Dead Before Dark

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “Yes, I’m…I’m not feeling well.”

  Bitsy sighs heavily, too much a lady to betray her emotions any more animatedly than to say quietly, “I’m disappointed.”

  Lucinda wishes she could believe it’s because her mother is concerned for her health. Or because her mother was looking forward to spending some quality time with her.

  But it isn’t about that, of course. It never has been.

  Lucinda has no illusions; she knows she’s as much an obligation to her mother as her mother is to her.

  As for her father—well, Rudolph Sloan doesn’t seem to feel obligated to either of them.

  For a moment, Lucinda really does consider telling her mother the reason she has to leave.

  There’s been a murder, Mother. Another murder, and the killer is on the loose, and I think he’s been in my apartment, watching me, and if we don’t catch him, I might be next.

  If she says all of that out loud, what difference will it make?

  Her mother will worry. She’s cold, but she’s not inhuman. Beneath the sharp edge lies some semblance of maternal caring.

  Her mother will also blame her for what’s happened. Blame her being in the press, talking about murder. Blame her having made it her life’s work to come into contact not just with victims of crime, but with the lowest life forms imaginable: the criminals themselves.

  Is it any wonder, her mother will ask, that you’ve captured the attention of a homicidal maniac?

  No, it’s no wonder.

  But she’s chosen to live her life on her own terms. She’s chosen her path.

  So she owns it. All of it. Even this.

  I wouldn’t have it any other way, she realizes, and leaves her mother to nibble her cold poached egg and go home alone to a house made of cold gray stone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Scrolling through the online edition of yet another newspaper, Vic hears the rumble of the mail truck down the street.

  With the exception of his college application era and a couple of lean newlywed years when he and Kitty desperately needed their tax refund money, Vic never spent much time anticipating the arrival of the day’s mail.

  Things are different now—and not just because the mail recently held his first book contract, or because he expects a check for his on-signing advance any day.

  The check would be nice.

  Further communication from the Night Watchman would be…well, not nice.

  But every day, he holds his breath and waits for the mail to come, hoping for anything that might put him on the killer’s trail once again.

  If the task force down in Quantico has made any progress, nobody’s bothered to tell Vic. He wouldn’t expect them to.

  They’re on their own with this thing now—just as he’s on his own. The guys from the field office have checked in now and then, and they drive by every so often, too. For all he knows, the house is under constant surveillance, which bothers Kitty. But as he told her, better to be watched by the FBI than by an unsub thirsty for the kill after thirty-five years of dormancy.

  Welcoming the distraction of the mail truck, Vic leaves the computer and goes to the front door to meet it. He remembers, this time, to punch in the numbers on the alarm keypad, but sometimes he doesn’t.

  Darned thing is a pain in the ass, but a necessary evil.

  Opening the door at last, Vic inhales the dank, cold air—not quite as biting as it has been, though. Beyond the doorstep lies a drab backdrop of bare branches, sparse grass, and mud, but the crocus bulbs Kitty had him plant last fall are sending up tender, grassy sprouts over by the lamppost.

  “Morning, Vic.” The mailman climbs out of his truck with a wave.

  “Morning, Smitty.”

  “Feels like spring, huh?”

  “Almost.” Vic accepts the bundle of mail—quite a few white envelopes today, he notices. Some days, there are mostly catalogues and junk mail.

  Anxious to get inside and go through it, he bids Smitty a good day and hurriedly barricades himself into the house again.

  Standing in the hall, he flips through the envelopes.

  The third one in the stack captures his attention.

  It’s addressed to him, a plain white typewritten label again, no return address.

  It was postmarked three days ago in Chicago.

  Waiting beside the secretary’s desk in the first floor Pastoral Care Office, Cam rehearses what she’ll say to Janet O’Leary.

  One thing is certain: the woman has most likely never heard of her, or of Ava. She’ll have to start there.

  Okay, so…

  “Hi, my name is Cam, and I think that when you were a little girl, you got a look at the man who killed my sister.”

  And then Janet O’Leary, a cancer survivor herself who spends her days as a lay minister to patients here, will tell Cam to leave, and rightly so, because she has far more important things to worry about today.

  So does Cam. When she called Mike a few minutes ago to tell him she’d arrived, she could hear Grace wailing in the background.

  Her heart sank. “What’s wrong with her, Mike?”

  “She’s just a little cranky. She’ll be fine.”

  Cam checks her watch. There’s an afternoon flight home. If she leaves here in the next ten minutes, she can probably get on it standby.

  “Hi.” A small woman enters the office, accompanied by the secretary who went off to locate her on her patient rounds. “You’re here to see me?”

  A look at her ID badge confirms that. Cam nods. “Hi, Ms. O’Leary. My name is Cam Hastings.”

  She nods, wearing an expectant expression. When the secretary asked for Cam’s name, she asked, “Will Janet know who you are or what this is in regard to?”

  “No,” Cam said simply. “But it’s very important.”

  Now, she tells Janet, “I know you’re really busy, and I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I was wondering if I could ask you about something—in private.”

  She expects Janet to ask for more information, but she nods.

