the in-booth jukebox selection when he brought the drinks to the window table. Her eyes darted nervously between list and street—until he slid in, that is, then they bored directly into his.

  “Explain Jacob,” she said with meaning.

  He winced at the arrow tip of pain that shot through his shoulder, and moved it tentatively. “Rudy explained that, Devon.”

  “He told me a story. I’m not sure I believe it.”

  “You think I’m the Christmas Murderer?” He sighed when she didn’t answer. “You think it’s possible.”

  Her gaze faltered. “No, I—” The breath she expelled fluttered her bangs. “I don’t know what to believe.” With impatient fingers, she flipped more jukebox pages. “You say you’ve never met Eden White.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “She says you have. Rudy says you might have but wouldn’t remember it.” She propped her chin on her hands. Uncertain eyes tinged with accusation regarded him. “You disappeared before I was attacked, Riker, once in my office and again at the Holly Tree Restaurant. You appeared out of nowhere when I was trapped at the radio station. A woman popped out of thin air tonight, called you Jacob, came on to you then took off. Rudy had an answer for that, but then you took off, and so did he.”

  “So did Warren and Roscoe,” Jacob pointed out.

  “True, but Jimmy’s missing, and I have no idea what to make of that. There’s an angel pendant, an angel food cake and a woman named Angela who was not among the seven known victims of the Christmas Murderer. There’s a man in prison who confessed to the killings—and then there’s you.”

  Her tone softened on the last part of the sentence, but it didn’t lessen the bite of her words. She didn’t trust him. And right now, when he knew he should, Jacob didn’t dare tell her the truth. Not after the weird episodes of this night. Even if she didn’t strangle him, she would certainly evict him from of her life, and that would pave the way beautifully for the Christmas Murderer to kill her.

  With fingers cold from handling the beer can, Jacob massaged his sore temples. There was him, all right, as she’d said. There was also Rudy’s missing gun.

  Devon’s stare was relentless, as his would have been if a little man with a sledgehammer hadn’t been banging away inside his head.

  “You’re not helping me understand this, Riker.” She pouted a little and drummed the table with irritated fingers. “Who are you? Why do you only let me get so close to you? Is it—” She hesitated, narrowed her eyes. “Does it have to do with your late wife?”

  Jacob scrambled to remember her name. Delia Brightman. Death by heart attack en route to Minneapolis ten years ago.

  He closed his eyes, willed away a sudden urge to blurt out the truth and substituted Laura’s image for Delia’s. “I loved her. She was—she died a long time ago, Devon. What I feel for you is different.” Now there was an outrageous understatement. “It’s overwhelming.” He opened his eyes to her mistrustful stare. “It scares the hell out of me.”

  Finally, one truthful remark, and for an instant, it turned mistrust to doubt. Then she knit her brow and glanced back at the list of songs.

  A country-pop tune played in a neighboring booth. Juice Newton. A song about angels.

  He hated to see Devon’s emotions being torn apart like this. It clawed at his heart. He captured her hand on the table between them and held it firmly, along with her gaze.

  “I know it’s hard,” he said quietly, “but I’m asking you to trust me.”

  A frown pulled on her mouth. She glanced down and away. He saw her expression alter slightly. “Angel of the Morning.”

  He stared, unsure. “What about it?”

  “The song, Riker. That’s the title. It’s also...” Her features hazed. “I can’t remember. Something else. I almost caught it, but then it slipped away.” She shook her head. “Maybe it’ll come to me if I stop thinking about it. What were you saying before?”

  He wanted to make love to her. He hadn’t said that, but it had been on his mind since this morning. A smile grazed his lips, as he gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze. “Just trust me, okay? At least try to.”

  The suspicious light refused to die. It dimmed, though, and for that Jacob sensed he would have to settle.

  “I’ll try,” she agreed. Her free hand rose to his cheek. “You’re going to have a big bruise.”

