Darker Than Night

57

Hubby was home.

The Night Prowler had left the apartment after observing Claire sleep. He’d known Jubal was gone, and that he wouldn’t be away for very long. Chicago wasn’t all that far from New York.

But he hadn’t expected him tonight. Not at this hour.

Close! This had been close! And I’m not ready for it yet. I don’t want it to happen.

It was past three A.M. when the Night Prowler had left Claire. He’d felt secure standing at the foot of her bed, knowing that if he chose to stay, he’d be alone with her until dawn. As I would be if I chose to wake her.

Not yet, not yet….

So he’d left. He was surprised when he’d crossed the street and happened to see Jubal striding toward the apartment building.

You’re supposed to be somewhere else.

But here he was. Handsome young would-be celebrity, moving confidently and with a preoccupied air about him, almost floating down the street, a parade all by himself. Nicely cut suit, tie loosened and askew, hair mussed in a carefully arranged manner, as if he suspected there might be cameras about and wanted to convey a candid flattering moment. Always on; that was the rule. Practicing for greater fame and the fortune that must accompany it.

Jubal Day. Home to Claire!

Must have taken a late flight. Cheaper, or the only seat available. Jubal was carrying no luggage. Traveling light. And why not? I’ve seen your closet; you have a wardrobe here. It’s waiting for you. Like Claire.

Like me.

“Thanks for the mints,” Claire said. She’d gotten up early and decided to let Jubal sleep. Then, when she’d gone into the living room after getting the coffee brewer going, she noticed the two green boxes of chocolate mints on the table. Her favorite candy. Jubal must have bought them for her on the way home. It was so thoughtful and loving of him. She wouldn’t tell him she’d experienced one of her sudden cravings and consumed an entire box of the mints only last night.

Barefoot and shirtless, he stood staring at her, puzzled. “Mints?”

She grinned. He was an actor, all right. And if he wanted to play it this way, that was fine. She went to him and kissed him, standing close while he held her. “Never mind. Want some coffee?”

“Can’t think of anything I want more.”

“I should be insulted.”

“Don’t be. I didn’t mean—”

She laughed. “You’re still half-asleep. When did you get in?”

“About three.”

Claire glanced at a wall clock. “It’s not even nine o’clock. Go back to bed, darling, and have your coffee later.”

“Can’t. Audition at ten. That’s why I set the alarm.”

“I didn’t hear the alarm.”

“My watch.”

“I didn’t even know your watch had an alarm.”

Jubal’s heart jumped. It was the watch Dalia had given him. He’d forgotten to exchange it with his old one before leaving Chicago.

He went to Claire and kissed her. “Every watch these days has an alarm.” He walked into the kitchen and she followed.

“Technology,” she said. “I can’t keep up.”

“Coffee,” he said. “And you keep up just fine. The way things are, nobody can know everything.”

He poured his coffee, careful to stand so the watch wasn’t visible, making it all look so natural, knowing in his bones she was buying into it.

How can anyone who isn’t an actor cheat on his wife?

The damned photograph was still everywhere, opening old wounds. The Night Prowler had avoided the newspapers and TV for a while, thinking the media mania would subside, or at least go off on a tangent. There was, after all, other news.

But when he’d turned on the TV yesterday, there was a cop in a suit talking to Kay Kemper about the Night Prowler murders, about how the police were getting closer all the time and it wouldn’t be long before an arrest was made. And on the street this morning there was the photograph again, staring from one of the twine-tied stacks of tabloid papers aligned before a kiosk.

It was that bastard Quinn’s fault. He was behind the photograph, the demeaning, humiliating news releases, the increasing pressure, everything. Quinn. He was like something out of legend that never stopped, that couldn’t be stopped. It made the Night Prowler furious that he couldn’t help admiring Quinn even as he loathed him.

Quinn!

The Night Prowler bolted from his chair with the force of his impulse.

No, not impulse, thought! Idea. Strategy.

He put on his new NYPD cap he’d bought in a Times Square souvenir shop (irony-dripping blue), his amber sunglasses, and went outside and down the street to a subway stop. Not the nearest stop; he wasn’t that foolish.

The morning rush was almost over, but there were still twenty-five or thirty people waiting for the next train. No one seemed to be paying much attention to him, staring instead into the dark tunnel in anticipation of the train, or at the littered concrete floor, or down into the shadowed trench where the third rail lay and the gray rats roamed. Fear and the city. He was thankful for subway etiquette.

After riding the subway to the Fifity-third and Lex station, far enough from his apartment, he found a public phone near the Citigroup Building. He already knew the number. Had it memorized. Because he’d been considering this not only this morning, but for the past several days. Working out what to say, how to say it, how to be taken seriously.

If they didn’t put him on hold and forget him.

Two can waltz with the New York media. Two can use them, the rabid, hypocritical creatures who gorge on other people’s grief, then vomit it through mindless smiles and call it news. Two can feel the rhythm and do this destructive, deadly dance of ruination, of blackness and red.

Blackness and red, crimson to black…

He punched out the phone number, waited, then told a woman on the other end of the connection he had vitally important information for Kay Kemper.

Who was he?

“I’m sorry, I can’t reveal that because I fear the consequences. All you have to know is I’m a former New York cop who was high in the department. I have tremendous respect for Kay Kemper. She’s the only one I’ll trust. I’m afraid to talk to anyone else. She can judge the veracity of my information.”

Afraid of nothing!

After only a moment’s hesitation, the woman transferred his call.

The world belonged to the bold.