Midnight Angel Page 2

  No, no sex tonight. Besides Suzanne—who was, of course, off limits—Ms. Freaky was the only woman he knew in Portland, anyway. He’d just go home and listen to that new Norah Jones album. That was it—settle down on his couch with the whiskey bottle close, listen to that smoky voice curl around him and get drunk. It was the closest he’d ever get in this lifetime to a beautiful woman.

  But first he had to get through the next couple of minutes.

  “Ma’am,” he said. He took Claire Parks’ hand in his for just four seconds. Kowalski had big, strong hands. He’d learned long ago how not to hurt with them. He squeezed gently, carefully. He chose his words, one by one, to be as unthreatening as possible. “My pleasure. This is a very beautiful building. My compliments on the show.”

  He had an unusually deep voice and he saw her eyes widen at the sound of it. Claire Parks’ hand trembled in his, and he refrained from sighing and rolling his eyes as he let go. For the millionth time, Kowalski was glad he never dated ladies. The women he fucked didn’t mind what he looked like. They just wanted their sex, hard and long. Exactly what he could give them. It worked out fine, just as long as neither party expected anything more.

  It was then he heard The Voice. An angel’s voice, beamed straight down from heaven.

  Chapter Two

  Portland, Oregon

  Saturday, January 15th

  Spring Harbor Psychiatric Institute and Correctional Facility

  They were playing that song, her song, somewhere in the building. Someone in the place was playing that song. Corey Sanderson couldn’t stand it.

  That summer, we loved…

  So trite, so old-fashioned, no backbeat, just the melody. That trilling voice, like something out of the nineteenth century.

  Ack. Total shit.

  No wonder the bitch’s sales plummeted. Why hadn’t she listened to him? He’d been positioning her for the big-time. It had all been in place—first the Today show and then the spread in Vanity Fair, with artistic nude photographs taken by Richard North, the celebrity photographer, no less. That had been a real coup. It had taken him weeks to set it up. And when he announced it to her, the little cunt refused. Flat-out refused. Refused him! No one said no to Corey Sanderson, no one.

  She’d done it cool as you please, too, just before she’d cancelled the concert in San Diego. The one where he’d hired the backup hip-hop band. He’d invested a lot in the bitch, pulled in a lot of favors. Favors that hadn’t been easy to call in, either, because it had been…a while since he’d been at the top of his game. Nothing serious, just a few little setbacks, but the music business moved fast, and was unforgiving. People were starting to speak of him in the past tense and that was intolerable. Corey Sanderson was The Man. Always had been. Always would be. And no Irish bitch would ever change that.

  He’d chosen her as his comeback vehicle and instead of being grateful, she’d simply…refused. It was amazing to him, still. He could just picture her that evening, in his penthouse with the sky-high mortgage her disastrous tour should have lifted. When she’d asked for an appointment, he’d been sure it was to apologize. To promise to do better, to offer a blowjob in atonement. He’d accept them all. She was a pretty thing and he’d been trying to get her in his bed for a year. So he was fully prepared to forgive her and fuck her. And then she’d shown up with her father—her father!—to break her contract.

  Was it any wonder he’d lost control?

  She’d deserved everything she got, the bitch. A broken jaw and being blinded were just punishments, especially since he’d had to sell the penthouse to pay his lawyer.

  Still, it was worth selling the penthouse, the condo in Aspen and the Mercedes to pay Edwin Gossett, attorney-at-law—the man who’d kept him out of jail. Sanderson had spent all of two weeks in the penitentiary before Gossett had managed to convince the judge and jury he needed psychiatric care. He shuddered violently. He could never go back to jail. His skin crawled at the thought.

  No, he could stand it here for the next few years. He was Dr. Serena Childers’ pet patient, and was allowed his music and his books and his special food. Serena was the director of the institute, and she was half in love with him. Here he’d stay—unless the Irish bitch recovered her memory, and then he was in deep shit.

  That summer…

  His head throbbed when he heard her voice. Allegra Ennis, the woman he’d planned to turn into the most famous singer in America and who’d turned her back on him. And who was responsible for his fall from grace.

