Beyond Eden (13 page)

“Scandal, pure and simple. Same reason you didn't press charges against him. Father was busy working on both of us. And there was so much money at stake. But enough about my husband. How did you get into modeling?”

Lindsay was more than glad to leave it. God, so much and yet not enough. How could one forget? It hurt her throat even to talk about it. She became aware that Sydney was watching her and said quickly, “Demos discovered me last year, in a bar. I'd just quit my job at a small publishing company
and a cab had splashed dirty slush on my new suede boots. I was drowning my depression when he saw me and came over. It sounds ludicrously trite, but that's how it happened. He told me it wasn't all that uncommon. I like Demos, regardless. He's smart and he's fun.”

“More fun than Alessandro?”

Lindsay snapped the stem of the wineglass that held her Perrier. The glass cut into her finger. She sat there looking at the blood welling up.

“Would you like a Band-Aid?”

“Yes, perhaps that would be a good idea.” Sydney wiped the blood off Lindsay's finger with a napkin, then peeled a Band-Aid around it. “There, good as new.”

“Why did you say that, Sydney? Why do you want to make me feel horrible all over again?”

“I don't, Lindsay, don't be silly. But you did have fun with Alessandro, admit it. You were completely infatuated with him for over two years, remember? And you made no move to leave when you discovered I wasn't in Paris with him, did you? He made you feel so special, didn't he? Ah, his charm is legendary when he chooses to use it.”

“I was a dumb teenager!”

“Very true, Lindsay. Did you know that Alessandro claims to this day you seduced him? He said he didn't want you, but he felt sorry for you because you were so awkward and so embarrassing and so, well, damned pathetic, and that's why he had asked you to Paris, because nobody wanted you and you were so lonely. He had no idea that you were serious about him. He claims you seduced him, that you insisted.”

Lindsay looked at her bandaged finger. She felt stripped, naked and cold, to her soul. It would
never end, she knew it now. It would always be there, dark and ugly, lurking, just waiting for her to remember, waiting for Sydney to make her remember. Her part in it, what her father and Sydney believed to be true. Even after five years. She couldn't let Sydney reduce her to nothing, not now, not like she used to. She was twenty-three years old, an adult.

She looked up at her half-sister. She said very calmly, “What you say certainly makes sense to me. Now that I think about it, poor Alessandro didn't have a chance against all my teenage charms. Why, I remember threatening to break his arm if he refused to slap me up; I told him I'd scream for all the hotel staff if he didn't slam a fist in my jaw, not once but at least three times. Yes, it was wonderful. It was a thrill to be ripped up inside. Nothing like it. Something every teenage girl should experience to teach her how much power she has. Well, it's long over now and if it's okay with you, I'd just as soon talk about blood sports or something equally tantalizing.”

“You've grown some armor, haven't you?”

“You're growing tedious, Sydney. Why are you really here? What do you really want? To torment me because you're out of practice?”

“Oh, no, you were never much of a challenge. You were always vulnerable and you knew it. You never knew what to say even at the slightest jab. You knew you were ugly.”

“Old refrain. Why are you here? What have I ever done to you?”

Lindsay looked at her half-sister, wishing she could understand, wishing she could see into her mind to know what Sydney wanted. God, but she was beautiful. Lindsay felt like a scrub next to her.
Beautiful, perfect Sydney with a perfect child and a husband who liked teenage girls.

“Actually, little sister, I brought up my husband just to see your reaction. You say you're grown up now. I just wanted to test the waters, to see if it was true. Alessandro, believe it or not, is rather a good father, perhaps even a decent husband, as men go. He's sorry he got rough with you. He wanted me to tell you that. Should I believe him, I wonder?”

“Then why did you say all those things to me in Paris? Why did you follow him? Why did you bring a gun? By God, Sydney, you shot him!”

Sydney just shrugged, a supremely European gesture. “I don't recall what I said to you. I was upset seeing my little sister fucking my husband. If you'd been on top, why then I'd probably have shot you instead.” Another shrug. “Alessandro is like most men, my father included—forgive me,
our
father. He occasionally roves. He lost it with you. He got rough. As I said, he very much regrets it now. He would like to see you, to mend fences, so to speak.”

