After the Golden Age

SEVEN

CELIA felt like the belle of the ball, strolling into the lobby of the symphony hall on the arm of Detective Paulson. He wore a dark suit with a band-collar silk shirt, smelled pleasantly of aftershave, and had not a hair out of place. He was slickly handsome, in an international spy kind of way.

She wore a strapless black cocktail dress accented with a silk shawl, beaded midnight blue and silver that shimmered and changed color when she moved, and carried a clutch too tiny for anything but a couple of condoms and cab fare home, because you just never knew. She wore her short hair fashionably ruffled, and had silver dangling earrings.

The two of them turned heads when they passed by. Celia wasn’t used to people paying attention to her for any other reason than her being at the center of some disaster. It was a nice change. Mark liberated a couple of glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and gave one to her with a slight bow. Grinning, Celia toasted him.

The evening had a theme: Italian villa at twilight. Fake marble pillars draped with ivy had been set up in the corners, and strings of white lights decorated lattice arches under which people could sit on carved benches next to neoclassical statues. The gathered company was a who’s-who of Commerce City’s elite, politicians and businesspeople, actors and sports figures, all eager to show themselves great patrons of the arts. They were a mass of designer gowns and tuxedos, expensive perfumes and jewelry. Mark had revealed that he’d gotten his tickets for the gala from his father.

A string quartet played Vivaldi. As part of the fund-raiser’s draw, the musicians played rare Stradivarius instruments, the best in the world, brought together for the first time to play in concert. They were worth millions. Celia honestly couldn’t tell the difference. Beautiful music was beautiful music.

She still felt like she didn’t belong. She could have, if she’d wanted to, once upon a time. This was the kind of thing her parents had done during their young socialite days.

“This is pretty swank, isn’t it?” Mark said.

“Sure is. I feel like a million bucks.”

“Wait a minute—aren’t you the heir to the West fortune? You are a million bucks.”

She masked her grimace by sipping her champagne. “Maybe, on paper. I kind of try to ignore that. I have a nice, normal job, and a nice, normal apartment.”

“And then some joker kidnaps you off the midtown bus.”

She shrugged. “I try to ignore that, too.”

He huffed, looking like he was about to counter with some pragmatic quip that might have come from her parents, when they were interrupted.

“Mark! You actually made it. There’s hope for you yet.”

Striding toward them, flanked by ever-present aides, reporters, and sycophants, was Mayor Anthony Paulson. He was tall—as tall as Mark, even—with a rugged, weathered face and thick salt-and-pepper hair. He was a charismatic force, his smile wide and genuine.

“Hi, Dad.” Father and son shook hands, firmly and warmly, clearly happy to see each other.

Mayor Paulson looked expectantly at her.

“Dad, this is Celia West. Celia, my father: Mayor Anthony Paulson.”

Celia braced for the wide-eyed flash of recognition that usually accompanied these introductions. Then the awe, the hesitation, and the impossibility of being treated normally.

It didn’t happen. Paulson offered his hand; she placed hers in it and they shook politely. “Ms. West, it’s a pleasure.”

“Likewise, sir.” She smiled, secretly relieved. She was going to have a good time this evening after all.

“Please, call me Tony.” The mayor glanced conspiratorially at his son. “I don’t believe it. You not only found someone who’ll be seen in public with you, but she’s lovely and charming as well. Good work.”

The group chuckled politely. Mark smiled an apology at her, but at the same time he seemed pleased with the approval. He stayed protectively close to her through the introductions his father insisted on making, showing off his son to the people he wanted to show off to. Mark needed a date, she realized, to be acceptable to his father in this setting. An accessory to increase his status, like an expensive watch. She was nearly flattered that she qualified as a trophy date. At least, she couldn’t be angry.

This was what it’d be like to be a politician’s wife, she thought vaguely. To have a life in the public eye. Might not be so bad. Then again …

Tony Paulson looked back to his entourage, searching for someone. He finally found her and had to coax her forward. “Andrea? Andrea, come meet Mark’s date.”

Andrea Paulson, the mayor’s wife and Mark’s mother, didn’t look much like she wanted to be here. She held a half-empty glass of champagne and still managed to cross her arms. In her designer gown, sparkling black and silver, and perfect hair, she blended into the crowd. She gave Celia a tight-lipped smile.

“Nice to meet you.” She turned to her husband. “Tony, I still have the headache, I’ll just have one of the boys drive me home—”

“Not now, Andrea. I need you here.”

Both of them were speaking through their teeth. Andrea turned her back on her husband and walked away. She always looked happier in the campaign photos.

Mark let out a breath he’d been holding. “I think after eight years in office she’s a little tired of this.”

