Naked Came The Phoenix

Chapter Twelve

VINCE TOSCANA HAD NEVER HAD any reason to give nail polish a second thought. But after today, he'd never again be able to watch his wife paint her nails without a shudder. No amount of life on a Philly corner could have prepared him for the scene that met his gaze in the manicure studio.

He stared speechless as the carved mahogany shelf unit that had contained the dozens of nail preparations was gently raised by his crime scene technicians, leaving behind it an incarnadine sea. Just as the ocean contained myriad shades of blue and green, there was now a glutinous pool of multitudinous tones of scarlet spreading across the floor. Carmine bled into ruby, magenta swirled through vermilion, cherry melted into plum. And through it all, glass shards stuck up at random angles, polish sliding viscously down them to join the rest of the drying mess that Vince feared would soon be rigid as vinyl siding.

And at the heart of the horror, curved like a gathering wave, lay the crushed heap of bones and skin that had once been Ondine. Only her toes were untouched, sticking out from the red sea and looking incongruously pale. "Jesus," Vince sighed. "The only way we're going to be able to tell blood from nail polish is when it sets."

As he waited for the technicians to complete their work on the crime scene, he walked through to the consulting room where Karen McElroy's hair still swirled gently in the foot spa, the coppery smell of blood mixing with kelp and mineral salts hitting his nostrils as he bent over her, careful not to disturb anything. The trouble with working for a small department where there wasn't a lot of serious crime was that there was only one team of technicians. Just like always, Vince thought. The poor folk have to wait in line for the rich folk to get seen to first. He wished he could at least restore some small grace to Karen by draining the pink-tinged water, but he knew better than to touch anything before it had been processed by the experts. There was nothing dignified about these deaths, he thought bitterly. Anger began to burn like indigestion in his stomach. Somebody in this place didn't give a damn about human life. And even though he considered most of the people he'd encountered at Phoenix to be pretty damn worthless, they still had a right to their selfish little lives. It was his job to protect them, and so far he wasn't doing a very good job of it.

Fresh determination burned inside Vince as he gazed down at the murdered beautician. He was going to put a stop to this killing spree. And if that meant slamming every last one of these spoiled people in the county jail, then he'd damn well do it. Vince turned on his heel and marched through to the nail studio with a new sense of purpose.

Hilda yanked open another drawer. She didn't think Claudia had ever thrown anything away in her life. The banks of filing cabinets filled the entire walk-in storeroom that opened off the spa director's luxurious personal office. It was like an archaeological dig, ploughing through it. But although she'd found business correspondence dating back more than twenty years, brochures from every establishment Claudia had ever worked in, and folders stuffed with letters from grateful clients, Hilda still hadn't found what she was looking for. Somewhere, she knew, there must be Claudia's secret stash. She'd made it her lifetime's work to get something on everyone she thought she might possibly make use of, and Hilda knew her well enough to realize it would be somewhere accessible. No bank vaults for Claudia; she'd have wanted her leverage where she could gloat over it at her leisure.

Hilda sighed. Another file of correspondence. She probed farther back in the drawer and came across a thick manila folder marked "College." Curious, she pulled it free and opened it. To her amazement, it was stuffed with mementos of Claudia's years at Brown. There were handbills for plays and concerts, notes from fellow students, ticket stubs for movies and football games, even a faded corsage, pressed and preserved to recall some distant evening. Hilda was amazed. She'd never have credited Claudia with so sentimental an attachment to the past.

Fascinated, she flicked through the folder's contents, misty-eyed at the memories it evoked. She was sure they'd been to that performance of Love's Labour's Lost together. Yes, she remembered now. They'd gone on a double date with those two seniors that they'd met at the Harvard-Yale football game. Claudia had spent the whole evening sulking because the more handsome of the two boys had clearly preferred Hilda. Hilda's present smile was pure malice at the recollection.

Right at the back of the folder was a thick wallet of photographs. Suddenly, Hilda's memory provided its own snapshot. Claudia, filled with delight over her parents' Christmas gift, one of the new Kodak Instamatic cameras, gathering her friends into groups and making them pose for pictures. "Smile, everybody!" had become the words most often on Claudia's lips that semester.

