Dark Homecoming (25 page)

J
oe Foley sat looking at three photographs he'd placed in a row on his desk.

Jeanette Kelly. Tonesha Lewis. Lana Paulson.

The first two were friends of Audra McKenzie, and had gone missing around the time of Audra's death. The last girl was just reported missing yesterday by her sister.

Jeanette was a freckle-faced redhead. Tonesha was a striking African American beauty. Lana was a little bit older than the other two, blond, with a certain hardness to her eyes and the tattoo of a star on her neck.

There's no reason to think there's a connection
, Joe told himself. As far as he could see, Lana Paulson didn't know the other two. And girls go missing every day.

But what had compelled Joe to place the three photographs together on his desk was one small fact: Lana Paulson had disappeared on the same night that Rita Cansino was killed.

“So what?” he muttered to himself, gathering up the photos and returning them to their respective files. It was just a silly hunch.

But Joe tended to trust his silly hunches. They'd often turned out to be right in the past. Ever since the day he'd found his mother dead.

Maybe this hunch would be the exception to the rule. Maybe this one would be wrong. Still, he'd keep the name Lana Paulson in mind. He'd ask David Huntington, when they finally got to question him, if he'd ever heard of her.

They'd certainly caused a stir by announcing to the press that Huntington was a “person of interest” in the Cansino murder. Given the two other murders of Huntington House employees, the media was running wild with theories: could the esteemed David Huntington be a serial killer, offing his employees one by one? The fact that he'd been a world away when Audra McKenzie was killed didn't stop their speculation. And it was serious enough, apparently, for old Mr. Thomas Huntington to come down to Florida to look into it.

The old man was sequestered with his lawyers in Chief Davis's office at the moment. “Any word from in there yet?” Joe asked, leaning across his desk to Aggie's.

She shook her head. “They've been at it for almost two hours.”

“The chief is a personal friend of old man Huntington. I wonder what sort of deal they're cooking up.”

Aggie gave him a look as if to tell him to be careful what he said.

Joe sighed. The chief hadn't been pleased when they'd told him that they needed to question David Huntington. Only after much cajoling from Joe and Aggie had he agreed to allow them to publicly announce that Huntington was a person of interest in the Rita Cansino murder investigation. Of course, that had brought David's father spitting and sputtering down from New York, protesting against the insinuations and the slander against his family.

The door to the chief's office opened. Out filed three dark-suited, somber-faced lawyers, followed by a tall, distinguished, silver-haired, square-jawed man of about sixty years of age. His dark eyes darted around the station like a hawk's, landing on Joe before passing on to Aggie and then to the others.

“Don't worry, Tom,” Chief Davis was saying, clapping him on the back. “We have it all under control. David needn't worry about a thing when he gets back.”

“I should hope not,” Mr. Huntington said. “I expect you will do your part to quiet these completely unfounded allegations being bandied about in the press.”

“We will do what we can,” the chief promised.

Joe watched as Mr. Huntington and his lawyers strode out of the station, chins held high, their postures defiant. But Joe could read through that: they were scared out of their minds. What would this scandal do to Huntington Enterprises, especially if it ended up with their rising young star David Huntington arrested for murder and hauled away in handcuffs?

Once they were gone, the chief let out a long sigh and made his way to Joe and Aggie. The chief was a getting a little soft in the gut—it happened when you were taken off the streets and consigned to a desk all day—but he still had the build of a prizefighter, short and stocky, with big arms and shoulders straining against his crisp white shirt.

“I knew this wasn't going to be easy,” the chief said to his detectives. “I still wish we hadn't gone public with David's name.”

“We had to exert pressure on him to return, Chief,” Joe replied. “He has not responded to any of our repeated calls or to any of our attempts to reach him by email. Even the local police in Amsterdam haven't been able to get in touch with him.”

“He may be hiding out,” Aggie said. “Never planning on coming back.”

“David Huntington is an upstanding member of this community,” the chief told her sharply. “He is not some criminal on the run. The Huntington family has done a great deal for this city, for this state—indeed, for this country.”

Joe sneered. “And I imagine that's just what Old Man Huntington was telling you in your office.”

The chief ignored his comment. “I want you to put out a statement saying that David is not considered a suspect,” he said. “Insist that he is merely wanted to provide information. Stress that he is
not
a suspect in this case.”

Joe smirked. “Can I imply he's a suspect in
other
cases?”

“Don't get smart, Foley.”

Joe stood up. “Come on, Chief. We have a lot of questions about this guy. He gets back from his honeymoon and bingo! Jamison Wilkes is murdered. He's planning to fire Rita Cansino—with whom he was likely having an affair—and bingo! She's found dead, too. And he disappears in the middle of the night, flying off to Europe, and won't return our calls.”

“You have no proof he was having an affair with Rita,” the chief replied. “And it wasn't David who was going to fire Rita. It was that head housekeeper of theirs. He doesn't know which maid is getting hired or fired. He's above all that.”

“You have to admit it all seems a little fishy, though, Chief,” Aggie observed.

