Читать книгу Seattle after Midnight - C.J. Carmichael - Страница 8

“IT’S AFTER MIDNIGHT, Seattle. You know what that means, don’t you?”

The voice, seductive and yet somehow comforting, propelled Pierce Harding to crank up the volume of his radio, so he could hear above the steady drumming of rain on the roof of his car.

“You’re listening to Georgia and this is Seattle after Midnight on KXPG radio….”

Across the street the Charleston Hotel sparkled with seasonal fairy lights. A wreath decked out with bows and fake fruit made the oak entrance look Christmas-card perfect.

Pierce popped a square of chewing gum out of a pack and into his mouth. It was the beginning of December and Christmas was being rammed down his throat wherever he turned. He could only hope Georgia wouldn’t play any bloody carols on her show tonight.

Parked with the owner’s permission at the service end of a gas station, Pierce had a clear view up and down the street. The sidewalks were deserted. Occasionally a car would drive by. Only three had stopped for gas in the past half hour.

Thanks to the cold, he had to keep the windows closed and run the heater at fifteen-minute intervals to clear the condensation. But even with the pumped-in warmth, he felt chilled. Tired. Alone.

“This is your time,” the radio host promised. She sounded a bit like Demi Moore, Pierce thought. Only sexier, if that was possible.

“Yours and mine,” she continued, her voice dipping even deeper. “I have some sweet surprises in store for you, so stay with Georgia and we’ll get through this night together, I promise.”

Across the street the door to the hotel opened. Pierce grabbed his video recorder and hit the power button. But the two people holding hands as they dashed for a waiting taxi were strangers. He set down the camera and prepared himself mentally for a long wait.

His agency had been hired to keep twenty-four-hour surveillance on the wife of a man who was out of town on business for three days. Jodi and Steven Calder were in their midforties, childless and wealthy. Steven—Pierce’s client—suspected Jodi of having an affair. A suspicion that seemed likely to be true.

Just four hours ago Jodi had taken a taxi from the Calder’s estate home in Madison Park. She’d had a big black suitcase with her and when the cab had pulled up in front of the Charleston, Pierce had been sure she was up to no good.

But as far as he could tell, she was in her room alone and had been for hours. He’d been keeping an eye out for single males entering the hotel, but had seen none. The Charleston seemed to appeal more to older couples and families than the business crowd.

Or the illicit-lovers crowd.

What was Jodi Calder doing in that hotel room? Had her lover been delayed somehow? Had he canceled? But if that were the case, why hadn’t Jodi Calder returned to her comfortable home?

The situation was puzzling, but soon would become someone else’s problem. He’d broken the watch into three eight-hour stretches. Jake Jeffrey, his youngest and newest employee, would be covering mornings, starting at 5:00 a.m. Will Livingstone, the senior man in Pierce’s team, would handle the afternoon shift.

If Jodi Calder’s lover ever did turn up, they’d catch him, all right.

“Tonight we’re going to play something special.” Georgia’s voice sounded as close and intimate as if she were sitting in his car with him. “When Kenny Rankin sings in the key of D minor, the result is something no feeling person could ever forget. Imagine you’re at a table in a Parisian bistro, sipping wine and thinking of that one person you’ve never been able to forget.”

The music started then, plaintive notes, a pleasing melody, then a man’s voice, clear and pure. Pierce’s chest welled with an unrecognizable sensation, a sweet aching. More and more he felt this way when he listened to Georgia’s show and he couldn’t help but wonder if this was the emotion Cass had tried to describe to him in the years they’d been married.

She’d been so good to him, tried so patiently to help him, and he’d given precious little in exchange.

Cass, I thought I loved you.

But the way he felt right now, he knew something had been missing. And Cass had known, too.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Georgia said as the song ended. “Tonight we’re going to be listening to a lot of music played in those sad, haunting minor keys. Because we all know that love isn’t always sunshine and roses. If you can relate to that, I want to hear from you. Give me a call, toll-free, at…”

As she recited the phone number, Pierce imagined what it would be like to call Georgia, to actually speak to her.

He shook his head, amazed that the idea had even crossed his mind. He muttered the toll-free number that Georgia repeated frequently through out her program. So frequently he had it memorized. His fingers itched for the cell phone in his jacket pocket.

God, he was worse than an obsessed teenager.

Keep your mind on the job, he reminded himself. He’d gone thirty years without falling in love. He certainly wasn’t about to start now, with a woman he’d never even met.

FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD Brady Walsh couldn’t sleep, which was nothing unusual. He was often awake for hours after his mother said good-night to him, usually around ten o’clock. It was their unspoken agreement that as long as he stayed in his room, she wouldn’t interfere with whatever he chose to do—homework, surfing the Internet, or playing video games.