Intrigued to see what had survived of her own past, Hilda opened the flap and pulled out the faded color photos. The first half dozen were an assortment of girls from the dorm. Hilda herself appeared in three of them, her hair perfectly lacquered in a beehive, showing off her small, neat features to their maximum advantage. Her face relaxed as she drifted back in her mind to those cozy dorm chats, drinking hot chocolate and eating cookies late at night, girls perched on narrow beds and pillows on the floor, gossiping about their lives and loves. They'd still believed the world was theirs for the taking, convinced the golden days would run forever. God, she wished she'd known then what she knew now.

The next picture hit Hilda's nostalgic mood like a cold pool after a sauna. Claudia had framed her subjects perfectly. They were leaning against a car. Hilda was in profile, head thrown back, mouth open in laughter, her arms thrown around the slim hips of the boy who was pulling her close to him, his own narrow, triangular face grinning sheepishly at the camera. "Tad Blake," Hilda hissed, her lips pulled back tightly over her teeth.

She had forced Tad Blake from her memory with the systematic efficiency she'd brought to every area of her adult life. The foolish conviction that she'd been in love, the fumbling passion that had left her life in ruins, Tad's refusal to accept that her nightmare was anything to do with him, his protestations that she couldn't expect him to believe he was the only one she'd given herself to-it had all been consigned to a section of her memory marked "Do Not Enter." The temptation to rip the photograph to shreds was almost overwhelming. But she controlled herself. She didn't want torn photographs in the office trash to tell their tale to any passing police officer. She grabbed the photograph and stuffed it in her pocket. She'd dispose of it later, somewhere its remains wouldn't be found.

Her action revealed the next photograph in the bundle. It was Tad again, but this time he was the one seen from the side. An involuntary gasp escaped Hilda's mouth. Her mind rebelled. It couldn't be. Could it?

Intently, she studied the picture. Tad's flaming red hair had faded to a dull auburn as the film chemicals had degraded, but her memory supplied the missing tones. Okay, the hair was the same. But that was no proof of anything, not in these days of flawless hair tinting. But that profile was undeniable. The pointed chin, the high forehead. They were identical. Hilda pulled the other picture from her pocket. Substitute her neat little nose for Tad's, and you'd be looking at the unmistakable profile of Lauren Sullivan.

Hilda stared at the photograph, a confusion of thoughts and images tumbling through her head. It looked as if Claudia had left her a legacy that could yet prove even more advantageous than the spa. Lauren Sullivan. What a coup.

The encounter with the psychic had unsettled Caroline. Phyllis Talmadge was right. Playing air cello in the woods was no substitute for the real thing. She decided to head back to the cottage.

She was going to have to face Hilda sometime; if her mother was there, at least she'd get it over and done with. Then she could open the windows and sit looking out over the lake playing one of the Bach cello suites. Number three, she thought. That would lift her out of this despair and rage and remind her that there was a place inside her where beauty could still live.

Caroline hurried through the woods, paying scant attention to her surroundings, already hearing those first haunting notes in her mind's ear. By the time she emerged on the path, she was almost trotting. She pushed open the door of the cottage, humming the theme of the first movement under her breath, and stopped short. To her astonishment, she found Raoul, not Hilda, sitting in the morris chair, looking as relaxed as if he were in his own sitting room.

"What are you doing here?" Caroline demanded.

He raised his perfectly shaped eyebrows. "Hoping for a word with you, my dear Caroline." She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a hand to silence her. "I wanted to discuss the return of something that belongs to you."

She glared at him, suddenly putting two and two together. "It was you who left those photographs lying on the table for Detective Toscana to find, wasn't it? And then you came back for them later, didn't you?"

Raoul smiled. "Clever Caroline."

"But why?"

"I thought it might muddy the waters with the cops. You see, Claudia had a very profitable little sideline going. Some friends of hers needed a little political clout on their side, and your charming husband was in a position to meet their needs. Of course, he took a little persuading."

"Claudia was blackmailing Doug?" Caroline crossed to the sofa and sank into it. She knew her husband was a double-dealing, two-timing bastard when it came to love, but she didn't think his politics were as corrupt as his sex drive.