“No, I will never see that bastard again willingly in my life. And you're lying, Sydney. Why?”

“Lindsay, I can see nothing's changed. Five years is a very long time. You were young and infatuated and silly. He shouldn't have allowed you to stay at the suite, but he did. It's over. Just forget it.”

It wouldn't ever be over, not as long as Sydney waltzed into her life every five years or so and peeled the scab off the wound and poked around. She'd be dead before the memories and pain were finally gone; she knew it, accepted it, and dealt with it.

“I came not only to see you but someone else
as well. I didn't tell you, and I haven't told Father yet. He'll scream, I'm sure, but I don't really care. I spoke to Vincent Demos several weeks ago after I'd sent him some quite lovely photos of myself. In short, dear sister, he wants us to do this layout together. He thinks I'm beautiful and stylish and very patrician-looking, the opposite of you, who appear so wholesome and outdoorsy with the proper makeup and clothes. He thinks two sisters, one of them an Italian princess, the other a model who's already somewhat established, is very salable. There's a new Arden perfume that will be coming out, and they're very interested in the sister approach. You know, a perfume that appeals to two very different types of women.”

Lindsay couldn't believe this. “He didn't say anything to me.”

“I told him not to or the deal was off. I wanted the pleasure of telling you myself. Can't you just see it now?
La Principessa and Eden.
Both of us kissing a bottle of perfume or spraying each other.”

“But why would you want to be a model? It's not all that much fun, Sydney. It's hard and sweaty and a grind. You're always on a diet and always in bed by nine o'clock because the shoots are usually scheduled early in the morning and you have to be there early for makeup and clothes and hair. It's grueling. Lots of times the director is a jerk, the photographer an ass, and they make your life miserable. For God's sake, you're a lawyer, a princess, you run a business!”

Sydney laughed and sipped at her wine. “Did I tell you I like your modeling name?
Eden.
It has panache, class, mystery. Did Demos select it for you?”

“Both of us did, together.”

“I see. How interesting. I suppose, like you, I'll have to cut out the alcohol. It's all sugar, you know. Of course, I've never had a problem with my weight.”

Lindsay looked at her half-sister and thought: Why is she really doing this? Not to spite me, no, I'm hardly worth her time or her trouble, not on this scale. Lindsay felt mired in confusion. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Why not tell you the truth? It doesn't matter. The money, dear, the money. After I shot Alessandro, he was slow to recover. He's never gotten back his full scope of killer instincts. He's changed—all because of you, naturally—and now he's no longer ruthless and callous. He nearly bankrupted us until I pushed him out. So this modeling will add money to the coffers and give me some fame that I will enjoy. No other reason, Lindsay. Oh, yes, the thrill of seeing you again, the thrill of posing beside you. Just think—the two of us actually working together. I wonder who people will think is the elder?”

“I won't do it.”

“Of course you will. Or are you still so jealous of me that you couldn't manage to hide it from a camera?”

“I'm not jealous of you.”

“As you say. As you say.”

“I don't want to talk about it anymore, Sydney.”

“Fine. We meet together with Demos at two o'clock this afternoon. Now, about Father's wife, Holly. She's a bitch, don't you agree?”

“I don't want to talk about her either.”

“Did you know that she and Father have moved back into the mansion with Grandmother? Holly's got her eyes on all of Granny's bucks. Grandmother is eighty-three this year. She still gives
Father hell. But then again, she shouldn't be hanging around all that much longer. He spoke of putting her in a nursing home.”

“No, he wouldn't! She's sharp as a tack and has too many connections for him to pull something like that. As for Holly, whatever she does to him, he probably deserves it.”

“I think that's why Daddy isn't too fond of you, Lindsay. You've always criticized him, made him feel less than a man, made your dislike of him very clear. You always sided with your mother, who is now, incidentally, an alcoholic and sleeping with men your age.”

Lindsay could only stare at her sister. She sliced and cut like a surgeon. Such a fine touch she had. But still, for the first time since Paris, Lindsay didn't think she'd done too badly. She really needed only the one Band-Aid on her finger.

