No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale (23 page)

They both nodded, and he glanced down at the report just to make sure. “Good.” He looked at them then, seeing the tension return to their faces, but he knew at this point there wasn’t much he could do to relieve it. “And of course I’ll contact you as soon as I have any developments in the case.”

At that point Ortiz rose and extended his hand to Randall. “I know there’s no point telling you not to worry. But most of the time these sorts of cases have a way of working themselves out.”

Randall stood as well and took Ortiz’s hand, although it was obvious he was far from satisfied with how the interview had gone. Still, his tone sounded civil enough as he said, “Thank you, Detective Ortiz.”

Meg rose as well and said, “Thanks for your time, detective.”

Ortiz resisted the temptation to say,
Just doin’ my job, ma’am
, and instead smiled at her. “We’re on it. Just try to keep your spirits up.” He glanced at Randall, who was frowning again. “Both of you.”

They nodded, then let Ortiz hold the door open for them to exit. He swore they couldn’t have gone more than three feet down the hall before Randall started in on Meg about keeping secrets. Ortiz felt a rush of pity for her as he shut the door, then grinned to himself. As far as he could tell, that girl could probably take care of herself.

His smile faded, though, as he approached his desk and looked down at the photo of Christine.
And what of you, Miss Daly?
he thought.
Are you able to protect yourself, wherever you are?
 

He had a feeling he might never find out.

For the first time in more years than he cared to count, Erik felt hope. Surely he hadn’t imagined that brief moment of hesitation in Christine’s eyes last night, that slightest parting of her lips before she had said good night. She was not ready yet—he wasn’t going to delude himself on that point—but somehow he sensed a gradual softening in her attitude toward him, the merest hint of the beginnings of acceptance.

Certainly it had been the first “date” he’d ever had in his life—if one could call it that. However, dinner and a movie seemed to be a widely accepted form of courtship, and Christine appeared to have enjoyed herself. He smiled even now to recall her unrestrained laughter during the more manic parts of the film, laughter that didn’t seem to have a trace of self-consciousness in it. Surely she wouldn’t have been able to let herself go enough to react in such a way if she didn’t feel able to relax—even a little—around him.

Today he’d arisen far earlier than he normally would—barely past noon—eager as he was to see her again. Before Christine, the harsh hours of daylight had held no allure for him. Darkness had always been his friend, sheltering him and keeping him secure, but he knew that Christine, unused to his nocturnal habits, was awake hours before he was, and somehow he couldn’t bear to think of that time as being wasted. Perhaps in time she would adjust to his schedule, but meanwhile he could at least meet her halfway.

As he slowly mounted the stairs to her rooms, he thought of the chamber he’d had constructed all those years ago to resemble the Phantom’s lair from the musical. He knew that it was far too soon to take Christine there. However much he longed to see her in that room, to hear her voice echo against its marble-lined walls, he didn’t dare to upset the delicate balance between them by revealing himself as the obsessed madman she first believed him to be. No, he had to take care to keep things as normal as possible, to let her relax and come to see him only as a slightly eccentric man who, whatever his faults, truly loved her.

That realization had surprised him. He had wanted her, dreamed about her, thought of her to the exclusion of all else for so long that when he was actually confronted by the reality of her he’d been astonished to realize that she was a person in her own right, with her own quirks and awkward edges. He hadn’t expected her anger when she had first confronted him, just as he hadn’t expected the cheek that led her to sing those carefully chosen ditties about caged birds and whatnot. No wonder Randall had been so infatuated with her.

The thought of the boy sobered him momentarily, but he brushed the image of Randall aside. That unfortunate young man was in Christine’s past. He, Erik, was her future. All that was needed was the gradual building of her trust, and the slow encouragement of the attraction he knew she felt toward him—however much she might fight it.
 

And here he was at her door. He hoped that in the near future he would be able to keep it unlocked, to let her share the house with him unreservedly so she would come to regard it as her only true home. But it was too soon for that. For now she must still be a prisoner, until he was sure she wouldn’t try to get away.

