Remembrance (The Mediator #7) (31 page)

Well, tonight he was going to get what he wanted: my full and uninterrupted attention.

“Yeah, Paul. That’s exactly what we’re doing. Picking up naughty portraits I had made of myself for you. Now come on, we have to hurry, since you were so late. He closes up shop at six.”

Paul was so excited he practically skipped through the bar. I couldn’t help noticing how much female attention he attracted (and not because he was practically skipping). He was even taller than I remembered, his neatly trimmed dark hair curling crisply against the back of his tanned neck. Either the shoulders of the suit jacket were padded, or he’d bulked up there, too, in the muscle department.

Well, I suppose being a multimillionaire, he could afford a couple of personal trainers, along with a chef and a nutritionist. He certainly seemed to have found a good stylist. His pale blue tie perfectly matched his pale blue pocket square, which in turn matched his pale blue eyes.

“Your attitude toward all this has certainly improved,” he remarked as we headed out the revolving lobby doors to stand beneath the porte cochere, waiting with the other guests for the valets to bring their cars. “What happened to change your mind from the other day? I mean, aside from the obvious—that I hold your boyfriend’s life . . . or rather, afterlife—in my hands.”

“Well.” I affected the bored demeanor of Mrs. Baracus, tired of her jet-set life. “We did have some good times, I suppose, you and I.”

He grinned. “We did, didn’t we? Remember when we shifted back to the Old West and that lady kicked you out of your own house because she thought you were a whore? That was the
best.
”

I kept a smile plastered on my face, even though I noticed an older couple standing near us, also waiting for their car, the wife pretending to be concentrating on reapplying her lipstick, but clearly eavesdropping.

“I do remember that. Then you stuck a gag in my mouth and left me tied up in a barn while you tried to kill Jesse. Even then, you had a one-track mind.”

The wife smeared her lipstick, then elbowed her husband, hard, in the ribs.

Fortunately the valet roared up in Jake’s car, which I’d convinced Jesse I should use for the weekend, as he didn’t need to be parking a BMW with a trunk full of weapons in the hospital parking lot.

“What if it gets broken into?” I’d asked him. “Some lunatic could find Brad’s rifle and next thing you know, he’ll come running into the ER, shooting up the place. Do you want that on your conscience?”

Jesse had admitted that no, he did not want that on his conscience, but mentioned that I watch too much television and have a tendency to catastrophize things. If only he knew.

“Nice ride,” Paul said as he slid behind the wheel of the convertible. He adjusted the seat to accommodate his longer legs. “I guess people with graduate degrees in counseling make more scratch than I’ve been led to believe.”

I buckled my seat belt. “Just drive.”

He did as I asked, taking us up Ocean Avenue, downtown Carmel’s main drag, at a breakneck speed. Even though there was still a little less than a week to Thanksgiving, the town council had decided it was never too early to start decorating for Christmas, so tasteful white fairy lights wrapped the trunks of the palm trees up and down the street.

“Ah, Suze.” Paul sighed happily. “Being back in your company is like having a refreshing breeze in my hair. Or maybe that’s the actual breeze. I forgot how freaking cold it gets around here when the sun goes down. Where are we going again?”

I told him the address and pointed. “It’s that way.”

“I’m aware of that, Suze. I used to live here, remember? And once principal construction begins on the new development—well, it’s probably better not to bring that up. You sure you’re not still pissed at me, Suze?”

“Not now that I’ve become more accustomed to the idea,” I lied.

“Well, I just want you to know that you don’t have to worry. If things don’t go the way I’m hoping tonight—but I’m feeling very optimistic that they will—I will do everything in my power to protect you from that boyfriend of yours once he goes all savage beast on you. There’s a safe room on my new jet, you know.”

It was extremely hard to summon up a smile, but I managed. “That’s so sweet of you, Paul. Pull over. We’re here.”

We were lucky to find a parking space. The art galleries and shops tended to stay open late, especially on weekends and holidays, when there were more tourists in town. The owners hoped the window displays would catch the eye of couples strolling down the street after dinner, and that they’d enter the store and buy a coffee table shaped like a couple of leaping gray whales for a mere $40,000.

