Dead Before Dark

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Lucinda watches the feeding frenzy for a few moments, reminded of a day with Randy last summer at a beachside grill on Long Beach Island.

  It was the first time she’d seen him in three years, lured to Beach Haven because of a missing persons case. That day, as they ate mango water ice and funnel cakes sitting across from each other on a sticky picnic table, she realized he was flirting with her and fought hard not to flirt in return.

  She didn’t know, then, that his marriage was troubled.

  She never dreamed, then, that she stood a chance in hell of revisiting a relationship with him.

  Now, after a week on the opposite coast, talking to him several times a day and longing to see him, she’s more than ready to put aside her misgivings and give it a try.

  She hasn’t told him that, though. They’ve mostly talked about the case and his having sold Carla’s house and his upcoming move.

  That’s fine with Lucinda. She doesn’t want to discuss a relationship over the phone. It can wait till she sees him again.

  Whenever that is.

  With a sigh, she throws the container into a nearby trash can. She should get back to the hotel and check in with Vic.

  Somewhere in the gleaming high-tech city sprawled on a series of steep hills behind her, someone is going to die in a few hours.

  Lucinda can’t save the woman’s life unless she figures out who and where she is—but it seems less likely with every minute that ticks by.

  “What are the chances he’ll be glad to see us?” Randy asks Neal as they climb out of their respective cars in front of Frank Santiago’s condo building.

  “I’d say around—zero,” Neal tells him, and is surprised that Randy looks surprised. “He might be dying, but I’m guessing he’s still Frank.”

  “Arrogant, cranky, impossible?”

  “Exactly. In my experience, it’s only in the movies that dying people turn sweet and saintly.” Neal opens his car trunk and takes out the bouquet of fresh lilacs Erma cut from the yard, then adds, to be fair, “I don’t know, I guess there’s always a chance the guy has mellowed a little.”

  “Good. Then maybe he’ll just be arrogant and cranky.” Wearing a wry smile, Randy tucks a manilla envelope under his arm and aims his keys at the car. It chirps twice as he locks it. “Ready?”

  “Let’s go. What’s in the envelope?”

  “Cards and notes from everyone at work, and some mail that got delivered with his name on it. I wanted to bring him something else, but…nothing seemed appropriate. Those lilacs are nice, though.”

  “Erma’s idea.”

  “They smell great.”

  “Yeah.” Neal hesitates. “You know who loves lilacs?”

  “Who?”

  “Lucinda. Every year when they’re in full bloom, she comes over and parks herself next to my shrubs and inhales them for a good long time.”

  “I didn’t know she liked lilacs.”

  “Loves them. I bet there’s a lot you don’t know about her.”

  Randy raises an eyebrow. “Like?”

  “Did you know she never liked salad until recently?”

  “No.” Randy shrugs.

  “Yeah, she knew it was good for her, so she made herself try it every once in a while, just to see if she’d changed her mind. A few months ago, she tried it again—and what do you know?”

  “She liked it.”

  “Yep. And now she eats it all the time. Says it makes her feel good.”

  “Huh.”

  Neal nods. And that, he thinks, is all I’m going to say about that. I did my part. He can take it from there.

  They head up the walk, into the vestibule, ring Frank’s apartment.

  “Ever been here before?” Neal asks Randy, who shakes his head.

  A female voice answers the intercom. “Who is it?”

  “Friends of Frank’s.”

  “Who?”

  They look at each other. Neal knows Randy’s thinking the same thing he is: that maybe Frank doesn’t have any friends.

  Neal leans close to the intercom. “Tell him it’s Randy and Neal.”

  There’s a long pause, and then the door buzzes.

  It’s been nearly a week since he read online that Danielle Hendry’s remains were found.

  By now, they’ll have converged here in Seattle: the FBI, Vic Shattuck, and—with any luck—Lucinda herself.

  Unless they’re utterly stupid, they know that tonight’s the night.

  Full moon.

  They probably know, too, what time he’s going to make his move: sundown—not that there’s any sun today in the rainy Pacific Northwest.

