Keepsake (18 page)

Kate thought about Daisy Tulane. She hadn’t told the police what she knew; she hadn’t told anybody. Gran had said to her once,
“You must remember, Kate, that there are some things that are private. They are nobody’s business but your own. Do you understand?”

Besides, Daisy wasn’t a killer. She just wasn’t the right woman for Dad.

April was watching, and looking at her funny. So she shrugged and gave her a silly grin and said, “I wish I could think of
something good to tell the police. But it was mostly just a lot of sad people who couldn’t stop drinking or smoking or cheating
on their wives.”

“Then you don’t have any real reason to think the murderer was one of your grandmother’s clients?” April’s face looked as
still and serious as an Egyptian statue.

Kate bit her lip. “I guess the reason is—” she swallowed “—I don’t want it to turn out to be somebody I know. Like, in the
family, you know?”

April put her arm around her and gave her a quick hug. “No, neither do I.”

April wasn’t sure what to make of Christian de Sevigny.

She hadn’t had much contact with him before, even though his office was at the same Fifth Avenue address as Power Perspectives.
Unlike Armand, he never stopped by. In fact, when he’d called to invite her for dinner, she’d been surprised.

He was an attractive man. Strong features and hair the color of newly minted gold. His eyes were sea-green and
his mouth would be sensual… if he ever allowed it to relax into a smile.

Although he and Kate lived in a more modern building than his father’s, their two-storey apartment was similarly elegant.
One thing that couldn’t be denied about this family—they all had exquisite taste.

“I’m something of a collector,” Christian had mentioned as he showed her around. “But I’m also a dilettante, I’m afraid. I
develop an interest and pursue it with all due energy, then I abandon it. An unfortunate character trait, no doubt.”

April smiled. She couldn’t tell if he was sincere or simply trying to disarm her with self-deprecation.

“Porcelain is my latest passion,” he went on. He stopped before a lighted china cabinet. “Sevres and Meissen—do you know the
difference?”

“One’s French and the other’s German?”

His eyebrows went up. “Very good. You’re interested in china?”

“Don’t know anything about it,” she said with a smile. “My European geography’s pretty good, though.”

Kate clapped her hands. “Don’t let him give you that boring old china lecture. He does it to scare people away. If he’s really
boring, he says, we can be sure that they’ll never come back.”

April laughed. “I should try it. There are a few people at the office whom I’d like to drive away by some means or other—I
didn’t think of trying to bore them.”

“I doubt that you’d be capable of it,” said Christian.

Although he said the words expressionlessly, there could be no doubt he meant it as a compliment. April smiled and Kate, she
noted, beamed.

But despite this auspicious beginning, the conversation during dinner was strained. There were too many subjects
that were off limits. Asking Christian about his personal life seemed like a minefield, given what she’d been told about the
custody battle he’d had with Kate’s mother and her subsequent death. Talking about Power Perspectives would bore Kate, and
Christian did not seem interested in April’s personal life.

So the talk revolved around Kate—her interests, her dreams, her ambitions. Had she not been there, thought April, she and
Christian would have probably been hard-pressed to find anything to say to each other.

April could also feel the subtle tension between father and daughter. It was a personality thing, she decided. Kate was bubbly,
outgoing, and eager to please, while Christian was a controlled, emotionally reserved man whose expression revealed very little
of what was going on inside. This didn’t necessarily mean that he didn’t feel an emotional reaction, April reminded herself,
just that he himself had probably learned a long time ago to keep a tight lid on his feelings.

On the other hand, maybe he truly was a coldhearted bastard.

After dinner they sat in the living room and April decided that she was not going to allow the opportunity to pass to find
out a bit more about Rina, even if it was boring to Kate. “How did you get along with my mother?” she asked.

Christian studied the brandy in the bottpm of his glass. “Your mother and I really didn’t have a lot to do with each other.”

“You didn’t like her?”

He shrugged. “We didn’t always see eye to eye.”

“I thought you liked Gran, Dad,” Kate protested. “You even cried when you heard she was dead—I saw you.”

Christian turned his Arctic glance on his daughter. “You
must have been dreaming. I haven’t cried since my dog died when I was eight years old.”

