Blood Always Tells, Hilary Davidson [good book club books .txt] 📗

Desmond took the subway uptown. Gary Cowan’s wife lived in a fancy building on Fifth Avenue, one that overlooked Central Park. The doorman had a neatly combed black mustache and a substantial unibrow, marking his face with two parallel lines, as if somebody had driven over it and left skid marks. The man was haughty as only a man with gold braid on his uniform could be. Still, his mustache quivered when Desmond mentioned Gary’s name.

“Poor Mr. Cowan. We’re all very sad about what happened.” He looked Desmond up and down. “You’re here for…?”

“I’m here to see Trinity Lytton-Jones.”

Desmond gave his name and the doorman called upstairs. When the man hung up the phone, he pointed toward an elevator to the far right side of the lobby. “Take that one up.”

“To which floor?”

“That particular elevator only goes to one floor. The Penthouse. There’s only one apartment up there. Don’t worry, you’ll see.”

Desmond had expected luxury overkill, but even without setting foot in the apartment, he was vaguely disgusted. The men and women he’d served with in Iraq and Afghanistan had given their all for their country, and most of them had made enormous sacrifices, but there was no material reward waiting for them. There was nothing but more hardship and struggle.

When the elevator doors opened, he stepped into a broad foyer with elaborately carved double doors. The floor was tiled with a mosaic of a gold lion with one paw raised. Before he could study it, the doors swung back. A tall, slender young man with mocha skin and Caucasian features stood in front of Desmond. He was wearing some sort of archaic uniform with rows of brass buttons running up and down the front. “You must be Desmond.”

“I am. You’re Costa?”

“Yes. It’s an honor to meet you.” He came forward, extending his hand. When Desmond took it, Costa pulled him into a bear hug. “Your sister saved our lives. If it weren’t for her, we’d be dead.”

Desmond pulled back. He’d spoken to Costa on the phone before coming over, and he knew the man was effusive. But outpourings of emotion made Desmond wary, and this was a character who worked for Gary Cowan’s widow. He didn’t trust him.

“I’m so very sorry about your sister,” Costa added. “What happened to her breaks my heart.”

“Thank you.”

“Please come in. I’ll get Trin. Uh, Miss Lytton-Jones, I mean. This way, please.”

Costa led him through the doors and along a broad hallway. Every inch of the walls was covered in framed photographs. Some were glossy shots, others clippings torn from a magazine or newspaper. All of them featured the same doll-like woman. Close-ups of her face and images of her body covered the walls on either side of him. As Desmond passed them, he noted a strange progression: the subject became progressively thinner and more haggard as the years went by. Her eyes sank into her skull, even as her clothing became more grand and outrageous. In the later shots, her makeup was a ghoulish mask. No matter the wealth she enjoyed, Trinity Lytton-Jones looked as if she’d lived a very hard life.

Costa led him into a living room so crammed with furniture and decoration it could’ve been a showroom for antiques. More was, apparently, more. Trinity’s wan face stared out of photographs in gilded frames. There was also an Andy Warhol–style portrait of her above the marble fireplace.

“Please have a seat. Would you like something to drink?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

Costa gave him a sweet smile. “Miss Lytton-Jones will be with you soon.”

The man left the room quietly. Desmond looked around. There were images of Miss Lytton-Jones as far as his eye could see. The only other prominent decoration was a stuffed Jack Russell terrier on a brass base. Desmond loved dogs, but the thought of preserving an animal that way left him cold. He avoided it, instead circling over to the fireplace to study a photo. In it, Trinity was wearing a dress with a train of peacock feathers. It caught his eye because Dominique had worn exactly the same dress in a fashion show way back when. She’d sent him a photograph of it, with a note that read Fine feathers make fine birds!

He caught the scent of burning tobacco and he turned. The woman from the photographs had materialized in the doorway. She posed like a mannequin, with one arm raised above her head, hand resting against the wall. Her head was turned at an angle, but she was watching him out of the corners of her eyes. She wore some kind of dress that brought to mind long strips of black bandages coiled around her. It looked like it was intended to hug curves, but there weren’t any to caress and so it sagged. There was a diamond-encrusted bangle on one knobby wrist and more diamonds in her ears.

“Trinity? I’m Desmond Edgars. Thanks for seeing me.”

“I didn’t want to see you,” she answered coolly. “That was my houseboy’s idea.” She dragged on her cigarette and released plumes of smoke.

Her words left him off balance. It was unnerving, having those baleful, sunken eyes on him. “He seems grateful for what my sister did for you.”

“I know.” She sounded bored. “It’s all he talks about. I wish I’d sent him on to the country house without me. It would have been interesting to see how that turned out.”

That was why the woman was lifeless: there was ice water in her veins instead of blood. “I guess you’re not the sentimental type,” Desmond said. “Where are the photos of your dearly departed husband? I don’t see one.”

“There is one in the Schiaparelli Room,” Trin answered. “I’m wearing a dress by Alexander McQueen. Gary is on his knees, holding out one of my shoes, as if he were the Prince and I were Cinderella.” She blew out smoke dismissively. “I only got married to wear that dress, you know. You’d think you could wear a beautiful white dress with a fifty-foot train if you felt