  Then she crosses the small reception area, pokes her head into an adjoining office, looks around, and tells Cam, “Empty. We’re in luck. Sometimes it isn’t. We all share this office. Come on in.”

  They settle themselves beside a desk covered in papers, a computer, and a telephone.

  Cam looks at Janet, who has a halo of soft brown hair and wide-set eyes the ice-blue shade of a winter sky—somewhere other than here, anyway.

  “I’m here because my sister died,” Cam blurts—not at all as she had rehearsed.

  “Cancer?”

  “No….”

  How had she intended to phrase it?

  The right words have flown out of her head, and she has to be careful here to avoid the wrong ones. She needs Janet O’Leary to listen to her. To help her, if there’s any way.

  She may be the only one who can. Sandra Wubner’s parents have both died, and she was an only child.

  “It, um, it happened a long time ago. She’d be in her late fifties if she were still alive. She died when she was twenty, in college…. They said it was a suicide.”

  At the last word, something flickers in Janet’s blue eyes, but she says nothing.

  “All these years, my father and I believed Ava—that’s my sister’s name, Ava Neary”—no recognition there—“We believed she had killed herself. There were reasons to think she might have, I guess. My mother had abandoned us—just disappeared without a trace—not long before that.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Janet murmurs, touching her hand.

  Cam is unnerved by her kindness, her sympathy.

  All those years, Cam and her father had dealt with their losses on their own. A woman like this, a woman who spends her days helping stricken people cope with emotional and spiritual pain, could have made it all so much—well, not easier. But perhaps more bearable.

  “Not long ago,” Cam goes on, “I was given some information that led me to wonder if my sister really
did kill herself….”

  “Or?” Janet supplies when she can’t bring herself to say it.

  “Or…not.”

  Janet digests this. “You aren’t saying she might still be alive.”

  “No.”

  “You’re saying someone else might have taken her life?”

  Cam exhales, almost in relief, and nods.

  Janet O’Leary tilts her head. “Why are you here to see me, Mrs. Hastings?”

  “Please—call me Cam. Your maiden name was Toscano, wasn’t it? And you grew up on the West Side.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Newspaper archives,” Cam tells her. “Wedding announcement, an interview you did about your work here, and—really long ago—an article about your babysitter.”

  Now the recognition dawns.

  “She hung herself, Janet, and you found her. Do you remember?”

  “Sandy. Yes, I remember.” Janet O’Leary’s lovely eyes have clouded over.

  “And you said you saw her boyfriend with her that night.”

  “I remember that, too.”

  “The police investigated. Her boyfriend had an alibi.”

  Janet shakes her head. “I know that, but I got out of bed for a drink of water and when I looked in the living room someone was there, talking to her. At the time I just assumed it was her boyfriend. He’d come over sometimes.”

  “But now you think it might have been someone else?”

  “I guess it could have been.”

  “How sure are you that someone was there?”

  “At the time, I was a hundred percent sure. But later—well, I guess the police and my parents seemed to think I either dreamed it or imagined it, especially once her boyfriend gave them the alibi. They said I was traumatized and it was understandable. I guess I believed them after a while because…well, because it was less scary than thinking someone really was there.”

  “Looking back, though, now…you think someone really could have been?”

  Janet nods.

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “No. I only saw his back, and he was wearing a jacket with the hood up. It was snowing really hard that night. I remember seeing snow melting off his boots, too.”

  “Did he or Sandy know you were there?”

  “No. I was supposed to be asleep. I only snuck a quick peek, then I went back to bed. I still couldn’t fall asleep though and later when I got up again…That’s when I found her.”

  “Hanged.”

  Janet shudders. “Yes. It was horrible.”

  “I can just imagine.” Cam waits a moment before asking, “Do you think Sandy killed herself that night, Janet?”

  Rather than answer, she says, “You don’t, do you?”

  “No. I don’t. I think she was murdered by whoever was there. And I think he might have done the same thing to my sister.”

  Rounding the corner onto Lucinda’s block, he’s just in time to see a man exit the building.

  Watching with interest, he slows his pace as the man walks over to a white van parked at the curb. Seeing the sign painted on the side of the van, he breaks into a slow grin.

  LIBERTY HOME SECURITY SPECIALISTS.

  Obviously, Lucinda received his little gift last night and his e-mail this morning.

  Feeling paranoid, is she?

  Then she should really enjoy the little surprise he’s got in store for her next. His lips curve into a smile as he pulls it out of his pocket and looks around to see if anyone’s watching.

  Still holding his cell phone, Randy sticks his head into the office where Dan Lambert is typing furiously at a computer.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  Lambert looks up, eyes going solemn behind his round-rimmed glasses when he sees Randy’s expression. “What’s up?”

  Someone could be in earshot. Randy closes the door.

  “A woman was murdered last night in Chicago. It looks like whoever killed Carla could be responsible.”

  Disbelief sweeps over Lambert’s features. “What do you mean? What’s going on?”

  He quickly updates Lambert, telling him about the e-mail with the link to a newspaper story this morning about the murder of a twenty-two-year-old woman, and about the note that came with the floral delivery—bearing the Chicago coordinates.

