by Naima Simone
Her expression blanked as if one of the black shutters on her windows had slammed shut. Only her bright charcoal eyes betrayed the emotion raging behind her striking mask.
“Richard,” Catherine whispered, her son’s name a precious epithet on her lips.
“Yes.” Leah nodded. “I’m sorry to bring up this hurtful topic—”
But Catherine cut Leah’s apology off with a slash of her free hand. “No. Please. What about my son?”
“Friday I received an anonymous letter in the mail, and it included his missing-person flyer from twenty years ago. The sender asked me to investigate Richard’s disappearance.”
“Oh!” Catherine rose from the settee, and slid her feet soundlessly over the deep carpet toward the wide bay windows behind the feminine antique desk. She stared out at the wide expanse of green lawn and the white picket fence Leah and Gabriel had passed as they drove up the long drive. Slender hands were clasped behind Catherine’s back, and as the sunlight streamed through the windows, she appeared almost ethereal, frail.
“Catherine,” Leah said gently.
“I have been diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer.” The softly spoken announcement seemed to echo in the room like a shout in a vast cave.
Leah flinched, and behind her Gabriel shifted slightly in his chair, as if he, too, had been stunned by the bald admission. Yet Catherine’s voice didn’t waver as she delivered the disturbing news. As if she’d come to accept her fate, and therefore expected others to accept it as well with little fuss. “The doctors have given me six months to live.”
“Oh, God, Catherine.” Leah whispered. “I’m so sorry.” She scrutinized Catherine through renewed eyes as the other woman turned when the snick on the door echoed in the silent study like the muffled report of a bullet.
“Yes, Delia?”
“Would you like me to bring tea for your guests, Mrs. Pierce?” The housekeeper stood inside the doorway.
“Yes, please. Thank you.”
As Delia nodded and backed out of the room once more, Catherine retraced her steps toward the small, delicate chair where Leah continued to perch, still recovering from her shocking news. Leah noted the pale, jaundiced tint of the woman’s skin beneath her carefully applied makeup, and the hollows under her cheekbones that could have been attributed to patrician bone structure rather than a recent weight loss.
Catherine sank down on the settee, the sharp crease of her champagne slacks grazing Leah’s knee.
“Thank you for your concern. All these years I’ve grieved for my Richard. And now, facing my own mortality, it seems lately like my thoughts have been filled with him.” For the first time, her stalwart façade cracked and Leah glimpsed the tormented grief beneath. Catherine surveyed the study. “I’ve lived in this house for over fifty years. I’ve raised two children in it and mourned my son here as well. When the time comes, I’ll die in this home. But not before I have justice and closure for my Richard.”
“Catherine, I want to help find out the truth. Believe me.”
Leah glanced away, offered Catherine a private moment to gather her composure. She empathized with Catherine; she understood the desire for resolution, for justice.
An aneurysm had sentenced Leah to a life as an emotional orphan. Richard had vanished under murky circumstances, and if the sender of the letter was to be believed, her uncle’s murderer remained at large. Oh, yeah, Leah knew a little about unfairness and helplessness.
“The police,” Catherine continued, her tone hardening and reclaiming Leah’s attention, “failed to do their jobs when Richard originally disappeared. They tried to imply he’d deserted me and his family.” Her outrage provided color to her pale complexion as her thin mouth tightened in anger. “Twenty years ago, I lost all faith in law enforcement, and I’ve never regained my trust. I even hired a private investigator years ago, and still nothing came of it. But you—” Her dark eyes lit with an inner fire as she leaned forward, and her blazing stare sent an inexplicable shiver tripping over Leah’s skin. “Leah, you have a vested interest in discovering what happened to my son. Richard adored you.”
“I loved him, too,” Leah confessed softly.
The study door opened on a soft swish, and Delia came in wheeling a white serving cart laden with a complete china tea set. Conversation ceased as the housekeeper drew the cart to a halt several feet away from Catherine and Leah. In practiced, efficient motions, she poured the dark brew into two cups after Gabriel declined the offer with a short shake of his head. The flavorful scent of Earl Grey wafted from the pot, the comforting aroma curling around Leah like a warm, comfy afghan.