He lifted a hand and knocked. His heart beat heavily in his chest even now at the thought of the sight of her. Even as her sweet voice bade him enter, he was still somewhat overwhelmed by the unreality of it, that his Christine was just on the other side of that door, waiting for him.

With a hand that shook a little, he placed the key in the lock and turned it. The door opened, and she stood there, her glorious hair lying loose on her shoulders, her sea-colored eyes turned almost green by the dark purple sweater she wore. Around her creamy throat twinkled a line of diamond rosettes, probably the simplest of the necklaces he had bought her, but this was the first time he’d seen her wear any of the jewels she’d been given, save that one pair of diamond studs.

Her smile was a miracle. “So,” she said, her tone only slightly teasing, “what do you have planned for today?” And she stepped out in the hall to be with him.
   

Chapter 17

It was one of those quiet, lovely days, the sort that is remarkable only because of its delicate perfection. The weekend’s rain was a hazy memory; when Erik led me out to his gardens, the sky was a delicate blue, etched with only the faintest high cirrus clouds. The sun warmed my face, although the westerly breeze that sent the few remaining leaves dancing on bare branches was crisp and cool.

His suggestion had been a picnic on the grounds, and since my brief foray outside the evening before had certainly not sated my appetite for fresh air, I readily agreed. At first I was surprised to see him walking so easily in the daylight—Erik had so far impressed me as a nocturnal creature—but he did not appear self-conscious. Instead he strode along next to me, fine chin lifted into the breeze, the sunlight picking out reddish lights in his dark hair, as well as the slightest traces of silver at his temples. The mask was almost blindingly white in the sun.

 
Our destination appeared to be the stone gazebo at one of the far edges of his property. Up close, it was fairly impressive—a large structure of fine carved marble, topped with an intricate wrought-iron roof now half-hidden by ivy, which also wound its way up the fluted columns. Benches were set in between the columns, but there were also a wooden folding table and two chairs that had been placed in the the open area at the center of the gazebo. On top of the table sat a large picnic basket, and a bottle of wine was already chilling in a silver bucket.

I looked over at Erik. “You do think of everything, don’t you?”

“I try to,” he replied. “Life is so much more pleasant when things go as planned, don’t you think?”

“What about being spontaneous?” I asked. I was half-teasing—God knows I liked things well-planned and orderly myself, for the most part. A guy I had briefly dated my freshman year of college said my need for order stemmed from a subconscious desire to control my world, as the loss of my parents had shown me how little I actually could control.
 

That relationship hadn’t lasted very long.

“Spontaneity has its place, I suppose,” he said slowly, as if thinking over the matter with care. “But I find that the anticipation of a thing adds so much to the actual experience, once it occurs.”

Those words made me look at him, considering. How long had he anticipated my presence here? And how did he feel about it, now that I was finally with him? The half of his face I could see was serious, the dark brow pulled down slightly in thought. In the bright light of midday I could see more clearly the lines etched around the corner of his eye, the slight furrow that ran from nose to mouth. Paradoxically, those signs of age made him more rather than less attractive. I wondered, not for the first time, how old he really was. Certainly a good deal older than myself. Even if our circumstances had been different—if we had met socially—I probably would not have entertained the idea of having a relationship with someone that much older than myself. It was too complicated.

But here I was, and I knew I was only fooling myself if I didn’t know why. Erik had acted as a gentleman the whole time, had given me no reason to fear him—other than his means of getting me here in the first place—but I knew it was more than mere companionship he wanted. I should be glad that at least he seemed willing to wait for me to reach out to him. Exactly how long he would wait for me to make up my mind, however, remained to be seen.
 

Apparently nonplused by my silence, he said, “Some riesling?” and handed me a glass filled with pale straw-colored wine.

I took it and sipped. It was light, sweeter than I had expected, with overtones of honey. Somehow it seemed to match the mild December day around us, with its impressions of clear sunlight, and warmth on leaves and vines. “That’s very good,” I said.