  Her touch distracted him. Was it right that his lone sane thought in the middle of this godforsaken night, should be how desperately he wanted to find the nearest safe haven and start ripping her clothes off?

  With extreme difficulty, he forced his mind back to the matter at hand. His, or rather Rudy’s gun had been stolen by his attacker, undoubtedly the Christmas Murderer, undoubtedly for some unpleasant purpose. To shoot Devon? The prospect called up a shudder of revulsion that he hid behind a mouthful of beer. And yet, except for that deviation the other night, the M.O. of this killer was strangulation. He’d tried to stab Devon. As he’d stabbed another woman before her? Before any of his seven victims, including Laura?

  The pounding in Jacob’s head made organized thought impossible. He would see Devon safely home, swallow however many aspirins it took to counteract a whack on the head, then endeavor to reason it out.

  With a quick check of the nearest booths, he slid out. “I’ve had enough of this place. Let’s head back to the apartment.”

  “Mmm.” Preoccupied, she worked her gloves onto her fingers. “The morning angel,” she repeated, as the Juice Newton song began to fade. “What is it that’s eluding me?” She noticed Jacob’s outstretched hand, paused a beat, then lifted her gaze to his. “I really want to trust you, Riker.”

  “Then do,” Jacob said without a flicker. “He’ll have to kill me to get to you, Devon, and one thing you can believe—I’m not ready to die.”

  Her chin came up. “Most people aren’t.”

  But even as she accepted his hand, it was someone else’s voice that echoed in his ears. A raspy threat issued to him on the sidewalk just before he’d blacked out. A name within the threat.

  “It was Dickens,” he murmured. “A Tale of Two Cities.”

  Devon pulled her purse onto her shoulder. “Excuse me?”

  “Whoever hit me made a reference to one of the characters.”

  “Sydney Carton?”

  He glanced over sharply. “How did you know?”

  She hiked up her collar as he opened the door to an icy blast of wind. “Carton was noble. He pretended to be Charles Darnay, knowing he’d die in Darnay’s place. Don’t murderers who are insane often think they’re performing some noble deed when they kill?”

  “It depends on the murderer. Apparently this one has a literary mind.”

  Devon halted so abruptly that Jacob bumped into her. He looked around, saw nothing. “What?”

  “Roscoe.” Her fingers caught and shook his coat sleeve. “His father’s an English professor at NYU. He knows every book Charles Dickens ever wrote and every character in those books.”

  The touch of ironic justice his attacker had mentioned? Not for the first time in this case, Jacob’s instincts fell flat. For the life of him he couldn’t see where Christmas angels, “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” and a Charles Dickens character intersected. Yet somewhere in the killer’s mind they must.

  Right at that moment, with the wind blowing in angry gusts and nothing but darkness and shadows surrounding them, Jacob would have gi
ven a great deal to be inside the killer’s mind. His mad, agitated mind that wasn’t going to be appeased until Devon was dead. Devon, seven other women, and—what else had he said? A cat on its ninth life?

  ANGEL IN THE MORNING...

  Why, beyond the song title, did those words sound so damnably familiar?

  Devon knew that the more she agonized, the more elusive the answer would be. So she went to work on her feelings for Riker instead.

  In her apartment bedroom with scented candles burning, an old movie playing on the television, her mauve cotton sheets and coverlet turned down and her body begging for sleep, she sat on her queen-sized bed, hugged her upraised knees and stared out at the city.

  It was after 3:00 a.m. Riker had seen her home, inspected her apartment from top to bottom, pressed an annoyingly chaste kiss to her forehead and muttered a curt goodnight. He’d also asked her to trust him again.

  On the nightstand, Devon’s phone hummed softly. She considered, then turned onto her stomach and reached for it. “Hannah.” Although she’d been hoping for another caller, Devon wasn’t disappointed. “You’re still at Mandy’s?”

  “We got into the wine.” Her sister sighed. “I feel fine, but two glasses is my limit and I’ve had three. Riker phoned a few minutes ago to say you were all right. Are you?”

