Dead Before Dark

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “You make sure you get that tea with honey and lemon,” Erma is saying into the phone. “Feel better. Here’s Neal.”

  He takes the receiver. “What’s the matter, Cin? Are you sick?”

  “No,” she rasps.

  “You sound awful.”

  “I didn’t get to bed until after four.”

  “I won’t bother to ask you if you’ve heard anything new since then,” Neal tells her. “I probably know more than you do right now.” He’s already been up for a while, keeping apprised of the situation from this end.

  “Did Danielle Hendry turn up?”

  “She’s still missing, as far as I know. We’ve been checking out the name you mentioned—Scarlet.”

  “And…?”

  “And nothing. There are no reports anywhere of a missing person by the name of Scarlet, first or last.”

  “All right. I figured it was worth a shot.”

  “It was. Are you sure it’s a name, though?”

  “No. But it felt like it. Listen, Neal, I need you to look up something for me. I don’t have access to the Internet right now.”

  “What is it?” He’s already on his way into the den, where the computer is.

  “Check the sunset time for Chicago on March 20.”

  Not bothering to ask her why, he sits at the desk and does a quick search. The information comes up within seconds.

  “7:05 P.M.”

  “He killed her at sunset. That’s why he knew in advance. Check the sunset for Beach Haven on February 21.”

  Catching on, Neal types in the request. “5:40.”

  “That’s what time Carla’s watch stopped. That’s when she died. At sunset. On the night when the moon was full. That’s the pattern.”

  “Cin, spare your voice. I get it.”

  “It happened again last night. I was watching the sun set over the mountains, and I heard it—I heard what he was doing.”

  “Killing Danielle Hendry.”

  He hears her try to clear her throat, but all that comes out is a whispery squeak. “I should go.”

  “Tell the FBI about this, Cin. Right away. Oh, and wait—Randy called me last night. This morning, too. He didn’t get me, and I haven’t called him back yet. I wasn’t sure how much he knew.”

  “He doesn’t know anything.”

  “He’s going to ask me what’s going on.”

  “Then tell him,” she says simply, with all the voice she can muster.

  “How long are you going to stay out there?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “As long as it takes for what?”

  “To find Danielle Hendry. To find out who or what this Scarlet is. To apprehend this sick bastard before the next full moon.”

  He hangs up to see Erma watching him from the doorway.

  “I worry about her, Neal.”

  “So do I.” He shrugs. “What can I do? She’s got a mind of her own.”

  “She shouldn’t be so alone. Nobody should. But sometimes people don’t see that until someone points it out for them.”

  He knows immediately where she’s going with this…and he’s not going along.

  “You know I’m not the type to interfere in someone’s personal life, and even if I were, Lucinda isn’t the type to listen.”

  “She tried salad. She liked it.”

  “We’re not talking about salad.”

  “We’re talking about things that are good for her.” Erma pauses. “Are you seeing Randy Barakat any time soon?”

  Neal sighs. “Even if I saw him, I wouldn’t—”

  “All right. I know, I know. You wouldn’t get involved.”

  Pushing the baby stroller into the Astor Place Starbucks at noon, Cam immediately sees that the place is jammed with students from the NYU buildings down at the opposite end of the block. Every table is full, and there’s a long line from the wide counter to where they stand at the door.

  “How are we going to find him in this zoo?” she asks Mike, dismayed. “I wish we at least knew what Zubin looks like.”

  She couldn’t ask him that when they spoke on the phone yesterday. Not after telling him she’d been at his museum lecture.

  “I think we can safely assume he’ll be the one without the tattoos, piercings, or ponytail,” Mike tells her.

  “This isn’t really a good time to be cracking jokes.”

  “I’m serious. That rules out ninety-nine percent of the people in here.”

  She looks around. Okay, he’s right about that.

  “You stay here with Grace. I’ll take a walk through and look for an older guy.”

  Watching her husband make his way through the crowd, looking authoritative in his dark business suit, she’s glad he came with her. She’s out of her element here—in the Village, in the city. It’s hard to believe there was ever a time when this was her home, her life. She belongs across the river in the Jersey suburbs now. Then again, when Mike moved out last year, the house in Montclair felt foreign to her too.

  Thank God he came back.

  Thank God we have this beautiful baby.

  Thank God Tess wasn’t hurt by that lunatic who abducted her.

  Thoughts of Tess lead, as always lately, to thoughts of Ava.

  The courtyard beside the academic building where Cam’s sister fell to her death is just a few blocks away from here.

  Mike reappears in the doorway of the glassed-in section that faces the sidewalk along Astor, waving her over.

  So he found Dr. William Zubin.

  Cam pushes the stroller through the crowd, steeling herself for whatever lies ahead.

  Vic Shattuck never went to bed.

  Why bother at four in the morning?

  Instead, he used the wireless Internet in his hotel room to search for clues about Scarlet.

  Lucinda seems to think it’s the name of a recent—or even future—victim of the Night Watchman.

  Vic isn’t so sure.

  Now, as he heads down to the hotel restaurant to meet Annabelle Wyatt for coffee, he’s surprised, again, that she agreed.

