A Dark Homage, page 14
Barb said, “I’ll do it. I’ve taken care of the horses before. And the dogs can stay with me.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Okay, then.”
“Great!” Barb sounded genuinely relieved.
“Gotta go.” She stuck a hand under the shower spray. Plenty hot.
“I appreciate this, Delilah. Don’t forget to pick up Anders.”
Delilah felt a shock run down her spine. “Anders?”
Barb laughed. “It’s his friend you’re staying with. I’m the only loser who had to back out.”
Great. Delilah clicked off the phone and climbed into the shower. She let the warm water snake down her back, and run, unfettered, through her hair, streaming into her eyes and mouth. The sting felt cleansing.
What was she trying to wash away? The unease caused by her mother’s impending visit? Even if the New York trip delayed it, inevitably she would come raging into Delilah’s life like a storm surge. Maybe it was the trip itself and days without the horses. Delilah, the homebody.
Or maybe it was Anders. They hadn’t spoken since she’d driven him home, two days ago. She wished she knew why his presence turned her into an awkward teenager, snappish and inarticulate.
Delilah reached for the shower knobs, turning the handle as far left as it would go. She wanted the burn. She wanted the water so hot that she could hardly stand it.
Anders was late.
Delilah pulled up outside of his Doylestown apartment at one o’clock in the afternoon. She drove the Honda and had the air conditioner on full-blast to try and combat the scorching mid-day sun.
Anders lived above a bookstore in a historic building two streets off the main drag. The quaint Doylestown shopping district—street after street of brick, stone and stucco buildings, some dating back two hundred years or more—bustled at this hour. Delilah waited in a no-parking zone, her briefcase and lap top bag on the back seat, one small suitcase in the trunk. Where was Anders?
Delilah felt someone’s gaze on her. She looked up, expecting to see Anders, and instead caught a glimpse of a bald-headed man, scalp as bare as a baby’s bottom, in a nondescript car across the street parked in a red zone. The guy’s gaze was now on a paper he held in his hands, but Delilah could have sworn he’d been staring at her. She looked down at her lap, watching him out of the corner of her eye. Sure enough, a few seconds later he was looking at her again.
Could be just another guy waiting for someone. Or he could be—
Tap, tap, tap.
Startled, Delilah glanced at the passenger side of the car. Anders stood outside the Honda, dressed in khakis, and a faded red Life is Good T-shirt. He flashed a tired smile.
“Sorry I’m late. I had some stuff to deal with.”
Based on the way he said it, having stuff to deal with was not good. None of my business, Delilah thought, and turned her attention back to the bald man. His car was gone.
“Something up?”
Delilah shrugged. Probably nothing. She looked around one more time, searching for a flash of bald scalp. The coast was clear. Still feeling uneasy, she started the car.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
An exotic-looking woman with long, silken black hair met Delilah and Anders at the door of a posh Upper East Side townhome. She hugged Anders with a warmth both sensual and maternal. Anders grinned like a boy on his first date. He turned to introduce Delilah.
“Tula Rajav, this is my boss, Delilah Percy Powers.”
Tula took one of Delilah’s hands in both of hers. Her fingers felt smooth, warm and dainty, the nails buffed to a shine. Delilah felt conscious of her own hands, nails clipped short, fingers callused from working with the horses, but she squeezed back, Tula’s warmth contagious.
“Matthew, you must tell me all about your life now. Your job, your lovely wife.” Her eyes saddened beneath impossibly long black lashes. “And I am so very sorry for your loss.”
Anders nodded slowly. Tula seemed to take the cue that he didn’t want to talk about his daughter. She touched his arm, gave a half smile, and turned to lead them inside.
The townhouse was a three-story mix of contemporary and Asian. Artistic treasures from what Delilah assumed were Tula’s home country of India had been woven tastefully with modern furnishings. A cream-colored sofa and matching chair had been paired with a handmade rug, its Oriental pattern accented with vibrant shades of ruby and jade. On the wall, framed Indian folk-art prints took center stage against ecru walls. The overall effect pleased the eye and emanated tranquility. Like Tula herself.
