My relationship with Anthony Valerio was still evolving. I pictured this as the type of evolution that takes two steps forward, three steps back, and ends up making a chicken. Some days he trusted me. Some days he thought I was—in his own words—a “force for crazy.” Most days, however, I believed he secretly liked me and grudgingly approved of maybe forty percent of what I did and said. I could handle that. I secretly loved Tony almost all the time. He’d taken a bullet for me and Tom once. I had to make sure it never happened again.
Just now he was frowning at me as if I had Force For Crazy embroidered on all my hankies.
“We need to meet.”
“What do you call this, Tony?” Tom’s expression was quizzical. “Slumber party?”
“No. This is the meeting about the meeting. At the museum tomorrow. They sent me to—” He stopped, waiting for the perfect word combination to manifest itself.
My eyelids were drooping. My patience was dead. “They sent you to keep us awake until we give up and agree to whatever you and they want? I’m there, Tony. Spit it out.”
Wait a second.
I paused to let a question drift into my brain and raised a finger to signal I had a point to make. Just in time, I recalled how finger-pointing was the danger-sign of alcohol. Stir an “excellent bourbon” into “shocked, terrified, and sleep-deprived.” Recipe for stupid. I recalibrated my head.
“Except, Tony. One thing. Why you? How come you’re involved? Last time I checked you’re Third District of the Cleveland Police Department and the museum is in the jurisdiction of the First. And they’ve got boodles of University Circle cops too. It’s a damn cop-a-thon around there.”
“That’s the thing.”
I planted my elbow on the island, propped my chin up with my hand, and squinted. “Tony? Could you be a teensy, weensy bit more specific? What part of any of this is ‘the thing’?”
If my chin-hand had been free I’d have made finger quotes, but I couldn’t do that without smashing my face onto the granite, so I merely raised my brows to communicate suspicion. We were about a foot apart. He lowered his brow to signal “Back off, missy.” He needed his space, but he held his ground. Missing his vest a lot right then, I bet.
“Tony. No kidding. I am so tired and sleepy and—whatever. I’m falling off this stool. Plus, I’m so freaked out I’m dangerous. It’s been a long, damn, scary-crazy evening—night—morning. A blind man got shot. The Museum of Art got locked down. Also, batshit crazy. Not the way it’s programed to go in there. So? Tony? Would you please fish or cut bait about—?
“Allie. The ‘thing’ is the T&A.”
Here’s a piece of advice: Never name your hypothetical detective agency using the initials of you and the guy you recently shared most of two bottles of very nice champagne with. Not to mention a, shall-we-say, very long, satisfactory romantic interlude. Or two. In the Presidential Suite of a Ritz-Carlton.
Forethought was not operating right then, but at least I should have listened to Tom and put my initial first.
Too late now.
Time passed. The name stuck. We deduced that our investigative services would be sufficiently informal as to not require a business card or its name lettered on one of those noir-detective, frosted-glass office doors. “Spade & Archer” we were not. And we didn’t need to turn a profit at any time in the foreseeable future. Thus, no need to advertise.
What I had in mind that evening a year and a half ago, was helping people get answers for those nagging personal questions that demolish their peace of mind. Mysteries that didn’t necessarily require any official law enforcement involvement. Or a gun.
Okay. Sure.
Right out of the box, our first case was a murder. I didn’t have a gun yet, however. I was more than happy to hide behind the guns of Otis and his security guys. And they were, no question, happy to not supply Inexperience and Unpredictability—a.k.a. me—with a weapon. We still didn’t have a business card and in spite of a reasonable outcome and a satisfied, if sad, client last summer, we were still so unofficial as to be almost invisible.
Now it looked like our cloak of invisibility was about to get vaporized.
“The T&A?” Tom’s horrific night was unraveling in bourbon and fatigue, same as mine. “The T&A Detective Agency, Tony? Such as it is—” He veered off again. I could tell he was wondering, And what IS the T&A, exactly? But he rallied. “What does the T&A have to do with any of this? Whatever this is? Which we don’t know yet—”
Tony nodded. “That’s the thing— Oh. Hell. They—We—Even I believe there’s a role in this—what’s happened tonight. A role for the T&A. Small. Temporary. Unofficial. Just for tomorrow, maybe. They sent me to convince you three to show up at the museum tomorrow morning. Ten-ish?”
