She scrolled down through the gallery reviews, the publicity pieces, the gossip columns, the wedding announcement. Lydia marveled at the photographs… the radiant, photogenic woman captured laughing, dancing, or serious, with searing, intelligent eyes, giving interviews, walking in Washington Square Park with a child on each hand, her husband close behind.
There were several images of Julian with Richard Stratton. He looked more like her father than her husband, an elegant man with graying temples, high forehead, and a cool, distant gaze. There was a photo of them in tennis whites on the lawn of a sprawling Hudson estate, one of them in formal wear arriving at a Guggenheim event, and a candid shot captured as the family shopped on Fifth Avenue. Three different moments in time, but their body language in each was similar. Richard with a possessive arm around her shoulders, hand on her arm, or holding one of her hands in both of his. Julian leaning away or looking away. In the candid, she seemed to shrink from him and he had a wistful look on his face as though even when they were close, she eluded him.
Still, the Julian Ross Lydia saw cataloged before her in snapshots, moments, some posed, some honest, seemed content if not exactly happy, in command of her life, a mother, a wife, an artist. But she was a specter, in no way resembling the shattered, wretched woman Lydia had met at the Payne Whitney Clinic.
“What happened to you?” she wondered out loud, her voice just a whisper.
She clicked on a
She read through the article, which was a valentine about Julian Ross, how wonderful, how talented, how resilient to bounce back from personal tragedy. It contained no questions about who might have murdered Tad if she did not. Just a story about her struggles with an uptight art professor at New York University Tisch School of the Arts, her studies in Paris, in Florence, an art teacher who recognized her talent in grade school in the small upstate New York town where she was a child. A town called, of all things, Haunted.
She looked at the clock on the lower right-hand side of her screen and realized she had lost track of time, scrolling through the numerous articles. She’d have to jet if she was going to make her appointment with Eleanor Ross. There was just one more thing she wanted to check. She entered “Haunted, New York” into the search engine. There weren’t that many entries, so it didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for. She sat back when she saw it and inhaled sharply with a shake of her head, the buzz electric inside her.
“Did you know that back in 1965 when Julian was five years old, her father, Jack Proctor, was murdered? And that Eleanor was accused, tried, and acquitted for the crime?” said Lydia to her cell phone in a cab headed uptown. Jeff and Ford McKirdy were conferenced in on the line.
There was silence on the other end of the phone before Ford said, “Uh no. Is that true? Where did you hear that?”
“I found it online, a periodical archive search engine I subscribe to. I printed up copies so that you could see for yourself. Did anybody look into Julian Ross’s childhood during the last murder investigation? Or did you focus primarily on the physical evidence and witness testimonies?”
“Yeah, I have to admit,” said Jeff. “We focused pretty much on the present tense.”
“How was he killed?” asked Ford.
“In much the same way that Tad and Richard were killed. Taken apart at the seams. Eleanor was acquitted for many of the same reasons Julian’s jury found her innocent. No one could believe that a woman, especially a woman of that size, was physically capable of it.”
The cabdriver leaned on his horn pointlessly as they crawled through midtown crosstown traffic. Other cars jammed on the street followed suit.
She heard Ford let out a loud sigh. “God… how could we have missed that?”
“So what are you suggesting?” said Jeffrey. “That nearly thirty-five years later the mysterious killer strikes again?”
“I’m suggesting that it bears looking into. The murder took place in a town called Haunted, New York.”
“Haunted?” both men asked simultaneously.
“Yes.”
“Actually, Lydia,” said Ford, “I think I know where that is. It’s north, near the New York State Facility for the Criminally Insane…”
Lydia’s stomach lurched at the mention of the place that had housed Jed McIntyre for so long and had failed to keep him where he belonged.
“I was planning on heading up there this afternoon,” Ford continued. “Feel like taking a ride?”
“Why do you need to go up there?”
“To talk to Jetty Murphy. You remember him, Jeff. The witness who saw the man leaving the apartment building.”
“He was a junkie, Ford.”
“Yeah, and he’s a murderer and a rapist. But he’s got eyes. Won’t hurt to interview him again. You never know.”
“I’ll go with you, Ford,” said Lydia. “If we can stop in Haunted, too.”
“Lydia,” said Jeffrey, “are you sure that’s a good idea?” She could hear enough concern in his voice to visualize him frowning and tapping his pen on his desk.
“Jed McIntyre isn’t there anymore, Jeff. Anyway, that’s probably the one place in the world he
“Oh, shit, Lydia. I’m sorry,” said Ford, embarrassed at his carelessness.
“It’s fine,” she said, annoyed at being handled like a porcelain doll. “Pick me up at the firm at one.”
“See you then. Don’t worry, Jeff. I’ll keep her safe.” She heard him click off.
“Are you sure you’re all right with this?” asked Jeff.
“I promised you I won’t put myself in any danger and I meant it. So trust me to take care of myself, okay?” she said briskly.
“I do. You know that,” he said. But she didn’t believe him. She knew he thought her reckless and stubborn. And maybe, sometimes, she was both of those things.
“I’ll see you in a minute.”
She hung up the phone feeling restless, caged. She didn’t like the limitations being imposed on her… don’t go here because of Jed McIntyre, don’t do this because you’re pregnant. Beneath the claustrophobic sense of being shackled and helpless was a tiny flame of rebellion. She was starting to feel a headache creeping up on her.
“Don’t worry, Lydia,” said Dax beside her. He was so quiet sometimes that she forgot he was right next to her. She looked at him and he had earnest eyes on her. “It’ll be over soon. I have a feeling.”
She knew he was talking about Jed McIntyre. He had a way of knowing what she was thinking that revealed about him a surprising amount of intuition. She looked at him and gave him a sad smile.
“You’re right,” she lied. “I feel it, too.”
When Lydia and Dax arrived at the office of Mark, Striker and Strong, Eleanor Ross was already seated at Lydia’s desk, filling out the firm’s paperwork… payment contract, liability disclaimers, etc. It occurred to Lydia that this was the first case she’d had that actually involved a paying client. Usually she was drawn into cases by something else… a hunch or a feeling. Something would pique her interest and she’d wind up tripping into a whole big mess and bringing Jeffrey along with her.
She pushed her way through the glass doors, wearing a long black cashmere coat, black stretch jeans, and a red Calvin Klein ribbed wool sweater with a cowl neck. A big leather bag over her shoulder contained her “life”- everything from her Palm Pilot to her Beretta to her hairbrush.
As Lydia was about to enter her office, she turned to Dax and said, “What are you going to do with yourself for the next hour or so?”
She was not-so-subtly suggesting that he entertain himself elsewhere while she conducted her interview with
