By Any Other Name

  By Any Other Name

  Fiction (Intrigue)

  Prologue

  It looked the same as it had for twelve years. A scrolled ironworks gate said: “Welcome. Orchard Valley Nursing Home.”

  Roses rambled over low rock walls. Sprinklers were on, and the sun made sparkles on just-mowed grass. Vari-colored mums and beds of pansies spread a luxuriant carpet beside the cement walks, reaching up to the doublewide doors with the wheelchair symbol. Organ music came from a patio where church services were held.

  And sometimes, funerals.

  There would be no funeral for Kate. She’d been dead for twelve years, and Kris saw no need to prolong her time on earth. Kate was at peace and free from pain. At last.

  Kris, her twin sister, was not.

  Kris stared at the building, the driveways neatly trimmed hedges, the high fence. Who in this place could climb steps, much less fences? Were they locking someone in or someone out? What was there to steal inside? Lost souls. Vague lives left here too long, no will or wish to respond to nurturing offered by concerned medical staff and loving families.

  This last time, the place should look different.

  It didn’t.

  Number Forty-Two bus stopped on the corner, and Kris boarded it for the ride into the city. It was the same bus she’d ridden for years. There were the same faces, older, wrinkled. The vinyl seats split and leaked cotton tufts at the corners, the backs blistering in summer, icy in winter. Only the driver had changed. Instead of the stooped gray-haired Pole with the twenty-one letter name, there was a barrel of an Afro-topped woman with arms like century-old oaks bordering the streets.

  Advertisements had changed, grown more sophisticated, or perhaps blatant was a better term. Beer and shampoo and condoms and schools and abortion clinics, pro-life organizations. Something for everyone.

  Her glance drifted away from the pictures to the scenery flashing past. She remembered the drive from long-ago family outings, those once-a-year trips from their small town in upstate New York into the city to take in the Statue of Liberty, the World Trade Center, museums, zoos, Broadway plays. Her mother loved musicals and would sing for days after a show, and her father would smile and hum along. Truth was, he couldn’t carry a tune in a hand basket, but that didn’t bother her parents. In love for years, they were simply attuned to each other.

  She and Kate were enthralled with Tiffany’s, department store windows, fancy dresses, fur coats, records and tapes, and those wonderful book stores and newspaper stands with copies from romantic cities they’d love to see but never live in: San Francisco, Los Angeles, Seattle, Dallas, even the tiny town in South Carolina with the neat sounding name of Kershaw. Anywhere. They were a close family, but other people, their habits and customs, fascinated the McCalls.

  The landscape hadn’t changed much in the past dozen years. People live and die, but barring a war and wild housing developments, the country scene remains fairly steady.

  Fall colors blazed in the warm sunshine, red and orange and brown and yellow and gold. They should warm her, but they didn’t. Soon they would be gone, all brown and dead.

  Like Kate. Kate hadn’t spoken in twelve years, but Kris would miss her because she still remembered their last conversation on that day so long ago when Kate left Kris at home with a sore throat while she attended classes.

  When Kate heard their mother tell Kris she’d have to remain at home to take antibiotics for her sore throat, Kate stuck her head back into their bedroom and grinned. Her gray/blue eyes were different from her twin sister’s today in that they shone with teasing mischief while Kris held a Kleenex to her nose and eyes to absorb drainage. Her lids were swollen, her soft lips parched with painful cracks in them.

  “Didn’t you promise Dane you’d share your lunch with him today?”

  Dane Turner was Southern Cross High’s star running back, and he’d picked Kris from the identical McCall twins by noticing when she laughed, she threw her head back and her turned up nose wrinkled a bit. Kate’s head went back, too, but she didn’t wrinkle her nose.

  That Dane was a smart one.

  Kris nodded, knowing exactly what her sister was thinking.

  “I’ll be extra nice to him, Sis, honest,” Kate said, giving Kris a pseudo-sympathetic look.