“Did you explain to the folks at the CMA that ‘T&A’ stands for Tom and Allie? Because if you didn’t, we’re not coming.”
“I did, Tom. I explained that we—you guys and Otis. And me, sometimes—I figured it was best, Tom, to not involve Margo right now. And Lisa’s excluded herself by being one of the reporters covering the story. And swearing like a lumberjack. Or like Margo—never mind. Lieutenant Wood now knows a little of what you guys do. Tom, she’s all about your—uncanny, she called it—abilities. And, of course, what you bring to the table because of your Mondo—thing.”
“Because of the T&A’s exceptionally robust operating budget?”
“That too, in any case, they—we—would like to talk with you. Maybe ask for your help. Ten o’clock tomorrow? Ish?
“Okay, ten-ish o’clock.” Tom nodded.
“Yeah, ten-ish,” I agreed. “Good night, Tony. Now.”
Otis sealed the deal. “Tony? Would you like to sleep over in one of our assorted palatial guest rooms?”
“Uh huh. Trying to convince the Bratenahl PD I’m not a walking talking DWI would be a bad start for tomorrow.”
We adjourned so fast we were almost running, and by two a.m. nobody was stirring but the couple of security guys in the garage.
Chapter Eight
The three of us arrived back at the Cleveland Museum of Art on Thursday morning. Given the givens, I would have preferred to be hiding out in a tent on the north ridge of K-2.
We straggled in from the parking garage at the “ish” end of ten-ish. Valerio had left us a couple of hours earlier, grumbling, “Maybe a shower and a change of uniform will fix my head. See you around ten.” Took his vest, jacket, and one of our coffee mugs with him as he went.
On the elevator ride up from the garage, Tom, Otis, and I huddled in silence. We were all thinking—but not saying—the same thing. A blind man, loud and disagreeably alive barely fourteen hours ago, was dead this morning. No warning. No explanation. No reprieve.
Alive and rude then. Cold and dead now.
I’d not met him before last night and—based on that one time—I hadn’t liked him, but I couldn’t stop imagining Kip Wade’s last moments. Walking in darkness the way Tom walked. His senses tuned to the night. The richness of sounds and smells all around him. His cane scanning the path. Cold rain on his face. Cast out of this world by a bullet he didn’t hear coming. Into whatever waited for him at the end.
Light. I hoped there was light.
In my unsettled state of mind, the museum’s vestibule, buffed to its usual shine this morning, still reverberated with Tom and Kip’s doorway confrontation. Nightmare déjà vu.
The entrance hall, already well-stocked with museum-goers, echoed with talk and smelled like art. At least I didn’t need to check my coat. I picked it out, still hanging all by itself on a rack. Unclaimed. Abandoned. Forlorn. I sent it a telepathic message. It sent me a telepathic sniff.
I hadn’t checked my purse last night. It was considerably under the thirteen-by-seventeen-by-six-inch size limit. Nobody would ever catch me lugging around something that hefty unless I w
as on my way to France. A friendly woman behind the visitors’ desk told us our meeting was set up in the banquet area off the restaurant. No Tony in sight. The “other members of our party” hadn’t arrived yet either.
Some party.
We stood around for thirty seconds. I ran out of patience at fifteen. “Let’s go visit my Buddha. I could use a shot of not-freaked-out.” We went. I left my phone number at the desk for the stragglers.
In the golden glow of Gallery 241-B, a well-groomed and reassuring-looking young guard—fair-haired, rosy-cheeked, attired in the traditional dark slacks, nice jacket, tie, and name tag—was stationed next to my Buddha. I estimated this guy had been there long enough to attain a state of blissful boredom. His eyes and the Buddha’s were at the same degree of half-mast. They looked good together.