On weeknights after twelve he listened to the radio. He’d found a new program he really liked. The music was kind of hokey, but the disk jockey was really cool. Listening to Georgia he forgot about the fact that he had no friends, no girlfriend, no life.

And no wonder.

Brady stood in front of his bedroom window. With his bedside lamp on, and the big oak outside screening the streetlamps, the glass was perfectly reflective, showing in excruciating detail all the reasons he would forever be a nerd.

Too tall, too skinny, too many zits. Braces on his teeth. Then there was his nose. Brady put a hand up to his most hated feature. It was the same as his father’s and though he knew his dad had been considered a good-looking man in his day, on Brady the nose looked gargantuan.

He wasn’t surprised Courtney wouldn’t talk to him anymore.

He went to his desk, where he kept his old junior high yearbook open to page twenty-five and a photograph of the drama club. In the center of the group of students—most of them girls—was Courtney herself, her blond hair gleaming, her perfect teeth, which had never needed braces, showcased in her heart-stopping smile.

Courtney. She was so far out of his league—in looks, personality and popularity—that he never would have dared to dream about her if they hadn’t been assigned to the same research project at the start of the school year.

He’d been surprised at how smart she was, how easy to get along with, how funny. She contributed ideas, but was willing to listen to his suggestions, too. They’d met after school for three precious afternoons, and one Friday evening at her house, her mother had ordered pizza and they’d worked until after nine.

She laughed easily and often, but not foolishly like so many of the girls at school.

They’d aced the project. Got the highest mark in the class.

Restless, Brady paced his room, not sure what to do with his energy. It was well past midnight, but he knew he’d never sleep. His room was beginning to feel like a cell.

Gently, he eased the door open. His mother had stopped crying about half an hour ago. Her door was shut and no light showed in the gap between door and carpet.

He slipped downstairs and raided the fridge of that night’s leftovers. As he munched on a piece of roast shoved into a crusty dinner roll, he noticed his mother’s purse on the counter next to the phone. Beside the purse was the key holder for her new Audi.

The car had been a birthday present from his father in June. That was six months ago and she’d driven the car only a handful of times, preferring to get around in his dad’s old Buick.

Brady could hardly wait until he had his driver’s license. His mother had already told him she’d let him use the Audi whenever he wanted. What freedom that would be! He imagined himself at the wheel, the window rolled down, a fresh breeze in his hair.

The first place he’d go would be Courtney’s house. He remembered where she lived, had even figured out which window belonged to her room.

An urgent longing to see her, right this second, hit him. If he drove by her house, maybe the light in her room would be on. Maybe he’d catch her silhouette as she walked past the window to her bed…

He stared at the key holder that he had no legal right to touch. He had only a learner’s permit. The car wasn’t his.

Then he scooped the black plastic case up and pressed the silver button on the side. The key sprang out like a secret weapon. Cool. He felt like he could tap into the power of the V-8 engine just from this slender piece of metal.

Why not? An inner voice challenged. How would Mom ever find out? Just don’t go too far, don’t use too much gas and you won’t have any problems.

Brady tossed the key into the air once, then grinned. He was going to do this.

Five minutes later, he was in his mother’s car. He glanced over the dashboard, familiarizing himself with the various controls. The car came equipped with a cell phone. That could come in handy, too.

Nervous, but determined, Brady reversed out of the garage. On the radio the woman with the throaty voice welcomed him back to Seattle after Midnight. He thought about what she’d said earlier. Imagine you’re at a table in a Parisian bistro, sipping wine and thinking of that one person….

Clear as daylight, he saw that person. For a moment he had to close his eyes, choke back tears.

Courtney, he reminded himself. I have to check out her house. Tentatively he opened his eyes. Tried clearing his throat, then singing along to the song on the radio.

He was fine. Everything was under control. He turned on the windshield wipers, then hit the button on the visor to close the garage. He was more determined than ever to get away from this place. Carefully, he eased onto the road, then switched gears and nosed the car down the lane.

STANDING AT the window in her darkened living room, Sylvie Moreau watched until the taillights of her lover’s car had disappeared around a corner. Feeling a confused mixture of relief and disappointment, she dropped the curtain into place and retreated to her kitchen.

The countertops were spotless. Reid had cleaned up from the feast he’d brought with him—take-out sushi and chocolate-covered strawberries. He’d even rinsed the empty bottle of champagne and disposed of it in her recycle bin on the back step.

Reid was considerate, both out of bed and in, and Sylvie still considered it a small miracle that she’d ever met him. At the very least it had been a fluke. A couple of months ago at her favorite bookstore, she’d noticed him in line ahead of her for a coffee. Later she’d found that he’d never been to the store before in his life, and had only stopped in on impulse.

