Revels Ending

by Vic Kerry

  “That’s interesting. Can you have a contract for them with just their manager’s knowledge, Mr. San Roman?” Smalls asked.

  “Yes,” he answered. “How did you find out my name?”

  “The band told us,” Ashe said. “Strange you don’t really look like a Francisco.”

  “You do not look like a man who would like a band like them,” San Roman said.

  “I don’t. I’m trying to find out why my fiancée died,” Ashe said.

  “What is the priest here for?”

  “I’m trying to figure out if there is something sinister involved in her death,” Smalls said.

  San Roman laughed. It sounded forced. “When it comes to death and rock ‘n’ roll, it is always sinister.”

  “An nescit mali?” Smalls asked.

  San Roman smiled. “I do not speak Latin.”

  “Es usted consciente del mal?” Smalls asked.

  “Good night, gentlemen. I just realized that I have an appointment.” San Roman stood up and started to leave the bar.

  His movements were stiff and looked artificial. Everything about him reminded Ashe of his encounter with the Heinz woman.

  “Do you know Carol Heinz, Mr. San Roman?” Ashe asked.

  San Roman turned and stared at Ashe. His eyes narrowed to slits, and it appeared that the amber-colored irises had changed to black. “I do not know who you are talking about, Dr. Shrove. Good night.”

  The large man turned again and left. Ashe and Smalls looked at each other.

  “That was strange,” Smalls said, “and in a joint like this that’s saying something.”

  “He knew my name,” Ashe said. “I didn’t tell it to him.”

  Smalls thought for a moment. “Maybe I introduced you.”

  “No, you didn’t. He just knew it.”

  “I’m not too surprised. He also knew I was speaking Latin to him, but didn’t seem to know Spanish, although his name would suggest Hispanic origins.”

  “Well, guys, I got stood up,” Cybil said as she walked up. “It looks like your date left in a hurry too.”

  “Yes,” Smalls said. “I think we upset him.”

  “He was a scary-looking dude,” she said. “I wouldn’t have wanted to meet him alone.”

  “He reminded me a lot of the woman we met the other night at the parade,” Ashe said. “He talked like her and moved stiffly. His eyes were even amber like hers.”

  “Maybe they were related,” Cybil said.

  “Maybe so,” Smalls said. “I think we need to leave. I have something I need to research.”

  “Fine by me,” Cybil said. “Without my cop date, I don’t like my prospects.”

  “What do you need to research?” Ashe wanted to know what the priest thought.

  “For some reason the name Francisco San Roman is familiar to me. I can’t remember why, but something tells me it’s important.”

  “That guy was named Francisco?” Cybil asked. “He didn’t look like one.”

  “No he didn’t,” Smalls said. “That’s why I think I need to get to this research as soon as possible.”

  Cybil sat in the passenger seat of Ashe’s car. He’d brought her back to her apartment complex. She’d decided to leave her Vespa on campus. It was too cold to ride it back home in what she wore.

  “Thanks for the ride.” She fumbled for the door handle. “I’ve got no idea how I’m going to get to school tomorrow, but I’ll figure it out.”

  “I’m sorry you were stood up,” Ashe said.

  “I’m not.” She wasn’t. “He was a meathead. I told you I just agreed to meet him to get the laptop. If he’d shown up, I’d have to fake interest in his cop talk. He’d try to get lucky. I’d slap him and would’ve ended up in jail for striking an officer.”

  “Before you go, I need to tell you something.”

  To her, his eyes looked worried. She hoped he wasn’t going to fire her from being his assistant. The other professors would keep her on, but they were all too old to be fun.

  “Okay.”

  “You remember the woman that told us about the new parading society the other night?”

  “Of course, how could I forget her? She was so strange.”

  “I think she was the woman from Birmingham that I went to see the video of,” he said.

  “The dead woman who walked out of the morgue?” Cybil said.

  “Yes.”

  “Come on. That’s not a funny joke. Marianne did the same thing,” she said.

  “You act like I don’t know that. I’m not joking. They showed me a family photograph of the woman. It looked exactly like the woman from the parade.”

  “That’s creepy,” Cybil said. “Is the detective doing anything about it?”

  “I couldn’t remember the exact name of the society she said she worked with, but I got as close as I could. I think he was going to investigate it.”

  She shivered not from being cold but from the gooseflesh that popped up from the thought that she’d made jokes about a dead woman. Speaking ill of the dead was bad karma. If the dead were walking around, she couldn’t imagine what the results might be if she chose to speak ill of one of them. Her apartment was on the back side of the building. She didn’t feel much like walking around to it alone.

  “Walk me to my door, please.”

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” Ashe said. “I just felt that you needed to know about it.”

  “I’m glad you did, and maybe I shouldn’t be afraid, but this is like some kind of weird horror movie and right now I’m feeling a little bit like one of those bimbos that the monster gets.”

  She reached out and touched his hand as it gripped the steering wheel. It felt warm and comforting. Her fingers were so cold that she welcomed this. Ashe looked at her. She felt the understanding in that glance.

  “All right, but no good night kiss,” he said.

  She removed her hand and smiled. “I promise.”