"Such a coarse word, blackmail. I prefer to think of it as oiling the wheels of commerce. And with your mother taking over my living, I figure I'm going to need all the commercial support I can find. I didn't want the cops stumbling over the real dirt that Claudia had on Doug, so I decided to serve them up a delicious little red herring."

Caroline frowned. "I don't understand. You mean she wasn't blackmailing him over his infidelities?"

Raoul laughed. "You're so naive. You really think in this day and age that your husband's constituents would vote him out of office because he can't keep his fly zipped? Oh, it might lose him a few votes here and there with the fundamentalists, but it would pull in a lot more from all the guys who would love to be doing exactly what he's doing. But thankfully, our local detectives are just as credulous as you are. They won't doubt for a moment that keeping those photographs away from you would be enough of a reason for darling Doug to do what Claudia asked."

"You're saying there's more?"

Raoul crossed his legs. He looked as pleased as a cat that had just incapacitated a mouse. "Here's the way I see it. While it won't harm Doug's career in the long run if the world finds out what a sleaze he really is, it would be better all around if things just continued as they are. I don't think there's any need for you to get a divorce, Caroline. Don't rock the boat. Keep things on an even keel. Make it easy for Doug to earn the money he's going to need to keep me satisfied."

Caroline shook her head in disbelief. "You're crazy. I wouldn't stay married to Doug to save my life."

"Oh, I think you would. And that's just what you're going to have to do. Because what I know about Doug won't just destroy him. It'll destroy you, too. You'll be a social outcast. There's not an orchestra in the land that would give you a job. No, let me rephrase that. There's not an orchestra in the whole world that would have you. You'll be a leper for the rest of your life."

He was enjoying himself, she could see that. And she hated him for it. But there was something concrete underpinning his flesh-crawling confidence. "I don't believe you," she said defiantly. "Whatever Doug has done, it's his responsibility. It can't reflect on me."

"Oh, but it does, Caroline. Because you were a willing partner in this… enterprise."

"You're not making any sense at all."

Raoul uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, elbows on knees. "I assume you know about your mother's little indiscretion?"

Caroline's head came up, her eyes widening in astonishment. Claudia must have confided in her husband, she thought wildly. But what did this have to do with her and Doug? "You're still not making sense," she said, less certain of herself now.

"The child your mother gave up for adoption all those years ago went to a Mr. and Mrs. Blessing," Raoul said, grinning like a Halloween pumpkin.

Panic started to clench in Caroline's chest. She could feel her heart thudding, the cold sweat of fear breaking out on her neck. "No," she gasped, her pupils dilating as the adrenaline pumped into her system and her breath began to quicken.

"Oh, yes," Raoul said. "In keeping with that fine Southern tradition, you've been sleeping with your brother."

"You're lying. Where's your proof?"

Raoul got to his feet and crossed to her. Caroline shrank back against the soft cushions. He reached out and grabbed her left hand. "There's your proof. That angled little finger. You and Doug share the same genetic defect."

Caroline gazed at him in a long moment of stunned silence. Then her face crumpled and her shoulders started shaking. But she wasn't crying. It was laughter that shook her slender frame. "That… that's your proof?" she managed to squeeze out.

Raoul frowned. This wasn't how it was supposed to play. "You think incest is some kind of joke?"

Caroline struggled to take command of herself. With a final gulping hiccup, she managed to control her hysterical laughter. "My finger… It's not a genetic defect. I broke it badly when I was six years old. It happened at our cabin up in the mountains. By the time we got to a hospital, it was too late for them to straighten it out without surgery. So they just let it heal crooked." The stunned look on Raoul's face almost made her lose control again. "That's one of the reasons I took up the cello. My physical therapist said it would help to strengthen my hand."

Raoul took a step back, his scowling face a mask of suspicion. "You're making this up. Claudia had paperwork."

Caroline shook her head. She'd sobered up now and anger was beginning to assert itself. "Paperwork can be forged. Doug isn't my brother. Believe me, I'd know. And I'm warning you now. If a single word of your lies ever leaks out, I'll hit you with my hospital records and as many X rays of my hand as you care to see. Not to mention the DNA tests that would prove absolutely that you're a liar. It won't be me facing ruin, Raoul. It'll be you."