  The music drifted in from somewhere down the hall. Maybe one of the guards had turned on a radio. Tuned into one of those shitty local stations, the kind that played old singles sandwiched between dog food commercials. What other kind of station would be playing her?

  That summer, so long ago…

  Shaking with rage, Sanderson looked around for something to make noise with, but there was nothing. Not even anything he could smash against the wall. The water bottle and cup were made of plastic. The bed was bolted to the floor. The windowpanes were shatterproof, with wire mesh embedded in them.

  Sanderson picked up his slippers and flung them against the door. They hit with a dull thud.

  That summer, winter was far away…

  Books! Two heavy paperbacks and a hardback. Sanderson threw them at the door. They made satisfactory sounds. The hardback’s spine cracked and it landed on the floor like a wounded bird.

  How could we know summer would never come again…

  That bitch! Warbling away, like some little lowlife Irish nightingale. He’d done everything in his power to make her voice modern, but nothing had worked. She’d been so hard to train. Resisting, always resisting. Little cunt never knew what was good for her.

  The door opened and Alvin looked in.

  “Mr. Sanderson? Do you need anything?” Alvin walked in, voice and demeanor respectful.

  Fuck yes, he should be respectful. Alvin knew who he was, what he could do for him.

  Alvin was too tall with too-red hair, a lanky Howdy Doody-like figure with no voice, no musical sense at all. But he wanted to become a star, and Sanderson had promised him that he’d make it happen.

  In return, Sanderson wanted Allegra Ennis dead.

  “Alvin, get me a tape recorder.” Sanderson smiled up at Alvin, finding his height ridiculous, hating his stupid freckled face. “We’re starting tomorrow. When it’s done, I’m contacting some people I know in California. We’ll start with a demo tape you’ll make.”

  Alvin’s ugly face lit up as he ran to get a tape recorder. Sanderson knew exactly what was going through Alvin’s head. He had visions of fancy cars and fancy women—fuckable women, vying to jump into his bed—his photograph in all the gossip magazines, the mansion with the pool. He was going to be a star.

  Alvin was breathless when he came back, putting a cheap recorder in Sanderson’s hands. Sanderson turned it over, considering. It was crap, but it could certainly record a voice accurately. It was enough.

  “That’s fine, Alvin, you can go now.” He needed to concentrate for the next bit. “In half an hour bring Dr. Childers in here. And don’t be surprised by what you see.”

  “Yes, sir.” Alvin disappeared. He’d get Serena and it would start. All Alvin had to do was drive Allegra Ennis insane and then kill her, making it look like suicide. Sanderson knew it would never be traced to him.

  Allegra was a dead woman walking.

  Kowalski was taller than anyone else, so he got a clear view.

  A redheaded woman on a raised dais. A beautiful redhead in a gauzy, green formal gown, playing a harp. With a voice like an angel.

  He’d never heard anything like it. The voice vied with the harp for purity. He’d never heard the song before, but the melody, the rhythm of it, settled into his brain as if he’d been primed for it all his life. As if there was a place in his head waiting just for that one song.

  Something about a summer. A lost summer and a lost love. The melody was haunting, si
nking into the bones through skin and muscle. His entire being vibrated with the notes. In a lifetime of listening to music, Kowalski had never heard anything half as beautiful.

  The singer was beautiful, too. Not in the way Suzanne or Claire Parks were. In a different way. Better way. She shimmered on the stage, as if she were half of this world and half not. Her pale skin glowed as if lit from within, like a pearl underwater.

  He would have believed it if someone had said she really was an angel. It wouldn’t take much persuading, with that voice soaring majestically. But she was a flesh and blood woman. The long auburn hair rippled glossily down her back, shifting as she played, fingers floating gracefully over the strings. Her eyes were closed as she finished the song, leaning close into the harp as if it were a lover. Her voice died to a whisper, one last silvery glissando of notes from the harp rising in the air. She leaned for a moment with her forehead against the rim of the harp, then lifted her head and opened her eyes at the spontaneous applause.