  Kris didn’t bother to argue. Kate would wrinkle her nose in a perfect imitation of her sister, and Dane wouldn’t know the difference.

  “You’d better be nice. And don’t promise him we’ll park on Wild Water Pond after the game on Friday, either.” She tried to make her voice firm, but it only rasped and died away without force.

  Kate’s eyes widened.

  “Oh, Kris." How romantic. Of course, I won’t promise. Just hint a little.” She blew Kris a kiss and her delighted laughter drifted back to her sister.

  Kris didn’t doubt Kate would have lunch with Dane, but she never did hear about it. Kate never came home again. At least, not as her other half, that identical twin sister she’d needed as a part of herself.

  Three blocks from their home, an eighteen-year-old maniac kidnapped Kate, raped her, sliced patterns in her stomach and on her legs and arms, and raped her again. Repeatedly. Then he left her for dead. Caught, tried, and convicted, Ward Nickle was sentenced to life imprisonment without parole, but a lenient judge decided that because of his ‘prejudicial trial, he was young, first offense and on and on’ that he should be rehabilitated at taxpayers’ expense and released back into society.

  Kris and her parents, horrified at having the man back on the streets, could do nothing. They hadn’t wanted the death penalty for Kate’s murderer, but they protested long and loud over his parole. It did them no good. The fact that the jurors, their neighbors, local representatives, all fought the judge’s decision -- nothing mattered except that a young criminal not be ‘unduly punished’ for his crime.

  Numb, Kris had listened to the legal harangue, language she didn’t understand except to realize Ward Nickle was free while Kate was a prisoner in a body without feeling. Her parents died of heartbreak, but Kris was alive and well -- and full of a deep desire for revenge that had been kept alive for twelve years.

  It was nurtured in the back of her mind because she was too busy taking care of her parents and Kate, working, going to school, and working some more to pay the spiraling costs of Kate’s twenty-four-hour care.

  The time had come to start her search for the two people she’d hated with a quiet intensity for a dozen years: The one who committed the crime against Kate, and the one who allowed him to go free.

  Chapter One

  On the outskirts of New York City, Kris switched from bus to train. Four hours later, she exited a cab in front of a neat four-story brownstone just off Central Park.

  “Good evening, Miss McCall.”

  Barry Petroski, six feet, five inches of solid brawn, a yard of arm reach ending in hands like Paul Bunyan, size sixteen feet, and gentle brown eyes in a mafia mug’s face. He looked like a bouncer which was what he was.

  “Hello, Barry.”

  Kris smiled, giving him the full effect of translucent gray eyes with blue specks, thick lashes curling upward like heavy smoke. Kris had known Barry for all of the three-plus years she’d worked for Myrna Baker. She considered him her friend as did the other members of Myrna’s business.

  “Is Myrna in?”

  “Mrs. Baker is in the solarium, I believe.”

  Her low heels made no sound on the pearl gray carpet as Kris walked down the wide hallway to an open door. She tapped two knuckles on the wood facing.

  Myrna Baker, frowning at a magazine on her lap, glanced up. Skin softened by exclusive creams and expensive treatments, honey blonde hair, its true color known only to her hairdresser, sparkling champa
gne colored eyes. She wore a floor length silk dressing gown of jade green, a shade guaranteed to accent her best features.

  A warm smile replaced the frown.

  “Kris. I was beginning to worry about you. How’s Kate?” It was her usual greeting. Myrna worried about all the young women in her employ until they were safe back within her walls.

  Kris stood in front of the woman who’d given her a desperately needed job years ago when her parents’ savings and insurance money had been used up for Kate’s doctor and hospital bills.

  “Kate died at seven o’clock this morning.”

  “Oh, Kris, I’m so sorry.”

  Kris’s voice was soft, without expression, but the pain in her eyes struck hard at the observer. Myrna stood up, waiting for Kris’s next move. She didn’t like being touched and was not given to hugging. Myrna respected that. It happened to a lot of girls engaged in their line of work.