The guard woke up when he spotted Tom and his cane. I followed his sleepy train of thought until logic ruled out any possibility that this blind man could be the much-discussed blind man of the evening before.
“You’re not—” he began. And stopped, having decided, “You’re not the dead blind guy; you’re a different one,” wasn’t a felicitous choice. “Uh. Sorry. I’m afraid you all aren’t allowed to be in here right now. They’re tidying up after an event next door last night.”
He paused. Back in the soup. “Not tidying up the—you know, the—What happened with the bl—that was outside. Completely—This was next door to in here—”
I rescued him. “No, of course not. We understand. We’re here for a meeting about all that. Thought we’d stop in to—Compose ourselves a bit. Maybe?” I ended on a pathetically hopeful note and offered him my wistful face.
He nodded and resumed his relaxed stance. Tom and I sat on the bench. I dropped my purse onto the floor at my feet. Otis crossed the room and placed his body between us and the rest of the world. Our museum guard shifted from foot to foot and cleared his throat.
“The bli—The guy last night didn’t spend any time in here, you know. Passed through. The room for the Tour, 241-C, to your right, is a dead end.” He heard himself say the death word. Shifted from foot to foot. “A—er—sort of—cul-de-sac.”
“Thanks for telling us,” Tom said. “You seem to be guarding the—Is this the Amitāyus Buddha?”
The guard glanced at the plaque and nodded. Then he caught himself and said, “Yes.” After that, he stared at Tom as if he’d never seen a blind man up close before. He cleared his throat. Took the leap. “Can you see me, sir? At all? I mean, I don’t—”
“No. Not at all.” Tom smiled. “But I’m reasonably sure you’re about five-ten.” He hesitated. Considering. Breathing. “Somebody in your household smokes. Not you. But you want them to quit. So they go outside, maybe? You yourself quit, a long time ago? And I know this Buddha. I come here a lot. By the way, my name is Tom. Tom Bennington.” He held up his hand to exactly the right spot.
The guy’s jaw sagged toward disbelief. “How’d you—?” He cut himself off, shook Tom’s hand, and said, “Chad. Chad Collins. That was—How did—?”
“Sound, for the most part. I’m fortunate to have my hearing. Many blind people don’t—I can guess how tall you are, Chad, by where your voice is coming from in relation to where I’m sitting. You and Allie are about the same height.”
Chad’s attention swiveled to me and our eyes met. I grinned. Offered up my hand. “Allie Harper, Chad. Good to meet you.”
I overcame the urge to add, Look out, Chad. He can locate your lips by listening to you breathe.
You can’t always say what comes to mind.
“And the smoking thing. That I quit?”
“It’s in your voice. A bit. You’ve done great. Keep bugging her.”
Watching Chad, I could see how psychics astound, dismay, and get paid the big bucks.
At least we’d earned his confidence. At the same time, something about me had grabbed his attention. “You. Allie?”
I nodded.
“You were sitting right there last night. On the bench. A few minutes before—”
All hell broke loose. I nodded again. “Were you here, too, Chad?”
“No. But they showed us the tape from last night. You were on it. Here. With your eyes closed.”
My neck prickled. A phantom from my past hissed, Your privacy is dead. The invasion of being observed, tracked, and targeted fades but lurks. Forever, perhaps. I shook it off, but another ghostly memory jabbed at me. Something—something I’d dismissed in the wild, flurry of the alarms and lost to the insanity that came after was—.
Nagging.
“You saw me on the tape? Why were you looking at the tape?”
“The blin—The guy who got shot only passed through here. Like I mentioned before. To 241-C. And back. Before he left the museum and went—outside. The cops and our security people wanted to see—Well, truth is, they are looking at every scrap of tape there is from yesterday and last night and there is a crap-ton—Oh, sorry.” He glanced around. Nobody else there, but Otis, and Otis didn’t appear dismayed.
“I bet it’s amazing how many hours—” I soothed him. With half my attention.
Something nagging.
He sighed, relieved not to be shocking a patron. “You would not believe. But they looked at these galleries first and there you were, where you’re sitting now until—
Until I heard the tapping of a cane. And opened my eyes.
