The Night Visitor Read online

  The images faded but didn’t stop. She sensed that she was inside Junior’s favorite memory, the one he visited endlessly, and watched herself as she coquettishly dropped her foot to the floor, stretched out on the old sofa, and arched her back, ready for him.

  * * *

  Tom was sitting on the bed and jerked when the bathroom door flew open with sufficient force to bang against the wall. He’d expected to find Rory dressed, but she was nude. He had but a second to register how thin she’d become and to see her bruised and bloody torso and thighs before she was on him, clawing at his clothes.

  She pushed him onto the bed and was quickly astride him, taking him with a fury that he didn’t know she possessed. She was lost inside the passion. In a moment, he was too.

  37

  Henry Auburn was at his desk in the police station, looking through the Anya Langtry murder book. It was Sunday evening and the Detective Section was nearly deserted. He had never really put the Five Points shootings behind him. Danny Lara’s killing had brought it back to the surface again. All the pieces fit, but the edges chafed. He couldn’t prove Rory Langtry or the Tate family’s involvement in what had happened at the Killingsworth Building in Five Points, but he felt it.

  Five years ago there had been fierce pressure on the Pasadena Police Department to find Anya Langtry’s killer. Junior Lara had been an easy target, especially because he was in a coma and not expected to live. Auburn had resisted his boss and the DA’s decision to file murder charges against Junior. Auburn’s boss had been a lieutenant then. Now he was a captain.

  Auburn recalled arriving at the scene in Five Points. It was two o’clock on a hot September afternoon. The Santa Anas had blown hard the night before. Refuse and dirt were shoved against the buildings and street curbs.

  The name Five Points wasn’t on any map. It was what the Pasadena locals called a broad intersection at the convergence of five streets in the northwestern part of the city. The triangular Killingsworth Building was on one corner. The building had been constructed in 1921 for the Killingsworth Printed Document Company, then the largest manufacturer of bank checks west of the Mississippi. After the company had vacated the building in 1979, the property had passed through several owners, going into foreclosure during the Great Recession, when Junior Lara had bought it for a song. Junior had ambitious plans to turn the dilapidated building into galleries and residences for artists, hoping it would be a first step in revitalizing the neighborhood. His dream died the night of the shootings.

  The crime had been discovered by Ethan Byrd, an artist friend of Junior’s who’d come to pick up Junior to have coffee with friends. When Byrd had exited the old elevator into Junior’s sixth-floor loft, he’d been surprised to see Junior’s doves roosting on the exposed pipes. Byrd had found the victims on the floor behind a vintage couch.

  By the time Auburn arrived, Junior had been taken to a hospital and EMTs had tromped through the scene. The space was bright with sunlight spilling through tall, arched windows. Two easels stood near where the victims had been found. One easel held the finished nude portrait of Anya. Junior’s signature in oil paint was still wet. Anya’s pose was overtly sexual—stretched out on a couch, hands above her head, legs crossed at the ankles. She wore only heeled bedroom slippers. Auburn had come to learn that the portrait was nearly identical to a nude that Junior had painted of Rory. The nude of Anya had been slashed to ribbons. The second easel had been empty.

  Auburn looked at the photos of Anya’s body. A bullet fired from her gun had entered her right eye. A bullet wound in her left thigh had hardly bled. The coroner had determined that the thigh wound had been inflicted postmortem. The gun had probably discharged when Junior fell.

  Auburn had another theory. Someone had shot Junior, put the murder weapon in his hand, fired that final shot, and dropped the gun near his right hand.

  Junior’s fingerprints had been on the gun. Gunpowder residue had been on his right hand and arm. It had been impossible to test for blood blowback on Junior’s clothing because he had fallen beside Anya and been drenched in both her and his blood. There had been scuffle marks in the blood. The partial shoe prints they’d recovered had matched the boots Junior had been wearing. His boots had had Anya’s blood on them.

  Many things about this case troubled Auburn, but the evidence that Junior had slipped in Anya’s blood bothered him the most. Anya had been lying on the floor bleeding long enough for a pool of blood to form. Even if Junior had shot her earlier and come back to look at her, it’s unlikely he would have stepped in her blood, much less slipped in it. Auburn speculated that Junior had been startled when he stumbled upon Anya’s body.

