“Please, stay there. I only need the cheapest one.” She strolled to the shelving he’d pointed at, and the price was the only thing she needed to look at. Twenty dollars was the winner. Ignoring the dust, she carried it the counter. “That was easy.”
He glanced at the machine and then pulled out the drawer at his side. “I have the remote here. Just hang on a sec.” He flicked through a series of yellow envelopes; Charlene was impressed with how organized he was.
She pushed the twenty dollars through the gap in the glass, and he, in turn, handed her the remote. “If it don’t work, just bring it on back.”
“Okay. I will. Thank you.”
It was nearing eleven o’clock when she arrived home, but she had no intention of going to sleep. She put the kettle on the stove, then carried the video player to the television. Most houses they’d lived in already had their electrical equipment set up. But if anything was required, it was usually Peter who did it. Yet within a few minutes, she had the machine lights registering that it was working, and she was impressed with how easy it was.
With a cup of tea on the coffee table, she hit play on the video again.
Each time she watched it, she concentrated on different aspects. Peter. The other singers. The dancers. That woman. The fourth time she watched the footage, she concentrated more on the background rather than on the stars of the show. Behind the stage was a large screen, and it showing a series of photos. The more she watched, the more she realized the photos were a visual journey of each of the singers’ lives, showing their progress from young teenagers to their current status. Her effort to scrutinize Peter’s life journey was hampered by the grainy footage. But from what she could tell, there was nothing important in those background stills.
She had nothing.
She couldn’t even work out the country where the video was filmed.
By the time Charlene crawled into bed, she was both exhausted and no closer to answers.
Chapter Nine
Noah hated going home. Actually, that was a lie. It wasn’t his home that he hated. Lord, no! The sprawling three-story apartment overlooking Central Park was one of the most pristine residences in New York City. What he hated was the people who lived there. His wife and his two children. Porsha had been beautiful when they’d first married. Some would probably say she still was. But Noah knew beauty, and Porsha was well past her used-by date.
But as much as he hated to admit it, he needed her.
Porsha was the only child of Winston Harold Bollinger III, the New York Times executive editor-in-chief and arguably one of the most influential people in New York. That also made him one of the most important, yet the most dangerous, men in Noah’s life.
It was because of him that Noah had received his first lucky break in the early nineties. Winston had put Noah in the limelight. And that front-page article had skyrocketed him up the law-firm totem pole. Winston had been instrumental in many of Noah’s major career-making cases too and had ensured he made front-page news on a regular basis.
Winston had threatened him once. Just once. But that was enough. It’d been over a few glasses of expensive brandy in Winston’s plaque-lined office, and he’d delivered it with the needle-sharp precision, insidious calm, and unblinking eyes that’d made him one of the most revered yet feared authorities in the country. Noah had been so rocked by the threat he’d suffered a nosebleed later that night.
The editor-in-chief’s threat had been simple. If Noah ever embarrassed, shamed, or divorced Porsha, Winston would make front-page news out of Noah for a whole different story. He’d then stated that Noah’s past might be gone, but it certainly was not forgotten.
Noah had no idea what Winston knew. And given what he’d done over two decades ago, he didn’t want to find out.
Instead, he sucked back the antipathy that being with his wife produced and pretended they were a happy family. He was an actor, after all.
It wasn’t a complete loss. His clientele seemed to trust him once they learned of his thirty-year marriage. Not that it stopped them from jumping his bones when the opportunity arose.
If Porsha knew of the affairs, she’d never said. Even if she did, she wouldn’t have the guts to leave him. She needed him too. His profession and income allowed her to live the life she’d become accustomed to. She was the poster child for “lifestyles of the rich and famous.” Exclusive custom-made jewelry. A multimillion-dollar art collection. Invites to fancy parties, a personal fashion designer, a private jet. She also had her personal hairdresser and beauty therapist. Not that it helped. Not when the palette was beyond help already.
Ironically, she’d actually helped in securing a decent portion of Noah’s business. Being a woman, Porsha reached inner circles that Noah could never penetrate, and consequently, she was one of the first to know when a marriage was on the rocks. Exactly the scenarios he lived for.
“May I get you something, sir?” Richard, his butler, greeted him at the elevator to take his coat.
“A brandy, please. In my office.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
Noah strode to the entrance to the living room, pushing through the double doors that opened to a space the size of two basketball courts that was furnished in all things white. A groan caught in his throat at the sight of his daughter and wife standing near the freestanding fireplace. One look was enough to know they were fighting.
He shouldn’t have been surprised. Barely a day went by without some major disaster in Crystal’s life. Some days he wished his daughter was like his son . . . so high on dope that he could barely utter a word, let alone an aggressive one. But that made him dangerous too. If the paparazzi got hold of that, it’d be an editor’s wet dream. And that was why Noah made his son’s drug supply easy to come by and his bedroom a young man’s paradise.
“Daddy.” Crystal turned toward him, her eyes burning with fury.
Noah cringed at the reference. He still didn’t consider himself a father.
The children had been Porsha’s idea.
Crystal blazed her icy blue eyes up at him. “I was invited to the Brooklyn Museum Gala first. Me! Not her.” She aimed her manicured red fingernail at her mother.