  So yes, they know. They’re not stupid.

  But he’s not stupid, either. Far from it.

  They’ve been waiting, no doubt, for some kind of communication from him—some indication that he’s here, waiting to strike.

  He’s given them nothing, nothing at all.

  This time, they’re feeling their way through utter darkness; this time he’ll blindside even the victim. As much as he’s enjoyed playing with the others, letting them know someone was watching them, sensing their growing apprehension, he doesn’t dare indulge himself again.

  There’s only one way to play this one smart: he’s in; he’s out; it’s over.

  And then it will be Lucinda’s turn.

  Julian Dodd emerges from the library at last and starts across Red Square.

  It’s about time, he thinks, checking his watch before falling into step behind him.

  Starbucks cup in hand, Lucinda knocks on the door of Vic’s room, two floors below her own.

  The door opens immediately. “That was fast.”

  “I was about to get into an elevator when you called my cell,” she tells Vic, framed in the doorway of a room littered with papers, files, and an empty pizza box sitting open on the bed.

  “Were you on your way out?”

  “On my way in—with this.” She holds up the mocha latte. “Want a sip?”

  “What I want right now has a lot more kick, and I don’t want to sip it.”

  Lucinda glances at the window to ensure that it’s still daylight. “Did something happen already?”

  “If you’re asking whether he’s killed anyone yet, the answer is no. But yes, something’s happened. Sit down.” He closes the door behind him, locks the bolt and the chain, and indicates the lone chair.

  Lucinda sinks into it.

  He clears a spot on the bed by sweeping the pizza box and a bunch of newspapers to the floor, then sits facing her and hands her an envelope.

  “What is this?”

  “Take a look.”

  Lucinda pulls out an old black-and-white mug shot. “Who is he?”

  “He,” Vic tells her, “is Scarlet.”

  “There. How does that feel?” Angie, the hospice nurse, slowly raises the back of the bed they’ve set up in Frank’s living room.

  “Hurts like hell.”

  “I’m sorry.” Angie starts to lower it again, but he stops her with a bony hand that looks, to him, as if it belongs to someone else. And not just because he can barely see it.

  “Don’t. Everything hurts like hell. I might as well be able to look at them.”

  “It’s so nice that you’ve got company, Frank, isn’t it?”

  “Funny, I was just thinking that now I know how all those perps felt when I chased them down. Cornered by the cops, no place to run.”

  Angie laughs, and he manages a weak smile.

  “Turn that off, will you?” Frank gestures at the television, where a couple of overly made-up middle-aged women are crying about something as violin music rises in the background.

  He doesn’t want anyone thinking he’s lying here watching the soaps. Angie likes them, so he lets her turn them on in the afternoons. When he’s not sleeping, he watches with the eye that isn’t yet blind. It makes the time go by.

  “I’ll go make some more coffee.”

  She’s the only one who ever drinks it
now that Frank has such a hard time swallowing—except for the one other day he had visitors.

  The kids came to see him, with Ellen and her husband. That was a barrel of laughs. Ellen and the kids cried a little, and the doofus Ellen married had the nerve to tell him not to worry, that he’d see that Frank’s family was taken care of.

  When was that? A few days ago? A few weeks?

  His mind used to be so sharp. Now it’s mush—because of all the medication, Angie and Mary and the others say.

  The medication?

  Who are they kidding?

  It’s the tumors. Cancer cells choking out brain cells, killing them off, killing him.

  Most of the time, he just wants it to be over.

  He hears the knock on the door, the rumble of voices: Angie introducing herself to Neal and Randy, speaking to them in a hushed tone.

  For all he knows, she’s telling them he’ll be dead by tonight, or tomorrow, or next Monday…whatever the case may be.

  Then again, she’d probably tell him too, if he asked. These hospice people aren’t like the doctors. They’re honest. If you ask them a question, they’ll answer it. No bullshit.

  When Frank realized that, he stopped asking. Maybe he doesn’t really want to know when it’s going to happen, after all.