He was pale now, all his self-assurance gone. He was pathetic,

Caroline thought. No wonder Claudia had made sure he'd had no financial stake in her business. She stood up, contempt in her eyes. "Now get out of here before I call Detective Toscana."

Raoul turned on his heel and fled, leaving Caroline with the first unmixed moment of triumph she'd felt since she'd raided the fridge what seemed like a lifetime ago. What a piece of work Raoul was. But at least she knew one thing for certain. He'd never have the guts for murder.

The technicians had finally completed their work on the crime scene that had been a state-of-the-art nail studio and had moved on to Karen McElroy's last resting place in the foot spa. They'd lifted the heavy shelving away from Ondine, and now Vince was left alone with the medical examiner. Dr. Richmond pulled a face as the tacky nail polish attached itself to her overalls everywhere she touched it. "God, Vince, this is terrible," she complained as her latex-gloved hands began their initial probing of Ondine's body.

"Isn't it always, Sarah?"

"Bodies, I don't mind. But I've always thought cosmetics were more trouble than they were worth." There was a horrible slurping sound as Dr. Richmond turned the body over. Vince tried not to think about it.

Sarah Richmond's expert fingers moved over Ondine's shattered body. "The skull's pretty well crushed. Blunt-force trauma everywhere." She glanced up. "Those shelves must be damn heavy." She ran her hands expertly down the supermodel's torso. "Broken ribs, sternum feels like it might have gone, too." She was talking to herself, requiring no response from Vince.

"Sounds like she'd have taken less damage if she'd been hit by a truck." Vince knew what he was talking about. He'd seen the crushed results of vehicular homicide more times than he cared to remember. "Has she taken a beating, or was it the shelves falling that killed her?"

"Hard to tell at this stage," Sarah said absently. "I'll be able to say for sure once I've done the autopsy and matched up her injuries with the shelf unit." Then she frowned. "Hang on a minute. This isn't right." She leaned forward, delicately peeling back the waistband of Ondine's jogging pants. "There's something here, Vince. Can you get a photographer back here?"

He called for the cameraman and stooped over the body to try to make out what Sarah had seen.

"Look," she said. "There's something taped to her body, just alongside the hipbone." She leaned back to allow room for the photographer. Then she picked at one corner of the adhesive tape, pulling it free to reveal a small key. Vince reached into his pocket for a plastic evidence envelope and held it open for Sarah to drop the key in.

He held the envelope close to his face. "It may be small, but it's a serious-looking key," he said. "I'd guess a safety-deposit box or a safe. But I haven't seen anything around here that this would fit."

Sarah shrugged. "There's no reason why it belongs here. Maybe it's the key for a safe back home?"

"So why carry it taped to her skin? Why not keep it in her purse?"

Before they could speculate further, Mike rushed in, looking as pleased as a puppy dog who has finally mastered continence. In his hand, he clutched a videotape. "Vince, I think I've got something for you."

Vince brightened visibly. Anything that might move this bogged-down case forward had to be worth listening to. "Shoot, Mikey," he said.

"You know we've got a team going through all the security videos?"

Vince nodded.

"Well, one of the guys brought me this tape from the camera on the corner of the main building near the path to the lake. It's timed just before the attack on Phyllis Talmadge. You can see Ms. Talmadge walking into range and almost bumping into King David and Raoul de Vries. They've got their backs to the camera, but they're obviously deep in conversation. Then Howard Fondulac comes up behind Ms. Talmadge and listens in while she's talking to them." He paused expectantly, but his boss seemed more frustrated than excited by the news.

"Damn," Vince said. "Why the hell don't they have audio on these tapes?"

"Sir, we don't need audio," Mike replied, obviously bursting to reveal something extraordinary.

"We don't?"

"No, sir. See, my sister, she was born deaf. When she was little, I used to take her to lip-reading classes. I've always kept it up. And I could read Ms. Talmadge's lips."

Vince felt his mouth fall open. "You're kidding me."

"No, sir." He pulled his notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open. "This is what she said. I'm pretty much certain of it. 'I had to get out of that room. It's full of secrets. I could sense secrets and lies that touch all of us.' "

"You're sure about this?"

Mike nodded. "I watched it through a dozen times to make sure I wasn't mistaken. That's what she said."