He had no idea what the implications of this apparently disastrous clash meant, so he waited. Noah liked to think that he’d instilled some of his infinite debating skills in his daughter over the years, but she’d practically been born with them. She’d been a master manipulator since she’d spat out her pacifier at twelve months, and he was simultaneously proud and frustrated whenever she managed to outwit him.
“We can’t both go.” She waggled her head as if that impacted on her argument.
He waited. She was yet to elaborate on her reasoning.
“I’ve been championing the Brooklyn fund-raising committee since February. I’m their spokeswoman, and I’ve been invited to make a speech on stage. It’s my charity, not hers. She has no right to be there.”
“Surely anyone has a right to be there. It’s a charity ball.” He tilted his head in a signature move that’d been known to make women quiver. His daughter didn’t fall for his charms, though. “And you still haven’t explained why.”
“Daddy!” Her eyes blazed. “This isn’t the time for one of your stupid lessons.”
Again, he waited.
She huffed and fisted her hands on her hips. “I’m representing the Montgomery family at the annual gala dinner. Me. It shouldn’t look like I’m being chaperoned by my mother.”
He turned his gaze to Porsha.
She rolled her eyes. “I’ve been to the gala ball every year since the charity foundation started.”
Sighing, he leaned in to his daughter’s ear. “You will not win this fight. The best you can do is outshine your mother.” He slipped his wallet from his back pocket and, avoiding Porsha’s view, handed over his credit card. “You know it’s what you do best.”
Crystal’s shoulders slumped, yet the devious look in her eyes gave him a
feeling she’d expected this result. She released an exaggerated growl and stomped toward the stairs, no doubt to lock herself in her oversized bedroom.
“What did you say to her?”
“I told her you had the upper hand.”
A dimple punctuated the folds of Porsha’s left cheek as she smiled. “Good. You’d think at twenty-six, she’d have learned that.”
“I think she has learned it, dear. That’s the problem. She doesn’t feel the need to just do as she’s told.”
“Well, if she doesn’t like it, she can move out.”
It was his turn to huff. They both knew that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. Not when Crystal’s bedroom was a luxurious haven overlooking Manhattan that her parents paid for.
Noah doubted his children would ever move out.
Porsha strolled toward him, and the silky fabric of her nightgown failed miserably at hiding the lumps and bumps that existed beneath it. Reaching up on her toes, she pecked his lips. “Thank you.”
“Just doing my job.”
“Not really.” His gut churned when he looked down at her. Porsha had that look in her eyes. Lust. He should consider himself lucky to have a wife who still had such a healthy libido. But he didn’t. Porsha didn’t arouse him one bit. Not when he had women at his disposal that were stunning in looks, physique, and sexual abilities.
But he wouldn’t deny her. The last thing he wanted to do was give her any idea that he wasn’t interested. He allowed her to push her hand into his.
“I hoped you’d come to bed with me tonight.” She put on the hideous voice that he assumed she thought was sexy.
Swallowing back the disgust, he gave her the seductive eyes that apparently had attracted her to him in the first place. “Really? What do you have in mind?” It was a little game they played that had his stomach heaving. But he reminded himself that he was an actor at the top of his game. Faking it was what he was good at. And he’d been faking it with Porsha for years.
“You’ll have to come and find out.” She swung her silky belt and turned her abundant hip to him.
“Okay, babe. Give me a minute to clean up. I’ll see you up there.”
She waddled away, and he reflected on his business partner who complained nonstop about his wife’s desolate sex drive. It was the only time Noah envied Pearce.
It was impossible to comprehend how a woman of Porsha’s size, with such blatant lack of physical fitness, could have such strong sexual urges. He was the first to admit it’d been what’d attracted her to him in the first place. She’d been a wild woman in the bedroom. Some would consider that she still was. It was her body that obliterated his attraction to her.
But he had to do it.
He took a long shower, hoping she’d have gone to asleep by the time he made it to the bedroom. With the towel wrapped around his hips, he padded across the plush carpet and eased open the door. But his wish wasn’t granted. Porsha was naked except for a see-through negligee that failed to hide anything. If he’d had an erection it’d would’ve been rendered flaccid at the sight.
“What do we have here?” he feigned sexual allure.
“Your little honey cup.”
He forced the distaste from his mind at her reference to the nickname he’d given her back when she was worthy. It was times like this when his acting skills came fully into play.
Noah was an expert at sex. He’d done it thousands of times with probably hundreds of women. But there was only ever one woman who’d truly satisfied his needs. That need for ultimate power. She’d been no match for his strength, but she’d fought like a demon when he’d held her down and raped her. The hatred in her eyes had made him the hardest he’d ever been in his life.
As Porsha rode on top of him, her flesh wobbling in hideous waves as she achieved her own climax, he reached up and clutched his hands around her neck.
Usually she pulled his fingers away. But this time she didn’t. It’d be so easy to squeeze. Just like he’d done twenty-two years ago. His erection throbbed at the memory. The power was like nothing in the world. It placed him in a unique class. A powerful, untouchable class. It was just a shame he could never tell anyone. That secret would go with him to the grave.
