Dead Before Dark

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “You got it.”

  “Are you going out there, Vic?”

  “No,” he tells her. “I’m going to Seattle.”

  “Seattle! Why?”

  “Because its coordinates are 122.3 and 47.6…and those numbers were carved on a tree next to Danielle’s remains with the bloody knife that killed her.”

  A few days ago, Dr. Zubin called and gave Cam three names.

  “You didn’t get them from me, all right?”

  “Of course. Thank you for helping.”

  “If you find out what happened to your sister,” he said before hanging up, “will you let me know?”

  She promised that she would, when—not if—she finds out.

  There were three boys named John—one of whom was known as Jack—in Ava’s classes that last semester at college.

  One of them, John Amarind, died—as had so many young men in that era—in Vietnam.

  Cam has already met with John Hubbard, an investment banker who lives in the Jersey suburbs not far from Montclair.

  He said he remembered Ava—but only because of her shocking death. “I didn’t even realize she was in my accounting class until I saw her picture in the paper and recognized her.”

  He could have been lying—but Cam chose to believe him.

  “I wish I could tell you more about her,” he said, “but to be honest, we were total strangers. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Finally, she tracked down a John Ruzzoccino, who had been in Ava’s psych class and is now a partner in a law firm in Boston.

  When she reached his office this afternoon, she got a secretary who wanted to take a message.

  She opted not to leave one, preferring not to try to explain to the secretary the reason for her call.

  Tonight, with Mike working late and both girls upstairs asleep, she dials his office again. If she gets through to an automated directory, she’ll go to his voice mail and leave a message there.

  She does get an automated directory, but after entering the first few letters of his last name, she finds herself transferred to a line that is picked up by a human voice on the first ring.

  “Jack Ruzzoccino.”

  “Mr. Ruzzoccino! You’re there.”

  “Yes…. Who’s this?”

  She launches into the speech she’d been prepared to rattle off on his voice mail. “You don’t know me, but you knew my sister, Ava Neary, back at NYU. She was in a psychology class with you for a few months before she died.”

  “I remember Ava,” he interjects quietly, when she pauses to take a breath. “She was a sweetheart.” With his Boston accent, it comes out sweet haht.

  “So you knew her?”

  “Sure, I knew her. What a tragedy. I’m sorry for your loss….”

  “Cam,” she supplies. “Cam Hastings.”

  Now what?

  Does she ask him if, by any chance, he was dangerously infatuated with Ava and might have thrown her off the rooftop?

  Maybe it was John Amarind. If that’s the case, she’ll never know.

  “I didn’t really get to know your sister until a week or two before she passed away,” John Ruzzoccino tells her. “The class was in a big lecture hall, but we sat near each other. She was having a hard”—pronounced hahd—“time in that class because of some idiot kid.”

  Cam clenches the receiver. “What do you mean, having a hard time?”

  “He kept bugging her, saying she thought she was too good to go out with him, saying all kinds of stuff that was making her nervous. So I picked up on it and started walking her to her next class—I’m a big guy, and he was a little weasel, this kid. I told your sister to let me know if she wanted me to take care of him.”

  “What was his name? Do you remember?”

  “Sure I remember. We had the same first name, only I’ve always been called Jack. He was John. John…Stockman. That’s it. I remember because he was stocky, and the name fit.”

  “John Stockman,” Cam repeats, writing it down.

  There was no John Stockman on the class list, according to Dr. Zubin. Maybe it was a mistake.

  Or maybe he doesn’t exist.

  “Do you remember what he looked like?”

  “Oh, yeah. Like I said, he was stocky. Short. He wore thick glasses with black frames. He had very bad acne all over his face. Your sister was so out of his league it was a joke. Yet this guy walked around like he was hot stuff. It was bizarre.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Ruzzoccino. One last thing. Do you know whatever happened to John Stockman?”

  “I never saw him again.”

  “After that semester.”

  “No—I mean, after your sister died. He stopped coming to class. I figured, he was probably just going to the lectures to be near her, and once she was gone…he didn’t bother anymore.”

  “That’s interesting.” To say the least.

  “A lot of people didn’t go to lectures. As long as you had the syllabus and showed up for the tests, you could get by.”

  “Did he show up for the tests, after that?”

  “Like I said, I don’t remember ever seeing the guy again. But to tell you the truth, it’s not like I was looking for him. The only reason I ever noticed him in the first place was because I saw how he was bugging your sister.”

  “Well…thank you for your time. I’m really glad I got a hold of you. I didn’t think I would.”

  “I’m here late tonight, working on a case. Mind if I ask why you went to the trouble of tracking me down after all these years?”

  Cam hesitates.

  What if he made up the whole story?

  What if John Ruzzoccino was the one who was stalking Ava, the one who killed Ava?

  Realizing she doesn’t dare trust him with the truth, Cam says, “I was so young when my sister passed away that I feel as though I never knew her. I thought maybe if I tracked down people who had, they could share something about her that I might not have known.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find lots of people who knew Ava a lot better than I did. In fact, after she died, I realized I must not have known her at all, because she struck me as someone who had her act together—not someone on the verge of checking out. She hid it well. I was shocked when I heard.”