“She’s fine,” Mayor Paulson said. His smile had turned static. “Another glass of champagne and she’ll be all smiles, you know how she is. So Mark, have you thought about my offer?”

“I told you, Dad. I’m happy where I am.”

The mayor provided the explanation. “I’ve got a place in my office all wrapped up with his name on it—Legal Affairs Administrator. It’s a short step from there to the DA’s office. You’ll be after my job in no time!” He beamed.

“He thinks I want his job,” Mark said in an aside to Celia.

The light in the mayor’s eyes dimmed. “You might listen to me for once. I’m only trying to help.”

This must have been a long-running argument. Celia’s heart went out to Mark. She was actually encouraged that this sort of thing went on in other families. She said, “I’m sure Mark appreciates it.”

That diffused the tension that had begun to mount, which was good, because Celia didn’t know what she’d do if Mark stalked away, as his mother had done, and left her there alone.

“He’ll come around.” The mayor winked at Celia.

Tony Paulson returned his attention to his entourage of personalities, all of whom pretended not to notice that Andrea had left, or that they’d narrowly avoided a family squabble.

“Your father’s a bit of a force,” Celia said, grateful when Mark guided her away.

“Yeah, I haven’t decided yet if he’s like that because he’s the mayor, or if he’s the mayor because he’s like that.”

“It’s tough being in that kind of shadow.”

“Tell me about it. I guess you could, couldn’t you?”

“Only thing you can do is make a break and move on.”

“Easier said than done.”

In the end, it hadn’t been that hard at all. She’d stayed away from her parents for four years during college. Built a life for herself that had nothing to do with them. Pretended to be some other Celia West. Worked two jobs—bookkeeping in the evenings and shelving at the university library on weekends—to pay her tuition and expenses, and it had all been worth it. She’d even started swimming again, able to do so without dwelling on old disappointments.

The time for speech-making arrived. She lingered with Mark in the back of the hall, growing pleasantly tipsy on her third glass of champagne, leaning on him, and drawing stories out of him—amusing anecdotes about the mayor from his childhood, harrowing tales of his years on the police force. Not so many of them. He’d only made detective six months ago and was young for the rank. He tried to turn the conversation back on her. Deftly, she avoided his questions. It didn’t seem right, telling amusing stories about Captain Olympus from her childhood. He was going to throw me off the roof to see if I could fly.…

The first speech came from the symphony’s musical director, profusely thanking everyone for their support and subtly digging for more donations. Next, the mayor stepped up to the podium. He went on about the city’s cultural heritage, managing to work in some stumping appropriate for the venue. She was fuzzily not paying attention.

At least, she wasn’t paying attention to the podium. Movement at the edges of the hall caught her notice. The crowd of socialites and symphony patrons stood in the center of the foyer, faces turned attentively to the front. But here and there, a half-dozen people wearing catering staff uniforms moved purposefully along the walls.

One of them drew a handgun from under his apron.

Celia’s hand clenched on Mark’s arm.

He glanced sharply at her. “What—”

He didn’t have time to ask. A hand closed around her throat and hauled her away from him. The steel nose of a gun pressed against her temple. She dropped her champagne glass, which shattered.

An irrational part of her complained, Not tonight, of all nights.

In moments, it was over. A couple of women screamed. A large space, in which Celia and her captor formed the center, cleared. Mayor Paulson’s voice demanded over the PA, “What is this?”

The other gunmen surrounded the string quartet and their priceless instruments.

“Nobody move, nobody make a sound, or she gets it!” shouted her captor. He held her in a headlock, pinning her against his body. She gripped his arm for balance, and couldn’t move without his assistance. “Hand over the instruments!”

Before the musicians could comply, the assailants took them out of their hands. The cello player started to resist; he held both hands on the cello’s neck and glared. Celia’s captor made a noise and gestured with the gun for emphasis. The cellist let go.

She was insurance. Somebody might launch into heroics at the risk of destroying a chunk of wood and string. But not when someone had a gun pointed at her head.

Not for a minute did she believe that their choice of hostage was random.

With the instruments taken captive, the gang made its way to the back of the hall and the service entrance. The leader dragged Celia along. They weren’t going to let her go.

Mark broke from the stricken crowd to intercept the gang. Celia had no idea what he thought he could do. Flash his badge and intimidate them? He ought to know better than that.

He said, “Let her go. Take me instead.”

“Mark, no!” said the mayor, still speaking into his microphone. That’d lose him points in the polls, she bet.

Mark continued. “Don’t hurt her. I’ll do anything you ask, just don’t hurt her.”

God, it was touching. If only he had a clue. “Mark, don’t,” she said. “It’ll be okay. I’m used to this.” I’m a pro by now.

“Please,” Mark said, ignoring her.

“Okay,” the gunman said. Celia groaned to herself.

