The Stroke of Midnight Page 20

  “You can’t tell a tux from those—” Alma made a gesture of disgust. “Thrift-store cast-offs? That overcoat looks like a sack and the pants are stained.” She pointed to his knees, which did, in fact, appear to be caked with something. Dried mud, he hoped, but his stubborn mind refused to fill in the gaps.

  “Was there a woman?” Alma pressed.

  “I don’t remember.” He did actually. Vaguely. There had been a woman—or was he assuming that because the sweater he currently wore carried a faint scent of perfume? “I didn’t do anything wrong,” he maintained.

  “I thought you couldn’t remember what you did?”

  “I can’t.” He knew he sounded whiny, couldn’t help it. “I’m not a monster, Alma. It’s Christmas. I had a few drinks, missed a day of work. No one got hurt, not like...” What? Something. Truth to tell, he couldn’t recall much about that other night either.

  He’d been in Seattle, at a conference. The party afterwards was a blur to this day. He’d seen his niece, Margaret at the hotel. She’d been upset, had come to his room, asked him to call her mother. But Warren hadn’t wanted to talk to Alma. He’d pretended to call. No answer, he’d lied. They’d have a little drink, and he’d try again later....

  Unfortunately, now as then, the events of later eluded him. The next he’d heard, Margaret had been dead. She’d hung herself. And he’d had to sober up fast in order to face the authorities.

  Highly suspicious, Alma walked over to where he’d halted in the foyer. “You didn’t hurt anyone, Warren? You’re sure of that?”

  Did she mean now or in the past?

  Sweat trickled down his spine. “I’m not a monster,” he repeated, his lame tone making him wince. “I had a lapse, Alma, a blackout.”

  She sniffed. “You smell like a brothel. Go upstairs and take a bath, for heaven’s sake. You have dirt under your fingernails, and I hate to think about the vermin living in those clothes.”

  Warren wished, oh how he wished, he were a stronger man. The type of man who could stand up to a steamroller like Alma. How satisfying to take the same vicious runs at her ego that she took at his. Mow her down and shut her mean mouth for good. No wonder Jimmy had deserted his post. Alma could grind a man to a fine powder with nothing more than a glare and a few pointed words. He hated her now as he had for years—and he wouldn’t have let her know that for all the money in the world.

  One day, though, he vowed as he trudged dutifully toward the staircase, he’d show her a side she wouldn’t dream he possessed. One day. After he’d figured it out himself. And when he did, Alma wouldn’t order him around any more. For the first time in his life, he would be free....

  JACOB DECIDED he must be dreaming. Two songs buzzed in his head. One a Christmas carol, one a pop song.

  His eyes felt gritty from fatigue and residual smoke from the billiard hall. The bedroom was dark, the sheets beside him warm but empty.

  He woke in a heartbeat, vaulted from the bed then had to pause. Where was he? Not in his apartment, but in Devon’s, floating on sex and microwaved stroganoff.

  He dragged on his jeans, bringing her grandfather clock into focus as he stumbled squinting into the living room—4:40 a.m. Had she lost her mind?

  He located her in the shadow of the illuminated tree. Since it was the only light source in the room, his eyes adjusted fairly quickly.

  She sat cross-legged in a skimpy robe the color of ripe cranberries. Her hair was tousled, her eyes excited as she hopped up to grab his hand.

  “Listen.” She pulled him between two separate music sources.

  “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,” he murmured as the choir sang.

  “No, not that one.” She stopped the cassette recorder. “I just wanted to hear about the angels. This other one is significant too, at least it is to me. Maybe to him as well, though I doubt it since he chose the Midnight Clear song.”

  Jacob frowned as he stared at her. “Are you sure you’re awake?”

  “Positive. Sit down, and I’ll explain.” She pushed him toward a chair, picked up the last note she’d received and handed it to him. “‘Who “morns” an angel such as you.’” She quoted the second line. “Mourns is spelled wrong. I knew it must be significant, but I wasn’t sure how.”

  “And now you are?”

  “Don’t sound so skeptical. If you expand morns to morning , you have, in a manner of speaking, a ‘morning angel,’ right?”

  “It’s a stretch, but okay.”