They’d started chatting and had eventually taken their coffees to a small table where the conversation had continued to flow as if they’d known each other forever.

Of course, she’d noticed he wore a wedding ring, but that first meeting had been so innocent. When he’d asked her to lunch, she’d assumed his intentions were merely friendly. And probably that was all he had been interested in, at first, for them to just be friends.

But for over a month now, they’d been more than friends and she’d never been happier.

Or unhappier.

Strange how opposite emotions could coexist in one body. In truth, the ups and downs were somewhat addictive. They kept her from thinking about her past—her mother’s death, then her own aborted engagement, and the miserable years after.

Sylvie turned off the main floor lights and headed upstairs to her bedroom. Six months ago, on her thirtieth birthday, she’d come into her inheritance from an income-trust on her father’s side of the family. Her first step had been to buy this house, a cute little Victorian on Queen Anne Hill. Then, she’d quit her job, a move that with hindsight had been a mistake. Without the daily interaction with her co-workers at the bank, she’d felt more lonely than ever.

Until Reid.

Sylvie switched the house sound system from CD to radio, then twisted on the taps to her Jacuzzi tub, adding a handful of lavender-scented salts. She dropped her satin robe in a cloth-lined hamper, then disposed of the matching teddy in a similar manner.

Sylvie slipped into the warm bath water. As soon as she turned off the taps she was able to hear again the radio program playing softly.

She always listened to KXPG, but her favorite program, by far, was this late-night show hosted by a radio personality named Georgia. Georgia was new to Seattle, had only been on the air a few months, but already Sylvie was addicted to the eclectic selection of music and the thoughtful musings and opinions of the host.

“Imagine you’re at a table in a Parisian bistro,” Georgia invited her, “sipping wine and thinking of that one person you’ve never been able to forget….”

Sylvie sighed and closed her eyes. The fragrant candles she’d lit for Reid were still burning and the sweet scent added to the quiet mood of the night. Georgia’s question lingered in her mind. Who was the one person she would never forget?

Her ex-fiancé, Wayne? No way. He hadn’t been able to understand the deep depression she’d slid into after her mother’s funeral. Though she’d been mortified when he’d broken their engagement, now she was glad she hadn’t married him.

So was Reid the love of her life, then? But what about his wife? She blanked her mind, as she always did when she hit this particular wall. As Reid said, all that mattered was that they loved each other. Goodness knew, she loved him. And she truly believed that he loved her, too.

If only she could forget about his wife. And the two kids who called him Daddy.

AT FOUR-THIRTY in the morning Jake Jeffrey drove up to the gas station for his shift. Pierce opened the car door and met Jake in the parking lot. Jake was young and eager and listened raptly as Pierce gave him the lowdown on the situation.

Jake eyed the hotel speculatively. “So she spent the entire night in her hotel room? Alone?”

He sounded disappointed.

“Her lights were on for most of the night. But I haven’t seen much movement this past while. Maybe she finally fell asleep.”

“What is she doing in there?” Jake asked.

Pierce handed Jake the video camera, then clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t fall asleep and maybe you’ll find out.”

He returned to his car, a nondescript brown Nissan. The Nissan was perfect for surveillance jobs like this one—no one ever seemed to notice his vehicle, or remember what it looked like. After starting the engine he headed in the general direction of home—a loft in one of the old warehouses on the eastern shore of Lake Union. His apartment was across the hall from his business address, a handy arrangement that suited him fine. Both places had been decorated with a modern, sparse sensibility. Muted colors, very ergonomic.

Cass would have hated it.

After they were married, they’d bought a town house. She’d decorated it top to bottom with furniture that belonged in another century and lots of area rugs with neatly combed fringes. Her hobby had been needlework and she’d filled their walls with framed samplers and their couch and chairs with stiff pillows that God forbid he should ever put his head on.

He’d never felt comfortable in the two-story town house. But he credited Cass for trying. She’d wanted nothing more than to make him a home.

And look where that had gotten her.

He pressed the fingers of one hand to his temple. He couldn’t think about that now. Best to think of nothing, to feel nothing.

For the third time that night, he raised the volume on the car radio. Then he drove right by the turn that would have taken him home. He kept driving, aimlessly, lost in the sweet nirvana of a passionate woman’s voice on a cold winter night.

“IT WOULDN’T BE Seattle after Midnight if we didn’t play a little Coltrane,” Georgia said.

There were only ten minutes left in her show. Pierce had ended up parking on the shore of Lake Union. Now he wondered why he’d felt the need to seek out water when there was so much of the damn stuff in the air tonight. He’d lived in Seattle almost half his life, but every winter it always seemed like he’d never see the sun again.

