Dead Before Dark

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  But hell, she’s well preserved for forty-three, thanks to Botox, dramatic makeup, Preference by L’Oreal, and the elliptical trainer parked in front of her television set.

  The young businessman makes eye contact with her, smiles.

  She smiles back.

  “What about that guy you met skiing a few weeks ago?”

  Distracted by Alicia’s question, she turns. “You mean Ethan?”

  “Yeah. I thought you said he was normal.”

  “I did. But he’s got an ex-wife who’s still got him wrapped around her finger, plus two little kids who call him up crying every ten minutes. I told him I couldn’t deal with all that baggage. And right after that, he started stalking me.”

  “What?!”

  “Yeah. I wasn’t going to say anything about it, but…it’s kind of freaking me out.”

  The light turns, and they cross the street.

  “What’s going on?” Alicia asks.

  “First it was just calls at night, when I’m alone—someone breathing into the phone.”

  “You’re sure it’s Ethan?”

  “The number comes up on Caller ID as Private. That’s how Ethan’s number came up whenever he called.”

  “A lot of unlisted numbers do, though.”

  “Guess what? I’m unlisted, too—and I haven’t given my number out to very many people around here.”

  “Maybe it was random. Kids make crank phone calls.”

  “It isn’t just the phone thing, though. A couple of times when I’ve been driving home at night, I’m pretty sure someone’s followed me.” Seeing Alicia’s dubious expression, she amends, “I mean, I am sure.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “I can’t tell, exactly. All I can see is headlights.”

  “Maybe someone just happens to live in the same neighborhood you do. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  That’s easy for Alicia to say. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, three teenagers, and a big dog. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be single yet again, living on your own in an unfamiliar city.

  The divorce wasn’t her idea.

  The move was.

  She came here on a whim, looking for a fresh start.

  Now, eight months in, she wonders if it was the right thing to do after all: leave her hometown of Los Angeles behind, with all her friends and family….

  And all the memories of a husband who cheated on her, and the dream house he forced her to sell…

  It was the right thing to do.

  She likes it here in Denver. Likes her administrative job, the friends she’s made, the apartment she’s renting, and the guys…

  Likes looking at them, anyway.

  She turns her head to see if the cute businessman is still there.

  No, but someone else is. A man, wearing jeans, a sweatshirt with the hood up—despite the mild temperature—and big sunglasses. Despite the fact that the sun is nowhere to be seen.

  Something about him is unsettling.

  She turns back to Alicia, grabbing her arm. “Hey, see that guy?”

  “What guy?”

  Danielle starts to point—then realizes he’s slipped away.

  “Never mind,” she murmurs, wondering if Ethan is the one who’s been following her after all.

  “Lucinda? What are you doing?”

  Greeted by Cam’s voice on the other end of the telephone line, Lucinda hesitates before admitting the truth: “Nothing.”

  Lying on the couch in her apartment with the blinds drawn and the lights on, staring off into space, feet propped on a coffee table littered with an empty Fritos bag, several Fudgsicle sticks, and an unread literary magazine. You can’t do much less than this. And she’s been doing it ever since she got home from Neal’s office hours ago.

  It isn’t like her to sit and brood.

  But something is wrong. She can feel it, a sense of doom hanging in the air.

  Cam doesn’t ask her to elaborate. “Then I need you to come. Can you?”

  “Come where?” Struck by the urgency in Cam’s voice, Lucinda sits up straighter.

  “Montclair. My house. How soon can you get here?”

  “I’m two hours away. What’s going on? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, I just need to show you something. Remember I told you about my sister’s old friend?”

  “Bernice. I remember.”

  “Well, she finally went to visit her brother and look through a bunch of boxes from her mother’s house, and she found Ava’s letters. She sent them to me—I just got them a little while ago—and I think I found something. I can tell you about it over the phone, but I thought you might want to see for yourself.”

  “I do.” Lucinda is already on her feet, hurrying to the bedroom to change out of the ancient sweats she threw on when she got home.

  It’s about time they got a break involving Ava.

  Last month, thanks to Cam’s digging around in Buffalo, the police there—while skeptical—agreed to look into the possibility that Sandra Wubner had been murdered.

  So far, there’s been no new information—nor any definitive word from Chicago or Beach Haven on whether Ava’s death was connected to Jaime’s and Carla’s.

  As Randy pointed out, there’s absolutely no hard evidence to link the Wubner case to Ava’s, let alone to the new murders.

  “What about the scrapbook?” Lucinda asked.

  “If we had it as evidence, that would be one thing. But you’re the only one who saw it.”

  “Just like I’m the only one who saw Ava on the rooftop with someone the night she died. I get it. No one’s going to take my word for it that those girls didn’t kill themselves, or that all of this is connected somehow.”

  “I take your word for it,” Randy told her. “But I’m not part of this investigation.”

  How well she knows that Randy remains frustratingly out of the loop in Beach Haven. With Frank Santiago out on medical leave, reportedly hospitalized with pneumonia for over two weeks now, and Detective Lambert stepping up in his absence, Randy had hoped things might change. But nothing has.

