Night Hunter

by Carol Davis Luce

  “What?”

  “It’s hard to believe someone could attack a woman with acid and then go on to lead an exemplary life for twenty years and—”

  “Maybe it wasn’t so exemplary,” John cut in.

  Regina stared at him. “You think he’s attacked other women within those years?”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh god.”

  Regina lifted the phone and dialed. “I’m calling Wilma.” She reached the assistant D.A. and explained that she and John were still privately looking into Donna’s assault.

  “Any new developments, Regina?” Wilma asked.

  “No, not really,” Regina lied. She considered carefully before asking, “Wilma, what do you know about Judge Corde?”

  Silence.

  “Wilma?”

  “Judge Corde? Why do you ask, dear?”

  “John and I have reason to believe that the judge may... well…may know something.” Regina plowed on, “or may in some way be involved in what happened to Donna and Tammy.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “He was a judge in the nineteen-seventy beauty pageant and he married one of the finalists.”

  “Yes, go on.”

  “Wilma, I ...”

  There was a long pause. Then Wilma said, “We’re friends, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “But more important, we’re both ethical. You didn’t hear this from me, and I’ll deny it if you say otherwise, understand?”

  “Yes.” Regina felt a flutter of excitement. She glanced at John and squeezed his hand.

  “Talk to a woman by the name of Marilyn Keane. K- E-A-N-E. She lives in Mill Valley.”

  “Who is she?” Regina jotted down the name and city. “What does she have to do with Corde?”

  “Just contact her. I can’t say any more. Are you working with the police?”

  “No.”

  “With John?”

  “Yes.”

  “Be careful. Both of you.”

  “Wilma ... ?”

  The line was disconnected.

  John leaned across the counter, looking at her intently.

  “She gave us something, but I’m not sure what.”

  She dialed directory assistance and asked for the number in Mill Valley, then dialed it.

  “Keane residence,” a woman said.

  “Marilyn Keane, please.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “My name is Regina Van Raven. Are you Ms. Keane?”

  “Marilyn is not taking calls. If you’ll leave your number and state the nature of your business, I’ll pass it along to her.”

  “It’s rather personal. Would you ask her if she will talk to me, please?”

  “Ms. Van Raven, my daughter is recovering from severe post-traumatic stress. She is not receiving any calls.” The line was disconnected.

  Regina hung up. She told John what the woman had said. “What do you suppose it means?”

  “I don’t know.” He paced the kitchen. “But right now I’d welcome any halfway sensible clue if it would get us closer to nabbing Corde. All we have so far is butcher tape and a shaky alibi.”

  “This is a long shot, a real long shot,” Regina said, picking up the phone again, “but we’re desperate, right?” She dialed. “Pandora? Hi, it’s Regina Van Raven.” They exchanged greetings. “Pandora, you mentioned once you could see certain things about a person by touching something that that person had touched. Is that correct?”

  “Correct. It doesn’t always work. But my track record is pretty good. There’s someone you want to learn about?”

  “Yes. Could I impose?”

  “It’s no imposition. What do you have and when can you bring it by?”

  “Well, I don’t have anything yet. But soon. Today, perhaps.”

  “The more personal the item, the stronger the images. Bring it by as soon as you can. If I’m out, the doorman will see that I get it.”

  “I appreciate this, Pandora.”

  “Anything I can do to help.”

  Regina said good-bye and hung up.

  “Where are we going to get this ‘something’?” John asked.

  “At his house.”

  “It’s too risky. He might be there.”

  “We’ll make sure he’s not.” Regina found Amelia’s number in her address book and dialed. The Asian housekeeper answered, then called her employer to the phone.

  “Regina” Amelia said tightly, “if it’s your intention to call me names or try to make me feel guilty, I’m not in the mood. Donna’s my friend too. It’s only a two-minute beauty spot. I’m not hurting her or—”

  Regina interrupted. “That’s why I’m calling. Max wants a personal profile on you. I’m stuck doing it.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’d like to get it over and done with. Will you be home in the next hour?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And Matthew, will he be at home?”