Familiar with her employer’s tastes, Delia automatically added one sugar cube and a splash of cream. At Leah’s instructions, the housekeeper liberally sweetened and lightened her tea. Once she and Catherine sipped from their beverages with approval, Delia exited the study again, leaving the cart behind.
“Can you tell me what you remember about those last few days or weeks before his disappearance?” Leah prompted.
“I’ll never forget,” Catherine said, her eyes losing their intensity as her gaze softened and seemed to turn inward toward images Leah couldn’t see. “I remember the last time I saw him. Friday night—the night the police believed he went missing.” Her voice took on a trancelike quality as if she’d returned to the evening so many years ago. “He had a business dinner and wore the dark blue jacket I’d given him for his birthday two months earlier. He’d paired it with a light blue shirt, and he’d laughed when I told him he resembled a peacock. My special boy.” Her thin lips trembled. “Then he kissed me on the cheek, told me he loved me, and left. I never saw my son again.”
Catherine’s description of Richard’s clothes matched the missing-person flyer down to the detail, and Leah assumed his mother had been the source of the information.
“Did he seem preoccupied at all during that time? In his business or personal life? Did he have any conflicts with anyone?”
But Catherine was already shaking her head. “Richard was admired and adored by all his peers. His smile, charm, and wit had made him popular and well liked. And sought after.” Her gaze flattened, became shards of flint. And for the first time since they’d entered the study, she looked at Gabriel. Coral-painted lips straightened into a grim line. “Richard could’ve had his pick of eligible women. But one of my son’s flaws had been his affinity for those less fortunate than he, while those women saw him as a meal ticket out of their poor, drab lives.”
Cold slithered into Leah’s veins. Gabriel’s aloof expression didn’t alter, but Leah could sense the tension radiating from his rigid body. The white-knuckled grip on the arms of his chair betrayed the flux of emotion seething underneath his remote façade. Carefully, she set her empty cup and saucer on a small table flanking the settee.
Evelyn. The less fortunate woman who saw Richard as a meal ticket out her poor, drab life had been Chay’s mother, Evelyn.
“I warned Richard about dating that Gray woman,” Catherine spat, confirming Leah’s assumption. “Admittedly, she was a beauty, but she was from Dorchester, for God’s sake. I’d had hopes for the relationship he’d been in after his divorce—at least Donna was from a good family even if she was a single mother. But he broke it off with Donna after meeting Evelyn Gray. A single parent and a bank teller. Not the kind of woman Richard could bring to dinner parties or social events. It was the same with Renee.”
“Renee?” Leah asked.
Catherine’s fingers curled into claws, wrinkling the material of her pant leg.
“Richard’s first wife,” she bit out.
A faint image of a petite blonde with brown eyes and an unsmiling mouth wavered in Leah’s head. She’d forgotten Richard had once been married.
“She was a secretary at our office when they met,” Catherine continued. The acid tone surpassed disdain and edged into disgust. As a child of an affluent family, Leah was well acquainted with the snobbery and elitist attitudes that pr
evailed among Boston’s wealthy social circles. With her ethnic features, she’d been the recipient of loud pauses and condescending glances until the offenders realized the girl with the exotic eyes, sharp cheekbones, and dusty complexion was also the daughter of one of Massachusetts’s most influential and respected attorneys. In their fickle society, the green of money often trumped all other colors.
But Catherine’s scorn of Evelyn and Richard’s ex-wife, Renee, exceeded petty prejudice. Her loathing seemed…personal.
Leah risked another glance in Gabriel’s direction, and he could have been sculpted from a block of ice with no sign of thawing.
“Evelyn Gray and her son were the only variables in Richard’s life when he went missing. And Richard confided in me regarding the troubles he’d been experiencing with Chayot, Evelyn’s son. The boy had been cold, distant, and threatened Richard’s relationship with his mother. He should have been thankful for my son’s presence in his life, but instead he was belligerent, disrespectful.”
“You don’t know anything about Chay, Mrs. Pierce,” Gabriel said coldly. “You refused to meet him or his mother, remember? So I’d appreciate it if you refrained from speaking ill about people you never bothered getting to know.”