Critical information. Sidelined by my scrambled brain. Lost to the chaos of last night. Deleted by the four hours of sleep—
It poured back in. All of it. The woman in gray. Harbinger of death. For real.
“Until a blind woman wearing a gray sari handed me—”
Chad filled in my last blank, “Yeah! She gave you a white envelope. Do you have it? The cops were looking for it. And for you.”
A white envelope.
The wedding invitation.
I’d had it in my hand when Lisa called. The sirens—Had I dropped it onto this immaculate floor, where it would now be standing out like a large white sore thumb—with Tom’s name written on it in calligraphy? Obviously not.
Had I dropped it on the way to the glass box? Or, total worst case, on the floor of that freezing wet and windy balcony?
I snatched my purse up off the floor. Unzipped it. Peered in.
Uh oh.
Holy crap. Literally. Totally. By definition.
If museum security had a clue about the contents of this modest-sized purse when I breezed through this morning, they’d have confiscated it on the spot and called the CDC.
Never mind. Based on the urgency of the circumstances, I overcame my embarrassment, dispensed with museum etiquette, and dumped my clattering junk collection onto the polished floor. Directly in front of the Buddha of Infinite Life.
Buck up, dude.
Tom moved his feet.
Ignoring my warming face, I pawed through functional and non-functional pens, wallet, congealed mints, tissues, sunglasses, sunglass case, gum wrappers, gum wrapper wrapped around used gum, loose change, credit card receipts, including one used as a gum wrapper, and a napkin-swaddled chocolate cupcake with no paper baking thingie. On the bright side, it still had most of its icing and some of its sprinkles.
On the other bright side, the envelope’s thick paper and graceful cursive script stood apart from the rest of my collection.
Thomas Bennington III
I grabbed the pack of tissues from the pile on the floor, plucked one out, and used it to lift my prize out of the debris.
Otis had abandoned his doorway and was standing looking down at this operation, phone to ear. Tom was standing next to him, his face a careful blank. I was fairly sure his heightened senses had warned him of the cupcake. The gum and mints too, for all I knew.
Otis murmured something to somebody and brought his attention back t
o me. “Allie, you’re doing great. Why don’t you lay the envelope down here on the bench?” He indicated the spot. “Tony is in the building. He’s bringing somebody with him to take care of this.”
I collapsed back onto the non-envelope end of my bench, releasing all hope of the moment of peace and calm I’d dragged us up here for. My quiet oasis of not-murder-and-mayhem was getting more blown up for me by the minute. I always believe I’m about to get my life handled and I never do. That didn’t stop me from making a silent vow to do a more respectable job of organizing my purse.
The Buddha’s countenance was placid as ever. He didn’t seem to be disturbed about any of the turmoil I’d brought him. I figured he was working on visualizing the junk from my purse as a paradise. He still looked slightly amused.
Tony came through the door from 241-A with a man I identified as “crime scene guy.” He was wearing the gloves but not the booties. This Non-TV-CSI came over and commandeered the wedding invite. And my purse. And its contents. If my worst fears were realized, he would individually photograph and bag every item in it. And put it in a report. From which it would be leaked. And show up on Instagram.
Our man Chad was now looking at us expectantly. Gratified to be a player in the investigation, I could tell. “We saw something else, too, Allie. On the tape. Before your part.” He waited.
I bit. “And?”
“It was in 241-C. The dead guy? He was in there before he—earlier. He gave the envelope to your blind woman.”
Chad was waiting. I was staring back at Chad. Speechless.
If we could place the envelope, the blind woman, and Kip Wade in the same room, at the same moment, less than an hour before Kip’s murder—tie them together to make a picture, what would that picture be?
Not one I would ever want to see.
I cleared my throat. “Chad. I think that’s important. We’ll need to—just—thank you.” He suppressed a satisfied grin, but flushed a happy shade of red. In those few disoriented seconds, I decided I liked Chad Collins. Liked his guileless face, the big hands he probably had to be constantly reminding not to touch the art. His sandy hair and serious brown eyes.
The Devil's Own Game Page 4