  “Why do you need him?” Amelia asked warily.

  “I don’t actually. But I thought he might want to put in his two cents. His feelings about his wife’s debut in commercial television and so forth.”

  “He’s out. I don’t expect him home until late this afternoon. I’d rather we do this without him.”

  “Whatever. I’m on my way,” Regina said and hung up.

  They drove to Pacific Heights and parked across the street from the Corde residence. After adjusting the rearview mirror to see behind him down the one-way street, and the side mirror to reflect the Corde house, John slumped down in the seat to wait. Regina went up to the house. She was shown inside by the housekeeper.

  Ushered into the study, Regina hastily scanned the room for something to take. She saw a humidor on the cherry wood desk. A heavy lead crystal ashtray held the butt of a cigar. Regina felt a surge of excitement. There was no doubt in her mind that the cigar had been smoked by the judge. It was on his side of the desk. Regina reached for it.

  “Would you care for tea or sherry,” Amelia said behind her. “Or perhaps a cigar for your boyfriend. They’re not Cuban, I’m afraid. Even Matthew is without connections in some things.”

  Regina jerked her hand away and spun around. She smiled wryly. “Nothing for me, thanks.”

  Regina took a slim notepad from her purse. She dug around inside the deep leather bag. “I don’t seem to have a pen. May I?” Without waiting for a reply, she pulled the pen out of the holder on the onyx desk set. “Now then, where were you born?”

  In the rearview mirror John saw the shiny hood ornament above the double Rs on the solid barred grill of a black Rolls-Royce. He slid down farther in the seat. The car turned into the narrow driveway of the Corde estate and disappeared.

  John’s heart slammed in his chest. Regina was in that house and soon the judge would be in there with her. Amelia was home, but John couldn’t be certain she wasn’t also involved.

  John slid across the seat, opened the passenger door, and climbed out. He wished he had thought to bring his pistol. If it came to a confrontation to save Regina from harm, he’d kill if he had to. He hurried across the street and, staying low, carefully made his way down the long drive. The Rolls sat near a side gate, empty.

  What could he do? He feared putting her in jeopardy by showing himself unnecessarily. He glanced at his watch. 10:44. If she wasn’t out by 11:00, or if he heard a scream, he would go in after her.

  He ran his hand along the glossy paint of the judge’s car, his pulse continuing to race out of control. He wondered how Regina would react when she saw Matthew Corde, a man she suspected of mayhem and murder.

  Regina shot questions at Amelia, giving her no more than a few seconds for each one. She had taken a chair in front of the desk. Amelia sat behind the desk, tinkering with a silver cigar cutter.

  “Well, this should be enough for now,” Regina said, closing the notepad and standing.

  “I’ve hardly begun,” Amelia said, protesting.

/>   “I’m short of time today. I’ll get the rest tomorrow.”

  “What’s the matter with you? You seem very nervous.”

  Regina gripped the pen until her fingers cramped. “I have a lot on my mind.”

  “That reminds me,” Amelia said, rising. “Are you still of the opinion that Tammy was murdered?”

  “No,” she lied. “I saw phantoms where there were none. You were right. Tammy was hysterical and she passed it on to me.”

  “No more warnings?”

  “No. None.”

  “Warnings?” a deep voice said behind her.

  A sharp gasp escaped Regina. She whirled to see a balding man wearing maroon slacks and a white pullover sweater standing in the doorway. Regina felt lightheaded.

  “Darling, I didn’t expect you back so soon.” Amelia came around from behind the desk. “You remember Regina?”

  “I do. It’s been a long time, Mrs. Van Raven. If I remember correctly, I saw you last at the Heart Ball some ten years ago.” He extended his hand. “It’s always a pleasure.”