  “All I can do,” he told Lucinda, “is keep trying to convince them to look into it and hope that they’re listening.”

  And all Lucinda can do is investigate the so-called suicides on her own, with Cam’s help.

  “I’m on my way,” she promises her friend.

  “Why don’t you stay over so you don’t have to drive back there alone late at night?”

  “Maybe I will. Thanks, Cam. See you soon.”

  She disconnects the call, then dials Randy’s cell. He’s been calling her nightly to check in.

  “Hi, it’s me,” she says. “Did I catch you in the middle of something?” He’d said he was going to be cleaning out Carla’s house over the next couple of days.

  “I’m at work, investigating a check fraud. What’s up?”

  She tells him about Cam’s phone call, and that she’s headed to Montclair.

  “Now? I thought you said you were staying close to home today because you felt like something bad was going to happen.”

  Yes, and she shouldn’t have told him that when he called earlier.

  “I have to go up there, Randy. This is important.”

  “But it’s not exactly so urgent it can’t wait. You’re trying to find out about someone who died years ago.”

  “I’m trying to find out about Ava because that seems to have something to do with what happened to Carla and Jaime and someone is still out there and he’s going to kill again, okay?”

  “Okay, calm down,” he says in a maddening tone. “First of all, if that’s the case, you need to stay safe and not go running off in the night. Second, I’m still not entirely convinced that Ava Neary’s death has anything to do with Carla and Jaime’s. The M.O. is drastically different, not to mention all the time that’s passed—”

  “What about the scrapbook in my apartment, and the note Cam got in the mail? It was written in red l
ipstick,” she points out—yet again.

  Red lipstick, as they both know, is a peculiar fetish of the killer they’re seeking.

  “It doesn’t mean you’re dealing with whoever killed Ava—or even that anyone did. It means that someone is using your interest in Ava’s case to manipulate you.”

  He could be right.

  The modern-day killer could have seen her and Cam on television and thought it would be fun to play games. For all she knows, whoever it is never even heard of Ava Neary before last summer.

  “Well, we’re never going to know,” she says, “unless we get to the bottom of this. I’m going, Randy.”

  “At least wait until I get off my shift, and I’ll go with you.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she tells him, bristling at the implication that she needs some kind of…bodyguard.

  Or maybe, she realizes, what she doesn’t like is that for a moment there, she had a flash of pleasure at the thought of unexpectedly seeing him tonight.

  “Why is that ridiculous?”

  “Because by the time you leave work, drive from there to here, and here to Montclair, it’ll be midnight. That’s why.”

  “What’s ridiculous,” he returns, “is your chasing off at night by yourself instead of listening to your instincts and staying at home where it’s safe.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes people who stay at home where it’s safe find out that it isn’t so safe at all.” She pauses to let that sink in. “And if I don’t do whatever I can to find out what happened to Carla and Jaime—and Ava—then I’ll never be able to forgive myself if someone else dies.”

  “And I’ll never be able to forgive myself if that someone else is you.”

  She shakes her head.

  She isn’t used to having someone trying to take care of her. She isn’t used to this growing sense of attachment, a sense of mutual need and dependence. She doesn’t welcome it. It complicates things.

  “Look, Randy, you’re my friend”—and nothing more, she reminds herself, before saying to him, “and I appreciate your concern. But I’m going to go do my thing, and you’re going to let me. Okay?”

  “Not okay. I don’t have to sit by while you run around taking stupid risks.”

  “Are you calling me stupid?”

  “You know I’m not. But unless you have a death wish, you should stay home, behind locked doors, until this feeling passes.”

  Again, she wishes she hadn’t told him about her nagging premonition.

  In fact, she wishes she hadn’t bothered to call and tell him where she was going tonight.

  Then why did you?

  “Randy, I’ve got to get on the road. It’s getting late.”

  “Call me when you get there, okay?”

  She frowns. “Why?”

  “To let me know you made it.”

  No. This doesn’t work for her. This isn’t how she rolls. She refuses to be accountable to anyone.

  “Trust me,” she says, “I’ll make it. Bye, Randy.”

  She hangs up before he can protest.

  Throwing a couple of things into an overnight bag, Lucinda decides that a change of scenery will do her good.

  If nothing else, it will get her out of this routine of talking to Randy several times a day, and thinking of him as the only bright spot in her life right now. She refuses to be one of those women who sits around waiting for the phone to ring.

  She has other things to do. Other interests. Other friends.

  In fact, maybe from Montclair, she’ll go surprise Bradley in New York tomorrow.

  The few times they’ve spoken on the phone or e-mailed lately, he’s been terse.

  She can’t tell whether it’s because his play rehearsals still aren’t going well and opening night still hasn’t been set, or if it’s something that has to do directly with her. Maybe he’s still upset over having been brought in for questioning back in March—even though he was subsequently cleared. Or maybe he’s merely miffed that she forgot about his visit. Even though she’s since explained—several times—that she’d had to leave town suddenly as part of an investigation.