  Auburn reviewed his reports. On the night of the shootings, Junior had attended a gallery opening with a friend. The friend said that Junior took a call on his cell phone around eleven p.m. He told the caller that he’d be home in an hour. The friend said the call had ticked off Junior.

  A short time later, Junior got another call. The friend thought it was Rory. Junior made an excuse to her. “No, baby, I can’t. I have some work to take care of. Let’s get together tomorrow and go to that movie you wanted to see.”

  After a few minutes, Junior left, saying, “Gotta take off.”

  The friend thought that Junior was stepping out on Rory.

  Rory later admitted that she called Junior shortly after eleven p.m. She knew he’d been at the gallery opening. She said that Junior hadn’t expressly invited her, but she hadn’t pressed to go because she knew he wanted to hang out with his friends, and she had work to catch up on anyway. She’d spent the night at home, alone.

  The accepted scenario was that Anya and Junior had been seeing each other behind Rory’s back. He met Anya in his loft that night and they had an argument. Maybe Junior wanted to end the affair, which enraged Anya. She might have threatened to tell Rory about it. Now Junior’s enraged. He started slashing the nude of Anya, which his friends claimed he regretted agreeing to paint. Junior felt as if taking that job had put him under Anya’s boot. In the loft that night, Anya got her gun from her purse and threatened to shoot Junior if he didn’t stop destroying her painting. They struggled for the gun. Junior grabbed it away and shot her in a moment of rage. Or they struggled for the gun and it went off. After, Junior was so distraught he shot himself.

  For Auburn, the more likely scenario was that Anya arrived at the loft before Junior. Someone shot her with her gun. Junior came home. The shooter hid. Junior was shocked to find Anya’s body, and he slipped in her blood. The shooter came up behind him and fired.

  His cell phone rang.

  “Auburn.”

  “It’s Rory Langtry.”

  He sat straighter in his chair. “Yes, Rory.”

  “On the night of the Five Points shootings, how many of Anya’s cell phones were on the big library table with her purse?”

  “Why are you asking me that?” He turned to the crime-scene photos. Beside Anya’s purse was a single cell phone. It had a hot-pink cover.

  “Detective, the night Anya was murdered, she left two cell phones on the big table in Junior’s loft. One had a pink cover. That was the one she usually used. But there was another one there that had a tiger-striped, rhinestone cover and a little gold charm of a tiger’s head. It was one of her dedicated cell phones she used for just one person. Did you recover both phones?”

  He looked at the evidence log. “How do you know which phones were at the scene?”

  “I just do. I need you to believe me. Listen. That night Junior’s doves were loose inside his loft, weren’t they? The coop on the roof had been left open. The doves were Junior’s pets, and he’d sometimes bring them into his loft. The lights were on and they flew in through the open windows. But the lights were off when you arrived, weren’t they? I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Auburn remembered those details without having to go through his records. “Yes, you’re right. Tell me how you know this.”

  “Let’s just say that I
saw it in a dream.”

  “I want to speak with you in person. Are you at the Tate home?”

  “I told you about the doves because I need you to believe me that Anya had two phones at Junior’s loft that night. I’ve put myself out there for you, Detective. The least you can do is tell me whether you have both phones.”

  Rory heard him exhaling.

  He said, “We have the phone with the pink cover. We did not find a phone with a rhinestone cover.”

  In her mind, Rory saw both phones on the table just as Junior must have seen them. He’d planted the image in her mind. “Anya’s murderer must have taken it, Detective.”

  “And who is that?”

  “I don’t know. I have another question. Was my sister pregnant when she died?”

  “The autopsy didn’t show any evidence of pregnancy. Did Anya tell you she was pregnant?”

  “I have to go, Detective. Goodbye.” She hung up.

  38

  Rory was back at the villa, dressed for her mother’s dinner party. It was time to go downstairs, but she remained in a chair in her suite, gazing out a window.

