The 8th Circle (14 page)

K
ate staggered a little. Too much champagne. It always made her lightheaded. He’d held her like she was made of spun sugar, a confection of sweet and delicate perfection. How long had it been since a man treated her like she was something that exquisite?

God almighty. Now what was she going to do?

Kate walked down the hall to the ladies’ room. She just couldn’t let things get out of hand. She’d have to slip out like Cinderella, no matter how much she wanted to be with him. The problem was that she didn’t know if she had the willpower.

No. Dammit. That wasn’t true. She could get through anything. She saw her da and two brothers shot on the street in front of their flat. She’d been hungry enough to go begging and needy enough to sell herself. She was a survivor above all.

So what to say?
Hey, Prince Charming, now that your wife is dead, you can carry me away and we’ll live happily ever after
.

Good God. She sounded as crazy as Michael.

Maybe he’d turn out to be a creep. Why should he be any different than all the others? Why ruin it with all that ugly reality when the dream was a lovely iridescent soap bubble, too fragile to touch.

Kate leaned against the wall. She didn’t need Danny Ryan. She didn’t need anyone.

Her isolation had never bothered her until now. Strange how wanting someone made her feel so ragged. Like she stood on the other side of a window and stared in at a sumptuous feast. Kate, the little match girl.

Or maybe she never thought she’d ever be close enough to get what she wanted. Danny and she must have walked the same paths thousands of times, entering and exiting rooms within minutes of each other, and it took Michael Cohen of all people to bring them together. Not a promising omen.

Kate opened the ladies’ room door and froze when she heard a peculiar gurgling, almost like a clogged drain. She expected to find a puddle of water and instead saw the woman who slumped against a cushioned chair, her hand pressed against her throat. Blood spilled between her pale fingers. Linda Cohen.

Kate screamed.

V
oices swirled around him like the bits of ice caught in the howling wind outside. Danny squeezed the velvet curtain and tried to force himself to breathe. In. Out. His chest ached.

In another life, he would have been interviewing the assembled multitude.

How close were you to Linda Cohen? Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt her? How do you feel about this?

Once he had to interview a family whose twelve-year-old son had been killed in gang crossfire. Just another day at the office, but he’d researched the kid. “I’m so sorry about Darnell,” he’d said to the mother who hadn’t talked to any reporters. “Look, I know you must be going through hell, but I don’t want to go over that night again. Won’t you tell me about your boy? TV says he wanted to be a wideout for the Eagles, but I hear he wanted to study physics and could build anything out of Legos.” She’d paused for a full minute, and he’d been about to hang up when she invited him to come to the house. He’d gotten an exclusive.

“You’re the first one who really knowed anything about my baby,” she’d said. “I look in your eyes and see somethin’ real. Mebbe you’ll understand.”

Even he hadn’t known whether he’d felt anything real or had been faking it to get a column. Now he was paying for all
those days. He couldn’t think about Linda without feeling his throat close.

She’d been the first person he’d called after the accident. His one act of self-preservation. Jesus, she’d looked so fragile on that gurney when they wheeled her out, and he could do nothing except pray she wouldn’t die—only prayer wasn’t going to help now. Grief would only hold him back. Danny couldn’t afford to mourn Linda, or Beowulf, or even his family. He could only stumble forward. He fumbled for the CD in his pocket.

Don’t let me fuck it up
.

*

“This is a terrible tragedy. Just terrible.” Danny heard the voice by his elbow and looked down to see an elderly man in a wheelchair. He recognized Bartlett Scott because he was a fixture in Philadelphia’s philanthropic circles: he was building a new world-class performing arts center down on Walnut Street; he had raised the money for the Scott Cancer Research Wing at Children’s Hospital; he had created the Scott Center for Academic Excellence in West Philadelphia to help bright kids from struggling families make it to college. Bartlett Scott was the closest thing Philadelphia had to a saint.

Now, felled by a stroke a little less than a year ago, his left arm curled up against his chest, but his face was still red cheeked and benevolent, his glowing white hair full and wavy. He nodded at Danny, his pale-blue eyes filled with concern. “Daniel Ryan? I thought it was you. My goodness. Terrible to see you under such circumstances.” He spoke slowly but clearly.

Danny squatted down to better hear him. He took hold of Bartlett Scott’s proffered right hand. “Yes, sir. It’s an awful night. Would you like me to speak to the police? Perhaps they could move you to more comfortable quarters.”