Still dragging her alongside, he inched over to Mark to make the switch. He wasn’t going to take chances, and he wasn’t going to take his gun off both of them. She sincerely hoped Mark didn’t have some kind of rough-and-tumble police kung-fu trick planned. She liked him, but she didn’t trust him to rescue her.

In one movement, the gunman shoved her away and trained his weapon at Mark, who held his hands up and stayed still. Celia hugged her shawl tight around her shoulders and met Mark’s gaze as the gunman grabbed his arm, pushed the gun to his neck, and hauled him away. He seemed calm and determined. Very heroic.

The moment they were all gone, the room burst into motion and conversation. A hundred cell phones came out of clutches and jacket pockets. The first violinist burst into tears. Celia closed her eyes, hugged herself, and sighed. She needed another drink; she’d suddenly sobered up.

“Ms. West! My God, are you all right?” The mayor, cutting through the crowd like an arrow, strode toward her. Mrs. Paulson flanked him, looking interested for the first time all evening. Paulson touched Celia’s arm and studied her like he expected her to faint.

“Yes. Except for Mark being an idiot.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Andrea Paulson said.

Sternly, Paulson said, “He probably saved your life.”

That was how everyone was going to read the situation, she realized. Handsome young cop puts his life on the line. “I’d have been okay.”

“You’re taking this very well.”

“I’ve done it before. Several times.”

There it was, that look of morbid curiosity, though to his credit the mayor repressed it quickly. Mrs. Paulson wasn’t so circumspect. She gaped. “You’re that Celia West?”

Celia looked away, repressing a wry smile. “I’m assuming the police are after them already?”

“They should have the block surrounded by now,” Mayor Paulson said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have business. Obviously. One of my people can take you home. Andrea, you should go home, too.”

“No, I’m staying until Mark is safe.”

“Fine.” He pointed at an aide, then continued on, his entourage trailing in a wake behind him. Andrea went with him. Celia let them go. She’d done the polite thing and left her cell phone at home, but now she needed to make a call.

The mayor had left her staring up at a bulky, bodyguard-looking man in a suit, who stared back, expressionless. He gave the impression that he’d pick her up and sling her over his shoulder if she argued.

She tried anyway. “I think I can make my own way home. I appreciate the thought, though.”

“I think the mayor would prefer that I see you safely home.”

He was probably one who prided himself on following orders. Not quite clever enough for her to be able to talk into letting her go. Too bad she didn’t want to go home just yet.

“Then do you mind if I go find a phone to call my folks? Tell them I’m okay? If they hear there’s been a kidnapping, they’ll assume it was me who was kidnapped and I don’t want them to worry.”

He considered a moment, nodded coolly, and followed her to the coat-check desk. She asked the clerk there if she could use the phone.

She dialed, the phone rang; a stern, accusing voice answered. “This is a secure line, how did you get this number?”

The bodyguard watched her, listening in, she assumed. She turned her back to him and spoke softly. “Hi, Robbie. It’s Celia.”

His tone changed from suspicious to amiable. Off guard duty and talking to a friend, now. “Oh, hey, kid! What’s wrong?”

Such a vote of confidence. “You guys hear anything about an attack at the symphony tonight?”

“Yeah. We’re monitoring. The police say they have it under control.”

Surprised, her brow furrowed. The situation didn’t look under control. She hunkered closer to the phone. “Really? Because the attackers took Mark Paulson hostage.”

Robbie hesitated a moment, then said, “Detective Paulson? Not you?” There was a laugh behind the voice. She supposed it sounded funny on his end.

“They took me first. Then Mark decided he had to be a hero.”

“That must be a nice switch.”

“I’d have preferred it if they’d taken me. I wouldn’t do something brave and stupid that would get me killed. My first real date in months and he gets kidnapped right off my arm.”

“Aw, kid, I’m sorry.” He sounded genuinely sympathetic.

“Can you let me know if you hear anything? I’m getting to like the guy and I’d hate for something to happen to him.”

“Will do. I’ll pass on the news about Paulson. The cops didn’t tell us that part.”

Which was weird. Mayor’s son gets kidnapped and the cops didn’t mention it? They probably wanted to save Mark themselves and get brownie points with the mayor, rather than letting the Olympiad have all the glory, again.

“Thanks.”

She gave the phone back to the coat-check clerk. The bodyguard was still lurking nearby. Had to be a way around him. Maybe if she didn’t hate being chaperoned so much she wouldn’t get kidnapped. Go live at West Plaza like her mother wanted.

For a moment she thought about claiming that she needed to use the restroom, then sneaking out the window, or an emergency exit, or—

On the other hand, this could save her cab fare.

She turned to him and smiled. “All right. I’m ready.”