  “Thank you for telling me that, Mr. Ruzzoccino.”

  Hanging up the phone, Cam goes straight to her desk and brings up a search engine.

  She types in John Stockman.…

  And comes up with over 99,000 hits.

  This is going to take a while.

  Leaning against a bike rack in the dark, Randy watches Lucinda sitting in the passenger’s seat of his parked car, talking on the phone to the FBI guy. It’s obvious by her expression, by her movements, that something’s up, like she said.

  He sees her open the glove compartment, take out a fast food napkin, and use the dashboard as a desk as she jots notes on it.

  Maybe he should be sorry he kissed her—sorry for himself. It only made him realize how crazy he is about her. How crazy he is, period, to think he’s ever going to get over her this time if they give their relationship a shot, and it doesn’t work.

  This time?

  Hell, he didn’t get over her last time.

  When she left, he married Carla out of guilt and pity, thinking it was the right thing to do. Even though he knew that she didn’t love him any more than he loved her. Carla needed him.

  Lucinda didn’t need anyone.

  Maybe she still doesn’t.

  And maybe Randy is a guy who needs to be needed. Not as fiercely as Carla did. But needed.

  Just wanting someone—desiring them—isn’t enough. Because when you come right down to it, you can survive without the things you want. You’ll fight to the bitter end for something you need.

  Lately, he’s glimpsed a crack in Lucinda’s armor—a sign that maybe things are changing.

  All those years, stuck in a dying marriage—he’d dreamed about finding his way back to Lucinda. He’d dreamed a
bout making her see that they belong together.

  Now, his only chance is to convince her to take one.

  At last, she hangs up the phone. When she opens the car door, he thinks she’s going to rejoin him, but she calls, “Randy, come here!”

  He hurries over. “What’s going on?”

  “I need to get back to my car.”

  His heart sinks. He’d been hoping, after that kiss, that she would stay tonight. Or longer. Say, forever.

  He should have known better.

  “What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you while we drive.”

  “Why the big rush?” he asks, getting behind the wheel.

  “I have to get home and pack for an early flight.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Seattle. That’s where he is.”

  “The Night Watchman.”

  “Yes.”

  No, he thinks. No!

  “It’s my job, Randy. I’m a detective. Like you,” she adds pointedly.

  “No,” he says, “not like me. This is not your job.”

  He sees the storm brewing in her eyes, but he can’t stop himself.

  “You’re going to Seattle because you want to, not because you have to.”

  “I’m going because Vic said—”

  “I don’t care what Vic said. You don’t work for the FBI—and neither does he, for that matter. You’re not assigned to this case with no choice but to jump when they say jump.”

  “They didn’t say jump. This was my decision.”

  “It’s a bad decision. This guy is a cold-blooded killer. He wants to get to you. He wants to do to you what he did to Carla, dammit, and you’re going to play right into his hands!”

  She stares at him. He waits for the inevitable: for her to lash out at him in return, telling him she’ll do whatever she damn well pleases.

  To his shock, the retaliation doesn’t come.

  “They think he killed Carla to get to me, Randy. And now he’s killed two other women—that we know of. How am I ever going to live with that unless I stop him? Don’t you see? I do have to go to Seattle. I don’t want to. Trust me, it’s the last thing I want to do. But I have to.”

  He shrugs. “Then I’m coming with you.”

  “You can’t do that. You have a job, and you’re moving, and—and you have the closing on the house this week. You can’t just drop everything to come out there and…what? Wait around with me for something to happen?”

  I can protect you, he wants to tell her.

  But that, he knows, would be a mistake.

  She’s right. He can’t go, and he can’t stop her.

  Silently, he starts the engine.

  “Randy?”

  He looks up at her.

  “I’m going to go to Seattle. And when I come back, you’ll be here. And—we’ll talk. Deal?” She holds out her hand.

  He reaches for it, sees that it’s trembling.

  He takes it in both his own. “Deal.”

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. O’Leary, this is Cam Hastings. Do you remember me?”

  “Of course,” she says around a yawn. “Call me Janet. What can I do for you?”

  Cam glances at the microwave clock in her kitchen. Oops. She should have checked it before dialing. “Have you ever heard the name John Stockman?”

  “No. Should I have?”

  “I’m wondering if he went to school at Buff State with Sandra. Is there any way you can find out if he was a student there when she died?”

  “I know a few people. I can check into it. Let me get a pen…. What was the name again?”

  Cam repeats it, then quickly explains what John Ruzzoccino told her—including the physical description of the guy who was harassing her sister.

  “I didn’t get a look at him,” Janet reminds her.

  “What about his build, though? Was he short and stocky?”

  “Remember, I was a little girl…. If he was, he didn’t strike me that way.”

  That doesn’t mean much, Cam realizes. Adults all look big when you’re a child.

  “See what you can find out about him,” she tells Janet, “and let me know if he was a student there.”

  She hangs up, certain Janet won’t find him even if she does manage to gain access to the registration records.

