Twin Speex: Time Traitors Book II (5 page)

Ava had barely stepped through the high-arched entrance, when she was approached by an efficient-looking young woman in an expensive business suit. She wore tasteful pearl earrings and a rather large, cumbersome wristwatch that clashed jarringly with her professional ensemble.

“Dr. Washington, I’m Faith Temple,” she introduced herself, “Mr. Davis’s personal assistant.”

Ava shook the proffered hand and smiled. “Your name sounds like a church.”

She laughed, flashing very white, even teeth. “Faith was the only name my new-age mom and old-school dad could agree upon. I don’t think they gave much thought to how it sounded with the surname.”

“I have a friend whose last name is Bridges, and—”

“They didn’t…” Faith laughed again.

“Yes. London.”

The brief, amicable exchange lasted long enough for Faith to usher Ava past the lobby and through a narrow hallway into a private elevator. She used a large silver key to activate the panel and the doors closed. It was an old elevator and moved sedately up the floors.

Faith recited a glib and entertaining commentary on the building and how Davis had acquired the property. She was pretty, charming, intelligent, and obviously sent to put Ava at ease. It was having just the opposite effect. The perfectly modulated voice and easygoing cheerleader personality were giving her a distinctly creepy vibe.

Ava was a New Yorker born and bred and for whatever reasons one had to put on a happy face, it was now way past the hour to put the “cheerfuls” to bed. She would have felt much more comfortable with someone like Mrs. Jenkins, the receptionist at her old high school. Mrs. Jenkins smiled for no one and sighed loudly when asked to do anything. As a receptionist, she was lacking, but as a dour reminder of the city in which they lived, she was a strangely reassuring presence.

The elevator opened onto an elaborate, overly furnished foyer. Faith quickly ushered her through the apartment and into a spacious library. It was an imposing room with a high ceiling, walnut bookshelves, and potted palm trees. Steel ladders on wheels and pulleys gave access to the thousands of books lining the walls. A large telescope that pointed out of a many-paned bay window stood on an ornately worked tripod. A porcelain hookah was the centerpiece of a low glass-topped table around which embroidered cushions were thrown. Ava looked up and saw with amazement delicately built model gliders and dirigibles that floated gently around the domed skylight.

“They’re lovely, aren’t they?”

Ava transferred her gaze back to the woman now standing behind a large bureau plat desk, its leatherette inlets covered by folders, pencil holders, and paperweights. Faith held out to her a piece of paper and a pen—a fountain pen.

Ava had not felt the blur in the timeline, the shift in dimensions. She reached for them, saying, “Yes, very beautiful. Does Mr. Davis make them?”

Faith laughed, and the cameo brooch pinned to her high-necked shirtwaist bounced very slightly. “My goodness, no, Mr. Davis doesn’t
make
anything. He collects.”

Ava had to strain to hear it, but she was sure there was a hint of scorn in that reply. When Faith didn’t elaborate, Ava looked down questioningly at the paper and pen in her hands.

“Oh, yes. That is a confidentiality agreement. Anything Mr. Davis shows you or discusses with you today is in the strictest of confidence.” She smiled perfunctorily and added, “It is legally binding.”

Ava placed the paper on the desk and prepared to write her name on the indicated line. Only a momentary frown creased her forehead as she watched her gloved hand sign the paper; an ostrich feather from her hat curled just within the periphery of her vision. She straightened as the door opened, and a man entered.

He was in late middle age and of average height. Ava had seen him many times before when interviewed on news programs and photographed at gala social events. He was considered by many to be handsome, but she had never found him so. His head was large and square with a prominent jaw and deep-set very pale blue eyes. His dark hair was still thick, but white was sprinkled throughout and particularly evident at the temples. He wore a well-tailored, yet not ostentatiously expensive three-piece business suit. His manner was one of friendly superiority, a deceptive mix that put Ava immediately on her guard.

“Doctor Washington,” he pronounced as he approached her with an outstretched hand, “I’m Knightly Davis.”

