SAGE: AN ADAM STONE MYSTERY (THE ADAM STONE MYSTERIES Book 1)

by D. L. EVANS

  “No, nothing yet.” I said. This was NOT good news. “I sure hope he’s clean for her sake.”

  “Ya, well we all got our hopes, don’t we.” Mack gave me his dumb-ass grin.

  I laughed. “Somehow I don’t think we agree on this one.” Stan arrived with the hamburger, fries, and a refill for me. “Tell me more about this Charles Reese character. Doesn’t sound as though you like him. Is that just because of the English-Irish problem? You know, Get-those-damn-Limeys-the-hell-out-of-Northern-Ireland problem? The land that they’ve lived on for four hundred years, sort of thing?” Mack sighed. It was a familiar argument between us. “If so," I continued diligently, "two or three hundred million or so of us North Americans should just pack up and get off the continent and give it back to the native people.”

  “Me poor Mother’s rollin’ in her grave, Mack moaned. "It’s not the same at all but then, what do you know about culture and history. And I’ll have you know that I have great respect for the job Reese is doin’, turning that place ‘round... though he did say that Chief Lewis thinks I’m after his job. That came as a surprise, I can tell ya. The strings I had to pull just to get back in Homicide... “

  “Mack Mackenzie, Chief of Detectives,” I said reverently. “Sounds good. Is that why you’re dressing better?”

  “No. ... I’m not that shallow.” He flashed his grin again. “Let me tell you about Reese. He’s on the down side of forty, and dresses like Sherlock Holmes. Tweeds and vests and stuff, in this heat. I’m sharing all this with you because he’d be a perfect character for your new book, no shit.” When I nodded noncommittally, he switched subjects again.

  “We checked out another missing person today but it turned out that she’d kissed off the jerk and went home to mummy.” He stared at my hamburger and cocked an eyebrow. “Are you really going to eat that pile of preservatives, cholesterol and toxic waste?... “

  “Not everyone wants to live forever," I stated. "Order your own.”

  He pointed his fork at me and made stabbing motions, “I no longer eat anything that once had a face and I feel like a fuckin’ teenager.” His constant effort to become a vegetarian was a joke between us, a shared intimacy between friends. The occasional medium well-done steak appeared every-so-often and forced its way into the maw of the shark. But I let it pass, gentleman that I am.

  I downed my drink, and waved the empty glass in Stan's direction. "Care for another jar?"

  “Hell yes Adam, I need to drown my sorrows. This is an occasion." He paid an inordinate amount of attention to the bottom of his glass. "A god damn freak that I personally have to catch... not to mention God dam Lewis breathin’ down my neck and the lovely Lauren Stone overlooking me for that sleazy Roger Smythe... Bet he can’t cook worth shit either.”

  “Neither can Lauren," I added.

  “More reason she needs me” Mack said. “You’ll have to convince her... you know... on my behalf." He grinned. "How did it go at the gallery?”

  “Actually, I’m not sure,” I said reflectively. “I think I blew it but, looking back, I don’t know how else I could have handled it. Everyone is sure that somebody is watching the younger sister Annie, but why? Maybe it’s some artist-type they refused to represent or something. Mack, could you check out the uncle they bought the place from? Name’s Richard Stanford. And there’s another one, Alice’s assistant, a strange little gnome called Winston Lucas.” Mack dug out a small notebook, wordlessly wrote the down two names and tucked it back inside his jacket. “You’ll be saving me from Lauren’s wrath if I can at least appear to be doing something.” I continued. “I’ll owe you a big one.”

  “You can put in a good word for me with sis.” He winked.

  I thought of a troll.