“The Germans are some of the most underrated winemakers in the world, I find.” He drank from his own glass, then set it down on the table next to the picnic basket. “Let’s see what Ennis has packed for us, shall we?”

The basket contained an amazing variety of food, from another loaf of that crusty sourdough I loved so much to wonderful little pastries that turned out to be baked brie
en croute
. There were slices of cold smoked chicken, a fabulous tray of assorted cheeses, grapes, and strawberries. The finishing touch was a pair of
crème brulées
, each in its own little porcelain ramekin.
 

“You really are going to have to walk me all over the grounds to work this off,” I said, after surveying the sumptuous spread Erik laid out on the cloth-covered table.

“It would be my pleasure,” he replied. His eyes looked very green in the reflected light from the ivy-arched canopy above us.

What was it about those eyes, that voice? It would be so easy, after all, to give in to their spell, let myself be fascinated by him, let myself succumb....

I had to force my gaze from his to turn my attention to the food.
Show a little backbone!
I told myself fiercely, as I made myself pick up a piece of bread with a hand that shook a little and then made a show of selecting a piece of cheese to go with the bread. It was only after I had taken several bites and another sip of wine that I asked, “Does Ennis always pack your lunch?”

He smiled at that, as I had hoped he would. “Actually, this is my first picnic. Usually I come here at sunset, or later on in the evening. I like to watch the moon rise.”

Probably it would be lovely, I thought, as I looked around. One border of trees stood very near us, and I fancied I could actually hear the slightest sound of a car going by beyond the wall that surrounded the property. Perhaps we weren’t quite as isolated here as I had first thought, perhaps escape wasn’t as impossible as I had feared. Up until now I had heard no hint of the world beyond Erik’s property and had assumed, given the size of the grounds, that it was somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. But now, as I heard a second car go past, I realized we probably weren’t as isolated as I had originally believed.

Hoping that Erik hadn’t noticed my dawning realization, I took a bite of baked brie and then said, “It must be wonderful to be surrounded by so much beauty every day.”

For a moment his gaze lingered on my face, and I could feel the blood rush to my cheeks. Then he said, casually enough, “In some ways, I have been blessed. Certainly my home has always been a source of comfort to me.”

From this distance I could see the house in its entirety, or at least the one elevation that presented its face to us. It was enormous, done in a pseudo-Norman chateau style complete with arched mullioned windows and dark-gray imported stone. The steeply pitched roof was broken by half a dozen fireplaces.
 

“How old is it?”

He took another sip of the riesling before replying, his eyes fixed on the massive stone pile. “My grandfather built it in 1922. He made his fortune in steel in the teens and then moved out here from Michigan, escaping the cold winters along with everyone else, I suppose. My father was born here a few years later.”

Many of the grandest homes in Pasadena had been built then, in those halcyon days when everyone thought the boom would last forever. Obviously Erik’s grandfather had fared better than most in the crash that followed.

Almost as if reading my thoughts, he continued, “Luckily my grandfather didn’t have much use for the stock market. First it was steel, then oil and land. Diversification was his strong suit. But it certainly served the family well.”

I wondered whether I should ask the crass question, but then thought,
Oh, the hell with it
. “So how rich are you? Donald Trump rich or Bill Gates rich?”

“What, no sultan of Brunei?” His eyes laughed at me over the rim of his wine glass.

“Well, I don’t see any gold-plated Rolls Royces dotting the property, so I figured you weren’t
that
rich.”

He let out a chuckle at that. “No, definitely not. As for your previous question, somewhere in between the two—but probably closer to Donald Trump if I had to hazard a guess.”

The part of my brain that had to deal with monthly bill-paying took a step back and gave a few seconds of respectful silence to the concept of that kind of wealth. But then I said, “I suppose that was rude of me, to ask that sort of thing—”

“Not at all,” he said smoothly. “I would have been surprised if you hadn’t asked at some point. It’s not as if I can take credit for most of it—the original fortune was amassed by my grandfather and then built upon by my father. I haven’t done much more than maintain it. In a way, it’s sort of frightening how it can pile up if you don’t do much with it.”