As Tula led Anders and Delilah to the guest quarters, Delilah studied their host. Her age was impossible to tell: somewhere between forty and fifty-five. She had sharp cheekbones and a prominent nose that would have been large on another face but that seemed regal on hers. Lips full, thin frame, breasts round and high against a pink caftan. Tula gazed at Anders with affection, and Delilah found herself wondering whether Tula and Anders had been lovers.
Tula opened the door to a small bedroom decorated with a teal silk comforter and matching curtains. In the corner sat a writing desk of carved walnut. “For you, Ms. Powers.”
“Delilah. Please, call me Delilah.” She smiled at the woman. “This is very generous. Thank you for allowing us to stay here.”
Tula smiled back, but it was Anders she was looking at. “It is my pleasure. Matthew here is an old friend. One I have not seen in far too long.”
Was Anders blushing? Delilah decided then and there that the relationship between the two adults was none of her business.
“The bathroom is there.” Tula pointed to a door in the hallway. “And towels and toiletries are in the linen closet. Please let me know if there is anything you need.”
Delilah thanked her again and excused herself. She’d give them some privacy. Anyway, she wanted to get started on her research. She’d allotted two days to get an audience with Juan DeMarco and figure out what the hell Miriam Cross was up to before she died. Delilah hoped DeMarco could provide some answers.
Delilah’s estimate of forty-eight hours was way too optimistic. Tracking down DeMarco proved harder than she’d imagined. The man was as slippery as a newborn colt.
“We know his office is in New York City.”
Delilah nodded. “But his secretary doesn’t know how to reach him.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Agreed, but what can I do?”
It was nearly ten o’clock Monday morning. They’d spent the last hour at DeMarco’s headquarters with a surly secretary who seemed put out that anyone actually wanted to reach DeMarco, especially on a Monday. When they’d asked her for the guest list for the dinner at which Miriam spoke, the woman clammed up and shook her head. “Not without Mr. DeMarco’s permission.”
Now Delilah stirred her scrambled eggs around on her plate. The smell was overpowering and after only two or three bites, she placed her paper napkin over the whole pile.
“Not hungry?”
She shook her head. The diner, like so many in this corner of the city, was stuffy, crowded and noisy. She and Anders sat side-by-side at the counter, sharing a carafe of coffee and a small silver pot of cream. Anders was having no trouble powering through his omelet and bacon.
“You okay?” Anders looked genuinely concerned.
She was okay. But it was less than three days into their trip and already the sheer bustle—the madness, really—of the city was getting to her. The first night, Tula had suggested they eat in. Tula had prepared a wonderful, fragrant meal of homemade naan, lentil stew, and tandoori chicken. Sensing that Anders and Tula wanted some time alone to catch up, Delilah had excused herself after dinner. She had no idea what time Anders finally went to bed, but from the shadows on his face the next morning, it’d been late.
Then over the weekend, they tracked down DeMarco’s headquarters and spent an unsuccessful day trying to get an audience with DeMarco, whose office, not surprisingly, was closed. Frustrated, they’d finally given up and switched to researching the owner of the silver Mercedes Miriam’s neighbor had talked about. No luck there either.
Monday began a new week. They were trying DeMarco again. But even with his headquarters open, it was looking more and more likely that New York had been a wasted trip. They were racking up hours, which Lucinda could ill afford.
“I’m fine,” Delilah said finally and forced a cheerful smile. “You? Seems like you and Tula have a lot of catching up to do.”
Anders gave her a funny look, as though he was trying to decide whether there was hidden meaning beneath her words. “Tula was my best friend Ahmed’s wife. Ahmed died last spring.”
“Was Ahmed a journalist, too?”