  “No problem, old buddy. I’ll call ya tomorrow if there’s anything in the computer. Let’s eat.” Mack said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  LAUREN STONE:

  Lauren had moved into her prestigious corner office exactly five years ago, the day of the first broadcast of her show, Town Talk. Unknown to her, Roger Smythe had announced the fifth anniversary of her weekly show in a proudly written memo and had it circulated to the entire staff the day before. The result was that Lauren’s busy, well-planned day had been reduced to a whirlwind of congratulations, well wishers popping in and out, gifts, cards and flowers from her peers, and a phone that rang without respite. As far as her schedule went, the day was a write-off. Two dozen red roses in a lead crystal vase dominated her desk, enveloping the room in their fragrance. Standing by the full-length window overlooking the mature trees on the acre and a half of parkland adjacent to the building and owned by the network, she realized wistfully that

  she would like to have a home in the woods one day, surrounded by nature. So far the hard work had paid off and generally, her dreams had come true. She should be happy.

  The door opened and Roger breezed in, holding a package about six inches square, wrapped in silver paper. Even without the yes-men that usually hovered around him like satellites or trailed in his wake, it was obvious he was a force to be reckoned with. Lauren speculated that it had to do with his aura. He attracted attention for reasons beyond his height, the handsome face and lean body. Some of it was calculated, like the careful tan, expensive haircut and the Armani suit; but he also possessed the natural command of an orchestral maestro. Today, instead of his usually serious demeanour, a dazzling smile lit up his face.

  He sank into her fitted leather chair, leaned back and adjusted the crease in his pants with his free hand. “Well darling, you must be on top of the world today. I may as well have shut the place down for all the work that’s getting done.” His eyes wandered the room, noting the gifts and telegrams, missing nothing, and then settled back on her face. “You seem a little preoccupied. Is anything wrong?”

  Her eyes flickered from him and the gift in his hand to the view outside her window. “No. Just collecting my thoughts. Thanks for the gorgeous roses. They’re wonderful. Everything has been fantastic.”

  “There’s something else. Spill it,” he ordered softly while picking at an invisible piece of lint on his cuff.

  Lauren gazed over the treetops rippling in the breeze. The sun was getting lower in the sky, backlighting the leaves and edging the clouds with pink. It was her favourite time of the day. “Oh, I guess I’m just a little concerned about Adam. The sister of a friend of mine told me some... unsettling things about him. Things that I suppose I already knew, but ... well, maybe didn’t take seriously before.”

  “The sister of a friend? What could the 'sister of a friend' tell you about your brother that you don't already know? he said sarcastically. “What did she say?”

  Lauren was focused somewhere else. “I know it sounds strange, but she said that Adam is near death... God, you know, he only spoke to her for a few moments and she sensed this... emptiness, right away. She met him just the once! One damn conversation and she told me things that were wrong, I mean wrong with Adam. And before you say anything, she’s never wrong when she zeros in." Noticing his puzzled expression, she quickly explained. "I'm sorry Roger. I must sound like a lunatic. I'm talking about Annie Stanford, Alison's sister. You know all about Adam losing his wife, Savannah so suddenly two years ago last month, well... Annie Stanford thinks he isn’t coming out of his grief. She says he no longer has the will to live.”

  “He’s suicidal?” Roger’s mind made the leap to a future family scandal. He kept his expression carefully non-committal and thanked God he was an only child.

  “No, no,” Lauren shook her head. “That’s the first thing I asked, but she says it’s not a strong possibility, for now. I think it’s a spiritual thing. He just doesn’t care about anything. I knew about the depression but I thought he just needed more time. It’s like he’s sleepwalking through the days... without emotion.” Roger remained silent feigning concern. Lauren continued, “You never knew him before, Roger. He was a brilliant cop. But even so, I’m thankful that h
e’s not on the force anymore. In this state he’d be dangerous to himself and anyone around him.”

  Roger collected his thoughts. He had to say the right thing here or risk losing Lauren’s respect. “You can’t fight his battles, my darling." Roger assured her with all the right traces of sympathy and concern. "He’s got to come out of this by himself. You have your own life. He’s a big boy now.“ His voice had a hard edge to it as he took a deep breath, moved to her and put his arms around her protectively.

  “I’m still his sister,” Lauren stated quietly. “Right now, I’m all he has. And I know that he’s been drinking too much, I just don’t know how to help.”

  “Sometimes sweetheart, all anyone can do is be there," he said in a voice rich with sincerity.