Sydney rose, straightening her silk skirt. “I think I've given you enough to think about. You were never very fast in your mental workings, were you? I will see you this afternoon in Demos' suite. I trust by then you will have done something with yourself. Oh, do allow me to pay.”

 

 

Taylor

 

Taylor bent over the old man, felt for the pulse in his throat. He was dead, a heart attack it appeared, no overt signs of anything else. But he didn't believe it was a natural death for a second. He rose slowly, looking around. The woman was gone. Naturally.

He called to Enoch, who'd just come around the
corner of the alley. “Get an ambulance and keep your eyes peeled for that woman and the cops.”

Taylor quickly searched the man's wallet. No I.D., no credit cards, no photos, nothing but a folded piece of paper stuffed down in an inner fold of the wallet. Left by accident? Maybe, but Taylor didn't think so. He unfolded it and read: “If you see Gloria, tell her Demos is trying to hide, but not for long. He'll come through. He always does.” It wasn't signed.

Taylor looked up when he heard the wail of a police siren. He quickly folded the paper. He was on the point of putting it back in the man's wallet when he stopped. No reason to.

Who the hell was Demos? He sounded like a New Jersey Mafia runner or some lowlife bookie.

Taylor rose when two officers came into the alley, both holding guns.

“Ah, it's you, Taylor,” said the older cop, putting his gun back into its holster. He waved at the dead man. “What's going on? Who's this?”

It was Mahonney from the East Orange police, a paunchy guy, balding, cool-headed, and smart as a whip. The guy with him was a fresh-faced rookie with a bad skin problem.

Taylor wished just then he was back in France and not in a dirty alley in East Orange, New Jersey, standing over a dead body. He'd just come home two weeks before after three weeks covering every rocky inch of Brittany on a Harley.

“I found this in his wallet, nothing else, no I.D., no nothing. Maybe when he was cleaned out this was just missed.”

Taylor handed Mahonney the paper and watched him read it, then shrug. “I don't know who this Demos character is. You got any ideas, Taylor?”

“Not a one. I was tailing this guy because his wife paid me and Enoch to get the goods on him.”

Mahonney dropped to his knees and looked the dead man over closely. “He looks too old to me to have the energy to go playing around with other women. What would you say, about sixty? Heart attack?”

“Looks like. I don't see any blood or bruises. But I don't think his heart just stopped. No, someone did this to him. And yeah, he is too old and I think Enoch and I were set up. This is the first time I've seen him up close. The wife showed us a photo of a much younger man, and this guy always wore a hat. You want the wife's name?”

“The whole thing doesn't make any sense,” Mahonney said, scratching his left ear. “Why hire you and Enoch to follow him? If someone killed him, why would they want you as witnesses?”

Taylor shrugged. He studied the dead man again. “You know,” he said slowly, “just maybe this killing with us as witnesses is a message to this guy Demos. You know, having two ex-cops around and they didn't make any difference, the guy's still dead. Or maybe it's a message to someone else, who knows? But to use me and Enoch, it does make sense.”

Mahonney nodded. “The arrogance of it smacks of the pros. They've got balls to burn. It makes them look invincible, what with you guys dogging the victim. I'm going to talk to the wife. You and Enoch want to tag along?”

“Sure.”

It turned out that the wife who'd hired them wasn't the dead man's wife. She accused Taylor and Enoch of following the wrong guy. This old turnip she'd never seen before. He was ugly as sin.
She'd have never married him. She was indignant; she refused to pay them a dime. She said they were losers. The cops were suspicious but there was nothing more to go on. Taylor and Enoch thought and thought of ways to nail her but couldn't come up with anything.

Late the next morning, Enoch walked to their small office on the second floor of the Cox Building on Fifty-fourth and Lexington in Manhattan. The front door was opaque glass with “Taylor and Sackett” printed in bold script. He walked in, picked up the mail from Maude's desk, went into his and Taylor's office, and sat down. “All that's junk mail,” Taylor said, waving a finger at the slew of papers in Enoch's hands. “Don't waste your time. Let Maude deal with it.”