  She inhaled deeply, taking in the fragrance of her perfume mingled with the aroma of jasmine, which was blooming beneath the windows. She could separate the scents from the now ever-present acrid smell of Junior’s hospital room. She could nearly block out the sensory elements of Junior’s world. Nearly, but not completely. That phase was over. He was with her now all the time. The channel was fully open. Her mind and senses felt more alive than ever at the price of feeling increasingly unwell physically.

  She didn’t think that Junior wanted to harm her or Danny. It was just something that happened. He had needed Danny’s help to clear his name and was horrified when that had incited Danny’s misguided desire for vengeance. In trying to save her from Danny, Junior had opened a pathway to Rory. She didn’t know how it would end. All she could do was see it through. She was excited and afraid.

  * * *

  On her way to the front door, Evelyn sipped a pale-green, sour-apple martini that sloshed in her glass with each step. She set her drink on a marble-topped table as she approached the door, which Rosario had opened. “Richie and Paige. So nice to see you.”

  Evelyn extended her arms toward Richard’s son. He circled his arms around her without really touching her and lightly patted her back. Paige was more cordial, hugging Evelyn and complimenting her on her dress.

  “It’s Angel Hunt.” Evelyn smoothed the chartreuse silk. “Rory’s discovery.”

  “Leave it to Ro to find the best of everything before anyone else.” Paige touched Evelyn’s hand with her fingertips and leaned in confidentially. “How is Rory?”

  “She’s fabulous.”

  “Is she coming to dinner?”

  “Of course,” Evelyn said. “Why wouldn’t she?”

  Paige turned to Richie with an I-told-you-so look.

  “According to Dad, Rory doesn’t look so good,” Richie said.

  “I have no idea on what basis your father has made that observation, as he’s hardly seen her,” Evelyn said. “I’m with Rory every day, and I can tell you that she’s doing marvelously.”

  While Evelyn was still speaking, Richie began walking across the foyer. After several paces, he turned, seeing that his wife hadn’t budged. “Paige.”

  Paige started forward.

  Evelyn put out her hand, stopping her. “That’ll give you cancer, you know,” she said under her breath as she retrieved her cocktail.

  Paige looked with curiosity at Evelyn. “What will?”

  “Behaving like a Stepford wife.”

  Paige opened her mouth with amusement, revealing picture-perfect teeth. “Evelyn, I just love you. That wacky sense of humor of yours.”

  Richie glared at Evelyn.

  Evelyn said, “Richard, Leland, and Tom are having cocktails in the ballroom. You kids go ahead and I’ll join you in a moment.”

  When they were gone, Evelyn raised her glass in a private toast. “Here’s to getting together with family. I just love it.” She drained her glass and strolled toward the ballroom.

  * * *

  The ballroom was lined with French doors that opened onto Evelyn’s cherished rose garden. A grand piano was in a corner. Seating areas were arranged in clusters to break up the large space. The small group of dinner guests was relaxing on sofas and upholstered chairs in front of the imposing stone fireplace. During cool temperatures, a fire would be roaring, but today the flames from a dozen off-white pillar candles arranged at different levels cast a pleasing glow. Hector was behind a long mahogany bar. Rosario served appetizers from a silver tray.

  Leland wiped flakes of puff pastry from his lips with a linen cocktail napkin that was embroidered with a cursive T. When Evelyn entered the room, he was updating Richie, Paige, Tom, and Richard on his meeting with Sylvia Torres and her mother earlier that day in Junior’s hospital room.

  “Just as well,” Richie said. “I didn’t want to pay to bury Daniel Lara in the first place.”

  Evelyn took her empty glass to the bar. Without a word, Hector put it inside a dishwasher installed beneath the bar and pulled a fresh martini glass from where it was facedown in a vat of chipped ice. He sliced a ribbon from a Granny Smith apple, dropped it inside the glass, and filled it from a glass pitcher of sour-apple martinis that he took from a small refrigerator. He smiled as he set the glass atop a linen napkin.

  “Hector, you are a jewel. Thank you.” Evelyn picked up the glass and napkin and joined the group, sitting on a Queen Anne–style chair. “I’m glad we extended the offer to pay the funeral expenses.” She took a sip of her fresh drink and set the glass on an end table beside her.