"She never said a thing about running into those guys on her way to the lake," Vince said. "Why the hell would she keep quiet about something like that?"

Sarah Richmond stood up. "She's the one who got hit on the head and dumped in the lake, right? She might well have no recollection of it. Serious trauma to the head can often lead to patchy memory loss of the time immediately before the incident. There's probably nothing more sinister to it than that."

"Whatever. But we need to talk to the Talmadge woman. Now," Vince barked, delighted to have a purpose at last. "Let's head out to the hospital, Mikey."

"I checked with the hospital. She discharged herself this morning. She's back here, having a consultation with the nutritionist," he said. "She'll be done in about ten minutes."

"So what are we waiting for?" Vince demanded, heading for the door. "You did good, Mikey."

When Phyllis Talmadge emerged with her depressingly limited diet sheet, the two police officers were waiting for her. She seemed unsurprised to see them. "I had a feeling you'd want to talk to me some more," she said. "That crack on the head seems to have sharpened up my powers. I've already spoken to my agent about it, and she's arranging some press interviews so I can tell my public that far from being impaired by my injuries, my psychic abilities are stronger than they've ever been."

"Great," Vince said without enthusiasm. Just what the world needed. A reason for crackpots to smack their psychics upside the head when they didn't like their reading. He could hear the excuses now. But officer, I was only trying to help her get a clearer picture…

"Here's an example," the psychic continued, undaunted. She pointed to the small plastic bag containing the key that was still clutched in Vince's fingers. "That bag you're holding, it contains something belonging to the dead woman."

"Which one?" Vince said cynically. It wasn't too much of a stretch to guess that an evidence bag in the hand of a detective engaged in a murder investigation would contain an item that had been in the possession of the victim.

Phyllis frowned. "Why, Claudia, of course. You mean there have been more victims?"

Vince nodded. "We've just found Ondine dead. And Karen McElroy, the manicurist."

Phyllis nodded sagely. "I'm not surprised. I sensed there would be more deaths before the day was over. But whatever you've got in that bag didn't belong to either of them. It was Claudia's. The vibrations are unmistakable."

Intrigued now, Vince opened his hand and revealed the key. "You're telling me this key was Claudia's?"

"May I?" Phyllis said, reaching for the bag.

"Be my guest. But don't take it out."

Phyllis took the bag and placed it between her hands, which she folded into the shape of prayer. She raised them to her face, the tips of her index fingers against her lips. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. Vince glanced at Mike, who was staring at the squat little woman with something approaching awe. He was surrounded by nutcases, Vince thought wearily.

Phyllis's eyes snapped open and her hands fell away from her face. "There's no mistake," she said. "This key was definitely Claudia's."

"I don't suppose your guiding spirits told you where I'll find the lock belonging to the key?" Vince said, struggling to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

"Not exactly," she admitted, handing it back to him.

"I didn't think so. Now, we have a couple of questions for you-"

"But it's somewhere in that room you're using to interview us," Phyllis interrupted.

"What?" Vince exclaimed.

"That key. Whatever it opens is in that room."

"But there's nothing in there with a lock," he protested.

Phyllis shrugged. "Suit yourself. But I trust my powers. There must be a hidden safe or something like that. When I was in there before, I was oppressed by the feeling that the room was filled with secrets," she added triumphantly.

Mike gasped. "That's what you said to King David and Raoul de Vries."

Phyllis looked puzzled. "I did?"

"On your way to the lake. You told them you had to get out of the interview room because it was full of secrets and lies."

"I don't remember that," she said, confusion furrowing her brow. "But you're right, I did experience the aura of hiddenness and fear there."

Vince rolled his eyes. "I guess there's only one way to check this out. We need to search that room."

If Christopher Lund had known what had befallen Ondine, he would have been in no mood for relaxation. But so far, he was ignorant of her fate, and all he was conscious of was the need to unwind. He had nothing to fear. Only Claudia had known about the terms of their deal. Now, if the payments came to light, he could explain that Claudia was paying up front for Ondine's endorsement of the spa, which would be completed with an illustrated brochure. So what if Ondine denied all knowledge of the arrangement? She seldom knew very far in advance what he had planned for her. That she didn't know about it meant nothing. He could explain it all away, if only he could keep calm.