  Devon started to lie, recalled Riker’s advice from the weekend and rolled on to her back. “Physically yes, but otherwise, not really.”

  “Are we talking about the attacks, or something else?”

  Devon’s eyes made out flickering angels’ wings on the ceiling. “I think I love him, Hannah.”

  There was a pause before Hannah prompted, “But?”

  Devon groaned. “I’m not sure I trust him. He keeps disappearing. And there was that woman tonight.”

  “What woman?”

  “Rudy didn’t tell you?”

  “Rudy isn’t here. Mandy’s worried, but she says it’s the cop in him. What woman?”

  Devon explained briefly, rolled back on to her stomach and asked, “Is Alma there, too?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And Warren and Roscoe?”

  An uneasy edge crept in. Devon knew Hannah had placed a confidential hand around the mouthpiece. “Roscoe phoned about an hour ago. He said he hadn’t had any luck finding Warren.”

  Devon judged her tone. “And that makes you nervous?”

  “No, but it seemed to upset Alma. She, ah, drank a little more wine than I did. She started talking about the time she and Warren worked in New York. When her daughter died, she went into a depression for eighteen months. During that time, Warren was charged twice with sexual harassment.”

  “I thought the charges were dropped.”

  “They were, but it still didn’t look good, which, I suppose, is what bothers her now. Not that I think Warren’s involved in the attacks on you, but I have a feeling Alma’s not quite so sure.”

  Devon’s fingers plucked at the coverlet. “I’m not sure either. About anything. I don’t imagine anyone’s heard from Jimmy?”

  “It’s three in the morning, Devon,” Hannah reminded gently. “But I know how you feel. He’ll turn up soon.”

  If Devon had her doubts, she kept them to herself. One of the candles beside the TV crackled, and she glanced over. On screen, Katherine Hepburn was self-righteously dumping Humphry Bogart’s gin stock over the side of the African Queen.

  She made a determined effort during the next five minutes to keep her mood upbeat. No matter what Riker’s opinion, worry weighed on Hannah like an anchor.

  Having promised her sister again that she was fine and that all the doors and windows were locked, Devon hung up. She was in the process of extinguishing the candles when she heard the quiet knock on her door.

  Her first instinct was to freeze. Her second was to cross the floor in silence and use the peephole.

  Shadows bathed the corridor, but not so many of them that she couldn’t identify her late-night visitor. Long dark hair, black coat, unfathomable eyes. “Riker,” she breathed and, steadying her twitchy nerves, unsnapped the deadbolt.

  His expression didn’t betray a single emotion when he murmured, “I thought you might be asleep.”

  “Thought?” She let the door swing open in invitation.

  He lingered on the threshold while the candlelight reflected in his eyes. The hot sweep of them across her scantily clad body might have made her blush under different circumstances.

  “Was afraid,” Riker clarified. He stepped inside and, with his booted foot, nudged the door closed.

  He stood unmoving while the candles flickered wildly around them. The spicy scents of pine and hyacinth swam in the air. Devon’s wisp of negligee floated about her ankles as a draft blew across them.

  Riker stared through half-fidded eyes, his hands in his coat pockets, his features a near-perfect mask of imperturbability.

  But something gave him away to her, a tiny glitch in his otherwise flawless armor. A muscle twitching in his jaw, a slight flare of his nostrils, or maybe it was just the simple act of breathing—not quite as steady as it usually was.

  Questions, ever-present, flitted through Devon’s mind only to be shooed away by a single, inescapable fact.

  Stopping the thought, she reached for his hand. “I’m afraid, too, Riker, but not, it seems, of you.”

  His brows went up. “You mean you trust me after all?”

  “I don’t know.” She brought her fingers to the faint bruise on his cheek and her mouth level with his. “I only know I love you. And that scares me more right now than the Christmas Murderer.”

  BLEARY-EYED, Devon ate breakfast with Hannah at Jerry’s Deli the next morning. A perky redhead on Jerry’s television predicted more snow while Devon spread cream cheese and strawberry jam on a whole-wheat bagel.