Delgado Photography Studio was a picturesque little place tucked between a jewelry store and a shop that sold handcrafted women’s clothing made of all-natural materials that even Aunt Pru wouldn’t be caught dead in, if she could afford it, which she couldn’t because the cheapest thing was a scarf for $200.

Delgado’s had a black-and-white theme. All brick, it was painted black to look more avant-garde, with some blown-up black-and-white photos in the window of the sweeping cliffs of Big Sur and crashing surf of Monterey Bay, surrounded by smaller black-and-white headshots of children—mostly girls—staring with intense energy into the camera, their hair windswept or stuck to their round cheeks from sea spray.

I felt the bile rise once again in my throat. Fortunately I still had plenty of antacids in my purse. Among other things.

“This is the place?” Paul asked, looking at the photos in the display window. “These don’t look very sexy. They’re all of kids.” There was a noticeable lack of enthusiasm in his voice.

“Just wait. May I have the keys?”

“Sure.” Paul surrendered the car keys, then watched as I went to the back of the convertible.

“What’s in there?” he asked, pointing at the large sports bag I drew from the trunk.

I winked at him. “Supplies.”

Paul grinned. “Whoa. I get it. So this whole thing”—he waved a hand over my outfit—“with the glasses and the suit is a getup for the photo session, and you’re going to change once you get in there? Go from schoolmarm to sex kitten?”

“Something like that,” I said, walking to the studio door.

“Kinky,” Paul said appreciatively. “You know, I like how into this you’re getting, Simon. You’re making me feel kind of bad for what’s going to happen to Jesse when we—” He made a slashing motion under his neck, the same one I’d made to the bartender to cancel Paul’s drink order. Only Paul made it to show how casually he planned to cancel Jesse’s life plans. “Especially since I heard what happened to Father Dominic. I know I said I don’t read the Alumni Newsletter, but I glanced at today’s update, and saw he had a fall.”

“He did.” I joined him at the door, standing only a half foot away from him, my high heels making me tall enough to lift my chin and look him in the eye.

“I’m sorry about that,” Paul said, his face only inches from mine. “I know how much you like that old man. I sent him some flowers, and a donation to the school, since I figured that’s what a decent person would do, and that’s what he’d really like—you, too. And God knows, I can spare the money.”

“That was sweet of you, Paul.” My gaze dropped to his lips. “Thank you.”

“I’m not all bad, you know, Suze,” he whispered. His gaze was on my lips, too. “I mean, I am, of course, but not really. I’m not
dark
. Not like that boyfriend of yours. I like you, and that has to count for something, right?”

“Does it, Paul?” I asked. “I’m not sure it’s enough, exactly. But you know what I
do
know?”

“What?” he asked, his hands going to my hips.

“You’re not the only one.”

His lips had begun dipping down toward mine, but now he pulled away slightly, looking confused. “What do you mean?”

“Who’s bad. I’m bad, too. Much worse than you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

He grinned, liking the sound of that, leaning forward so that he was pressing me into the doorway. I could feel every inch of him through the Italian wool of his suit. It wasn’t lined. That must be itchy, I thought, in the distant part of my brain that wasn’t extremely alarmed at feeling another man’s private parts against me. Was he even wearing underwear? It didn’t feel like it. Trust Paul to go commando. Quicker access.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for you to admit that, Simon.” His breath was warm on my cheek. “But now that you have, we can finally—”

I reached up to lay a finger over his lips. “Not that kind of bad, Paul,” I said. “I mean your-worst-nightmare bad. You thought tearing down my house was going to release the darkness inside of Jesse? Wait until you see the darkness it’s released in me. Come here. I’ll show you.”

I grabbed his tie, opened the door to the photography studio, and pulled him inside after me.

veintiseis

“
You must be Mr. and Mrs. Maitland,” the man behind the desk said, beaming, as we walked in. “I’d almost given up hope.”

“Sorry we’re so late.” I smiled at him. “My husband had a business meeting. Do you mind if I set this down over here?” I indicated the sports bag over my shoulder. “It’s heavy.”

“Oh, please, allow me.” The man—taller than I’d expected, even though Becca had warned me—hurried out from behind the shiny black lacquer desk to relieve me of the bag. He set it where I’d been meaning to, next to a black plaster statue of a young female ballerina, standing in third position. Her tutu was of real black tulle.