Kate looked stricken at the sharpness in his tone, and April hurriedly said, “Men are taught not to cry in this society, Kate.
They grow up learning to control and hide their emotions. It’s a shame, really. I don’t think anyone— male or female—should
feel obligated to hold all their emotions inside all the time. It’s a difficult thing to do, anyhow.”

“Like many things, it gets easier with practice,” Christian said.

April met his eyes. For an instant she thought she saw something there that was worth reaching out toward— something sad,
something kind. Then his lids flicked down and he raised his snifter, hiding whatever he had so briefly revealed.

Christian lay in bed that night, unable to sleep. April Harrington had left early, much to Kate’s disappointment. It had occurred
to him at some point during the evening that Kate had hoped to witness some sparking of interest and attraction between himself
and April. She didn’t like Daisy so she’d sought to matchmake for him with somebody she did like.

Actually, it wasn’t a bad idea. April was a very attractive woman, and she was personable as well. She seemed easygoing and
warm, and it was obvious that she’d already won his daughter’s heart.

She was younger than Daisy, too.

And more sensual, he’d bet.

Maybe he should have tried a little harder to turn on the charm.

After dinner she’d questioned him—not very subtly—
about the family, his life, the business. And about Rina. He’d remembered that April owned a mystery bookstore in Boston,
and that she probably fancied herself to be an expert on sifting through clues and unmasking falsehoods.

It annoyed him, frankly. He didn’t like being interrogated, even gently, by an amateur.

No doubt it had showed. Indeed, by the end of the evening he’d been able to tell from the way her blue eyes had sparked and
flashed that she would have loved to tell him to his face how rude and uncooperative he was. Only Kate’s presence, he suspected,
had prevented her from doing so.

As for Kate, she’d had nothing to say to him when April left. She’d given him a reproachful look and run upstairs to her room.
When he’d looked in on her a couple of hours later, she was curled up in bed with a stuffed dog pressed to her chest, asleep.

Daisy was coming tomorrow.

Maybe she’d cheer him up, help him get his head straight, put his fucked-up life into some kind of order. Daisy believed in
personal transformation. “This is the first day of the rest of your life” kind of crap.

Maybe some of it would rub off on him.

Fat chance.

But he couldn’t go on like this much longer.

Most of the time, thought Blackthorn, tailing people was both difficult and dull. But as he followed Isobelle down a metal
staircase and into the dimly lit club in the village, it struck him that this time things were proving to be real interesting.

He was following Isobelle to find out who her strange and unpleasant friends were.

It was Saturday night—the most promising, he’d figured, for meeting with non-work-related people. But although she had gone
out to a restaurant for dinner, she’d eaten alone. Then home, where he’d presumed she intended to fall into bed. He’d hung
around for a while, just in case she went out, hoping she did not, since his own bed had begun to hold a certain appeal.

He’d growled curses when she’d emerged just before midnight, and he’d nearly lost her as her taxi had executed an illegal
turn and headed south.

Blackthorn had heard about the Chateau, although he’d
never been there. A few years ago he’d been body guarding a Japanese businessman who was obsessed with unusual varieties of
sex. The client had insisted on visiting two of New York’s other S&M clubs, the Vault and Paddles. Blackthorn had gone along
in a professional capacity, and had been amazed by what he’d learned about the kinky Manhattan subculture during those few
evenings.

Jessie had teased him when she’d heard his description of the Vault, which he’d given to her in loving details. “Sounds like
you want to go back on your own time,” she’d said. But when he’d agreed that it might be an interesting way to spend an evening,
she’d quickly declined.

Sex was the only thing that hadn’t been perfect in their relationship. Jessie had always been more traditional than he was,
more inhibited, and less willing to experiment.

The place was crowded. A lotta kinky people in this city, he thought as he ordered a Diet Pepsi at the large square bar in
the club’s front room. A sign at the entrance had mentioned that alcohol was prohibited. No need to worry about that temptation,
Blackthorn thought with a grim smile.

The air was smoky and the music was much too loud. Not that he minded rock music. As a matter of fact, he enjoyed it. The
hard driving rhythms and sentimental lyrics had a certain primitive appeal.