Anders nodded. “A casualty of the trade, you could say.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too. At the time, I was so wrapped up in my daughter and my own family’s problems that I didn’t do the things I should have. For Ahmed. Or for Tula.”
“What could you have done?”
Anders studied his own hand. When he finally spoke, his tone conveyed much more than his words. “I should have acted, Delilah.”
She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. Instead, he waved the waitress over and asked for the check.
“Back to DeMarco’s headquarters?”
Anders shook his head. “Not quite. On to Plan B.”
Delilah smiled. She thought she knew what Plan B was.
She was right.
Juan DeMarco agreed to see the journalist Matthew Anderson at noon in a small Caribbean restaurant in Greenwich Village. Juan’s secretary had been more than happy to give Tula DeMarco’s phone number when she told the woman in her soft, accented voice that she was trying to arrange an interview for the up-and-coming politician. DeMarco was happy, too…happy enough to meet with Anders and his assistant that same day.
“So how will you break the news that there is no article?”
“Who said there won’t be an article?”
Delilah smiled. “Moonlighting?”
Anders laughed. Delilah liked seeing him smile. “We’ll see what DeMarco gives us. I still have my journalistic integrity to think about.”
They were waiting inside Caribbean Village. Anders had ordered a Sprite, Delilah a mango iced tea. They sat in a brightly-colored corner booth. Reggae music played overhead, Bob Marley crooning No Woman, No Cry, and Delilah could feel Anders’s leg tapping to the beat. She stared at the menu, mentally preparing the questions she wanted to ask DeMarco, who finally arrived at 12:27 p.m.
Anders saw him first. He stood. DeMarco was not what Delilah expected. She had an image in her mind of a stodgy man of Latin descent, someone with a thick mustache and an even thicker accent. Instead, DeMarco was tall, well over six feet, and narrow-framed. His skin was ebony black, his head completely bald, and he had an almost frenetic energy about him. When he saw Delilah, he broke into a grin.
“You didn’t tell me your assistant was so lovely,” he said to Anders.
Anders, clearly enjoying the change in roles, grinned. “That’s why I keep her around.” He winked at Delilah. She glared back, not amused.
DeMarco slid into the booth across from Anders and Delilah. “So what can I do for you folks?”
Anders threw Delilah a look that said trust me. She threw him one back that said fuck you.
“With respect to your candidacy, I’m interested in a particular angle, Mr. DeMarco.”
“Call me Juan.”
“Juan, this city gets its share of congressional candidates. But what interests me—and what will interest my readers—is your particular philanthropic history. You don’t simply write checks to various foundations and then fall back on your haunches and announce how much you care. You’re actually out there, in the trenches, volunteering.”
“I am, indeed.” DeMarco sat back in the booth. He looked from Delilah, to Anders and then back at Delilah again. “But that hardly seems like news.”
“People love a rags-to-riches story, Juan. Yours is an Everyman’s dream.”
“And how do you know that?”
“I did my research.”
DeMarco turned his head to follow the progress of a young, attractive waitress dressed in a yellow and white-striped rugby shirt. The waitress stopped at their table, order pad at the ready. “What can I get you?” she said.
DeMarco ordered mango iced tea and codfish fritters. Delilah, hungry after her uneaten breakfast, jerk chicken, rice, and beans. Anders stared at the menu again before saying “curried shrimp” without enthusiasm.
DeMarco looked at Delilah. “I like a woman who’s not afraid to eat.”
“And I like a man who keeps his opinions to himself.”
DeMarco smiled. “Spirited, aren’t you?”
Delilah met his grin with an icy stare of her own. DeMarco turned his attention back to Anders.
“What if I told you that I’ve decided not to run for office. Not next year, maybe never.”
Anders paused before responding. “I’d say you’re full of shit.”
Tense silence followed. Then DeMarco laughed, a deep, mirthless laugh that almost drowned out the hip-hop music now playing over the loudspeakers.