The steam cabinet would help, Dante had assured him. It would sweat away impurities, leaving him cleansed and languid, ready for the gentle aromatherapy massage that would follow.

It was just as well he wasn't claustrophobic, Christopher thought. For someone who didn't like confined spaces, the steam cabinet would be a decent facsimile of hell. Only his head was in the open air. The rest of his body was enclosed in the cabinet, sealed with a padded collar. The temperature was thermostatically controlled by a feedback system that reacted to the sensors Dante had carefully placed in a dozen locations around his body. And as a fail-safe there was a reassuring call button in the armrest of the cabinet, which could be used to summon help if he felt he was overheating.

He closed his eyes and felt the sweat trickling down his face as he let the saxophone of Kenny G wash over him. He was glad he'd brought his own CDs along to the spa. Five minutes in the place, and he knew all they ever played here was the whale music and Peruvian rain forest sounds that he despised. New Age garbage, all of it. This was more like it. Cool music, hot steam, and the prospect of a couple of lines of coke waiting in his cottage when the treatment was over.

His blissed-out state was abruptly halted by the clatter of something falling to the floor. Suddenly alert, Christopher looked around him in confusion. The person standing in front of the control panel obviously wasn't a member of staff. And the screwdriver that was still rolling toward him wasn't part of any health regimen that Christopher had ever heard of. The person turned to face him, eyebrows drawn down in a ferocious glare. With a surge of fear that turned his insides liquid, Christopher realized he was looking into the eyes of a killer. A killer who had just removed the cover of the panel containing the thermostatic controls for the steam cabinet.

His first thought was the panic button. He fumbled for it, his fingers slick with sweat and steam. He pressed as hard as he could, feeling relief creep through him.

As if possessed of X-ray vision, the killer produced a predator's smile. "No point in hitting the panic button, Chris. I already fused the controls. It'll look just like a short circuit. It's just you and me now. You and me and the big heat."

"What's going on?" the agent stammered. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"It's called vengeance. You killed Ondine, now I'm going to kill you."

"What? Are you crazy? Ondine's not dead!"

The killer crossed the room in a few short strides and slapped Christopher's face. "You bastard. There's no point in pretending. I know what you did."

"Okay, okay. You say she's dead. But why would I kill Ondine? She's my meal ticket." Christopher's voice was a squeal of anguish.

"I don't know why you killed her. Maybe she finally got wise to your chiseling little schemes. All I know is that I saw you leave the building. You were running, like you were running away from something. And by the time I got inside the manicure studio, she was dead. You killed her." The low voice was hoarse with passionate anger. "And now you're going to pay with your pathetic little life." The killer stepped back and picked up the screwdriver, then returned to the control panel and began to tinker with it again.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Christopher could feel the temperature rising now. His fingers were starting to swell, his throat to dry up. "I swear," he said desperately. "I didn't even know Ondine was in the manicure studio. Let me out of here. You're making a big mistake. Kill me, and Ondine's killer walks free."

The killer ignored the desperate pleas and replaced the cover on the control panel, screwing it firmly down.

"You've got it all wrong," Christopher sobbed. "Let me out of here, I promise I won't tell a soul. We'll track down the real killer together."

The killer glared at him. "You expect me to believe you? I don't think so."

Terror gripped Christopher. He opened his mouth to scream, but it was already too late. As his jaws widened, the killer moved fast, a hand snaking out to grab one of the small towels on a nearby table. Powerful fingers stuffed it into Christopher's mouth, making anything more than a muffled mumble impossible, then pinched his nostrils tight between thumb and forefinger.

Watching Christopher's face turn from scarlet to purple, the killer didn't flinch. There was a cold relish in the eyes that stared down into Christopher's panicked gaze. At last, Christopher broke their locked stare, his eyes rolling back in their sockets and suddenly dulling. The killer waited a few moments to make sure that the cheating murderer in the steam cabinet would never breathe again, then pulled the towel out of his mouth and carefully wiped both sides of Christopher's nose. There was no point in risking the possibility that the police would be able to lift fingerprints from the skin. As promised, the death would look like nothing more sinister than an unlucky accident. Nothing could bring the beautiful, fragile Ondine back. But at least she had been avenged.