  “You look awfully happy for a woman in turmoil.” Hannah cupped a steaming coffee mug in her palms. “I wish I could find so much pleasure in uncertainty.”

  “No word from Roscoe?”

  “Or Warren. Alma was beside herself when I dropped her off at home this morning.”

  Devon licked jam from her thumb, paused and frowned. “Well, everyone can’t have disappeared.”

  “No, Rudy’s back. He got in half an hour before Alma and I left. He looked...”

  “Tired?”

  “More than that. I’d say weary. It’s the way I felt after Tony died, and I had to keep going through the motions of day-to-day life. Oh—” She interrupted herself to offer a compassionate reaction to the television newscaster. “There was a three-house fire in Germantown last night. What was I saying?”

  “Rudy looked weary.”

  “Mandy’s terribly worried about him. He didn’t go to bed after he got home; just washed up, changed his clothes and drank three cups of coffee. He said he had to meet someone this morning.”

  “Riker?”

  “He didn’t say. Devon.” Her normally serene face troubled, Hannah touched her sister’s wrist. “I’m so scared for you. We didn’t really get into it last night, but I kept thinking about all those women who’ve died. And then you left the club with Teddi. You have to be more careful. Let Riker and Rudy do their job. I’ve been reading up on the Christmas Murders. Four of the seven women were killed at midnight.”

  Devon swallowed her bite of bagel before it turned to sawdust. “I know that, Hannah. Believe me, I don’t take foolish risks.” Actually, she had last night when she’d followed Riker, but that had been an impulse, prompted by love and a nagging sense of doubt that refused to die despite the fact that she’d woken up beside him this morning.

  Regret rolled like a wave through her mind. She sipped her coffee and glanced at the TV screen. What she saw there caused her hands to clench around the mug.

  The woman’s face, not that of the newscaster but rather the face of a brunette, stared out at her. She knew that face, had met the woman only last night.

  “—Gina Bartholomew, a prostitute k
nown to the Philadelphia police, was found dead in her downtown apartment at 5:00 a.m. this morning. She had been shot once at close range. Neighbors claim not to have heard the shot which killed her instantly....”

  “Devon?” Alarm registered in Hannah’s tone. “What is it? You’ve gone white.”

  Nausea churned in Devon’s stomach. Gina Bartholomew. A prostitute, known to the police. Known to Riker, whether he remembered it or not, admitted it or not. Known to Rudy as well?

  Aggression spawned by shock swept in to douse the sickness. She’d said her name was Eden White. She’d approached Riker deliberately to make that claim. For whose benefit? Hers? Riker’s? Rudy’s?

  “I’m—” Devon found she couldn’t swallow. Her cheeks felt waxen, her lips stiff. “I have to go.”

  “No.” Hannah gripped her arm with surprising strength. “Something’s wrong. Tell me. Please. I want to help.”

  Wanted to—or needed to? Devon had no idea which it was, and now was no time to debate the issue. She drew a deep breath, felt her tension ease and said, “That woman they just mentioned on the news. The one who was killed last night. I met her at the Kat. She said—she insisted that she knew Riker.”

  Hannah’s face paled. “Killed last night! Oh, Devon, no, not another victim. How can he do these things? It’s the same person who attacked you, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.” She pressed her fingers to her forehead, willing clear thought. “Whatever else it is, you won’t convince me that it’s a coincidence.” Her hands came down to fist on the table. “He knows something. He must. He just refuses to tell me what it is.”

  Baffled, Hannah asked, “Who?”

  “Riker.”

  “Well, he is a cop.”

  “Yes, he’s a cop. And Gina Bartholomew was a prostitute. There’s a connection, Hannah, I know there is.” She slanted a determined look at the TV screen. “And I’m going to find it.”

  DUGAN HERDED Jacob and Rudy into a relatively obscure corner of the detectives’ room, whipped around and began to pace.