  When he called her an hour ago—having waited until a decent hour—to tell her he wanted to run something by her, he expected her to say she was sleeping, or busy, or leaving town…some excuse.

  But she asked him when and where, and told him she’d be there.

  Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. Last night, as they went over the details of the case beginning with the Jersey Shore murder, she treated him almost as though he’d never left.

  Don’t call us, we’ll call you.

  Annabelle Wyatt didn’t call him—but he’s here. And she needs his help, whether she knows it or not.

  He walks into the hotel restaurant and sees her immediately, sitting in a secluded booth near the window with a cup of coffee. Her back is to him, but she turns when he’s a few yards from the table, makes eye contact, nods.

  “Good morning,” she says briskly. “Let’s get right to it. I have a lot to do.”

  He slides into the bench opposite hers, orders a cup of coffee and two eggs over easy.

  “Aren’t you getting anything?” he asks, as the waitress hurries away.

  “I ate breakfast three hours ago. Don’t be offended if I leave before your food comes.”

  “I won’t.”

  Annabelle steeples her fingers beneath her chin. “Tell me.”

  “You know that Lucinda Sloan came up with the name Scarlet last night.”

  “Yes. It doesn’t match any current missing persons records.”

  “You checked?”

  “We check everything.”

  “I know that. But did you check past records? As in, forty years ago?”

  “No. Explain what you mean.”

  “My profile on the Night Watchman told me the unsub was likely reenacting the same murder over and over. Which you know.”

  “Which I know.”

  She isn’t impatient, just efficient, he reminds himself. He has to get used to he
r again, after eighteen months away.

  “If that were the case,” he goes on, “it would follow that he might—in the act of killing—consider every victim to be the original. Correct?”

  “Possibly.”

  “That means he would be thinking of the original victim whenever he kills.”

  “You just said that.”

  “Which means we should be looking for a woman named Scarlet who was killed forty years ago somewhere on the eastern seaboard.”

  Annabelle Wyatt stares at him for a long, satisfying moment.

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Good.” She stands, checks her watch. “Good work, Shattuck.”

  “Is that all?” he shoots back at her. “Just ‘good work’?”

  “No. How soon can you get to Quantico? I’ll arrange the clearance.”

  Vic Shattuck breaks into a slow grin. “My bags are packed, and I’m on my way. Is that quick enough for you?”

  She’s already on her feet. “Don’t forget to eat your eggs first. And Vic?”

  “Yes?”

  “Breakfast is on me.”

  The first thing Cam notices is that Dr. Zubin is completely bald. Fashion statement? Or simply age?

  Before she has time to decide, Mike gestures in her direction, and the man turns expectantly toward her.

  The glint of recognition in his eyes is unmistakable.

  He knows, Cam realizes. He knows I’m related to Ava.

  Remembering what Bernice said about seeing Cam on television last summer, she acknowledges that the resemblance to her sister would be unmistakable to the few people who have seen both Ava at twenty and Cam as a grown woman. The last pictures of her sister look very much like Cam does now. They have the same long, straight dark hair, the same big round dark eyes, the same olive complexion.

  He knows, and yet he doesn’t look fearful, or suspicious.

  He just looks surprised. And, incredibly, fondly nostalgic.

  There’s no need to go on with the ruse.

  “Dr. Zubin, my name isn’t Clair Montgomery. It’s Cam Hastings. Cam Neary Hastings.”

  “Camden. Ava’s little sister.”

  Her given name on his lips catches her off guard.

  “She spoke of you often.”

  Cam’s eyes widen. Her throat unexpectedly clogged with emotion, she looks at Mike.

  He asks, “You were close to Ava, then, Dr. Rubin?”

  “I was in love with Ava.”

  Shocked by the unabashed admission, Cam had expected to confront Dr. Zubin with the photocopies of Ava’s letters she tucked into her purse—having left the original packet of envelopes safely at home. Just in case, she thought at the time, the professor somehow grabbed hold of them and made off with them.

  Now, the idea seems preposterous.

  “Why don’t we all sit down?” he asks, then leans toward the baby, asleep in her stroller. “And who have we here? She’s precious.”

  “That’s Grace,” Cam manages, and he smiles an avuncular smile.

  “You’re blessed. I always wanted children. My first wife couldn’t have them, and my second had three of her own, in their teens already when we met.”

  Cam doesn’t know what to say to that. Of all the scenarios she’d imagined, this warm, fuzzy one never came anywhere near her mind.

  She doubts Mike expected it either, but he’s recovered more quickly. “You said you were in love with Ava—was that before or after your first wife?”

  Anticipating a lie, Cam is surprised once again.

  “It was during. That’s not something I’m proud of. In fact, of all the missteps I’ve made along the way, getting involved with Ava is my biggest regret. She was young, and so was I—only a couple of years older than her. I was in an unhappy marriage. She was getting over losing her mother—did you ever find out what became of her?”

  Cam tells him, quickly—in as little detail as possible. Then, getting the conversation back on track, she asks, “What do you know about my sister’s death, Dr. Zubin?”

  “I know that she took her own life. I was heartbroken—on some level, I blamed myself for what she had done.”