  Regina clasped his hand with the enthusiasm of handling a python. It hung heavy in hers. “Thank you, Your Honor,”

  “Please, none of that. You’re a friend of my wife’s, therefore a friend of mine.” He held onto her hand. “Heavens, your hands are like ice, Regina.”

  Regina gingerly pulled her hand away. She smiled wanly.

  “Excuse me for interrupting, but I’ve forgotten my cigars. Filthy habit, but unfortunately I can’t make it a day without them.” He moved to the desk, opened the humidor and extracted four cigars. “Amelia, is my tux out of the cleaners?”

  “Your tux?”

  “Have you forgotten? I have that judicial banquet at the Embarcadero Hyatt Regency.”

  “Tonight? Oh, dear, I’m afraid--”

  “Don’t fret, Amelia, your radiant company is not required this evening.”

  Amelia looked greatly relieved. “Your tuxedo is in the closet.”

  Regina took this opportunity to leave. “I must go. Thanks, Amelia, for your cooperation.” Regina backed toward the door. “Judge Corde, good to see you again. I’ll let myself out.” She turned, strode down the hall, and crossed the living room to the foyer. With her heart pounding, her hands trembling, she grabbed the knob and turned. The door refused to open. She shook it, twisted again. A hand with coarse black hair at the knuckles covered her hand on the knob. Regina whirled around and stared into the bulging eyes of Matthew Corde.

  His gaze was cool and penetrating. Regina involuntarily drew back.

  A thin smile curled his lips. “I believe you have my pen, Regina.”

  “Your pen?” she replied in a voice that cracked. She looked down at her hand with the notepad and pen.

  “Oh, of course. I’m sorry.”

  His smile widened. He took the pen, turned the dead-bolt and opened the door a crack. “It was my father’s. I’m very partial to it.”

  Regina nodded, then hurried out the door. She didn’t slow down until she had passed the Rolls-Royce. A hand came out of nowhere and grabbed her wrist. She nearly screamed before she realized it was John. He pulled her down the driveway, and together they ran across the street and into the station wagon.

  John helped her into the passenger seat. Within seconds they had left the Corde house behind.

  “Oh god oh god oh god,” Regina said under her breath, visibly shaken. “I almost died of fright. I didn’t get a damn thing. It was all a terrifying waste of time,”

  “No it wasn’t,” John said, tossing a black leather driving glove onto her lap.

  John, double parked, watched Regina as she talked to the doorman at Pandora Cudahay’s high-rise apartment building. Regina handed the gray-uniformed man a bag containing the glove taken from Corde’s Rolls. John hadn’t been surprised to see a cellular phone in the judge’s car. Convenient for making warning calls near the scene, he thought.

  Regina joined him in the station wagon. “Pandora’s out. The doorman will see she gets the glove. What now?”

  “Marilyn Keane.”

  In Mill Valley, less than a hour later, going to an address found in the phone directory, they arrived at the house of Marilyn Keane. An attractive, gray-haired woman answered the door.

  “I told you on the phone that Marilyn was not taking calls or seeing anyone.”

  “Mrs. Keane, we just want to ask her a few questions.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “What happened to Marilyn?”

  “My daughter…my little girl was attacked by a maniac. She was slashed and severely disfigured. It’s a miracle she’s alive.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Mother, who is it?” a voice from inside called out.

  “No one, honey. Go back to bed.”

  From behind Mrs. Keane, another woman appeared. With the sun shining on the screen door, John could only make out a tall, slim figure in a long robe.

  “I know you,” the woman said to John. Her voice was soft and lilting, her manner of speaking unhurried.

  “Could you refresh my memory?” he said, squinting to see her inside the dim foyer.

  “We met at your first autograph signing. I have both your books.”

  John was taken aback. He rarely ran into people who recognized him as an author. “Thank you, I’m very flattered.”

  “You’ve come about the attack?”

  John nodded.

  “Come in.”