The police were interviewing everyone in the place; they weren’t letting anyone leave until they’d recorded contact information and followed every lead. Celia’s chaperone cut right through the chaos and left the symphony hall in minutes.

He drove her in an unmarked government sedan. She gave him an address that wasn’t her apartment, and helpfully offered directions when they neared the location.

“Here,” she said finally. “You can let me out here.”

The guy leaned forward to peer through the windshield. “You live at the police station?”

“No, but thanks for the ride anyway. Bye!” She hopped out of the car and darted up the building’s steps before he could argue. She wondered what he’d tell Paulson.

She walked through the front doors and the smell of the tired, ancient, sweaty waiting room hit her. It had been a while, and she hadn’t missed it at all.

The place buzzed with far more than the usual late-night police station energy. The evening round of drunks and prostitutes had stalled out in the lobby, waiting on plastic chairs until someone remembered that they’d been arrested. The front desk was missing its clerk. Behind the desk, in the back, voices shouted, phones rang, uniformed people scurried back and forth with files in hand and cell phones stuck to ears.

A large, booming man appeared in a doorway and called out. “All right, people, I’m looking for black-market contacts. They won’t be able to unload these things in the open, so we need to go to ground. If I see another auction house phone number on the fact list I’m going punch somebody!”

That was Chief Gene Appleton. Head of the force for ten years. Fifteen years as a cop before that. Celia smiled. If Appleton was knocking heads, things couldn’t be too bad. She’d always liked him. He never talked down to her.

The liking wasn’t mutual, at least not as of seven or so years ago. He’d sealed her juvenile record personally. If he saw Celia here he’d be livid. She slunk away to lean on a wall.

A girl sat in the chair next to her. Magenta hair, black plastic miniskirt, and fishnet shirt over a green bra. She looked about fifteen. Might have been seventeen. Her sullen air made her seem young.

“What’s going on?” Celia asked her.

The girl looked her up and down. Celia wasn’t dressed for the lobby of a police station at eleven P.M., but leaning on the wall, arms crossed, gazing vaguely out, she acted like she belonged. Made all the difference.

“Dunno. Something big went down.”

“Big. Like Destructor big? Like Olympiad showing up big?”

She shrugged. “Dunno. Heard that a cop got hurt.”

Celia’s stomach lurched. She had to remind herself this was only street gossip. Didn’t mean anything. She looked toward the back offices, working herself up to go and ask someone.

The front door opened, ringing the old-fashioned brass bell that no one had the heart to take down. In walked Mark Paulson, his collar unbuttoned and his jacket hanging from his hand.

Celia pushed off from the wall. “Mark!”

His tired eyes brightened. “Celia! What are you doing here?”

In a couple of strides they met, gripping each other’s arms. Not an embrace—they needed to look at each other.

“I wanted to be here in case there was news.”

“Paulson! God, Paulson, what the hell happened?” Appleton stormed around the front desk, his gaze piercing like bullets.

The detective shrugged. “They just let me go. Dumped me out of their car down the block.”

Appleton noticed Celia, even though she’d stepped aside. “You. What the hell are you doing here?”

“I was worried about Mark. Nice to see you again, Chief.”

“Huh. Right.”

Mark put his arm protectively around her shoulders. Appleton took in the gesture and gave his head a frustrated shake. “Whatever. You.” He pointed at Mark. “In the back. Tell me what happened.”

“I’d like to take my date home first, sir.”

“Call her a cab.”

Mark glared at him.

As much as she enjoyed the scene, she recognized when she’d been shown the door.

“I’ll be okay,” she said. “I’ll call my own cab.”

“Celia … are you sure you’ll be okay? It’s no trouble, I’d really like to make sure you get home safely.”

Her giddy feeling was relief. Mark was back safely. He hadn’t been killed in her place. The kidnappers had just … let him go. Whatever the reason, she wasn’t going to argue. All was well with the world. So what if the relief fed into other things?

She stood on tiptoe and pulled his head closer, so she could whisper in his ear. “Don’t think that just because you took me home you’d be getting any gratitude sex for being all brave.”

He drew away and looked properly shocked, blushing, his tongue stumbling over denials. Finally, he noticed that she was grinning. He was a cop; she’d have to train a sense of humor into him.

She kissed him. A nice, cinematic kiss on the lips, warm and tingling, lasting a half-dozen heartbeats. Enough time for him to react and close his arms around her. The officers and staff who’d gathered in the lobby at Mark’s return cheered and catcalled. Even the drunks and hookers cheered. Appleton didn’t cheer.

“I’ll see you later,” she said.

Mark took a breath. “Right. Yeah. Good.”

She separated herself from him, readjusted her shawl, and made a calm, smooth exit.

Out on the sidewalk, she let herself giggle. Damn, that had been fun.