  “I know you’re right. I’m just worried. You can understand that, right?”

  "Of course sweetheart. Look, today is supposed to be special.” He raised her chin, kissed her lightly on the lips and closed her hands around the gift. “Open it,” he ordered. “I picked them out myself.”

  Lauren tore open the box and actually managed to laugh. “Jellybeans! My favourite. How did you know?”

  “I have my methods,” he leered, raising an eyebrow. “And they’re not just ordinary jellybeans. The orange ones are papaya, the green are kiwi, the red are mango and... I forget what the rest are. I spent a fortune, but you’re worth it.” He explored her face, became lost in her eyes. What was it that defined beauty, he wondered? The shape or angle of a line, the curve of a brow, the colour or texture of porcelain skin? The sum total of beautiful parts that pleased the eye? It was a mystery. If only she were an only child too. That damn drunken brother, Roger thought. He would have to distance her from her brother once they were married.

  “Gosh, I’m impressed," she gushed, "... really. Gourmet jellybeans! You’re just full of surprises, Mr. Smythe.” She giggled, popped one in her mouth and wrapped her arms around his neck. “What next?”

  “Well, since you ask so nicely, I’ve reserved a table at Angelini’s for eight this evening. I thought we might celebrate your fifth year anniversary... privately.” He touched a stray hair beside her cheek and slowly kissed her again tenderly. She was so beautiful she made his throat constrict. He would ask her tonight, and combine his upcoming Paris conference with their honeymoon. The spotlight would be on Lauren, and he could pursue his little game of intrigue unnoticed. It would be perfect.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ADAM STONE:

  He loved watching her sleep. Her soft breath, the curl of her eyelashes against her cheek; pale blonde hair spilling over the pillow like rivers of gold in the morning light. He lowered his mouth to the fullness of her breast and kissed her nipple through the sheer fabric of her nightgown. It hardened to the heat of his mouth and he bit gently. He glanced back at her. No reaction but the hint of a smile. The filmy fabric slid easily off her shoulder exposing the perfect whiteness of her skin glowing like Carrera marble. She shifted in a graceful roll and the garment slid down around her, leaving her completely exposed. She was magnificent.

  Her eyes were still closed feigning sleep and he laughed quietly. She wanted to play.

  He moved his mouth to her belly and then worked his way down further, tasting her warm, smoky flavour, feeling the heat and breathing in the aroma of her. She moaned, eyes still shut as she felt the roughness as his day old beard grazed her sensitive inner thigh and made the muscles quiver. He moved his hand to the other breast, forcing the erect nipple into his palm gently squeezing and kneading the lushness, pinching the tiny erection into a stiff point. Her eyes were open now, breathing deeply, eyes glazed with desire. She moved her perfect legs, opening herself to him. He had never wanted a woman like he wanted her. His need was an ache deep inside but he moved slowly. Circular caresses, sighs and murmurs, all thoughts of sleep dissolving in rising passion. He kissed her beautiful mouth long and deep then followed it with another trail of kisses down her body. She was wet and moving in a rhythm that demanded satisfaction. Still he stayed calm, moving his hands over her skin, savouring every inch, desire making him unbearably hard. He felt her climb as he flicked his tongue over her hardness, around and around, and then into her. She arched her back like a drawn bow as her orgasm peaked and ripped through her, taking her breath away. Her body shuddered as she wrapped her legs around his head, still cresting high. Then, as she relaxed momentarily, he moved up and plunged into her. He closed his mouth over hers, silencing her moans as they moved together, fists locked above their heads. Blood roared in his head, he couldn't get enough of her. She surrounded him, flooding his senses, reaching deep into his primal needs, taking all reason as he emptied into her. She gasped and grabbed his hair, kissing him in a world of tenderness and love.

  In his minds eye he sees her again from above. She has morphed into another scene a few hours later. She is in the same position, but lying on asphalt, her head turned towards the light, hair in a golden ponytail and perfect legs outstretched in front of her. The sun is directly overhead. She is dressed in a grey tracksuit and pink sneakers with a matching headband. Tiny beads like raindrops on her upper lip, her eyes are empty. She is outlined in chalk.