  “Because of the affair? Do you think she killed herself because of it?”

  “No—we had parted ways by then. It was a mutual decision. We were on good terms. But I regretted not being more aware of just how troubled Ava was. I knew that she was still hurting over her mother, and feeling guilty for having left you and your father alone at home. And I knew that one of the young men she knew had been bothering her, too. But I was in the midst of separating from my wife, caught up in my own problems, and I didn’t—”

  “Wait a minute—someone was bothering her?” Cam cuts in. “Yes. Ava was a beautiful girl. A lot of young men were interested in her. But this one wouldn’t take no for an answer, she said, and he was driving her crazy.”

  “Who was he?” Mike asks. “Do you remember his name?”

  The professor shakes his head. “Jack, maybe? Or John. Something like that. He was in one of her classes that semester.”

  Cam and Mike look at each other.

  Dr. Zubin knits his gray brow. “Why do you ask?”

  Ignoring the question, Cam says, “Ava didn’t mention anything about this in her letters to a friend she was in touch with at the time. How long was it going on before she died?”

  “Oh, not long. A few weeks maybe, as far as I know. Why do you ask?” he repeats.

  “Because we’re not sure my sister took her own life. There’s some evidence that someone was on the rooftop before she jumped that night.”

  The professor’s expression is grave. “Are the police aware of this?”

  Cam can’t tell him that the only evidence is a psychic vision—and a scrapbook, from an anonymous sender, that disappeared into thin air.

  “Dr. Zubin, is there any way I could get my hands on the old school records that would list the other students in Ava’s classes during her final semester? I’d like to try to identify this Jack or John person who wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “You, personally? That would be a complicated process, unless you had a police—”

  “What about you?” Mike cuts in. “Would you be able to help us?”

  “Again, that would be—”

  “Dr. Zubin, you knew my sister. You loved her. I loved her, and I needed her, and I lost her. All these years, I’ve believed she left me, like my mother did. I need to know the truth. Please help me find out how Ava died. Please.”

  The old professor looks at Cam for a long time, watches her take the napkin Mike silently hands her to dab at the tears running down her face.

  “It might not be easy, and it’s going to take some time,” Dr. Zubin says at last, “but I’ll see what I can do.”

  Neal is well aware that there are more than two thousand homeless teenagers in shelters across Philadelphia. Acting on a tip that a runaway foster kid he’s been looking for might be somewhere among them, he’s covered a lot of ground already today, with no luck.

  It’s been exhausting—to say nothing of disheartening. The youth doesn’t want to be found. The city is full of lost souls who consider themselves no better off in foster care than they were before or would be on their own. They may be right.

  Yet Neal doggedly pursues them, same as always. It used to be because he cared. But somewhere along the way, that changed. Now he does it because it’s his job.

  Devouring a cheese steak at a lunch counter in a section of town that, like many, has seen better days, he allows himself to think about Lucinda.

  And Randy.

  Specifically, Lucinda and Randy, together.

  Thank you, Erma.

  Why am I worrying about this? It’s none of my business.

  When Neal called Randy back earlier and told him where Lucinda was, he wasn’t thrilled. Nor was he surprised.

  “She’s done a lot of foolish things in her life, but this takes the ca
ke.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “She’s done worse?”

  “She’s no fool, Randy. She knows exactly what she’s doing, and she knows how to take care of herself better than anyone I’ve ever known. Myself included. So if I were you, I wouldn’t go scolding her for running out to Denver. She does what she has to do. Always has, always will. Whoever tries to tell her to do anything different gets burned. Nobody knows that better than me.”

  “And me,” Randy said ruefully. “Thanks for the reminder.”

  Neal isn’t sure it’ll do much good. Randy has a fierce protective streak about him, and it clashes with Lucinda’s even fiercer independent streak.

  Maybe they can meet each other halfway this time around—but Neal won’t believe it unless he sees it.

  And again—it’s none of his business. No matter what Erma says.

  His phone rings as he washes down the last bite of cheese steak with thin, lukewarm coffee. He throws a ten and some ones on the table and stands, striding toward the door with his phone in hand.

  He’d love for it to be Lucinda calling, but it isn’t.

  “Neal? This is Frank.”

  “Frank who?”

  “Frank Santiago,” comes the reply—at least, that’s what it sounded like. But with all the din in the luncheonette, Neal is sure he must have heard wrong because the weak voice on the other end of the line sounds nothing like Santiago.

  “Hang on a minute, I’m in a restaurant.” He steps out onto the street, waits for a garbage truck to pass. “That’s better. Now who is this?”

  “It’s Frank Santiago.”

  “Frank—what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “Funny you should ask, Neal. I’m actually not okay. In fact, I’ve never been less okay in my life. That’s probably a good thing, considering it’s almost over.”

  “Considering what’s almost over?”

  “My life.”

  Neal is about to ask him if he’s joking, but Frank coughs. Hard and long. It doesn’t sound good. He isn’t joking.

  “I haven’t got much time left, Neal. I’m getting my affairs in order. You’re not on the top of my list, so don’t flatter yourself. But this call is a helluva lot easier than some of the other ones I’ve had to make.”

  “What are you talking about?”