“You must work out,” the man said to me, laughingly, because the bag weighed so much.

“I do. Are you Mr. Delgado?”

“I am.” He extended his right hand. He had short-cropped graying hair that looked as if it had probably been dirty blond at one time, and a sizeable gut. “James Delgado. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Maitland.”

I tried not to let my nausea show as I slipped my fingers into his. “Same here.” His hand felt like any other hand, even though it had killed Lucia Martinez, one horse, and for all I knew, many other innocent creatures as well.

He wore wire-rimmed glasses and had the large, raw-knuckled hands of someone who’d worked, at least for a while, outdoors—or possibly in a stable. He looked a bit like Santa Claus, as the beard, glasses, and belly had prematurely aged him. According to the small business owner’s license CeeCee had found for him online—after much complaining—James Delgado was thirty-five years old.

Looking at him, it would be impossible to guess he was a child killer.

Paul, it was clear, had no idea.

“
This
guy’s the photographer?” he asked in a loud whisper, directly in my ear. Even though I’d let go of his tie as soon as we’d walked in, he was still sticking to me like glue. He seemed confused, probably because of the bit just before we’d come in, where I said he’d released something in me. He still didn’t understand that what he’d released in me wasn’t anything flattering.

I shot him the kind of annoyed glance a rich wife would give her hapless husband.

“Yes, dear. Remember? We talked about this.”

“We did?” Paul was much slower than Jesse to pick up on my cues. He stood looking around the gallery, which, like the wall outside, was painted black. This made the photographs on the wall stand out more starkly. Even the floors and ceiling were black.

How daring,
I’m sure a young Jimmy Delgado had thought when he’d come up with the concept.

I gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Mr. Delgado. My husband, Victor, was in meetings all day. I didn’t really get a chance to discuss this with him.”

“I understand.” Delgado gave Paul a sympathetic smile. “Such a shame you’re only here for the weekend, Mr. Maitland. And for a conference, too! Carmel is simply beautiful this time of year. But don’t worry, I’ve assured your wife I can squeeze in your girls. I happen to have had a cancellation tomorrow—the birthday girl has the flu—so it’s fine if you want to drop your adorable daughters off for some headshots. You and your wife don’t even need to stay if you want some private time. My assistant and I are used to wrangling rambunctious multiples.”

After that speech, I had to dive into my bag for the antacids, so I didn’t get to see Paul’s expression as he echoed, “Multiples?”

“That’s right, darling.” I dug my phone from my purse, too, as well as the antacid tablets, then scrolled to the photo the triplets had taken of themselves and set as my screensaver the day before. “I’ve set up an appointment for Mr. Delgado to do some headshots of your daughters.”

Paul only looked more confused than ever.

“I e-mailed Mr. Delgado some photos of them earlier,” I went on, “and he wrote back right away. He thinks they’ve got real modeling potential. I think so, too. Don’t you?”

I showed Paul the photo of Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail. He took my phone and stared at the photo without a single flicker of recognition.

“Uh, sure, honey,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

It was obvious from his expression that he’d not only never seen a photo of the triplets before in his life, but that he was hurt—hurt that the only reason we were in the studio was to con Delgado,
not
for me to take off my clothes and give Paul a professional eight-by-ten glossy print of myself in my naked glory, perhaps posing with a tastefully positioned feathered fan.

If Paul was reading CeeCee’s newsletter, he was skipping any entries about Debbie, because they
always
included a photo of the triplets.

But seeing their likeness so close to him, I was more convinced than ever that they were related. They could have been clones, except for the fact that the girls all had braids and freckles.

Passing my phone back to me, Paul whispered, “Is this about some goddamned ghost?”

“You’re just figuring that out now?” I whispered back.

“I swear to God, Simon, if this makes us late to dinner—”

“No one said anything about being late to dinner.”

His jaw hardened. The blue-eyed gaze narrowed at me. “The deal was that we were going to—”

“—have dinner at eight o’clock. With
dessert
afterward. Don’t worry, we won’t be late.” I pressed a button on my phone and said in a much louder voice, “Victor says tomorrow will work fine, Mr. Delgado.”