Bartlett Scott shook his head. “I’m a witness here like everyone else.” He glanced over at a middle-aged blonde sitting near him at the table. “My daughter Melissa may feel differently, of course, but I don’t mind waiting. Poor Andy. God awful thing.”
He paused and looked at Danny. “Waiting is hard, isn’t it? Waiting to hear? I daresay you know all about that.”

Danny stood. “I’ve had my bad nights, yes.”

“I’ve always admired your column. You’ve taken on some of our sacred cows. It’s good for the city.”

“Thank you, sir.” Danny cleared his throat and tried to remember if he had written anything particularly unflattering about Bartlett Scott. He thought not; the old man seemed to have been a genuine force for good in the city.

“I’ve often thought of you. I remember the funeral for your wife and boy. So sad. Terribly sad. I thought of Blake then. ‘Some are born to endless night.’ Yes, I thought of that line then. It’s hard to lose a child.” He caught Danny’s arm again. “I haven’t always agreed with you, but I always thought you were a good man.” He sighed. “‘Endless night.’ Would you agree, Mr. Ryan? I believe we share that in our own way.”

Melissa Scott was on her feet. She gently pried her father’s fingers off Danny’s arm and then settled the old man. “Dad, please. I’m sure Mr. Ryan has enough to worry about right now.” Her face looked pinched, and Danny realized that she was concerned with what he’d write about her father. He turned away but felt her touch his hand.

“Don’t mind Dad,” she said. “He’s not himself these days. He gets confused. I hope you’ll try to remember him as he was. He hasn’t been the same since Mother passed away.”

Who wanted to write that Bartlett Scott was losing his mind? Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he saw something true. Danny’s parade of sleepless nights hadn’t started with Conor and Beth’s accident.
Some are born to endless night
. Now it would be one more thing that would rattle through his mind. Danny’s flesh was crawling. Christ, this party had become a circus of the macabre. He glanced back at Bartlett Scott. Something bothered him: The old man’s serene expression? Or maybe it was those almost colorless blue eyes. They reminded him of something.

Melissa Scott was watching him expectantly, and he nodded. “I’m sure your father’s exhausted. It’s been a very upsetting evening for everyone.”

She gave him a chilly smile. “Indeed. I hoped you’d understand.”

*

Danny watched the cop who guarded the door to the ballroom and wondered if the police intended to interview everyone or hold every person prisoner until someone confessed out of boredom. They’d taken Andy away in the ambulance with Linda. When Danny asked the cop by the door where they had taken her, he just shook his head. It wasn’t a surprise. Danny didn’t expect police cooperation, not with a hostile crowd circling.

Where had they taken Kate? What hell was she going through? He tried texting her but got no reply. He needed to find her, but he was stuck in this room for now.

Senator and Mrs. Harlan sat near the door, and Danny didn’t understand why the senator hadn’t made a discreet phone call to get their asses out of there. Then again, why make a scene? If Bartlett Scott could wait it out, why not Robert Harlan? After all they were comfortably enjoying their coffee, dessert, and after-dinner cocktails on Andy’s tab.

The senator waved to him as if they were friends. Robert Harlan smiled when Danny reached the table, but his eyes remained cold. Mrs. Harlan’s lips twitched, and he thought she might spit at him. Danny leaned over and kissed her cheek just like a dutiful ex-son-in-law. Her hand clamped down over his, and her long, red nails dug into his flesh, but he ignored the quick stab of pain and said, “Awful night, isn’t it? You holding up, Patsy?”

He called her that because he could get away with it, but he still got a rush when he saw the twin flashes of fury in her eyes. She made no effort to disguise her feelings. He was the usurper who had stolen her daughter. To him, she was an old fraud with infinite amusement value. If she had possessed a sense of humor, they might have gotten along. He knew she’d taken etiquette and speech classes so she could learn to fit in the Washington social scene and hired a tutor to help her polish up on history and literature. Patsy Parker, farm girl and former Miss Georgia Peach,
always maintained herself with the rigid discipline of a drill sergeant. He’d heard the senator dismiss her more than once with a quick “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand” put-down, and he’d watched her face tighten into an obedient smile. Danny had never seen her relax or drop her facade, and he pitied her, even though he knew that if given half a chance, she would have strung him up and gutted him along with one of her father’s prize sows. Some people lived with stress. Patsy was a virtual pressure cooker.

“It was most unfortunate that our poor Kate stumbled across the crime scene,” the senator said.

Danny looked at him for a moment. “Maybe it saved Linda’s life.” Linda couldn’t die. Not the Linda who brought him containers of chicken soup and thick corned beef sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper when he first started at the paper. Not his Linda. Christ, he needed to hold it together. “She’s not dead.”