His fingers gripped tighter, and Porsha’s eyes snapped open.
Her hands went to his. “Hey.”
He tightened his grip, and his manhood grew greater, thicker, harder, throbbing to a powerful beat.
“Stop it.” Porsha bent his finger stub back, snapping him from his ecstasy.
She slapped him across the face, and when she tried to roll off, he grabbed her and rolled her over. There was no malice in her fight. In fact, she giggled as he eased up to her rump and slapped her abundant derrière.
He closed his eyes, blocking out his reality, and as he took his wife from behind, he imagined it was the Cuban woman. Silky olive skin. Supple flesh. Young muscular physique. Killer glare. Jaw clenched and hatred burning in her eyes. It was the only way he’d reach a climax, but as much as it wasn’t amazing for him, judging by the groans from his wife, it was for her.
When it was over, Porsha nuzzled into the crook of his arm and trailed her fingers up and down his torso. She was completely oblivious to how easy it would’ve been for him to strangle her. Like crushing an empty beer can.
When she began snoring, Noah wished he had.
Chapter Ten
When Chapel advised Charlene that the coroner had finished with Peter’s body, she’d initially had no idea of the implications of that statement. She’d never discussed her father’s wishes with him. Death wasn’t a topic they’d ever spoken about. The closest she’d come to it was when they were in Cumberland, Wisconsin. One of their neighbors had taken a tumble with his horse, and the stallion had to be put down. Charlene had cried for a week, while their neighbor hadn’t even shed a tear. Yet she knew he’d loved that horse.
Her father had sat her down and explained that every living thing would one day die. It was how they lived that mattered. That horse had lived a wonderful life with an owner who’d loved him. To put the horse down when he was in pain was the most loving thing their neighbor could have done. The horse was cremated in the biggest bonfire Charlene had ever seen, and she’d seen her share of bonfires.
Her father never owned anything of value, so she was of two minds as to whether she should give him a parting asset in the form a tombstone. On the other hand, he probably would’ve hated the wasted money.
Charlene trekked from one funeral parlor to the next and was both shocked at the cost involved to send someone off and grateful that she’d found the money in Peter’s secret box.
New Orleans was built on a swamp, which meant people couldn’t actually be buried. Well, they could, but they would eventually float to the surface. That had happened to many of the ancient caskets in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. As a consequence, the deceased were “buried” aboveground in stone crypts or mausoleums. Charlene was given a tour of New Orleans’s most famous cemetery, St. Louise Cemetery, which was also a major tourist attraction.
At first, she couldn’t understand why anyone would want to tour such a morbid place, but it wasn’t long before she was captivated by its history and elaborate structures. What had shocked her was the cost. To bury someone there, they had to first decompose in an aboveground “oven” for a year. Only then would their remains be transferred to a crypt. It cost nearly eight thousand dollars for the burial, and then just as much to maintain the crypt each year.
She thanked the woman for the tour and quickly hightailed it out of there. In the end, she decided on having her father cremated in a cardboard box. It sounded terrible, but the saleswoman “sold” her on the ecofriendly aspects of the cardboard cremation capsule and the price.
When the day of the service arrived, angst and sorrow filled the same space in her heart. Images of the man she knew before the attack and the man she had come to learn about afterward flipped across her mind like cards in a tarot deck.
Each image was a polar opposite to the other.
When she was allowed a moment alone with the body, the undertaker offered a smile that looked like all the muscles in his face were failing, then slunk behind the velvet curtain that separated her from the crowd gathering for the next service.
Peter didn’t have a crowd to send him off. No family. No friends. No former coworkers or bosses. Not even the detectives who thought they knew him better than she did.
It was shocking to reduce a life down to a single cardboard box. That was Peter’s legacy. Ultimate freedom. Apparently.
Charlene felt far from free. She was trapped.
Trapped in a weird dimension that thrived on unanswered questions.
Thrived on twisting what she thought was the truth and giving it a whole new, sinister angle.
Thrived on subjecting her to sleepless nights and troubled daydreams.
Alone with her cold thoughts, she began to cry. She had assumed she’d exhausted all her tears. But evidently not. She let them flow unabated down her cheeks and forced her brain to think of all the good times.
Her mind drifted to the two of them bathing in the mineral springs that lined the main street of Sulphur, Oklahoma. She’d giggled nonstop as Peter had pretended to know every person in town and invented whacky, made-up names and even more hilarious career choices for everyone who walked by.
They might not have had any assets to their names, but they were rich in fun and adventure. Staring at the cardboard box containing the body of the man she’d known as her father, she realized he’d probably be happy with her choice of burial for him. He’d had nothing for as long as she’d known him. He would go out with nothing too.
She leaned over, kissed the varnished cardboard box, and fingering the tears from her cheeks, she waked away.
Feeling a headache throbbing behind her eyes, she walked to the nearest phone booth and called Detective Chapel. She hadn’t spoken to him in over a week. Why would she? The last three conversations she’d had with him were the same. They had nothing further to report. No new evidence. The murder investigation had gone stale. He was still working on her kidnap theory, though, and had sought help from international sources.
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