  “You say Lucinda got the flowers last night, at home?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “So she was home in Philadelphia last night when this woman was killed in Chicago.”

  “I just told you she was.”

  “Okay.”

  Randy looks at his friend for a long moment. He doesn’t like what he sees in his eyes.

  “I have to go,” he says abruptly.

  “Go where?”

  “Home,” he lies, and reaches for the doorknob.

  “Randy…wait.”

  “What?”

  “We can place her at the crime scene here. Lucinda.”

  “Yeah, I know she was at the scene. She made the call.”

  “No, Randy. She was inside the house. Inside the bathroom. With…Carla.”

  His hand frozen on the knob, Randy asks, “Why do you think that?”

  “I know it. I told you. There’s evidence.”

  Randy turns to look at Dan, his thoughts racing. “Are you saying she’s a suspect?”

  “I’m saying she might become one.”

  “Tell me why. Tell me more.”

  “You know I can’t.”

  Turning abruptly, Randy opens the door and walks out, closing it hard behind him.

  Left alone in Lucinda’s about-to-be-newly-fortified apartment, Neal dials Frank Santiago’s number.

  He needs to be told about the flower delivery. Maybe it’ll take him off Lucinda’s trail for five minutes—long enough to find some leads that might take the investigation in the right direction.

  But Frank’s phone rings into voice mail—again, fourth time this morning. Neal hangs up and wonders whether he should just drive out to Long Beach Island. Talk to him in person.

  That, or tell Lucinda that she’s about to be interviewed again for a crime she didn’t commit, because her hair was found in the dead woman’s hand.

  How did it get there?

  That’s what they’ll ask her.

  As if Lucinda would know.

  The killer put it there, of course. The killer left the bloody ring in her apartment, and before that, the scrapbook. He could easily have stolen strands of her hair from a brush.

  Lucinda is being set up for this murder.

  Why, Neal hasn’t a clue. But the sooner he can get Frank to accept the possibility, the better.

  He snaps his phone closed, and it rings almost immediately. Maybe Frank was screening his calls and is getting back to him right away.

  Snapping it open, he looks at the number. Nope. Not Frank.

  “Lucinda. I’m still at your—”

  “Neal, hold on. Listen to me. There was another murder last night. A woman in Chicago.”

  He sucks in his breath. “How do you know?”

  “Someone sent me a link to a newspaper article about it.”

  “Who?”

  There’s a pause. “I don’t know. It came from an e-mail address I didn’t recognize.”

  “Are you sure it’s a real case?”

  “Positive. And it was the same M.O. as Carla Barakat. The victim lived alone, and she was killed in her apartment early last night. Stabbed to death.”

  “None of that means it’s connected to Carla.”

  “No. But Neal, someone sent me the link, anonymously. What do you think it means?”

  He lets it sink in for a minute. “Does Frank Santiago know about this?”

  “I don’t know. Randy said he isn’t in the office and nobody seems to know where he is.”

  “You told Randy.”

  “Yes. He and I are catching a flight to O’Hare right now. I’m in a cab on my way to the airport.”

  �
�Are you kidding me? You can’t—”

  “Neal, this is what I do, remember? If I can go to the scene, I might be able to pick up on some information that will lead us in the right direction to get this guy before he does it again.”

  She’s right. This is what she does. But…

  “Lucinda, this is different. This time, you’re directly involved. He’s been taunting you. Don’t you think it’s possible that he might be baiting you?”

  She hesitates. “It’s possible. But I have to do this. You know that.”

  And you can’t stop me.

  The phrase is unspoken, but it comes through loud and clear.

  Neal sighs. “Just be careful.”

  “I’m always careful.”

  How he wishes he could believe that were true.

  He remembers something. “Oh, and Cin?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know this isn’t even on your radar right now, but I got a call a little while ago. They brought in dogs and searched Isaiah Drew’s dorm room.”

  “And?”

  “And found traces.”

  “Traces…Drugs?”

  “Yes. You were right.”

  To her credit, she doesn’t say I told you so, though under ordinary circumstances, that’s definitely her style.

  Neal hangs up, puts on his coat, and heads for the door.

  He opens it just in time to see a gray-haired man bending over the mat, something in his hand.

  “All right, Mr. Santiago, are you ready?”

  Ready?

  Ready to be rolled, once again, into that hulking metal coffin of sorts, so that they’ll be able to tell just how long it will be before he’ll be encased in a real one?

  “Yes,” he says, only after giving the Magnetic Resonance Imaging technician a look, one that tells her he finds her breezy demeanor insufferable.

  A middle-aged grandmother type, her doughy figure encased in scrubs, she ignores the look. “All righty then, I’m going to have you lie down here, and we’ll get started. Careful of your IV line, now. There we go, that’s it.”

  He settles himself on the narrow, flexible surface and swallows audibly as he stares at the ceiling. He does his best not to let anxiety take over. Does his best to keep breathing slowly, in, out, in, out, despite the chronic wheezing tightness in his chest.