  “Don’t be sorry, Myrna. It’s been a long twelve years. For both of us.”

  Myrna touched a button on the chair arm, and a maid, trim in black and white, appeared.

  “Tanya, bring two glasses of brandy.”

  Tanya disappeared, and Myrna said, “Sit down, Kris.”

  Kris sat.

  Neither spoke until Tanya returned with thick-bottomed glasses half filled with amber liquid. She bent close to Kris, and when Kris made no move to take the drink, Tanya handed her one of the glasses.

  “Oh. Thank you, Tanya.” She gave the girl a quick smile.

  “Drink, Kris.”

  Myrna’s calm voice didn’t hint of her deep concern. For the three years of their acquaintance, Kris had taken care of each client assigned her, and once a week made the one hundred fifty mile trip upstate to Garden Valley Nursing Home to visit Kate. A visit Kate was never aware of.

  She’s too quiet. Something will have to give sooner or later, Myrna thought as she watched Kris gulp the brandy, swallow and cough.

  “Take all the time off that you need, Kris. You’re welcome to use the country house. No one’s there this time of year.”

  Myrna spoke of her home in Connecticut. Kris had been there a few times with special clients.

  Kris turned her glass and ran a forefinger over the rim.

  “I’m quitting, Myrna. If you need me to work until you get a replacement, I will. I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

  “Oh, Kris, wait awhile to make up your mind.” Myrna was dismayed.

  Kris was a drawing card Myrna used for special clients. High-paying, high-flying, high society clients. They weren’t going to be happy to lose her, but Myrna hated it most of all. Kris’s ready smile, a quiet wit that showed up at unexpected times even after the tragedy she lived with every day, her sunny disposition. They were coveted qualities in keeping Myrna’s customers contented.

  Only Myrna and Barry knew why Kris worked as a glamorous call girl. Only they knew about Kate.

  Myrna Baker’s girls were handpicked and trained by Myrna, their backgrounds thoroughly investigated. She was a successful businesswoman whose sentimental side was kept well hidden. She’d gone completely out of character to hire Kris McCall when the young woman appeared one snowy Friday, slim and quietly elegant, haunted gray eyes speckled with blue that gave them a three-dimensional look, shiny blonde hair cut in a thick shoulder length shag with uneven bangs.

  Myrna looked her over.

  “How did you get this address?”

  “From the city directory. When I studied at Columbia University, I spent several days with the police department.” Kris gave her a brief smile. “There’d been a break-in at this address, and I was there when the Chief of Police said, ‘If no one ever gave us any more trouble than Myrna Baker’s whorehouse, I could retire, and you wouldn’t have to replace me.’”

  “So you know you’re applying for a job as a call girl, officially an escort service that unofficially calls for services as required.”

  “I understand the pay is good.”

  “You earn it.”

  Kris’s fingers worked at a button on her light blue wool suit. Her experience had never come close to qualifying her for this job.

  “I’ve been going to school and working two jobs for several years. I think I can handle it.”

  “You have a degree?”

  “An MBA from Columbia.”

  “I doubt it’s prepared you for this type job.”

  “I’ll do a good job of whatever assignment you give me.”

  The statement was quiet, not a whining beg which would have ended whatever precarious chance she had with Myrna. Kris didn’t know that. She was desperate, and she would beg if it was needed, but she wouldn’t whine. She’d been fighting the system, devastating personal setbacks and terror alone for eight years, since the death of her parents. She was accustomed to struggling, sometimes hopelessly, and this job would be a boon financially.

  There might be psychological effects, but she’d think of those later. Right now, there were too many other pressing things to consider.

  “What kind of experience have you had?” Myrna said.

  Kris took a deep breath. She wouldn’t lie. Carhop, newspaper stringer, taxi cab driver, cocktail waitress. The truth might ruin her chances, but it was easier than lying.

  “I’m a virgin.”

  Myrna Baker stared at the young woman, and then she exploded with laughter.