  The mother opened the door. Regina and John entered. Marilyn had turned and was walking into the living room. Her long black hair shimmered with blue highlights. She crossed to a sofa and sat in the corner, gracefully folding her legs up under her. She looked up at her mother, an angelic smile on her face. “Momma,” she said, “Would you mind getting our guests iced tea, please.”

  John found himself staring at the young woman. Marilyn Keane’s face was crisscrossed with slashes. Angry, red, welt-like slashes punctuated by hundreds of stitch marks. Despite the jagged slashes, the beauty of her face was apparent.

  With radiant sapphire eyes Marilyn looked over at him, smiled sweetly when he self-consciously dropped his gaze. “It’s all right. People stare. Most don’t mean to be rude.”

  “Miss Keane, can you tell us what happened?” he asked.

  “He came into my house and attacked me,” she said in that soft, even tone. She lightly touched her face, her breasts, and her legs. “He said terrible things. Things that I thought had nothing to do with me. But I understood.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was a message. I was the chosen.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He called me by someone else’s name. His words were foul, filled with hatred.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No.”

  “What was the name he called you?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Did they catch him?”

  She shook her head.

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  Again she shook her head. “He was a black apparition.”

  Regina bent forward. “You mean he was dressed all in black?”

  “He was a black apparition. The evil one. Satan.”

  Marilyn’s mother stood in the arched opening of the dining room with two glasses of iced tea. “Honey, maybe you should rest.”

  Marilyn ignored her. “He was sent to punish me for my vanity. I was the chosen.”

  John and Regina exchanged glances.

  “Marilyn,” John said, “do you know of a man by the name of Matthew Corde?”

  She tilted her head, appeared to think, then shook her head negatively.

  “Did you receive a warning?”

  “Warning?” she asked with a puzzled expression.

  “Before the attack. By telephone.”

  She shook her head.

  “Marilyn was on the phone to me when she was attacked,” Mrs. Keane said. “Darling, say good-bye t
o our guests. It’s time to rest.”

  Marilyn unfolded her long legs and rose. John caught a glimpse of red and purple gashes across her thighs. “Thank you for coming. It was kind of you,” she said, then left the room.

  John and Regina stood. Mrs. Keane set the glasses on the dining room table. “The cuts will heal eventually. Her mind may forever be scarred ... childlike.”

  “I’m sorry,” John said.

  “She said she had been punished for her vanity,” Regina said. “What did she mean?”

  “My daughter was a contestant in a beauty contest. She’s certain that her vanity had something to do with this monster’s attack.”

  “A beauty contest? Which one?”

  “A model search, actually. The Miss Golden Gate Model Search.”

  Pandora Cudahay entered her eighteenth-floor apartment. In her spacious, high-ceilinged, Italian marble foyer, she hastily sorted through the day’s mail. She would barely have time to shower and change before she had to go out again.

  The doorbell rang. Looking through the peephole, she saw the full-cheeked, mustached face of the building’s doorman. She opened the door.

  “Sorry to bother you, Miss Cudahay, but I forgot to give this to you.” He held up a brown bag with a note clipped to it. “A Regina Van Raven dropped it off earlier. Said you were expecting it.”

  Pandora took the bag, thanked the doorman, and closed the door. After stepping out of her shoes, she removed the paper clip and opened the bag. She reached in and pulled out a man’s black leather glove. She held it in both hands and, closing her eyes, slipped her fingers inside. She stiffened, feeling the vibrations immediately. Violent sensations of rage and dementia, the bizarre thoughts of a madman, as well as the frantic thoughts of his victims, rushed at her. The razor slashing. The cold smile. Those eyes. The face that belonged to the glove stood out so clearly in her mind’s eye that she opened her eyes to eradicate the brutal, piercing effect. Her knees suddenly felt weak. She lowered herself onto the brocade cushion of a settee.

  “My God,” she whispered. She sensed the horrible violence inside the man. Something told her his fury was intensifying day by day, growing like a cancer, eating away what conscience he may have originally possessed. Soon he would be out of control.