Bud knew she meant Cameron’s three killers, but he ignored the question. “I ordered you a white merlot, Max. I know you like the blush wines, but really, a white zinfandel is so”—he waved his hand in the air—“common. Something that earthy detective must have served you. They also have a white burgundy, but I think you’ll like what I’ve chosen. It’s dryer than a white zin but still fruity.” He leaned close. “Drink up, my love.”
She didn’t fall for the last dig or allow a spark of emotion to flare inside. He would have seen it, in her eyes, on her lips, in the quaver of her hand. She recognized his tactics. He could have found out her preference in wine in any number of ways, the easiest being a search of her small refrigerator when he broke into her studio apartment. The slur against Witt proved his jealousy. Another weak spot she might be able to use against him.
Foregoing the question and answer period, she went straight to the heart of the matter. “I’ve never killed anyone.” She paused, eyes on his face. “But I think I’ll enjoy killing you.” She tried the words on like a coat and found they fit well.
He laughed. Heads at the occupied tables turned their way. Studious busboys and the maitre d’ glanced with sly eyes.
Bud’s smile remained beatific. “You’ve always been my greatest challenge, Max.”
“One of us is going to die.” Not an ounce of emotion accompanied her flat words.
“One of us is going to jail for the murder of young Cameron’s assailants. And I don’t think it’s going to be me, Max.” Confident, he tipped his glass of red wine at her. Max didn’t touch hers as he sipped, watching her over the rim.
She wanted to feel some moral emotion, anger for Bud’s self-absorption, remorse for Tattoo’s and Scarface’s deaths though they were less than animals. Instead, a rumble of satisfaction heated her chest. They would pay, all of them, including Bud.
“How did you feel when you heard he was dead?” She didn’t need to say Cameron’s name.
He rolled his glass stem between his fingers. “I believe, Max”—he stretched his speech with brief interludes—“when I read in the paper he’d been killed”—pause—“I felt a great sense of ... sadness.” He looked deeply into his wine.
“Why?” She stared, wanting to know, as if his answer would give meaning to the universe.
His mouth was a straight line, his dark eyes bottomless pools of emotion Max didn’t trust for a moment. “I loved him, Max.”
She could have puked, right there on the table in front of him, mostly because she knew what he said was true. He could love and demolish the thing he loved in the blink of an eye. That bit of knowledge was the key to the universe. “Like you loved Cordelia?” And Wendy and Tiffany and Bethany, his lovers, his victims.
“Cordelia would have made a wonderful mother.”
A puff of air escaped her throat as she made the connection he hadn’t quite stated. “Cordelia would never have let you harm her baby.” Thus the young girl, the new mother, had signed her own death warrant. Bud couldn’t let her get in the way of his heinous plans for his own daughter. That was the meaning of the license plate in her vision. Bud had committed multiple murders, first to keep Wendy as his personal toy, then to hide what he’d done, and finally to destroy the being he’d created.
He went on with a dreamy quality to his voice. “Cordelia was the most perfect woman, Max.”
“Child,” Max corrected with venom.
“I would have done anything for her, Max.”
“You gave up everything. Was it worth it?”
He spread his arms. “Does it look like it was, Max?” He had it all. Money, power, influence.
“You couldn’t have known it would turn out well. For you, at least,” she had to add.
“It wouldn’t have mattered.” He leaned closer, dropping his voice, and enveloped her with his intimate tone. “Haven’t you ever wanted something so badly you’d give anything to possess it, Max? Anything that was asked of you?”
She answered without a pause, without a blink, and meant the words with all her heart. “Your death.”
He let out a contented, elongated breath. “A passionate goal, Max. In the end you will lose everything for it, but you’ll never be satisfied.” He distanced himself from her. “I feel sorry for you, Max, that you couldn’t say it was Cameron you wanted. Or even that small-minded detective of yours.”
It bothered her, too. But the die was cast. “We were talking about Cordelia.”
Once again, that dreamy smile curved his lips. “Such a pity she had to die. Such a pity Wendy did, too.” His fingers stroked his wineglass. “Until you, Wendy had always been my favorite. I adored her, Max.”
His favorite what? God, his own daughter. He’d arranged her death when she defied him.
“You’re so like her, Max. It’s as if she lives on inside of you.”
He was neatly arranging her demise, too.