  “Hey, Frank.” He hears Neal Bullard’s voice, knows that he’s standing over him, but he can’t see him.

  “He’s blind in that eye,” Angie whispers, “and it’s painful for him to turn his head. If you go over there, he’ll be able to see you.”

  “I’m blind, but I’m not deaf,” Frank manages to say.

  Then Neal appears, with Randy beside him. He feels one of them touching his hand.

  “Hey, Frank.”

  “How are you, Frank?”

  He wants to tell whichever of them asked the question that it’s a stupid one, but he can’t, because he suddenly has a lump in his throat. Both his eyes are swimming with tears, dammit.

  He doesn’t want them to see him lying here crying, wasting away, dying.

  But here they are, and here he is, and he might as well make the best of it.

  He coughs away the fluid in his lungs, then asks, “You catch that guy yet?”

  They don’t ask who.

  “We’re closing in,” Neal tells him. “We’ll get him.”

  “Let me know when you do.”

  “I will.”

  Randy speaks up. “I brought you some cards and notes from everyone at work, Frank.”

  “I’ll read them to him later,” Angie’s voice says. He can’t see her, but he can feel her, doing something with the IV bag hanging above him on his blind side. “And, Frank, they brought you some beautiful lilacs. I’ll put them in a vase where you can see and smell them.”

  “Better hurry up, while I can still see and smell,” he quips, then coughs again, painfully.

  “Is there anything we can do for you, Frank?” Neal asks, so concerned that Frank is moved all over again.

  “Not for me,” he tells them. “But you can do something for yourselves. Live.”

  “Live?” Randy echoes.

  “Yeah. Don’t just exist. Live. Every damned beautiful day. Don’t forget. Got it?”

  He sees Neal and Randy exchange a glance.

  “Got it, Frank.”

  “Good.”

  Worn out, he closes his eyes.

  “Is he…?” someone asks.

  “He’s just tired.” Angie tells them. “You take a nap now, Frank.”

  “Bye, Frank. We’ll come back.”

  Good-bye, he thinks, and drifts off to the dark place where it doesn’t hurt.

  “Hi, you’ve reached the voice mail of John Ruzzoccino. I’m unavailable to take your call at the moment, but if you’ll leave a message, I’ll get right back to you.”

  “Mr. Ruzzoccino, it’s Cam Hastings. Ava Neary’s sister? We spoke last week. I’d appreciate it if you could call me as soon as possible. I just found something interesting, and I wanted your take on it.”

  Cam hangs up the phone and turns back to Grace, watching her in the baby swing that rocks gently with a rhythmic clicking sound.

  “I wish I could call Lucinda,” Cam tells her. “But we can’t bother her, can we? Not today, of all days.”

  Grace gives her a drooly smile.

  “I didn’t think so.” Cam dabs at her daughter’s chin with a burp cloth. Poor baby is teething like crazy.

  “It’s almost time for us to go get Tess at the train station, Gracie.” She unstraps the baby from the swing and lifts her out. “What do you think? Will your sister be happy or sad today?”

  Grace gurgles.

  “Happy? I hope you’re right, baby girl.”

  Cam’s caught fleeting glimpses of the old Tess this past week. They’ve got a long, long way to go, but she seems to be coming out of her depression. Yesterday, Cam even caught her playing peekaboo with Grace, laughing at her baby sister’s gales of giggles.

  Holding the baby against her shoulder, breathing her sweet, clean smell, Cam crosses the room to the arched windows.

  Spring is in full bloom out there: the rhododendron and azalea border at the back of the deep lot is laden with splashy pink and purple blossoms.

  For Mother’s Day last weekend, Cam went to the nursery and came back with flats of annuals. She planted them right away in the flower beds at the front of the house, remembering all too well that she’d skipped the ritual last year. Mike had just moved out, and she was alone here with Tess, secretly pregnant, enmeshed in A.A….

  What a difference a year makes.