  She hired Kris.

  Now, after nearly four years, she was losing her. Under protest.

  “Think about this first, Kris. Why not stay in the country until you collect your thoughts and make up your mind later?” When Kris shook her head, Myrna said, “Then what are you going to do?”

  “Nothing for a while.” Nothing Myrna need know about. “I’ll keep in touch.”

  Kris checked the address on the card in her hand then looked at the building on the corner. A bakery was on the first floor, and Kris could see lacy curtains at two front windows on the second floor. That was the address, all right. There was an outside stairway with a wooden arrow pointing upward: Lillian Comstock, Private Investigator.

  Smells from the bakery reminded Kris she hadn’t eaten since -- she couldn’t remember when. She’d stop by the bakery on her way out.

  A wrought iron railing circled the small landing at the top of the steps. The solid wooden door had a one-way peephole in it. Kris pushed the bell alongside the metal numbers reading ‘202.’

  She entered the door when a voice said, “Come in,” and faced a woman with thin features, short black hair liberally laced with coarse gray. She studied Kris with round, unblinking eyes, like a bird of prey.

  “Can I help you?”

  It was obvious where the gravelly voice came from. An open package of Marlboro cigarettes lay near the woman’s right hand, bony fingers stained yellow-brown. She wore camouflage-colored coveralls open at the throat to reveal a black knit turtleneck.

  Kris introduced herself. “I’m looking for two people I haven’t seen in twelve years.”

  “They got names?”

  “Judge Arthur Wilton and Ward Nickle.”

  “Judge? Did he live in New York when you knew him?”

  “Yes.”

  “The phone book is cheaper than I’ll be.”

  “He isn’t listed.”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard to find him at any rate. What’s Nickle’s last address?”

  “Seven years ago it was Albany State House of Corrections.”

  “For?”

  “Assault, rape, mutilation and attempted murder.”

  “You?”

  “No.”

  The PI sat back in her chair. “What about Judge Wilton?”

  “He was instrumental in getting an early release for Nickle.”

  “This Nickle. He was guilty of all the charges?”

  “Convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment without parole.”

  “And now he’s out of prison? Because of the judge?”

  “Yes.”
r />   Comstock tried to stare Kris down, tried to see past the imperturbable surface of the girl’s aloof visage. She was disturbingly quiet for someone talking about committing murder, almost as though she was doing it as an afterthought.

  Yeah, afterthought. After too much thought.

  “Things of this nature go on all the time, you know. There are deals cut, plea bargaining and technicalities that allow criminals to go free.”

  “The courts won’t be involved in your investigation or its results.”

  “Exactly what does that mean?”

  “Find me the two men. Your responsibility ends there.”

  Comstock had seen the same look on other faces but not on such a lovely young woman’s.

  “Revenge might be sweet but it’s a deadly weapon, and to coin a cliché, vengeance is no substitute for justice.”

  Kris said nothing.

  “Should you find these two, what then?”

  “They’re going to suffer.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  She didn’t know what she’d do, but she did know it would be a long, painful and humiliating siege. Both men were going to endure untold horrors before she finished with them. She wished fervently that she were a witch. She’d turn them into prisoners with a bunch of notorious criminals who like men.

  “Wilton, I take it, is a successful judge. Helluva case of first-degree hate to carry around if you have no plans to get it out of your system. And revenge, I might add, by any other name is still revenge. It doesn’t usually help.”

  Kris waited.

  Comstock sighed.

  “What’s with Nickle? Lots of convicted criminals get out on parole, some luckier than others and find a judge like Wilton. Too many of them for you to take on the entire system.”

  Kris didn’t answer her.

  “Harassing judges, no matter how sincere your grievance, is against the law. If you get carried away in this revenge scheme, you could land in prison yourself.” She stopped. Kris remained silent. “You know what they do to lovely young women in prison? In two years, that face of yours won’t launch a thousand ships; it’ll sink them. Think about it.”