Nocturnal (15 page)

Sterling looked up from the note. “What exactly do you want?”

“I want you to divorce Lucy. And I want you to give her two million dollars.”

He surprised me with a bitter laugh. “You poor boy. She’s got you…”

My right fist cut off his words, splitting his lower lip. He cried out, and I had to clamp a hand over his mouth, shoving his head to the ground.

“It wasn’t a request,” I seethed, watching the terror return to his eyes. “You
will
divorce Lucy, and you
will
look after her. I think two million is fair compensation for what you’ve put her through. I know you’ve worth at least at least ten million, so you’re getting off lightly. Blink twice if you agree.”

Sterling blinked twice without hesitation, breathing loudly through his busted nose.

“Good. Now I know you won’t call the cops, because if you do, all kinds of embarrassing things will come to light. Such as the fact you treat your wife like a punching bag. Or how Lucy would rather be an accessory to murder than stay married to you. Imagine if the Granite Bay sewing circle got hold of those juicy pieces of gossip. You’d go to your grave a laughing stock. So do we agree – no cops?”

He blinked twice again.

“That’s right, you’re getting it. There’s just one more thing before I let you go. Are you ready?”

He nodded against my hand, his eyes bulging.

“Okay, this is important. The divorce and the two million dollars. You have to tell her tonight.”

His eyes stayed open, clearly not keen on the terms. I mashed the palm of my hand into his mouth, and he let out a muffled groan. Two blinks quickly followed.

“I’m not sure I believe you, Sterling. But after you’ve had a moment to think, you’ll realize this is best for everyone. Two million bucks, and you get to walk away with your life and your dignity intact.”

I took my hand away from his mouth, and Sterling immediately propped himself up on an elbow, clearing his throat of blood and spit. He looked like a pathetic old bum who’d had too much to drink.

I stood up and tucked the gun under my belt. “I’ll expect a call from Lucy first thing tomorrow. If not, then I’m coming back with bullets.”

I didn’t wait for a response, turning around and calmly walking away. I could still hear Sterling spluttering as I reached the edge of the playing field. I reminded myself I wasn’t safe until I was back in the car, but my body felt light as a feather, and a smile was tugging at my lips.
Soon
, my heart and my mind were humming.

Soon we’d be together.

17. “They knew what she was”

The interstate to Sacramento was instantly familiar even though I hadn’t been on the road in years. During the long, dark, featureless drive, my mood alternated between blistering rage and harrowing grief. One minute I was pounding the hell out of the steering wheel, and the next I was tearing up at some mawkish song on the radio. But the overriding emotion that stained every mood swing was guilt. Black, suffocating guilt.

I was responsible for Bruno’s death. Assuming the car accident was no accident, I had effectively used my best friend as bait. I kept repeating the words like a mantra –
used my best friend as bait
– until I loathed the man in the rear view mirror almost as much as the killer himself.

Almost.

I decided the only way to prevent my brain from imploding was to channel my rage constructively, to focus all my attention and energy on hunting down the killer. There was nothing like the desire for revenge to distract a guilty conscience, and the promise of retribution kept my foot firmly on the gas; my eyes glued to the road.

Traffic was light at 2am, and I managed to gobble up the hundred-plus miles in less than an hour-and-a-half, including a pit stop for gas. As I approached the city, I remembered that late check-ins were a rarity in sleepy Sacramento. Tired from the drive, and figuring I’d only be staying a couple of nights, I bit the bullet and headed straight for the Park Royal. It was an expensive choice, but at least I could be assured of a 24-hour front desk and a well-stocked mini bar.

Driving through downtown, I was struck by a world-weary nostalgia for my old home town. The old-fashioned buildings. The quiet streets. The unimposing skyline. After nearly eight years in San Francisco, it was strange to think that Sacramento had once seemed like a bustling metropolis, about as big and lively as a place could get. Yet now, it seemed like I’d driven onto an abandoned movie set.

Thankfully the Park Royal still had its lights on. Valet parking, a negotiated rate for a day-and-a-half, and a short elevator ride later, I was sitting on a king-sized bed with my old mates Johnny, Jack and Gordon, toasting Bruno’s memory. After each emptying slug, I threw the tiny bottles at the rubbish bin, making the shot only three times out of six and earning myself a
‘quiet please’
call from the front desk.

When the sun rose, I drew the curtains on the day, and hung out the do not disturb sign. I’d already decided to put off visiting Margaret Piper until the evening. I wouldn’t have been fit to drive, anyway. I’d emptied the cabinet of spirits, even the cognac, and moved onto the half-bottles of wine. I was falling back into old habits, drinking myself to oblivion. But no matter how much I imbibed, the pain still gnawed at my insides.