“And that's not even taking into account the death of his wife,” Joe added.

The chief frowned. “His wife was alive and well last I knew.”

“I'm talking about his first wife,” Joe said. “Dominique.”

“Oh, please, Foley—”

Joe grabbed a stack of papers on his desk and thrust them at the chief. “I've been going over Captain Hogarth's testimony—”

“A lying sack of drunken shit,” the chief snarled.

“Why did he change his testimony to say he really had been at the helm of the yacht the night Dominique died? That she hadn't gone out alone? That in fact, he'd taken her out and he had seen her husband on board with her?”

“Because he was trying to extort money from David.” The chief folded his arms over his chest. “The inquest discredited Hogarth's second testimony. I called him Captain Hogwash.”

“Why would he change his testimony and risk being charged with reckless endangerment or involuntary manslaughter? He stated, for the record, that his conscience was troubling him, that he'd been paid off to hide the truth, to say that Dominique had gone out on her own.”

“I interviewed him,” Chief Davis said, flexing his muscles under his shirt and coming face-to-face with Joe. “I decided he was an unreliable witness. Are you questioning my judgment?”

Joe backed down, but just a little. “I just thought it was an odd thing for Hogarth to do, to try to change his testimony after the fact.”

“I'm sure his intent was to extort some money from David.” The chief shook his head, threw up his hands, and then turned away from them, indicating the conversation was done. “The death of Dominique Huntington has nothing to do with the current investigation,” he said over his shoulder. “Zero. Zip. Nada. Now get back to work.”

Both Joe and Aggie watched as the chief strode back to his office, slamming the door behind him.

“Well, we're clear where he stands at least,” Aggie said.

“I did a little research into Huntington Enterprises,” Joe told her, sitting back down and sighing. “Guess who one of the major stockholders in the company is.”

“Not the chief,” Aggie said.

“Nope,” Joe told her. “His son.” He paused. “And his brother.
Two
of his brothers, in fact.”

“That doesn't mean anything,” Aggie told him.

“No,” Joe said, but the tone in his voice made clear he didn't believe what he was saying. “It doesn't mean anything at all.”

N
icki stood at the top of the stairs, looking down into the marble foyer of Huntington House, the morning sun filling the room, reflecting off all the marble and the glittering chandelier. On the wall going down the stairs one of Liz's photographs was hanging, but around it there remained an imprint of a much-larger picture than had once hung in its place. Dominique's portrait, Nicki realized. How it must have tormented poor Liz.

At the moment, Liz was sleeping soundly. Nicki had given her a Xanax after finding her in such a state last night. What a strange welcome Nicki had gotten in this peculiar house. She'd found a flight as soon as she could, wanting to beat this hurricane that the forecasters were saying was getting close to the Florida coast. Liz hadn't responded to her calls or texts, so she'd just come to Huntington House on her own, arriving late, and banging on the door. Had something happened to Liz? Nicki was getting frantic.

Finally the door had been opened by what looked like an automaton. Right away Nicki had known it was Mrs. Hoffman, the creepy housekeeper with all the plastic surgery that Liz had told her about. Nicki had the sense she'd roused Mrs. Hoffman from bed, though she was fully dressed. She'd introduced herself, and Mrs. Hoffman had asked her into the dark and quiet house. She'd known that Nicki was coming, she said, but hadn't expected her so soon. Nicki explained she'd wanted to get a jump on the hurricane. Mrs. Hoffman had acted as if she hadn't heard the weather reports. She explained that Liz had gone out to dinner with her brother-in-law, and she wasn't sure if she was back home yet. But if Nicki would wait in the parlor, Mrs. Hoffman told her, she'd go upstairs and check.

Waiting in that dark room all by herself—Mrs. Hoffman hadn't even turned on a light for her—Nicki had felt terribly jittery. But she'd practically jumped out of her skin when she'd heard a scream. She recognized the voice. It was Liz. Hurrying off in the direction of the sound—through the kitchen and up some back stairs—she'd found her friend cowering in a heap on the floor of a plain little room. Liz had been nearly impossible to console, babbling about a woman with a knife and a secret passageway. Then Mrs. Hoffman, drawn by the commotion herself, had come in. She had helped Nicki get Liz up to her room and into bed.

At that point, Liz had been too overcome to say much, and after the Xanax, she'd passed right out. Nicki had slept on the daybed in her room, despite Mrs. Hoffman's offer to fix up a guest room for her. No way was she going to leave Liz alone for the rest of the night.

Now, standing at the top of the stairs, Nicki couldn't help but wonder about her friend's state of mind. All of this terrible, nonstop speculation on the news and online—speculation that her new husband might be a murderer—had sent Liz over the edge. She'd always been a bit of a nervous nelly—Nicki remembered how Liz would shake before going onstage the first night of a show—and all this had apparently been too much for her. For weeks she'd been imagining ghosts. Now she was imagining strange women brandishing knives coming out of the walls at her. Nicki needed to get Liz out of here. Her friend needed help. A therapist. A psychiatrist. . . a doctor . . . someone.