“Michael Harper had this to say about John Coltrane. You pick up the horn with some will and blow into the freezing night. That’s what we need tonight, don’t you think? A little tenor love…”

Georgia’s husky voice faded as Coltrane’s saxophone expanded into the nighttime airwaves. A sweet melancholy stole over Pierce, and he wondered, with something bordering awe, how she did it. How did this Georgia woman combine words and music, poetry and her simple stories, in such a way that she made him feel as if he were alive again?

How many other people in Seattle were listening right now? Men and women working the nightshift, insomniacs, the brokenhearted. Did they all feel the way he did—as if Georgia was speaking directly to them, her honeyed voice meant for only their ears?

The song ended and there was a momentary silence before Georgia spoke again. Actually she sighed. “Amazing, isn’t he? I have one more song to end our journey through this night, but first let’s take another caller. Hello, this is Georgia and you’re on Seattle after Midnight.” She paused. “Is anyone there?”

“Georgia?”

“This is Georgia. Who am I speaking to?”

“Um…Jack.”

“Hi, Jack. Did you want to request a song to night?”

“Not really. I just wanted to talk to someone. I listen to you every night. Sometimes I imagine we’re in the same room, like friends or something.”

“That’s sweet. I’m glad you like the show.”

“I love the show. And I liked the songs you played tonight. They’re kind of, well, old…but powerful, too.”

“That’s the magic of the minor key. And I have another for you tonight, Seattle. This collaboration between Billy Joel and Ray Charles will make you wish you had a baby grand in your life.”

Pierce anticipated the song before it began, and when the soulful opening chords reached his ears, he felt again the aching longing that this show seemed to awaken in him.

Slowly he cruised the length of Fairview Avenue, wondering about the guy who’d made that last call. What would incite someone to pick up the phone and to talk to a woman he’d never met—a woman who wouldn’t know him from Adam if she passed him on the street—and tell her things he probably wouldn’t tell his closest friend?

The ten-digit number sprang to his mind again. The weight of his cell phone in the breast pocket of his jacket suddenly seemed unbearably tempting. To think that all he had to do was punch some numbers with his finger and he would be able to talk to her…

Jeez. He was going crazy. Why couldn’t he stop fantasizing about someone he’d never met? He wasn’t that lonely.

Or maybe he was. He stopped his car, realizing that by subconscious design he’d ended up outside the office complex that housed KXPG Radio. The five-story brick building had a parking lot on one side and a coffee shop next to that. Across the street the still waters of Lake Union seemed like nothing but a silent, black pit.

What was he doing here? Hoping to catch a glimpse of Georgia as she left the building for the night?

Pathetic, he thought, but he kept his car parked right where it was, at a meter on the deserted street. Every night he felt as if she were speaking directly to him, when in fact she was reaching out to thousands. They’d never met; he was nuts to believe any sort of connection existed between them.

“Well, that’s our show for tonight, Seattle. Wait, I see I have another call from Jack. Are you still there?”

“I’m here, Georgia. I wanted to say that I really liked that song. Can’t you play just one more tune?”

“I’m sorry, but we’re out of time tonight—”

“Well, is it possible to see you after the show?”

For the first time that night, possibly all day, Pierce smiled. The guy had nerve, at least.

“After the show there is no more Georgia. Like Cinderella’s stagecoach, I turn into a pumpkin. Come again tomorrow, Seattle. When the midnight hour strikes, you’ll know where to find me.”

Georgia shared a final bit of poetry before signing off. Pierce had no interest in the radio after that, preferring silence to the insipid programming that followed Seattle after Midnight.

He leaned his head against the seat rest, his eyes burning from fatigue. Logic told him to start his car and go home. But he didn’t. He eyed the outdoor parking lot next to the KXPG office tower and wondered which of the handful of vehicles sitting there at five in the morning might belong to Georgia.

Not one of the cars seemed to fit. The dark sedan was too conservative, the lemon-colored VW too bubbly…

Oh, for Pete sake. Just go home, would you?

He didn’t. And fifteen minutes later his tenacity was rewarded as a woman, who could only be Georgia, dashed out of the building.

She wore a knee-length trench coat and held something that might have been a briefcase over her head to protect her hair from the rain. She was shorter than he’d imagined. And slightly more rounded, but it was hard to tell for sure with that bulky coat. In the glare of an outdoor streetlamp, her hair glowed like soft gold.

The security guard had held the outer door open for her and continued to watch after her as she raced for her car. Pierce opened his window in time to hear her call out, “Thanks, Monty. I’m fine—really.”

The security guard waved, then returned to his post inside the building. No sooner had the door swung shut behind him, than Georgia let out a scream.