  They both got out of the car. The headlights flashed as Ashe locked the doors with his remote. They met on the sidewalk in front of the car. Cybil took Ashe’s hand and led him down the sidewalk that disappeared into the shadows cast by the building. To her, their handclasp felt nice, but the kind of nice that occurred with children who were afraid of something and held to each other for strength and comfort. They walked up three short steps at the corner where two sidewalks intersected. The light from her stoop lamp spilled out onto the sidewalk. She let go of Ashe’s hand so that she could dig her keys out of her pocket. When she looked up, the door to her apartment was open.

  “Ashe,” she said..

  “I see it. Let me go in first.”

  He pushed past her and into her apartment. She followed close behind. Staying outside didn’t appeal to her any more than going into her apartment first.

  The lamp she always kept on shined its light from the floor where it had been knocked. Stuffing poured from large slashes in the couch that sat near the door. All the pictures she had put on the walls lay on the floor torn and tattered. Cybil looked over the bar that separated the living room from the kitchen. All the contents of her refrigerator were poured on the floor. Streaks of mustard and ketchup clung to the walls. She walked toward her bedroom, but Ashe stopped her.

  “We need to go back to my car, call the police, and wait on them there,” he said.

  “I want to see what they’ve done to my bedroom.” Her voice quivered, making the volume of it low.

  “We need to get out,” Ashe said. His voice was firm.

  Cybil looked at him, but he stared at the door to her bedroom. She looked at it now for the first time with clear vision. A long piece of paper was tacked to it. There was a message written there in dark, runny letters as if it were written in blood. She couldn’t make out what was written there, but the language was d
ifferent from anything she’d ever seen.

  “You’re right,” she said. “The car is the best place to wait.”

  Without another word they turned and hurried back to Ashe’s car.

  Chapter Eight

  Semmes decided to pursue his lead on the Mystics of Mayhem by himself. His new partner thought she had enough experience in the field to deal with a case as weird as this one was turning out to be, but she didn’t. That was at least what he had told himself. The chief hadn’t authorized his investigation of the society. Since Carol Heinz was from Birmingham and no real connection could be made between her and Marianne, Semmes was ordered that he couldn’t harass anyone over her. Of course that only applied to work hours.

  He sat in his own car looking at a building surrounded by a high chain-link fence with razor wire curled around the top. A sign hung on the fence warning that trespassers would be prosecuted. Semmes didn’t worry too much about that. He was sure that no one at the department would try and put him away for investigating a lead to a case even if he wasn’t authorized to do so. Other officers did worse than that almost daily. The radio he kept in his car screeched. The dispatcher announced an officer was needed in Birdville. He wasn’t far from there, but he was off duty.

  “Let one of the regular blues handle it,” he said aloud, not taking his eye off the building.

  Nothing about the place screamed that a Mardi Gras parading society was using it to make floats. It didn’t look like any kind of office building either. Semmes assumed it had been used by some company that owned factories out at Brookley Field as a storehouse. Headlights flashed in his rearview mirror. He slid down in his seat to keep from being seen. A white-paneled van rolled down the street. It stopped just short of the gate. A large red-haired man got out and walked to the gate. He unlocked it and started to pull it open. Semmes got out of his car. He checked the clamshell holster in the back band of his jeans, pulling his coat over it.

  “Excuse me,” he said loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the van’s engine.

  The red-haired man looked at him, but kept pulling the gate open in silence. Semmes crossed the road. He pulled his badge out of his pocket and held it in front of him. It didn’t seem to faze the man. Semmes looked into the van as he passed. The driver couldn’t be made out. He wore a hooded sweatshirt, concealing his face.

  “My name is Detective Semmes. I’m with the Mobile Police Department. I have a question about this facility.”

  “I do not own this establishment.”

  “Who does?”

  The red-haired man looked at the van. Semmes looked back in enough time to see the van moving toward him. He stepped out of the way as the vehicle drove inside the fence. Once the van passed the gate, the red-haired man stepped to the other side and started closing the gate. Semmes tried to step over the line into the fenced area. The red-haired man pushed him backward with enough force to make him stumble.

  “I apologize, but you cannot enter without permission.”

  “Can I talk to the driver of the van?”

  “No.”

  “Who owns this property, and what is it used for?” Semmes asked as the gate clicked closed.

  “The Mystics of Mayhem society owns this warehouse. We are constructing our floats for the Mardi Gras. I am afraid that is all I can tell you, Detective Semmes.”

  “What about your name?”

  The man looked at Semmes. In the light cast down from the overhead security lights, his eyes looked amber. In all his time in police work, Semmes couldn’t remember ever seeing a person with eyes that color.

  “Francisco San Roman. I am a member of the society.”

  “Mr. San Roman, do you know a woman named Carol Heinz? I think she might be in this society.”

  “I do not know a woman by that name.”

  “How about Marianne Lenard?”

  The driver got out of the van. Semmes eyed him. By the build, the driver was obviously a man. He cleared his throat loud enough for Semmes to hear.

  “So?” he prompted San Roman again.

  “Do you possess a warrant officer?” San Roman asked.