As she stood there, looking down, Nicki was surprised when the front door suddenly burst open, almost as if blown by a powerful gust of wind. A tall, gray-haired man barged in, barking orders even before he was fully in the room. “Hoffman! Get out here!” he shouted. “Hoffman! Where are you?”

Nicki pulled back at bit so that she wasn't seen. But she kept an eye on what was going on in the foyer. That creepy Mrs. Hoffman emerged, and greeted the newcomer.

“Mr. Huntington,” she said. “I wasn't aware you were coming.”

“I took an ungodly early flight and I'm flying back to New York in a couple of hours to avoid the goddamn hurricane that's heading this way.” He was looking around the foyer impatiently. “Where's this daughter-in-law of mine?”

So that's David's father, Nicki realized.

She knew she had better get Liz up and dressed. Old Mr. Huntington didn't seem like a man who liked to be kept waiting.

Rushing back into Liz's room, Nicki pulled open the drapes. Blindingly white light filled the room. “Come on, sweetie,” she chirped. “Time to rise and shine.”

Liz moaned in the bed.

“Liz, you've got to get yourself ready,” Nicki told her. “Your father-in-law's downstairs.”

Liz opened her eyes. “My—father-in-law?”

“Yeah. And he's impatient to see you. I just heard him talking with Mrs. Hoffman in the foyer.”

Liz sat up. “Oh, God, my head hurts.”

“It's the Xanax, on top of the whole bottle of wine you drank.”

“Oh, God, I really drank all that . . .” Liz's eyes suddenly opened wide. “I had the worst dream . . .”

“And that's all it was, sweetie, a dream,” Nicki assured.

Suddenly Liz clutched Nicki's blouse. “No, no, it wasn't a dream. It was real. That woman—her face—she tried to kill me.”

“Sweetie, you were drunk. I found you by yourself in a room at the back of the house. You were hallucinating.”

“No, no, I wasn't. It was
real
, Nicki. There's a secret passageway in the closet, and she came out of there.”

Nicki's heart broke. What had happened to her sweet, innocent, intelligent friend in this house of horrors? She stroked Liz's cheek. “We can talk about it later, honey. You've got to get yourself ready to meet your father-in-law. I'm sure he's here to talk to you about David.”

“I should tell him.” Liz said. “I should tell him about the secret passage and the woman—and how I smelled gardenias, Nicki!”

“Are you saying the woman you saw was Dominique?”

Liz shook her head. “No, that can't be. Dominique was beautiful. This woman was a monster.”

Nicki smiled sympathetically at her. “Oh, sweetie, it was all in your mind. Just like everything else. We have to get you out of here. I want you to come to Atlantic City with me. We'll both get on a flight as soon as this hurricane blows over, and you can spend some time with me setting up my new place. You need to get out of here, honey, away from all this craziness and the cops and the reporters at your front door.”

Liz was rubbing her temples. “It seemed so real . . .”

They were interrupted by a hard knock at the door.

“Mrs. Huntington?” came the brisk voice of Mrs. Hoffman.

“She'll be down in fifteen minutes,” Nicki called out to her. “I'm getting her up and ready now.”

“Very well,” Mrs. Hoffman said through the door. “Please tell her Mr. Huntington is here to see her. Mr.
Thomas
Huntington.”

“Yeah, she knows.” Nicki turned to Liz and motioned for her to stand up. “You want to take a quick shower?”

“Yeah,” Liz said, swinging her legs off the bed. “Maybe that will clear my head.”

“Sweetie, I wouldn't say anything to the old man,” Nicki advised her, following her into the bathroom. “I'm pretty certain this is a guy who has a battery of lawyers always walking two steps behind him.”

Liz slipped her nightgown up over her head and turned on the water full blast in the tub. “Why should I worry about lawyers?”

“Who knows? But this guy's son might be arrested for murder . . . he's going to look for anything you say as evidence to get him off.”

Liz frowned at her. “I have to believe that David is innocent, Nicki.”

“Maybe he is. Let's hope so. I just want to make sure things don't get more difficult for you.”

Liz sighed. “So if I start sounding crazy, talking about ghosts and women with knives . . .”

“Exactly. He'll send the cops over here to investigate
you
.”

“But what if that crazy woman who attacked me is the same one who killed Rita? And the others?” Liz stepped into the shower, pulling the glass door to enclose her. “Shouldn't the cops know about that?” she shouted over the rush of the water.

Nicki didn't answer. Poor Liz. She really believed there was a woman coming out of the walls and running around the house with a knife. She had gone stir-crazy in this place. And who wouldn't? With that asshole, absent husband of hers—whose innocence Nicki wasn't convinced of—and that creepy housekeeper breathing down her neck?

The sooner Nicki got Liz out of this madhouse the better. Maybe they could even get out this afternoon. Why wait until after the hurricane? Even if they had to rent a car and drive, they should get out now.

Nicki was afraid if they waited any longer, it would be too late.