  She didn’t tell Bradley the details, and he didn’t ask. She isn’t sure it would make a difference even if he knew. All the pain Bradley’s family caused him has left him both deeply scarred and easily wounded.

  Regardless of whether she can see Bradley in New York, and whatever it is that Cam has to show her in Montclair, Lucinda is certain it will do her good to get away for a day, or maybe even two.

  Not because you’re running scared, though. No way.

  Still…

  She doesn’t believe for one moment that whoever killed Carla and Jaime has forgotten about her just because she hasn’t heard from him.

  He’s out there somewhere.

  He’s going to strike again. Soon.

  And there’s nothing she can do to stop him.

  Pausing in the doorway to the living room, she looks at the mess on the coffee table. At least she can pick up the wrappers and crumbs before she leaves for a day or two. Otherwise, she’ll come home to mice.

  There are worse things to come home to, she thinks with a shudder as she gathers everything from the table.

  Her gaze falls on the literary magazine.

  Meanderings 19.04.

  Something occurs to her.

  It’s far-fetched, but…

  I’ve got to check it out. First chance I get.

  He impulsively ducked into a clothing store a few minutes ago after Danielle Hendry spotted him on the street, but maybe he shouldn’t have.

  Maybe he should have just kept walking boldly behind her, even after she knew that he was there.

  It wasn’t as though she would recognize him. With her, he’d carefully kept his distance for the last few weeks, dogging her steps from afar, keeping her under surveillance, messing with her head.

  But for some reason, this wasn’t nearly as much fun as it might have been.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “No, just looking,” he tells the young salesgirl, a fresh-scrubbed, wholesome-looking type.

  There are a lot of those out here in Colorado: outdoorsy girls who hike and ski, shunning heels and perfume and lipstick.

  He’d chosen Denver arbitrarily out of all the metropolitan areas that fit his preestablished criteria: large, urban, with a relatively transient population. A place where he can get lost. And, most importantly, located in the mountain time zone.

  Maybe he should have picked a different location, though. Phoenix. Salt Lake City.

  Too late now.

  He’s here.

  He’s found her, set the stage.

  Anyway, it’s almost time.

  He turns his back on the salesgirl and pretends to browse through a stack of clearance sweaters.

  But he’s beginning to wonder what good it is, any of it, if Lucinda Sloan isn’t involved. With Long Beach Island, he’d struck close to home, setting her up, playing her and the police.

  Then, in Chicago, he’d given her clues, expecting her to piece it all together and show up there looking for him.

  She didn’t—not until he fed her the information via that wonderfully realistic Web page he’d constructed using a laptop whose owner had conveniently turned his back on it in a public place.

  The fake Web site had been a stroke of genius, he thought. And she—who claimed omniscience—had bought it.

  How he’d relished her arrival in Chicago in the aftermath, though he wasn’t there to see it firsthand. He could well imagine how frustrating and horrifying it must have been for her to realize she could have stopped him—if only she were smart enough.

  The clues he’d left on Jaime Dobiak’s nightstand were too challenging. He should have known nobody would be smart enough to figure it out. He should have remembered that no one is as intelligent as he. Next time, he’ll dumb it down a little.

  Now that a month has passed, and she’s half a continent away from him—and from his unsus
pecting next victim—it all feels diluted somehow.

  The chase, he’s decided, isn’t nearly as thrilling without the feeling that he himself is being chased.

  It’s far more exhilarating to be just one step ahead of her than ten.

  It would be far more rewarding to get away with yet another murder right under her nose.

  Especially if she had everything she needed to solve it.

  She would, if she were as smart as people think she is.

  If she were as smart as I am.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sitting beside Lucinda on the chintz couch in the sunroom, Cam watches her friend fold Ava’s last letter, written just a few weeks before her death. It chronicles her sister’s growing concern over her affair with a man who was not only her geology professor, but married.

  Poor Ava, vulnerable, away from home, still hurting over their mother’s abandonment. It’s not hard to imagine how she might have been swept into something so wrong—or how it might have escalated into something far more dangerous than forbidden passion.

  “I think you’re right,” Lucinda tells Cam. “This might mean something.”

  Cam carefully tucks the letter back into the yellowed envelope, addressed to Bernice Watts in her sister’s loopy penmanship.

  “Mom?”

  They both look up, startled, to see Tess in the doorway leading to the kitchen.

  “Tess! How are you?”

  “Hi, Lucinda. I’m okay.”

  One glance at Tess is enough to reveal that’s not true. Cam’s daughter has dark circles under her red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes, her hair looks matted, and she’s wrapped in a bleach-stained sweatshirt that looks several sizes too big for her frail, scrawny body.

  “I need index cards for a project, Mom. Do you have any?”

  “I think so.” Cam goes to the computer desk across the room and opens a drawer.

  Behind her, Lucinda asks, “What’s new, Tess?”

  Cam winces, hoping Tess won’t get into the breakup. Whenever she talks about it she cries, and it appears she’s done her share of that already tonight.

  “Not much,” Tess tells Lucinda in the monotone she’s developed since her heart was broken four weeks ago.

  “How’s school?”