Towards the end of my binge session, as my eyes began to close, it occurred to me why I’d chosen the Park Royal over every other hotel in Sacramento. It wasn’t just the 24-hour check-in and valet parking. I’d wanted to punish myself – to stay in a place that reminded me of Lucy, and relive the heartache and pain I’d endured eight years ago. Because with the responsibility for Bruno’s death lying squarely on my shoulders, I didn’t deserve to feel numb. I deserved to suffer.

The ringing felt like barbed needles twisting in my head. I rolled over and snatched at the phone on the nightstand, groaning when I heard the hotel’s pre-recorded wake-up message. It was seven pm already.

Resisting a strong urge to lay back on the pillows, I hauled myself out of bed and trudged to the bathroom. My hangover needed to take a back seat, at least for the next hour. Margaret Piper was my only lead, and I had to drive out to Roseville and knock on her door before 8pm. The woman who’d answered the phone sounded protective of Margaret, and I’d have no chance of getting past her if I called too late.

I showered and dressed quickly, and in less than half an hour I was driving into Roseville, trying to quell the memories stirring in my head. The suburb bore a close resemblance to Granite Bay: long gaps between driveways, sweeping front lawns, and oversized houses with columned porticos. I was expecting Sterling Piper’s first wife to live in a suitably grand home, but Google Maps directed me to a modest brick bungalow on one of Roseville’s least desirable streets. 16 Romney Drive was little more than a starter home, with a ribbon of grass for a front lawn, and an attached single garage almost as wide as the rest of the house. The address didn’t fit the profile. Wasn’t Margaret supposed to have taken her ex-husband to the cleaners?

I parked alongside the mailbox and got out of the car, suddenly feeling very conspicuous in my suit and tie. I paused on the sidewalk, observing the house. The entrance porch was dark, but there was a flickering light behind the curtains to the front room. Someone was up, watching TV. I removed a pen and notebook from my suit jacket. Then I opened the metal gate and walked up to the front door, ready to become Peter Carney again.

I startled when the front yard suddenly lit up. My eyes winced, but I resisted the urge to reach for my sunglasses, knowing it would ruin my cover. I hurried to the doorstep, where the porch lights were safely behind me, and rang the doorbell. The flickering light in the curtains paused. Slow footsteps approached. I put on my friendliest smile, and tilted my head to my good side.

The front door opened, and a very tall, iron-haired woman appeared in the doorway, looking down at me through black-rimmed glasses. She was dressed in a charcoal vest and wide-legged slacks, and I was instantly reminded of Diane Keaton. She definitely wasn’t Margaret Piper.

“Hello, Mrs Piper?” I greeted, playing dumb.

She shook her head. “And you are?”

“Peter Carney, Daily Tribune.” I held out my faded, eight-year-old business card. She glanced at it briefly.

“I see,” she said, unmoved by my credentials. “Can I ask what you’re doing on my doorstep?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I thought this was the home of Margaret Piper.”

Her gaze narrowed, and I felt her studying me properly for the first time. My suit and tie suddenly felt as convincing as a fake nose and glasses. Predictably, her gaze lingered on the right side of my face. But instead of recoiling, her eyes softened, as if my scars struck a chord with her.

“You called here yesterday,” she said. “Claiming to be an insurance salesman.”

“I did ma’am, yes,” I admitted sheepishly. “I apologize for the deception, but I was told Mrs Piper could be hard to reach.”

“I don’t understand. Why do you need to speak to her?”

“I’m writing a story on her ex-husband, Sterling. A follow-up piece, about the long-term impact on the family…”

It was the wrong move. The iron-haired woman’s face tightened, and her hand went to the side of the door. “I’m sorry, you’re wasting your time. Margaret’s not in any condition to dredge up the past.”

“Then perhaps you could help me,” I said quickly. “I hate to be so pushy, but my editor’s riding me hard on this story, and I have to come up with something. I’m not looking for a scoop – just some background information to get my facts in order. And completely off the record, your name won’t even be mentioned.”

Her expression remained taut, unimpressed by the hard sell. But while she was too smart to be completely fooled, I sensed a part of her wanted to talk.

After a quick glance inside, she joined me on the porch, shutting the door softly behind her. “Five minutes,” she said. “But this has to be the last we hear from you.”

“I promise, ma’am.”

“And you can drop the
ma’am
. This isn’t the deep South, for God’s sake.”

I laughed. “Perhaps I could have your name then.”

“I’m Abby Greenfield. Margaret’s sister.”

“Ahh.”

“Ahh,” she repeated with a faint smile. “You thought I was the housekeeper.”

“No, not at all.”