“Look, Matthew Anderson and his assistant, I did my research, too. I know Matthew Anderson, the journalist, hasn’t written a damn thing worth a second of my time in over six years. I also know that even in your heyday, you never gave a damn about the lives of unknown politicians like me. So stop bullshitting me, please, and tell me what this is about.”
Delilah and Anders exchanged a look. On to Plan C: honesty.
“Miriam Cross,” Delilah said.
“Miriam Cross?” For the briefest moment, a look of fear passed over DeMarco’s features. But like that, the smooth persona was back. “Miriam Cross, yes. The author. She spoke at a fundraising dinner I hosted.”
Delilah nodded, grateful that he was up front about at least that fact. “Why Miriam? She seems an unlikely choice.”
“I needed a name. If you haven’t noticed, I’m not some hot shot politician pulling in millions in contribs. I don’t get the major celebrities.”
Anders said, “Was she paid to speak?”
DeMarco shook his head. “She did it on behalf of Habitat for Humanity. We’re both active members.” He smiled. “But you already know that.”
Delilah nodded. “Did she speak at more than one dinner?”
“No.”
Anders said, “Do you remember when this one took place?”
“Man, I don’t remember the date. Does it really matter? Why do you two give a damn that Cross spoke at a fund-raiser for some dude from New York who we all know doesn’t have a chance in hell of making it to Washington?”
“Precisely for that reason,” Anders said. “It makes no sense.”
Delilah said, “Mr. DeMarco, Miriam Cross is dead. She was murdered a few weeks ago.”
DeMarco didn’t respond. Instead, he stared down at his dinner plate-sized hands, turning those hands over like he was inspecting a manicure. When he finally looked up, the shadow of something that Delilah saw earlier was more pronounced. And it was fear. Plain old, self-serving fear.
“I’m not getting mixed up in this shit,” DeMarco said.
“What shit is that?” Anders asked.
“I got nothing to tell you.”
Delilah said, “We want the guest list for that dinner. That’s all.”
“I can’t give you that. I don’t even have it anymore.”
“That’s a lie, Juan, and you know it. You have to keep those lists for tax purposes,” Anders said. “You give us the list, we walk away. This meeting never happened.”
Just then, the waitress walked over, a large tray in her hand. She placed the iced tea and fritters in front of DeMarco and the other two dishes in front of Delilah and Anders, oblivious to the tension wafting in waves from the table.
When the waitress left, DeMarco said, “See what you’ve done? Made me lose my appetite.”
Delilah leaned over the table. “Look, Juan, Miriam was murdered. And the person who killed her is still out there. If she met this person at your dinner, you could help us by sharing that guest list. I think we would all feel a little safer if whoever killed Miriam was behind bars.”
“What makes you so sure it was one person, Delilah? Because I have a hunch of my own. My hunch is that there are some bad-ass people out there. People who manipulate the system for their own ends. People who attend political dinners because they want favors, they want an entrée to the decision makers. They want a fucking puppet whose strings they can pull.”
“And they wanted you to be that puppet?” Anders said.
DeMarco’s eyes widened. All the blood was gone from his lower lip, and his skin seemed a shade paler.
“You told them no,” Delilah said, suddenly understanding DeMarco’s role. “They said they could get you elected if you cooperated. But you refused, didn’t you, Juan?”
“I did. And they didn’t much like it.”
“Who were they?”
“I can’t tell you that. I really can’t. Or I will end up like your Miriam Cross.”
“Was she one of them?” Anders said.
“No. At least I don’t think so.”
“Was she even involved?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t even think she knew them.”
“Can you give us the list? Just the list,” Delilah said, aware of the pleading in her voice. “You don’t need to tell us who had been pressuring you. We just want the guest list. We’ll figure it out from there. Your name never has to come up.”
“Why do you care? What’s your stake in all of this?”
“I’m a private investigator. My firm was hired by one of Miriam’s relatives to find her killer.”