  She went to her knees in front of him, eyes bright as she fisted the denim that covered his knees. “You lived in New York, Riker. Don’t you remember the Angel of the Morning?”

  Riker had lived in New York. Then again, so had Jacob, briefly, and he still drew a blank. “I don’t—” he began, then opted for the truth. “No.”

  Her breath huffed out on an impatient note. “She was the morning disk jockey on one of those mellow FM stations. It must have been close to twenty years ago.”

  Jacob’s expression closed down. “Do you know this woman?”

  “I was ten years old, Riker. But I remember hearing about her later in college. She disappeared one day.”

  “Like Jimmy.”

  Devon set her jaw. “It turned out she’d been murdered. Her radio tag was Angel of the Morning, or the Morning Angel. I don’t remember her real name, but an older broadcaster might. She must have been a real go-getter. She was quite young when she got her own syndicated series—some New Wave thing where she featured up-and-coming artists. I’m pretty sure the show was picked up here, in Pennsylvania, which is where I’d have been living at the time. Hannah might remember her better, although she was never really into New Wave.”

  Jacob studied her still-energized face. He wished his brain would defog and catch up. “So you think the Christmas Murderer was referring to this Morning Angel in the last note he sent you?”

  “I think it’s possible. Figure it, Riker. Angela—Angel—it does fit. We assume he murdered a woman name Angela at some point. But what if the murderer was never caught?”

  Jacob let the idea sink in. “I could run it through records, I suppose. You’re sure she worked in New York?”

  “Pretty sure. I took courses in broadcasting, Riker. Certain names tended to crop up—innovators, pioneers, that sort of thing. Angel had a prime morning slot at what was probably a male-dominated station back then. Plus, she pulled off a syndicated series. I’d call her a pioneer of sorts, wouldn’t you?”

  “Maybe,” he allowed. “But no more than Alma. Her bio’s full of media cudos.”

  “Behind-the-scenes cudos.” Sitting back, Devon combed a restless hand through her hair. “I’m not trying to diminish Alma’s accomplishments by any means, but on-air and insyndication was tough even in the enlightened early eighties.”

  “I’ll check it out,” he promised, then let a reluctant smile tug on his lips as he reached for her. “Right now, though, there’s something else I’d like to check out.”

  Devon grinned. “You cops are insatiable.”

  The gleam in his eyes could have been mistaken for lust. Jacob hoped she wouldn’t recognize it for what it really was.

  Guilt, love—and the pure unadulterated terror that he would lose her, not only to the lies, but also to a madman bent on murder.

  ANDREW MCGRUDER opened his apartment door on December twenty-third and promptly screamed as a man toppled backward onto his welcome mat. Fortunately, he was a pathetic screamer. More fortunate that the man on his doorstep wasn’t dead, merely sleeping.

  “Well, really.” Indignation warred with uncertainty as Andrew nudged the recumbent stranger with his loafered toe.

  He didn’t expect the man to surge up like a sprung jack-in-the-box. He yelped when the man did precisely that, and flung himself back against the wall.

  “Where am I?” the man demanded, whip-sharp.

  Pressing a palm to his heart, Andrew located his voice. “You’re on my floor. You were outside my apartment until I tried
to leave for work.”

  The man swore and cast an accusing look over his shoulder. “Who are you?”

  “Andrew McGruder. I—” he straightened, cleared his throat and strove for dignity. “I live here. Who are you?”

  “Roscoe—” The man blinked, scowling. “What floor is this? Where’s Dev—never mind. I must have come to the wrong door.”

  “So you decided to sit down and go to sleep?” Andrew who’d ventured off the wall, backed up a pace at the man’s thundercloud expression.

  “Roscoe?”

  Heavenly angel, Hannah. Andrew closed his eyes as her face appeared through the staircase slats.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The man’s lean cheeks reddened. “Sleeping it off, apparently.”

  “Sleeping what off? Go ahead,” she instructed the man behind her. “Suite 302. Mrs. Makon. She’s expecting you, or rather her pipes are.” She returned her attention to Roscoe. Her eyes softened in sympathy. “You look terrible, Roscoe.”

  He adjusted his black wool overcoat, scraped a hand over his stubbly jaw. Andrew still wasn’t sure what to make of the expression in his coal-black eyes and so wisely held his tongue.