“I suppose I am, in a way. Housekeeper, gardener, nurse, anything she needs me for.”

“I heard Margaret suffers from depression.”

“Schizophrenia,” Abby corrected. “She was diagnosed a long time ago, but it’s only the last seven or eight years that she’s needed around the clock care.”

“Since the shooting,” I guessed.

Abby shrugged. “The doctors say her symptoms would’ve worsened anyway, but I say it’s one hell of a coincidence. Margaret worshipped Sterling, even after they split. How could she not be affected?”

“So they were close, even after he re-married?”

“Close isn’t the right word. It was one way traffic, really. Margaret adored Sterling, but after the divorce, he had no time for her. He sympathized with her condition, but he couldn’t excuse the way she treated the children.” She shook her head and sighed. “It’s a miracle they didn’t all grow up to be basket cases.”

I nodded in understanding, remembering how Lucy used to complain about Margaret dumping the kids on her at the last minute. I’d assumed Lucy was exaggerating about how awful Margaret was, but it seemed she had a point. “Was there abuse?” I asked tentatively.

“
No
,” Abby said, giving me a stern look. “Not in the way you’re thinking.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, reminding myself to tread carefully. “That’s why I’m here, to straighten out the facts.”

“Make sure you do. Margaret never laid a finger on those children. But the disease changed her. She was a distant mother at the best of times, but after the divorce, she became quite unpleasant towards them. She blamed them for stealing her youth, and for ruining her marriage. But the truth was, they were the only reason Sterling stuck around for as round as long as he did.”

“It doesn’t sound like a happy marriage.”

“Well, that depends on your definition of happy. For many years it was a
functioning
marriage. Margaret loved Sterling, and although he might not have loved her back – at least not in a romantic sense – he respected her as the mother of his children. You have to understand, Sterling was an old-fashioned man, and he respected the family unit. He didn’t want his children growing up in a broken home.”

“But obviously that changed…”

“Yes,” Abby said, her face souring. “
She
changed everything. Sterling was besotted with her, and everything else in his life took a back seat. You know, he claimed he met her at a sports bar in Reno, but it was actually a strip bar, and Lucy was one of the star attractions.”

“A strip bar? Are you sure?”

Abby nodded, warming to the subject. “Margaret’s lawyer had all the dirt on Lucy Hopkins. That’s why Sterling didn’t fight Margaret in court – he didn’t want the children finding out he was leaving their mother for a stripper. But of course, the children heard the gossip, anyway. They knew what she was.”

I bit my tongue, saving my emotions for later. “So I take it the kids didn’t approve of Dad’s new wife.”

“That’s an understatement. And to make matters worse, Sterling didn’t want custody of the children. He basically pushed them onto Margaret.”

“I thought he was a family man.”

“He was, and he always loved his children, but I don’t imagine Lucy wanted a house full of someone else’s kids. She never struck me as the maternal type.”

A new train of thought suddenly occurred to me. “Does Margaret see the children now?” I asked.

“No, never. She agreed to custody because of the connection to Sterling, but after he died, she withdrew completely. She was legally bound to look after Evan and Kendall while they were young, but as soon as they graduated, Margaret turned them out. She’s cut herself off from everyone. I’m her only link to the outside…”

Just then, there was a dull thump from inside the house, like a book falling of a shelf. Abby tensed, cocking an ear to the door. I could hear someone shuffling down the hall, approaching the front doorstep.
Margaret
– it had to be. Stirred by our voices in the night. When the shuffling stopped, I thought she was standing right behind the door, ready to give us an earful for talking behind her back. But then the footsteps shuffled away, turning off into another room. When Abby’s shoulders relaxed, I also breathed a sigh of relief.

“It must be hard on you,” I said, eager to get the conversation moving again. “Looking after your sister.”

“There’s nobody else,” she said sadly.

“What about a nursing home? Margaret must have money from divorce…”

“–That was over ten years ago. And there’s an old saying – a schizophrenic and her money are soon parted.”

“It’s all gone?”

“Every last cent. Sterling kept on eye on her spending for the children’s sake, but after he died, she was left to her own devices. I was living in Vancouver at the time, and when I came down to visit, she was set up in their old Granite Bay house with a live-in housekeeper and a full-time nurse. I thought they actually cared for her, but they ended up bleeding her dry. It was partly my fault. I should never have trusted them.”

“Surely the children offered to help?”

“Margaret wouldn’t let them. To her, they no longer existed. I begged her to go to Evan’s funeral, but she wouldn’t listen. She honestly believed he’d killed himself just to spite her. Margaret’s very sick, but some of the things she says…” Abby’s voice trailed off, shaking her head.