  Her gaze falls on the weathered wooden play set in the far corner of the yard, next to the shed. Tess wouldn’t let them get rid of it as they had planned when she became a teenager. Not that she ever used it—but Cam guessed she was clinging nostalgically to one of the tangible reminders of her not-so-distant childhood.

  None of them ever dreamed that another little girl would one day play there. But next year at this time, Grace will be gleefully sliding down the slide just as her big sister once did.

  Cam’s own girls are as far apart in age as she and Ava were.

  Thinking of her sister with a pang of regret, as always, she again wishes she could call Lucinda to share what she discovered on the Internet a little while ago.

  Any other day, she would. But Lucinda’s still on the opposite coast staking out a murderer who’s supposed to strike tonight.

  And really, all Cam has is a hunch, based on…

  What?

  A name that’s fairly common, a physical description that could apply to thousands of guys, and circumstantial evidence.

  It’s not much.

  But it’s something.

  Finally, something.

  A few days ago, Janet O’Leary had told her that there was no student by the name of John Stockman enrolled at Buff State when Sandra Wubner was there.

  Cam wasn’t surprised.

  She just kept searching the Internet, checking out every John Stockman she could find.

  Nothing.

  She tried plugging in Stockman and NYU, Stockman and Neary, Stockman and Buffalo, Stockman and Wubner—hoping to trigger a relevant search engine hit.

  Still nothing.

  Today, struck by inspiration, she typed in Stockman and murder.

  And there it was.

  “Scarlet was a man?” Lucinda is incredulous, as Vic expected, gazing down at the old mug shot in her hand.

  The guy is young and handsome, with big dark eyes fringed by sooty lashes.

  “His name is Ricky Parker,” Vic tells her. “He was arrested in New York a few times back in the sixties.”

  “For what?”

  “Soliciting, among other things. He was a drag queen, lived in the Bronx, but he danced in a club down in Greenwich Village. His stage name was Scarlet. He always wore red gowns when he performed—and red lipstick.”

  Vic watches Lucinda’s eyes widen.

  “How di
d you find him, and what does he have to do with our case?”

  “Annabelle’s had a team combing old cold case files, crimes occuring in the Northeast back in the sixties, looking for early unsolved murders that might have been connected to the Night Watchman.”

  “So you think this guy is the Night Watchman?”

  “No. I think this guy is one of his victims. Ricky Parker was hacked to death in his apartment back in June of 1967.”

  “They didn’t catch the killer?”

  “I’m not sure how hard they tried. That wasn’t long before Stonewall. Tough city cops didn’t exactly think highly of transvestites back then.”

  He doesn’t elaborate, but she nods, seeming to get the picture.

  “Some prints were lifted at the scene,” he tells her. “They couldn’t come up with a match back then.”

  “What about now?”

  “We’re sure as hell going to try.”

  Cam wasn’t sure, at first, that there was a connection between her sister and the search results for Stockman and murder.

  Now that she’s had time to process what she found, she can’t imagine that there isn’t a connection.

  In 1970, shortly after Ava died, a twenty-five-year-old drifter and draft dodger named Andrew J. Stockman was arrested in Syracuse for the murder of a young Syracuse University student named Sheila Wright.

  I KNOW WHAT HAPPINED TO HER. SOLV IT AND IF YOU ARE WRIGHT YOU WILL FIND ME.

  The first few misspellings were meant to throw them off. The last was no accident.

  Trying to study for her chemistry final at her desk in her dorm room, Kelly can think only of the chemistry she’d shared—or at least, thought she’d shared—with Julian Dodd, both onstage and off.

  “Ask me how do I feel from this chemistry lesson I’m learning…”

  Last night, when she’d sung that line to him during her giddy “If I Were a Bell” solo, he’d looked at her as though he couldn’t wait to be alone with her.

  Obviously, he was acting, because after the final curtain call, Julian left.

  She had assumed they’d go over to the cast party together. She looked for him everywhere, even venturing into the men’s dressing room. When she couldn’t find him, she finally went alone to the party, thinking he must have figured he’d just see her there. Disappointing, but not devastating.