Catherine whipped her head in his direction, glaring. Blue ice clashed with black fire, and Leah froze, stunned. She wouldn’t have been surprised if vapor rose between the two of them in a hazy column.
“Catherine,” she began, not completely sure what she should—or could—say. “What the hell” just didn’t seem appropriate, yet the words hovered on the tip of her tongue.
“I know more than you believe I do, Mr. Devlin. And I’d thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head. Especially since the only reason I’ve allowed you inside my home is because you accompanied Leah.”
Gabriel’s lip curled in a snarl, his eyes somewhere in the subzero range.
“Catherine,” Leah interceded before Gabriel could respond—and ruin whatever chances she had of discovering information from the woman, “I know Gabriel and Chay. Both are good men. And Gabriel has agreed to help me with the investigation.”
“Has he?” Catherine’s mouth twisted into a brittle smile. “I have to wonder what is in it for him. Somehow, I can’t believe his intentions are altruistically motivated.”
“Because Leah is my friend, and she asked for my assistance,” Gabriel snapped. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
Catherine and Gabriel stared at one another, the silence charged and crackling. The animosity between her best friend and Richard’s mother was like a living, breathing entity in the room. Dislike, Leah could understand; Catherine had maligned Chay’s name in front of Gabriel, so him leaping to his friend’s defense didn’t shock her. But this…this loathing between two people who’d never met before seemed extreme.
With a disdainful sniff, Catherine turned from Gabriel and set her teacup and saucer on the second shelf of the serving cart with a trembling clatter.
“Leah, I’ve had plenty of time to reflect on those last days. And maybe Richard finally decided to heed my advice and break off his involvement with Evelyn and her son. Maybe his decision infuriated Evelyn, dashing her dreams of rising above her station. Or maybe Evelyn’s son was angered because his mother had been hurt. No one,” Catherine enunciated through firmly pressed lips, “had reason to harm Richard. No one. Except someone in the Gray household.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Gabriel spat. “Evelyn loved Richard, and Chay was just a boy at the time.”
“And before I leave this earth,” Catherine continued, ignoring Gabriel’s interruption, “I want my son’s murder avenged.”
“My son’s murder avenged.” Those four words shocked her more than Catherine’s accusation of who had killed her son. Leah rocked back against the curved arm of the settee, her eyes widening. She knew? “You believe Richard is…?”
“Dead?” Catherine finished. “Of course he is.” Grief. Anger. Neither of those reactions would have taken Leah aback. But fierce satisfaction crossed the woman’s face, and Leah reeled with astonishment.
Catherine’s thin shoulders straightened, and a note of pride entered her cultured voice. “If Richard had been alive all these years, I have no doubt he would have contacted me. He was my son, my special boy, and he knew I loved him. He would have come back to me if he could.” Her gaze hardened. “And since he didn’t, I can only surmise one thing. He is dead, beyond my reach. I want to know who took him from me. His death should be avenged no matter the length of elapsed time. Good men should not be forgotten, and my son was the best of men. I want justice for his murder.”
Catherine’s fist clenched tightly. Thin blue veins bulged under white, paper-thin skin, emphasizing her frailness, no doubt as a result of the cancer eating at her body. Yet the fanaticism that glittered like stars in an obsidian sky in Catherine’s gaze lent her a wild energy that belied her fragile state.
The uneasy foreboding that had scuttled down Leah’s spine earlier increased until it felt like a troop of spiders crawling over her skin.
“I will do everything in my power to discover the truth, Catherine. I promise you. But—” She hesitated, wary of setting the woman off in her delicate condition, yet unwilling to be a participant in this witch hunt. Catherine seemed determined to appoint Leah as lead pitchfork-carrying vigilante. “I’ll follow this investigation wherever it leads. I can’t allow it to be turned into a vendetta or an act of revenge. Not even for you and Richard.”
Catherine’s sooty fringe of lashes lifted, and her dark eyes sharpened.
“I have the utmost confidence you will redress the wrongs committed against my son. Call it retribution or call it justice, I know you will bring his life and death closure.”
