With these matters determined to his own satisfaction, the memories had been aroused to work their penetrating, uninhibited will on DeVane. Even those that sated were small molestations, arsenic pleasures.
Now they flashed an image of the brownstone in New York City onto the screen of his mind, a vivid memory of how it had looked to him on first sight. This was thousands of miles and two years to the day after he had sat at the long glass table in his father’s tower, hiding his threadbare shirt cuff beneath the sleeves of his cheap jacket. DeVane had known from the moment of his expulsion that important lessons could be taken from it. In the time that passed he had concentrated on extracting every one them, seen that his processing of the information had grown full and complete. None of that time was wasted with idleness.
His appearance had changed… no, he had transformed himself. That was the primary lesson DeVane had learned: Transformation was necessary for those born outside the fortresses of power to succeed. The faceless unknown must fit themselves to suits that would let them belong.
The suit DeVane had worn as he strode toward the brownstone on Manhattan’s Upper East Side was tailored and padded black wool crepe, his shirt woven gray cotton, his silk hand-knit necktie smartly knotted and dimpled. He had walked in his oxfords just once before to give their leather the suppleness of light wear, then polished them to a soft, rich gleam. Strapped casually over his shoulder was a Coach Hudson briefcase.
DeVane had obtained the expensive clothes and briefcase with money from items stolen and fenced in another city. His hands had become skilled at using the lock pick and shim, at gaining furtive entrance to unoccupied homes. The tower had pointed DeVane’s way toward an understanding that his sense of entitlement was a dead skin to be shed… and had eventually led him to appreciate that merit did not open doors, but only gave one a chance at staying in the room. He had realized, too, that there was always more than a single door, a single room. For the faceless unknown, cunning and deception were the true keys to the kingdom.
Hocus pocus.
Pausing in front of the nineteenth-century town house, DeVane had noted its every feature with an obsessive attention to detail. A low wrought-iron fence stood between the small flagstone court and sidewalk. A spindling bamboo plant, striped green and yellow, grew from a concrete bed by the front steps. The leaded casement windows had black-barred gates and interior shutters. The door was dark paneled wood with a heavy horseshoe knocker, brass knob, and a pear-shaped light fixture above it. On the jamb, an intercom. There were ornate floral designs on the projecting cornices.
DeVane had looked up at the light fixture amid the busy brush and bump of sidewalk foot traffic and recalled seeing its photograph in a guide to ornamental antiques written by the homeowner. Her name was Melissa Phillips, and she had authored numerous magazine articles and three books on related subjects. Her most recent book had appeared a decade earlier, shortly before the passing of her husband, an executive editor at a famed and venerable publishing house who had been much older than she.
Before his trip to New York, DeVane had learned everything he could about the widow. She had led a reserved, if not quite withdrawn, existence since the end of her marriage. She was reputed to be a mild eccentric who fancied herself as something of a bohemian. There was a small circle of friends with whom she had regular get-togethers, most of them women, socialites she had known for years. Although she possessed abundant financial means, Melissa Phillips would sometimes rent out luxury suites in the spacious town house she had inherited, placing advertisements in the New York Observer, a weekly Manhattan newspaper with a large upscale readership. The monthly rates were expensive as listed, but Phillips’s leasing of the apartments sprang from a desire for companionship rather than income, and she showed a softness, even a patronlike generosity, toward a certain type of prospective occupant… or house guest, as she preferred to call each of her renters. Young people who aspired to careers in the arts often struck an empathic chord in her. Budding writers, musicians, dancers, and stage performers made for colorful house guests and lively evening conversation, and she would on occasion adjust her rents downward to ease their financial burdens, or in some cases defer its due date when their pursuit of the muse ran them lean.
The widow had shown a special affection for gifted, interesting men in their twenties and early thirties, and it was to them that her kindness was most often and fully extended.
DeVane had learned of this preference after reading an archived article taken from the New York Post’s Page Six, well known for its gossip columns about celebrities and members of Gotham society.
It had seemed a shining gift to him.
On the brownstone’s front stoop, he announced himself to a servant over the intercom and was told someone would be down to admit him in a few moments.
When the door opened, DeVane was not surprised to see Melissa Phillips herself standing in the entry. She was an attractive woman. Small framed, thin, her blond hair just slightly laced with gray.
The widow had appraised him with intent, pale blue eyes.
“Hello, Mr. Nemaine,” she said, and smiled. “I’d thought your appointment at that literary agency might delay you… it can be horrible getting up here from downtown.”
DeVane shrugged, returned her smile with one he had studied on other faces and taught himself to reproduce.
“A playwright’s timing has to be perfect, and I try not to miss my beats,” he said, taking her extended hand. Her fingers were long, slender. “It’s an honor, Mrs. Phillips. You have a distinguished reputation as a benefactress of the arts.”
A glint in the widow’s eyes. They met his own.
“I’m charmed and flattered to know my efforts are appreciated,” she said. “And please call me Melissa… I’m not that much older than you.”
DeVane stood with her hand in his. Behind her, a glimpse of a high-walled entry parlor of palatial dimensions. He was struck by the burnished gold chandelier that hung from its vaulted ceiling, clean white candles in its curved, graceful arms.
She noticed him looking in through the halfway open door, and glanced over her shoulder to see what had caught his attention.
DeVane was quick; he had worked hard at perfecting the cheat.
“I apologize for becoming distracted, but the chandelier is magnificent,” he said. “Gilded wood, isn’t it? I’d imagine it must date back to the English Restoration.”
Melissa Phillips faced him again, impressed.
“Very close,” she said, and opened her door wide to admit him. “It’s British. From the early eighteenth century, though. You’ll find it even more beautiful at night with the candles lighted.”
He had nodded and entered.
As DeVane followed her into the parlor, he had felt almost like a treasure hunter who had unearthed a trove of wealth he had sought for a lifetime — struggling, digging, boring past endless layers of dirt and stone to expose it — and now that he had broken through, now that it was within reach, had discovered it contained an even greater hoard than he had allowed himself to envision.
He wanted to see every prize, take it all in at once…