  Tom sipped merlot and looked at his watch. Rory still hadn’t come down. He wanted to check on her but didn’t want to draw attention. He caught Evelyn’s glance and could tell she was thinking the same thing.

  “Enough talk about the Laras,” Evelyn said. “I have big news. I found out today that I’m getting my star on Hollywood Boulevard.” She held up both hands as if waiting for applause.

  “That’s just terrific, Evie.” Richard went to kiss his wife. “I know how long you’d hoped for that.”

  “Kudos, Evelyn.” Leland raised his glass.

  “That’s fantastic,” Paige said. “I want to come to the ceremony.”

  Richie said, “Star? What am I missing?”

  “The Hollywood Walk of Fame. The pink granite stars in the sidewalk.” Evelyn knew that Richie was being intentionally difficult. “The Langtry Cosmetics offices are there.”

  “I never walk around that neighborhood,” Richie said. “I park my car in the building and go up.”

  Paige nursed a glass of pinot grigio. “Evelyn, where will they put your star?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’d like it near Grauman’s Chinese Theatre.” Evelyn leveled a glance at her husband. “We may have to pull strings to make that happen.” She heard her daughter’s approach in the hall and looked toward the doorway. “There’s our bride.”

  Rory had reached the top of the three steps that led down into the ballroom, but in her mind she was walking into Junior’s loft. Junior was reliving the night of the Five Points shootings over and over, and so was Rory. Exiting the elevator. Doves flying crazily. The slashed paintings. Anya’s blood. Then falling, falling into darkness.

  Junior, stop. I can’t think straight.

  She smiled tensely as she held on to the railing and started down the steps. “Hello, everyone. Please don’t get up.” She walked carefully, having left her quad cane in the suite, refusing to let Richie and Richard see her using it.

  Tom approached her. She gave him a peck on the lips. Seeing the concern in his eyes, she whispered, “I’m fine.”

  He held on to her elbow as she greeted everyone. “Hi, Paige. I love that color on you. Is that the Anya fragrance I detect? Isn’t it the best? It’s going to be a classic, just like Chanel Number Five. How are the kids? R
ichie, great to see you. Leland, hello. Mom, you’re wearing your new Angel Hunt. Aren’t you glad I talked you into buying it? Hi, Richard. Seems like ages since I’ve seen you. We’ve just been two ships passing in the night. Hector, may I have a sparkling water, please?” She moved to a chair and sat.

  Tom saw that she was still wearing the opal and diamond ring she’d put on in her condo.

  Hector brought her the water with a cocktail napkin. “Thank you.” Rory coughed and held the cocktail napkin over her mouth. “Excuse me.”

  Hector quickly brought another napkin. “Thanks. I’m so happy you invited everyone over, Mom.” Rory stretched to set her glass atop the napkin on a coffee table. Tom rose up when she wavered a little. She recovered and moved smoothly and deliberately. She struggled to catch her breath. The short trip from the suite had winded her and she tried to hide it. She was lively and animated, but it was overdone, bordering on mania.

  No one could take their eyes off Rory.

  39

  Rory seemed as if she was doing a bad imitation of herself. The beautiful emerald-green cocktail dress, which was one of her favorites, hung from her emaciated shoulders like a gunnysack. Her skin was sallow. Her rose lipstick was caked on her chapped lips. Her makeup, which she’d done up for the party, looked garish, as if applied on an overly painted corpse. Her fine blond hair was dull and lay close to her skull.

  “By the way, Richie, I’ll be in the office by Wednesday. I called Lee and had him email me the latest financials so I can hit the ground running.”

  Richie shifted nervously on the sofa. “Look Rory, we have some things to discuss first.”

  “What things?” Rory slipped her left hand under her thigh, touching her skin beneath the flowing hem of her dress. She began scratching the side of her thigh with her fingernail, going up three times and down three times.

  Richard interrupted. “Come on, sport. This is a party. You can discuss business tomorrow.”

  Rosario held a tray of appetizers for Rory. Rory took a small plate from Rosario. “Is that bacon-wrapped liver?” She piled several on the plate along with skewers of grilled beef. “Thank you, Rosario.”