  “I played raquetball for three hours last night,” Roscoe recalled, wincing. “The guy’s name was Brad. Couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. The sponsor’s son. Carpet and flooring company. We hit a few clubs afterward. Shouldn’t have done it. I don’t know why I told the taxi driver to drop me here.”

  “Or why you climbed up to three when Devon lives on two,” Andrew added, resentfully belligerent. He hated slick operators. All looks, no substance. Women were so easily hoodwinked.

  Hannah’s delicate brows came together in perplexity. “You were looking for Devon? Why?”

  Roscoe jammed one hand into his pocket, lifted the other to his forehead. “I don’t know.” He squeezed his eyes closed. “Seeking shelter maybe. Were you home last night? I tried your door first, or thought I did. Judging from the way I feel, I must have been pretty tanked.”

  “You didn’t look tanked when I woke you up,” Andrew said, merely to irritate.

  Roscoe shot him a nasty look, and he shut up.

  Hannah linked her fingers. “I was home, Roscoe, but I drank a cup of Chinese tea before I went to bed. It has a mild sedative effect. I could have slept through your knocking.”

  “Yes, but how did he—” Roscoe’s slitted sideways glance had Andrew finishing his sentence into his collar. “—get into the building without a key?”

  Hannah waved the question aside. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here, Roscoe, and neither of us have had breakfast. If you want to talk to Devon, she’ll be leaving for the station around nine, I think. I gather Alma’s trying to instill some holiday spirit. Late in, early out. We decided to take the train to Mom and Dad’s tomorrow night instead of this afternoon.”

  The two walked away.

  Creep, Andrew thought, miffed that none of his shots had hit the mark, even more miffed at the fawn-eyed look of gratitude Hannah bestowed upon him.

  Then again, Hannah didn’t interest Andrew, never had. It was Devon he sought, and Devon he would have. Soon enough, he would make her understand that as clearly as he did.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Happy holidays, all.” In her bronze-tone living room, Alma raised a glass of eggnog. “Christmas Eve tomorrow, and Bob, Tim and Teddi already volunteered to hold the afternoon fort. Everyone else goes off the clock as of twelve noon. That doesn’t include either Warren or myself, of course.”

  Devon joined in the toast, but kept her gaze fixed on Riker’s cell phone. He’d given it to her before she and Hannah had left their respective jobs for Alma’s pre-Christmas cocktail party.

  “I’ll call,” he’d promised, “the minute I turn anything up.”

  “Ring,” she ordered the phone, then gave it a frustrated shake and stuffed it into her purse.

  Alma, misinterpreting the action, strode over to clamp a firm hand on her wrist. “What do you think you’re doing, madame?”

  “Leaving, if you so much as hint that I shouldn’t.”

  “Stubborn,” Alma accused. Her severe expression melted. “I’m only concerned about you, my dear.”

  Worried, too, that Warren hadn’t seen fit to put in an appearance yet? Devon patted her plump arm. “I know. Thank you. I want Riker to call, and he hasn’t, so I’m feeling cranky about it. No word from Jimmy after I left the station?”

  “Not a peep. He—yes, Roscoe?” Alma inquired coolly. “Shall we speak louder, or are the accoustics adequate for your eavesdropping needs?”

  Caught red-handed, Roscoe gave his tie a perfunctory tug and his employer a curt smile. “I only want to help Devon with her problem, Alma.”

  “By prancing from stripper bar to stripper bar with Richard Egan last night?”

  Devon’s eyes narrowed. “Richard ‘six-o’clock-news-hour’ Egan?”

  “He’s a friend,” Roscoe defended. “We were humoring a mutual client’s son. Can I help it if the son likes stripper bars?”

  “It’s immoral,” Alma began, her cheeks quivering. “Not to mention exploitive, and I don’t know what else.”

  “Try fishy,” Devon suggested. She glanced at Hannah near the hearth and arched inquiring brows at Roscoe. “Would you care to explain how, after visiting a few clubs, you wound up propped against Andrew McGruder’s door?”

  Roscoe smoothed his silky black hair. “We’ve been through this, Devon. I thought it was your door.”