The senator shook his head. “It’s my understanding that Linda’s throat was cut. Of course, Linda and Andy will be in my prayers.”

“I’m sure that’ll be a comfort to them.” Danny knew the sarcasm sounded hollow.

“I’m glad to hear you say that.” The senator smiled as if Danny had told him Christ had come down for a chat. “God will sustain Andy in his hour of need just as he sustained you through yours. That’s how you came to accept that Beth and Conor moved on to a better place. It was God’s will. No matter how difficult.”

Danny wanted to tell the senator to go fuck himself, but the surge welled up. He forced it back. The senator’s eyes turned black with pure venom. The bastard knew he’d scored a direct hit.

“I don’t accept anything.”

“Accidents can be very upsetting.”

“This wasn’t an accident.” Danny said.

The senator’s eyes grew darker. “No, of course. This was quite deliberate, wasn’t it?”

“What the hell is taking so long?” A tall man with flowing chestnut hair swept across the room to stand with them, and Danny recognized him at once. Bruce Delhomme. Philadelphia’s
hottest restaurateur. Party boy. Andy’s asshole buddy. He bristled with the kind of self-important impatience that made Danny hope he was the last on the interview list.

“Calm yourself,” the senator said in the no-nonsense voice a parent would use on a petulant child. Delhomme pouted and folded his arms. Danny waited for him to stamp his foot.

The door opened, and John Novell appeared. He said something to the cop and then motioned to Danny. When Danny headed toward him, Delhomme also approached the door.

Novell looked at him. “May I help you, sir?”

Delhomme tossed his hair. He could’ve been in a shampoo commercial. “We’ve been held captive here for almost an hour! I demand to know what’s taking so long!”

“The detectives in charge will be in soon to interview you. It won’t be much longer, sir.”

“Do you know who I am?”

Novell waited.

“I’m Bruce Delhomme, goddammit! I don’t have to take this crap!”

“Now, Bruce.” Robert Harlan stepped forward and laid a hand on Danny’s shoulder. “I’m sure the police are doing everything they can. Perhaps, you’ll put in a good word for us, Daniel?”

Danny would have said, “In a cold day in hell,” but Novell’s face stopped him. It twisted like someone yanked his muscles with a wire.

“Senator Harlan,” Novell said.

“Agent Novell, isn’t it?” Robert Harlan’s voice oozed like syrup. “Miss Reid is a member of my staff. My wife and I would consider it a personal favor if we could speak with her.”

Novell spun away. “If you’ll excuse us.” He jerked his head at Danny and strode out the door.

Danny followed Novell into the hall. “So what’s with you and Senator Charm?”

Novell grunted.

“Come on, it’ll keep me from asking you what you’re doing here. Did you tail me?”

Novell turned so fast he caught Danny off guard. He backed him up against the wall and leaned into him until there were mere inches between their faces. Danny could smell the scotch under Novell’s breath mints, and for a moment he thought Novell might throttle him.

“Do you give a shit about anyone? A woman had her throat cut tonight. Did that register with you?”

Danny’s mouth dropped open. Did Novell have a clue? He took a breath. Fuck Novell. He could think what he wanted.

“So about you and Big Bob?”

Novell’s face turned scarlet. “That bastard is the one who screamed for an investigation into the Inferno. Then he interfered from day one, and when the operation collapsed, he turned around and said it was our fault. Our agents got sloppy. The bureau fucked up. Sanctimonious prick. As far as I’m concerned—” Novell clamped his teeth together and bit off his words.

Danny stared at him. He wanted to ask Novell more about the operation, but somehow this didn’t seem like the time.

“Jesus, Novell. Harlan’s not my choice for man of the year either. What are you doing here anyway? The Philly PD doesn’t call in outsiders on this sort of thing. Particularly not suburban cops.”

Novell pointed to an alcove. “Wait there. I’m getting Kate before Harlan gets a chance to talk to her. I’ve persuaded the Philly PD that you’re part of my investigation. But you’re sick. You get migraines. So keep your mouth shut and look sick. You got someplace to stay tonight?”

Danny handed him the key card. “Yeah, here.”

Novell took it, studied it for a minute, and then put it in his pocket.

“Anyone know you’re planning to stay?”

“Just Andy and Linda.”

“You’re valet parked?”

“Yeah, it’s in with the key card, but what—”

“Can it, Ryan. I’m not in the mood.” Novell stalked off, leaving Danny to wonder what the hell was going on.