  She died on one of those perfect endless summer days. The sun was shining in a flawless enamelled sky, a slight breeze gently pushed the leaves around and the smell of newly cut grass filled the air.

  The dream continues. Time has gone backwards. The chalk outline has vanished. Where is she? I look down the asphalt path and in the distance I see her running. We are in a low-pressure zone, the eye of the hurricane. I can smell the colourless odour of death as it circles like the invisible wind. She rounds the corner; sees me watching and shoots me a clear look that says “I love you, babe,” as she passes. I want to answer but the words don’t come. Her blonde ponytail bounces and there is a light glaze of sweat on her glowing face. Death moves closer. I can’t see it but as a cop I can feel it in my brain, my bowels. I pull out my gun and move in behind her. I will protect her from anyone that dares to stop her. The air is heavy, full of viscose sunshine. No clear targets. Fear curls around my heart and starts a slow squeeze. She turns and laughs at me over her shoulder, daring me to race her on the flat ground beside the lake, not seeing the gun in my clenched fist. I watch the trees pass, looking for danger, sensing the imminent ambush.

  No one saw her fall. I wasn’t there. No one knew the enemy was inside her. She fell on the path beside the man-made lake scraping her hands on the pavement and cracking her right kneecap. The wounds would not have time to heal. No one saw her. She was alone for almost an hour.

  I woke up with a jolt, the fading vision of my darling wife, a chalk outline on a strip of pavement in the park. I’ve always dismissed dreams as messages from nowhere, emotional sediment stirred by the unconscious brain. Nightmares are just dark sensations surging from the hollows inside us like eroding memories. Interpretation should be left to the poets, psychologists and manic-depressives. My heart pounding out of my chest, I threw back the clammy sheet and stumbled to the window in my boxer shorts. It’s somewhere between very late and very early and the wind was lashing the trees below the balcony, building to a storm. I could hear the apartment building itself responding to the change in pressure with dozens of little sounds. Padding barefoot to the kitchen put some space between the bed and me in case the emptiness tried to pull me back.

  I’d moved into this luxury apartment a year ago and still hadn’t unpacked the half a dozen boxes stacked in each room, although none of them contained anything that would remind me of Savannah. A few days after her funeral, Lauren went through our house and took all her things away, assuming, I suppose, that by strip-mining all possible reminders of her, it would ease my grief. It didn’t work of course, but moving out of our house and into this new place helped. At least I didn’t have to stare at her rose garden as the weeds took control.

  I stumbled over a box in the hall, kicked it in frustration, immediately regretting that
I was barefoot, and limped into the kitchen. Over a mug of fragrant coffee I pondered the one thing that was different about this evening’s recurring terror. One of the people cheering Savannah and the one who turned away when she screamed was Annie Stanford. Hers was the face I saw so clearly. Why? The crowd had always been anonymous before. I would never understand the Byzantine workings of the brain but memory retains only the sharpest images and Annie was definitely there. Had our meeting frustrated me enough to transport her image into my subconscious?

  I chewed on the thought for a while as rain and wind beat an unseen tattoo in the darkness against the building, then I unpacked a couple of boxes, unrolled my Aztec rug and spread it out on the floor in front of the couch. I poured myself a tranquillizing dose of bourbon, downed it in a few swallows, plunked down on the couch and fell asleep.

  I blinked my eyes and sat up. Weak morning sunlight filtered in through the dirty living-room windows. Ugly fragments of the nightmare still poked about behind my eyes, held for a second in the light of day before scurrying into the darkness. I was succumbing to the aroma of coffee. Cupboards slammed shut, pots clanged and dishes were being set on a table so hard they bounced. It seemed that big sister had let herself in and was fixing breakfast. The noise level was a reflection of her bullying technique, and I knew in my heart that I was about to be forced to eat whatever appeared, no matter how bad. Oh well, it would be better than what I would burn for myself. I braced for the storm.