The universe shifted again, and the hand Ava offered in return was bare. The hookah table had been replaced by an oval conference table, and Mr. Davis gestured her to one of the ergonomically designed chairs that encircled it.

“Please sit down.” He touched his hand fleetingly to her back, only a slight gesture to direct her toward a chair. Ava felt an unpleasant prickle along her spine and very slightly moved herself out of reach.

“Thank you, Mr. Davis,” she replied, taking her seat. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you allowing me to see the paint—”

He held up his hand interrupting her and turned to his assistant. “Faith, check on the Chinese transactions and close up the Bangalore account before the markets close overseas,” he commanded, dismissing her with a nod.

Faith nodded in return and left.

He settled back in his chair and regarded Ava from across the table. The balance in his attitude shifted dramatically from friendly to superior. His blue eyes were lightless, flattened orbs, and he said in a distinctly imperious manner, “I was very unhappy to hear that Dr. Cooper had spoken with you regarding my collection.”

Ava was beginning to understand Tim’s unease at contacting Knightly Davis, and she was already regretting putting him in the middle of it all. She thought that Davis would have been even more displeased had he known Tim actually tried to report the collection to the police. Only to be told that the acquisition of eighteenth-century art, no matter how disturbing or perverse, was not a crime.

“I apologize,” Ava replied, equivocating with ease. She had always been good at masking her emotions when necessary. “But Dr. Cooper never told me who the collector was. He only mentioned in passing the existence of a painting by an artist who has some impact on my own research. Since his description of the picture was in contrast to any other known work by Jonas Bell, I was very eager to see it.”

She said nothing of Tim’s main reason for revealing its existence to her. Reluctance would have been a better descriptor of her feelings toward seeing the painting, but she had to be sure.

“That is why he agreed to contact you. He would never reveal a confidential source, and I would never ask him to,” she lied.

Knightly Davis looked at her in contemplative silence for a full minute before saying, “I see. Well, Dr. Washington, you wouldn’t be here unless your credentials recommended you. As it turns out, I am also eager to see what you think of it.”

This was said with business-like enthusiasm, and Ava felt her shoulders tighten with caution. He wanted her to see it. He actually wanted her opinion. Why? It wasn’t hidden away for nothing. She had the feeling he thought he was getting away with something, like a serial killer granted immunity for one brief hour to show off his trophies. She had a very strong urge to get up and leave, but suppressed it firmly.

“Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Davis,” she replied in a neutral tone.

He stood and walked over to a section of shelves that were isolated from the others and built into a recessed part of the wall. He pressed lightly on the intersection of two of them, and, with a hiss of air, they swung smoothly outward to reveal a small anteroom. They walked in, and the doors closed behind them. Within, the walls were painted a stark white and hung with vintage photographs of pornographic images. Some of them were clearly stills from early erotic movies. Ava always thought it telling that the birth of pornographic film was almost simultaneous with the birth of film photography itself. She did not view the collection of such images as particularly troubling, but then, these were of adults.

Once the gauge on the wall signaled equalization in pressure and humidity, the inner door also swung open. The long gallery was windowless, but the lighting gradually increased to where Ava could see clearly the paintings lining the two facing walls. She took a deep breath of the air-conditioned oxygen and tried to clear her mind.

Ava looked at some of the images as they walked down the gallery. Her face was a mask of academic neutrality, but her stomach roiled with outrage. Hundreds of years could not separate her from the pain these children must have suffered at the hands of their tormentors. Most were girls, but some boys as well were depicted in various stages of undress and engaged in explicit sexual acts.

By the time they had stopped in front of the painting in question, Ava’s hands were balled into fists. She knew no amount of deep breathing would calm her. She also knew that her desire to rip the canvasses from their frames and rend them with her bare hands would likely land her in jail.

The next few seconds wiped all that from her mind as she stared dumbfounded at the painting before her. It was by no means the worst of those she had just seen.