  There are many John Stockmans in the world, she knows, having spent the better part of the past hour clicking through search engine hits on the name. None of them, as far as she can tell, has ties to Buffalo, Sandra Wubner, NYU, or Ava.

  Cam looks again at the clock.

  When she spoke to Lucinda earlier today, she was headed out to Beach Haven to have dinner with Randy—whom she refuses to acknowledge, at least not to Cam, as anything more than a friend.

  Chances are, she’s still there.

  Sorry to interrupt your date that you claim isn’t a date, Cam thinks, dialing her friend’s cell, but I need to fill you in.

  Driving across the causeway toward the mainland, Lucinda is consumed by if onlys and coulda-shoulda-wouldas.

  Why is it that every time she and Randy part, she’s filled with regret over the things she didn’t do or say?

  Next time, she vows, I won’t hold back.

  Next time, I’ll—

  Her cell phone rings.

  She reaches eagerly for it.

  No, she’s not supposed to answer it while she’s driving, and no, she doesn’t have a headset, and no, there isn’t a place to pull over to take the call.

  But maybe it’s him. Maybe she can tell him right now how much he means to her.

  “Hello?”

  “Lucinda, it’s Cam. I’m so glad I got you.”

  Hopes deflated, Lucinda asks, “What’s wrong?”

  “Does the name John Stockman ring a bell?”

  Ring a bell…

  Again, that old song pops into her head.

  If I were a bell I’d be ringing…

  “No,” she tells Cam, “it doesn’t ring a bell.”

  But this song does. Why?

  Maybe she heard it at Neal’s house when she was there for Sunday dinner. He’s always got the radio tuned to show tunes or old swing music. Yeah, that was probably it.

  Cam tells her she’s found out that a student by that name was stalking Ava before she died, and that he doesn’t seem even to have been enrolled at the school at the time.

  “I’m wondering if he was just some guy who wandered in off the street, posing as a student. It was a big lecture hall, and I’m sure it wasn’t as though the instructor took attendance or counted heads.”

  “And back then, campus security wasn’t what it is today. I bet people came and went pretty freely.”

  “I’ve got to find this guy, Lucinda. Want to help me?”

  “I can’t. I have to go away for a while.”

  “Where to?”

  She quickly explains the situation.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “You and Randy both. But I have to go, Cam. And, listen, I have to hang up now because I’m on the road. Will you let me know what you find out about this guy?”

  Cam promises that she will, and hangs up.

  If I were a bell I’d be ringing…

  That old tune is stuck in her head now.

  That happens sometimes: a song will pop up out of nowhere, and she’ll find herself humming it for a few days.

  She wishes she could be sure it were just one of those random things.

  But she has a feeling it isn’t—and she has no idea what it means.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Leaning on the pipe railing at the edge of a wide, weathered wooden pier, Lucinda gazes out at Elliot Bay, holding a thin red and white-checked cardboard container of fish and chips.

  Crisp and fragrant when she got the meal at a seafood kiosk down the way, the coated fish is now sodden, the french fries unappetizingly cold and mealy.

  She bought the food because it smelled good, its
aroma mingling with the briny sea air, and because she hasn’t eaten a thing all day—unless you count about a gallon of coffee plus another of Pepsi—and because it was something to do.

  After a week in Seattle, this is the day she’s been dreading. Something’s going to happen tonight when the full moon rises.

  The more anxious she’s become as the day wears on, the less able she is to focus. The less she’s able to focus, the more anxious she becomes.

  When she could no longer sit in her hotel room, caught in the vicious cycle, she forced herself to go out for a short walk around nearby Public Market to clear her head. It didn’t work: not the change of scenery, not the fresh salt air, not the vigorous climb from Alaskan Way to the market perched high above the water on Pike Street.

  From there, she had a bird’s-eye view of a vast ocean liner sailing out of the bay.

  She’s seen quite a few of them, staying here on the waterfront. She even spotted the enormous Norwegian Star moored across from the hotel, and mentioned to Vic that she was supposed to sail on it last summer.

  “Why didn’t you go?”

  “Something came up with a case. I had to postpone it.”

  “Story of my life. Kitty wants to take a cruise when I get back home.”

  “You should.” Lucinda opted not to tell him that in just a few weeks, she’s scheduled to be back here in Seattle, departing on the Star, bound for Alaska at last.

  Back here…or still here?

  She’s all but put the cruise out of her mind for the past few months, fairly certain that she’s not going to be going anywhere unless this case is solved.

  Even if it is solved—a solo cruise might not be her idea of the best way to celebrate.

  Maybe by then, a vacation for two will be more fitting.

  Okay, you need to put that right out of your mind, too.

  Focus.

  Watching a fat white gull bobbing in the water, she notices droplets landing on the choppy blue-gray surface and realizes it’s raining again.

  She flips up her hood and tosses a couple of fries toward the gull. With a swift glide and a fluttering of wings, he devours them and eyes her, waiting for more.

  “Here you go.” She tosses the contents, scattering the meal across the surface of the bay.

  Instantly, the gull is joined by several others, screeching and flapping and dive-bombing their way to the food.