  She didn’t look at the audience at all. It was as if she were playing for herself as she started a new song, smiling gently, seemingly deep in thought. First a long instrumental introduction, then she started singing. Again it was a song Kowalski had never heard, but it became instantly recognizable, as if it was part of a long-ago memory he’d forgotten until now.

  “Cruel Sun.” A delicate ballad, a fusion of Celtic music and jazz. The cruelty of the sun, shining down after the death of a loved one. Longing, pain, helpless grief—they were all there, together with the final wry acknowledgement that the sun didn’t care. It just kept on cruelly shining.

  Kowalski vaguely heard an angry man behind him, arguing. He recognized the voice of John’s friend Bud, fighting with Claire. He wanted to tell them to shut the fuck up, but to do that he’d have to turn around. He didn’t want to miss a second of the music coming from this extraordinary woman.

  The songs continued, one after another. He couldn’t believe he’d never heard them before, never heard of the singer. He hadn’t the faintest idea who she was, but he knew that he was in the presence of a world-class talent. He’d heard Pavarotti live, and this was an experience just as incredible as that had been. Like touching divinity.

  Kowalski drifted closer to the stage, annoyed at the people around him. To hell with them all, with their sharp clothes and sharp voices, sometimes drowning the singer out. They’d started again with their stupid chatter, as if what they were hearing was background music, white noise. Muzak for jewelry exhibits. They were listening to pure magic and were too fucking stupid to realize it.

  The singer didn’t care. She didn’t even seem to notice. She was singing to and for herself. She never looked around at the audience, trying to make eye contact. Half the time, her eyes were closed as she concentrated on the song, fingers flying over the chords of the harp, voice true and pure.

  Kowalski hated the crowd, wishing they would all just go away so he could enjoy her all by himself. He bumped against the edge of the stage, as close as he could get to her.

  Christ she was lovely. It wasn’t just the voice, though it would still be exquisite even if she had seven chins and hairs on every one.

  She didn’t have seven chins though, she just had the one chin. A very pretty one, too, with nary a hair. Everything about her was pure magic, perfect and delicate. She had the true coloring of a redhead, without the freckles. The emerald-green floor-length gown was elegant but modest. The skin that showed was pale and creamy, the perfect features of the face almost devoid of makeup, accented by her dark auburn eyebrows. Even seated he could tell she wasn’t very tall, but she was long-limbed, with a long, slender neck. When she turned her head slightly toward him, he almost gasped. Her up-tilted eyes were a stunning shade of dark green—the green of stormy oceans, of late spring meadows.

  Kowalski couldn’t drag his eyes away from her.

  After seven songs, the singer leaned back in the pretty little gilt chair she’d been perched on, dropping her hands in her lap. The set was over. The listeners clapped politely and immediately headed for the buffet, which had been set up in the back of the hall on long trestle tables while she’d been singing. They streamed toward the food in chattering groups of threes and fours.

  Assholes, Kowalski thought. They were in the presence of musical genius and all they could think about was free chow.

  For the first time, Kowalski noticed Suzanne and John standing by the dais. Suzanne walked up the four steps of the dais and glided over the stage to the singer, putting a hand on her shoulder. The singer put her hand over Suzanne’s and smiled.

  Kowalski held his breath for a second, then let it out.

  She hadn’t smiled until now. She’d been too concentrated on the songs. Her smile was as magical as the music, lighting up her face. Suzanne had her arm around the woman’s narrow waist and the two women were walking across the wooden stage. Suzanne whispered something in her ear and the singer nodded. They walked down the stairs together, moving toward Kowalski and John.

  Suzanne said something and the woman laughed, the sound light and graceful, a continuation of her music. God, the sound sank straight into Kowalski’s bones.

  This was, in every way, a woman touched by magic. She and Suzanne were walking toward him and Midnight. Suzanne was a beautiful woman, no doubt about that, but Kowalski didn’t even look at her as the two women approached. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the singer. Her beauty was more than regular features, good skin, shiny hair. There was a luminosity about her, as if there were a halo around her. An angel.