  “You were coming to me because Hannah didn’t answer.”

  “What would you have done in my place?”

  “Ditched my buddies before I got buzzed and gone home to my own bed.”

  His soft eyes flashed with more temper than she’d ever seen him display. “Is that a warning, Devon?”

  “It would be if I didn’t think my sister could handle her own life. But,” she released a weighty sigh, “she can, so no, it isn’t. Just remember, I love her, Roscoe. Anyone hurts her, and all promises are off.”

  He eyed her levelly, but offered no response. Instead, he crossed to the carved walnut doors and let himself out.

  “Most unusual behavior,” Alma remarked in his wake.

  “Just plain weird if you ask me.” Deflated, Devon sat. “Do you think I’m getting paranoid?”

  The laugh that rumbled out of Alma’s chest surprised her. “I’m sorry, my dear,” she managed after several seconds of choked amusement. She wiped a moist eye. “It’s just that you’re the very last person I would have expected to hear utter those words. And so seriously. You’ve been attacked, threatened and attacked again. Your young man, a trained police officer, has a welt on his cheek from a blow very likely delivered to him by the man who’s after you. And you ask me if you’re getting paranoid. Poor dear.” Planting her hands, she kissed Devon’s forehead. “Tired yes; paranoid never.” Her face grew puzzled. “Is that your purse I hear ringing?”

  In two quick moves, Devon retrieved the phone and flipped the mouthpiece down. “Riker?”

  For a moment, she heard nothing. Then, slowly, it began. Scratchy notes, poor quality sound. A single, small speaker, her distant mind discerned.

  She let the song play out. No words. No need. Any fool would recognize the melody at this time of year.

  The raspy voice that covered the final notes made her skin prickle and crawl. “This is the last verse the angels will sing for you, Devon Tremayne.” He warbled the words to the tune he just played for her. “The days move ever forward, and with them the years. Soon I will do the same, my dear and you will move no more...”

  “GOTCHA,” Jacob exclaimed. “Angel Barret, the Morning Angel. WABQ.” He frowned. “That’s the old Manhattan Q.”

  He slouched back in his office chair. It had been some kind of risk using the Beat’s computer today, but Dugan had been backlogged, Rudy was nowhere to be found, and Mandy had tacked a note to the front door that read simply and irri
tably, Gone shopping. Chances were good she hadn’t meant for presents.

  “Jacob?” Sadie poked her head inside. “Do you need anything before I go?”

  He didn’t look at his efficient, mop-topped assistant, but answered absently over his shoulder, “No thanks. Take off, and you and Al have a nice Christmas.”

  “Hanukkah,” she corrected.

  A few ticks, then a plaid arm poked at the monitor. “Back issues of the Times? You on a story?”

  “You could call it that. Ever heard of Angel Barret?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about the Morning Angel?”

  “No—well—maybe. It’s going back some, though.”

  “Eighteen years,” Jacob confirmed. “She died at Christmas time. This is the first article I’ve found on her.”

  Sadie tucked her brown curls under a woollen tam. “Cops know more. Why don’t you pick Rudy’s brains, or better yet, his computer’s?”

  “Because I’d have to B and E his home to do it.”

  “You’ve done that—”

  “Button it, Sadie.”

  He heard the grin in her voice. “Hey, I’m only repeating one of Rudy’s stories.” Bending, she patted his cheek. “Happy Christmas. Bring your pretty new woman friend over for dinner during the holidays.”

  Jacob swung his head around, hoped he managed not to look startled. “You know about her?”

  Sadie’s grin widened. “I’m a reporter, remember? Oh, all right,” she relented at his unpromising expression, “One of the guys in the bullpen spotted you going into the Kat with, quote, a looker, unquote. You never hit the clubs; I could count the dates you’ve had in the past few years on the fingers of one hand, and Steve said you were wearing a suit. Put those things together, it spells relationship to me. Strong potential for one anyway.” She gave him a sassy grin as she pulled on her gloves and an airy, “Bring her by,” then she was gone.

  “Damn,” Jacob swore and dropped back into his chair. This nightmare was primed to blow sky high. He had to figure out who the Christmas Murderer was and stop him before Devon learned the truth and booted him out on his lying butt.