He couldn’t see Isobelle at the moment, so he eyed the other women in a desultory fashion. The club didn’t look like much
of a pick-up place. The women weren’t alone. Single males abounded, but all the females seemed to be accompanied by one or
more men. Some women, he noted, wore slave collars and walked deferentially beside their partners. Others were clad in spike
heels and leather dominatrix gear.

Blackthorn knew from his prior, if limited, experience
that most of the folks here weren’t as peculiar as they seemed. You’d think a bunch of folks who were into restraining and
spanking each other must be violent, dysfunctional low-lifes, but he’d talked to a few and generally found them to be courteous,
intelligent, and sane. They were dramatic, but they seemed to take joy in exploring all corners of their sensuality, even
the darkest ones. There was a certain courage in that, and Blackthorn felt a grudging admiration for it.

After all, he had dark corners, too.

And besides, there wasn’t much in life that shocked him.

A submissive woman dressed in a white leather bikini with leather cuffs adorning her wrists walked by with her partner. They
were both heavyset—the woman might be said to be a BBW—big, beautiful woman. Blackthorn noted that a lot of the people present
seemed to be overweight. Perhaps they had a larger-than-usual hunger for all the pleasures of life.

Then he noticed a slender, striking, leather-corsetted domme. There she was. Isobelle.

She hadn’t seen him. She and her partner—whose back was to him—had brushed by no more than three feet away, but she’d been
oblivious. There was a glazed look on her face that Blackthorn recognized from his observations at the Vault. Some folks were
so excited simply by being here, on view for all to see, that they entered their erotic “space” spontaneously, as if they
were drugged.

Isobelle de Sevigny was into kinky sex. Blackthorn took another sip of his Pepsi as he pondered what, if anything, this might
have to do with Power Perspectives and Rina’s death.

Did a fascination with fantasy power games correlate in any way with a propensity for real-life violence? There
was no evidence that it did, yet how could one know for sure? From where did such impulses spring? Was there something in
Isobelle’s past that had given rise to her kink, and, if so, what else had it engendered?

Blackthorn set down his nearly empty glass on the bar and followed her into the back room.

On a platform in the middle of the room was a paddling horse upon which a scantily clad male submissive was lying. His partner,
an attractive blonde dressed in a leather skirt and vest, black stockings, and impossibly high heels, was spanking him rhythmically
with the flat of her hand. A crowd stood around, watching, some of them caressing their partners. When the domme picked up
a leather paddle to continue the scene, the group energy seemed to heighten.

Isobelle, however, covered her mouth with her hand and yawned.

Blackthorn stepped up behind her. “Now how could you be bored in a place like this?” he said, close to her ear.

She whirled. “Blackthorn!”

Her partner turned also, and Blackthorn’s eyes narrowed in recognition. Christ. It was Charlie Ripley, from Power Perspectives.
An intriguing complication…

“Hello, there, Ripley. Small world.”

Ripley looked embarrassed. No wonder. Jeez, thought Blackthorn, I’d be embarrassed too if somebody was leading me around on
a chain.

“Look, this is hardly the time or the place,” Ripley said. “We’re off the job at the moment.”

“I’m on the job, myself. I work odd hours.”

Isobelle slipped between them. “Let me talk to him, Charlie. I imagine this has to do with my stepmother’s murder. Just give
us a few minutes.”

“I really don’t think—”

“It’s okay,” she said impatiently.

Like the good slave he was, Charlie Ripley subsided.

Isobelle drew Blackthorn back from the action to a corner that was quieter and less crowded. “This is too much. What the hell
are you doing here?”

“Maybe I come here often,” he said.

She flashed him her brilliant smile. “Funny. I haven’t seen you here before.”

“Or maybe I prefer to act out my fantasies at home.”

“Gee, Blackthorn. Do you have fantasies? I would have thought you far too single-minded. No, wait, I’ve got it. You’re the
implacable cop. I’m the miserable offender. You track me down, snap the handcuffs on me, and toss me into a cell to be interrogated,
using all sorts of dastardly methods.” She smiled again. “Only trouble is, I don’t play the submissive role.”