The painting depicted an opulent bedroom hung with curtains and elaborate wall fixtures. A large canopied bed was its centerpiece. It was covered in luxurious blankets and pillows, and a young girl lay atop. She was completely nude and sprawled on her back; one arm was flung over her head in careless abandon, and the other lay across her stomach. Long blond hair spilled over the blankets in lustrous waves, and her face was turned to the artist.

By her expression, one could imagine a lover standing beside the artist observing. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen years old, but her face held the look of a modern-day porn star. With red lips slightly parted, she had that vacant expression of total submission that seemed to pass these days for the height of eroticism.

Ava had been prepared, and yet not prepared. She had believed Tim, but thought he was overstating the resemblance. He had not exaggerated. The girl who looked out at her from the tangle of bedclothes could very easily have passed for Ettie’s twin.

Five

THE WHITE TEE shirt was too tight. It strained across his shoulders and chest in contrast to the very loose-fitting scrubs that were tied securely about his hips.

The exam room was cold, and he pushed himself off the metal table, letting the blanket that was wrapped around his shoulders slip to the ground. He stood and stared down at his hands. The nurse had said he was in shock. But it wasn’t shock; it was guilt, remorse, regret. He should have known from the moment he read Odette’s journal that something like this could happen—that something like this
would
happen.

The police had taken his blood-soaked clothes as evidence and swabbed his hands for residue of gunpowder. They would find none. Just like he was sure they would not find the weapon. It could be anywhere, but most likely somewhere outside this timeline, outside this dimension.

He put his head in his hands. He had failed Ivy yet again.

“Odell.”

He looked up.

She had opened the door silently and stood on the threshold; the busy hospital noises drifted in from the hallway. Her expression was questioning, as if she was hoping for another explanation than the one he was sure the police had given her.

Odell shook his head. “I’m sorry Ettie. I was too late.”

In a blur, she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. Odell held her tightly as she sobbed. He looked down dry-eyed at the dog sitting at their feet. He had yet to find the strength to cry.

Was it only a few short hours before that he had held his dying mother in his arms? Held her close as she had whispered her last secret, “…
proditoris aevus
?”

He had gone to the house first to find there only Marta, Ivy’s housekeeper, cook, and all-around companion. She had informed him that his mother was working late and wouldn’t be home until after dinner.

The White Swan Dance Theater made its home in Central Harlem. Ivy had found the neighborhood’s history of culture and music irresistible. She had chosen the building with care in a busy part of the neighborhood with several key landmarks nearby. There was no working elevator, and the dance studios were located on the third floor. She insisted the stair climb was the first part of
the
warm-up and located her office there as an example to her students.

The ballet school and its offshoot company attracted a diverse group of students and dancers. It was there that Ettie and Ava had become fast friends.

When he arrived, the building seemed the same as always. There was no sinister aura, no strange sense of foreboding. As was his habit, Odell had entered from the alleyway door and taken the stairs two at a time. He heard the piano music and saw through an open door a couple practicing the intricate steps of a
pas de deux
.

Ivy’s office was in a corner room with windows looking out onto the street. The door was ajar. He had pushed it open to find his mother propped up against the shelves, her head lolling back on some books, and a bullet hole in her chest. His shouts brought the dancers from the adjacent classroom, and, cell phones at the ready, they had furiously dialed 911.

The exam room door opened to admit Marta who was red-eyed and holding a shopping bag in one hand. Ettie ran to her, and the two women held each other and cried. Eventually, they separated, and Marta held out the bag saying, “These are the clothes you requested, Mr. Odell.”

“Thank you,” he replied as he took the bag. He embraced Marta tightly for a brief moment. Tears started again in her eyes, but she was composed.

“Is there anything else you need?” she asked.

Odell breathed deeply. “Have you spoken with the police?”

“They just asked the usual questions. Like on T.V. Did she seem upset or worried? Was she acting any differently? Did I know of… of…,” her voice faltered. She cleared her throat and said more strongly, “… anyone who would want to harm her?”