Chapter Nine
What Gabriel wouldn’t trade for the burn of Scotch down his throat. Not for the taste or the warm glow after it hit his gut. Nope, he longed for the piggybacking forgetfulness—and damn, he wanted to forget this day and mind-scrub yesterday. Since one drink inevitably led to another…and then another…and then the bottle, he had to settle for the soda in his hand.
Perhaps the neighborhood bar didn’t represent the wisest choice for a recovering alcoholic to unwind, but the cop hangout was an old haunt of his. Near Leah’s old department, the District D-4 police precinct in South End, many off duty and retired police officers relaxed at the pub’s scarred tables. When she’d been on the force, they’d sometimes met here after her shift for beers and burgers or the more-than-passable fish and fries.
Framed photos of fallen officers lined the walls alongside glossy pictures autographed by sports greats such as the Celtics’ Larry Bird, the Bruins’ Bobby Orr and Phil Esposito, and the Patriots’ Tom Brady. The bar had been around for over sixty years, and its patrons, ranging from grizzled old men to wet-behind-the-ears rookies, embodied its history.
Leah had introduced him to the cop watering hole six years ago when she’d joined the police force and he’d begun his series of novels revolving around hardened detective Michael Rice. At first he’d been satisfied to people-watch, to soak up the atmosphere. But it hadn’t been long before he’d started conversing with the regulars and receiving a gold mine of information inaccessible through Google or Yahoo.
The bartender slid another soda in front of him, and Gabriel nodded his thanks. He lifted the glass to his lips and sipped, but the cold drink did nothing to extinguish the anger that had plagued him all day.
His fingers flexed around the icy glass. Hearing the old bitch speak about Chay as if he were an ungrateful, dirty brat… Gabriel silently counted to ten. Deliberately relaxed his grip on the soda. The idea of Chay being thankful for that son of a bitch Richard in his life…
Catherine wore rose-colored Ray-Bans when it came to her son. Her fucking special boy. And after spending a minimum of thirty minutes with her in that cold crypt of a house, Gabriel began to have an inkling of why Richard had turned out so damn special.
Gabe sighed, tired but so wound up he could be mistaken for one of the jonesing meth-heads he’d passed on the way into the bar. Common sense dictated he should be at home in front of his computer, pounding out the manuscript his agent expected in the next several weeks. God knew his world of legal corruption, murder, and secrets was the only place he could lose himself so completely. If he had an ounce of intelligence, he would’ve gladly hibernated there after an afternoon inhaling Leah’s sweet vanilla scent, reminiscing about her body pressed to his, and suffering Catherine Pierce’s cold disdain.
Instead, after a silent, tense return ride to the city and Leah dropping him off next to his car in the parking garage, he’d peeled out and headed to the South End rather than Charlestown. To a comforting haunt in a world that had morphed into a strange alternate universe where killers lurked, secrets upturned tombstones, and women who were once safe havens had become the most dangerous threat of all.
Leah. It always came back to Leah.
He lifted the glass, drank from it again. The chilly condensation dampened his palm, mirroring the ice coating his chest, making him shiver from the inside out. How he wished he could rewrite the last two days. In his revision there wouldn’t be an investigation into a twenty-year-old disappearance or the murder of an innocent man whose only sin had been being in the wrong place at the wrong time. There wouldn’t be resented desires for his best friend. His version wouldn’t sell a damn copy because the story would be boring as hell. Yeah, that’s what he wished for his life. Boredom. Ennui. Tedious monotony. Instead, he had an unsolved mystery—a crime—and unquenchable, guilt-ridden need.
As Gabriel lowered his drink, his gaze rose to the mirror behind the numerous half-filled bottles of alcohol. Immediately, the woman entering the bar snagged his attention. If the long, black mantle of hair or the tall, slender figure hadn’t tipped him off, then he would have identified Leah by her walk alone. The regal tilt of her head, the confident, long-legged stride. The slight hitch in her gait was nearly imperceptible and probably only obvious to him because he knew her so well. Yet, the barely there unevenness in her step didn’t detract from the almost balletic gracefulness that drew his and every appreciative male eye in the room—and some female.