  “No.”

  “Then I have said everything I have to say to you.”

  “I’m just asking questions. I don’t want to search the place, yet. If you cooperate then I may not even want to do that.”

  San Roman pivoted on one foot and turned his back to Semmes. The man then walked away with a stiff gait. Semmes felt like cursing at the guy, but figured anyone that strange wouldn’t care. He shoved his badge into his pocket and crossed the street back to his car. As he started the engine, he noticed that the hooded man still stood outside the building. Semmes turned on his headlights and pulled from his parking place.

  “I need a unit to head over to Rivera Apartments on South University Boulevard. There has been a break-in, possibly gang related. The renter, Cybil Fairchild, and her boss, Ashley Shrove, are waiting in the parking lot,” the dispatcher said over the radio to no one in particular.

  Semmes grabbed his transmitter. “This is Semmes, number 209. What’s the apartment number?”

  “401C.”

  “On my way,” he said.

  He didn’t have a flasher to put on the roof of his car, but Semmes accelerated his Taurus up to 80 mph on the rough streets on the back side of Government Boulevard. He switched on his emergency flashers as he ran a red light that put him on Michigan Avenue. Keeping to the side streets would get him across town faster than hitting the main drags. The parade traffic would be gone, but folks would start leaving the downtown bars and heading back toward west Mobile.

  After about ten minutes, he pulled his car onto Cottage Hill Road. His tires squealed and probably smoked. He didn’t pay attention. Few cars drove westbound. He ran the light at the intersection with University Boulevard, turning right. The blue flashing lights from two cruisers lit up the night as the entryway for the apartment complex came into view. He drove onto the service road and then through the gates. A parking space was available beside a Mobile County cruiser. He parked and hopped out of his car. A sheriff’s deputy hurried to him waving his arms for him to stay back. Semmes dug his badge out and flashed it to him.

  “Detective Semmes, Mobile PD.” He brushed past. “I’ve been investigating the disappearance of Dr. Shrove’s fiancée.”

  “Semmes,” Ashe said from ahead of him.

  He saw the professor step away from the other police car. Ashe didn’t look too well. All the different lights from the cars and the street lamps caught in the hollows of his face, making him look much older than he was and very tired. Semmes shoved his badge back into his pocket.

  “What’s going on?” Semmes asked.

  “Someone broke into Cybil’s apartment. I brought her home from the parades. She was afraid to walk to her apartment alone so I escorted her, and we found it ransacked.”

  “Why was she scared to go by herself? Do you think she knew about the break-in?” Semmes asked.

  “I told her about Carol Heinz.”

  Anger steeped inside of Semmes like boiling tea. He sucked air through his teeth, making a whistling sound. “I thought we agreed no one would know about that.”

  “We did, but she was with me when I met that woman. I figured she had a right to know, just in case there is something bad going on.”

  “You might be right, but still, if too many people know, it could compromise the investigation. You know that everyone wants to keep this stuff hush-hush until we know more.” Semmes said. “Who’s working on this from the PD?”

  Ashe pointed to an officer standing by a police car with Cybil. He recognized the officer although he’d never worked with him. The officer worked well but always seemed to end up on night duty. He walked toward the officer.

  “How is everything?” he asked and looked at the officer’s name ba
dge. “Brewster.”

  “Detective Semmes, what brings you to a breaking and entering?” the officer asked. “I figured you’d be after a murder case.”

  “I have reason to believe that this might be related to a case I’m working on. Do you think you could walk me through the scene?” he asked.

  “Of course. Just let me finish this interview,” Brewster said.

  “She can come with us; he can too.” Semmes pointed to Ashe. “They are both well versed in my investigation.”

  “Do you think this is related to Marianne?” Cybil asked.

  “Possibly,” Semmes said.

  Ashe walked to them. “I know it is.”

  “Why is that?” Semmes asked.

  “I’ll show you when we get to the apartment,” Ashe said.

  Semmes let Brewster lead the way. He brought up the rear with Cybil and Ashe between the two. When they entered the apartment, Semmes started to make mental pictures of what was around. He noted all the pictures on the floor in tatters. Everything that would be worth money was still there, but smashed. A smell hung in the air. It reminded him of rotten eggs.

  “What’s that smell?” he asked.

  “We haven’t figured it out yet,” Brewster said.

  “Do you guys have any idea?” he asked Ashe and Cybil.

  “No, it smells like rotten eggs,” Cybil said, “but I haven’t bought eggs in ages.”

  Semmes made a mental note of the smell with a big red mark beside it to keep it fresh in his memory. He walked around the room. It seemed that the burglars left nothing untouched if not destroyed. The door leading to the bedroom was open. He poked his head inside. The same amount of devastation was there. Someone had slashed the mattress and pulled out the stuffing. The fluffy material lay all around the room. Pages from textbooks lay crumpled up on the floor. Even Cybil’s underwear was torn up and strewn across the room.

  “Thorough, weren’t they?” Brewster asked.

  “Yeah,” Semmes said. “Ashe, is this what you’re basing your assumption on? There’s a lot of damage, but I don’t know how it would relate to Marianne’s disappearance.”