  Kowalski nearly snorted at the thoughts going through his head. He needed to get laid soon, with a normal woman this time. Not some S&M freak who wanted bondage and pain.

  Halos. Angels. Maybe civilian life was driving him crazy.

  Still, there was no doubt about the singer’s talent. Kowalski loved music. Every kind. Rock, jazz, classical, opera. Vocal, instrumental. You name it, he’d listen to it. It was going to be a pleasure to compliment this woman on her voice and harp playing.

  Suzanne hesitated slightly. She had to pass by him to get to John. She couldn’t avoid introducing him to the singer.

  “Allegra,” Suzanne said, “I’d like to introduce you to John’s new partner, Senior Chief Douglas Kowalski. Douglas, meet my friend Allegra. Allegra Ennis.”

  “Senior Chief Kowalski,” she murmured, holding her hand out.

  Fuck fuck fuck! The bright, glowing pleasure of her music drained right out of him, leaving his chest feeling empty, hollow. Allegra Ennis was looking straight at his tie. She couldn’t even manage to do what Claire Parks had done—a brief meeting of the eyes—before pretending he didn’t have a face.

  To hell with this. To hell with it.

  For the first time, Kowalski wondered if he’d manage in the world of civilians. He could never go back. He was retired now. No one in the Navy or any of the armed forces had ever had trouble looking at his face. So okay, he wasn’t pretty, but he was fucking good at his job and that was what counted.

  He’d been in the Navy all his life, but he wasn’t anymore. Was this what was waiting for him out here? Spending the rest of his life with people politely refusing to look at him? Fuck that.

  The intense pleasure of Allegra Ennis’ music was gone, vanished with the polite, blank look on her face. O-kay, he thought. Compliment her and get the hell out of here. Maybe tonight he’d polish off the whole fucking bottle of Jim Beam.

  “Ms. Ennis,” he rumbled as he took her hand. If he had held Claire Parks’ hand for four seconds, he’d have to shave it down to three with Allegra Ennis. “You have a lovely voice and the songs were beautiful. Truly exquisite. Please accept my compliments.”

  Allegra Ennis did something odd. Her head shot back and wobbled briefly as she looked up, trying to focus on him, like a sniper setting up a shot. There was something about her gaze—

  And then it hit Kowalski like a body blow.

  Allegra Ennis was blind.

>   Chapter Three

  “You little bitch, you’re finally going to pay for what you did to me.”

  Smiling, Corey Sanderson switched the recorder off. That was the last of the recordings. So, that was that, it was all in place, the only thing missing was Allegra Ennis’ dead body. The only way he could be safe was when she was dead. While she was alive, he could still be put back in prison. If it weren’t for Gossett, Sanderson would still be there, in that nightmare of a cesspool.

  He could never go back, of course. He wouldn’t allow it. He had the brains and the will to make sure life arranged itself around him and his needs. It was no accident that he was the most successful music producer in history—four platinums, seventeen golds, whole music industries springing up around his tastes… Oh, yes, he was a mover and a shaker. A creator, an artist. Penning him up in a prison was obscene. This place—for all its cream walls, Mozart on the loudspeakers and pretty nurses—was bad enough.

  He placed the miniature recorder Alvin had procured on his bedside table, an elegant art deco table replacing the ugly plastic…thing he’d found upon arriving. Serena was very understanding that a man of his tastes and sensibilities required a better décor than what was normally provided patients, and so Sanderson had his favorite armchair, his own porcelain flatware and silverware, crystal glasses and cashmere robes. No plastic plates and dreary hospital gowns for him. Serena was very good at allowing him what he wanted—no, needed.

  Sanderson had always had two great seduction lines in life. One was, “Let’s make beautiful music together.” Sanderson’s evening concerts were buying him very special treatment. Serena was extremely partial to Bach.

  He rang the bell by his bed stand and two minutes later, Alvin Mitchell stuck his red head in the door. “Mr. Sanderson?”