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

by D. L. EVANS

  “What did he look like? Tall, short, black, white?” He heard his voice crack slightly and covered it by sucking hard on his Rothman’s silk cut.

  “I don’t remember sir.” Roger’s disappointment was visceral. Katherine began to suspect that there must have been a break-in or a serious theft and for some reason her boss didn't want her to know about it. She struggled to remember. "He had on the blue coverall things that all of them wear, and a cap.” She was intensely curious but something in his eyes warned her not to inquire further.

  “Is that all? Try to think!” Roger barked at his secretary. His agile mind was examining and discarding possibilities with the speed of an electron.

  “I think he was white. Wait… he had work gloves on but I couldn’t say if he was tall or not. He was over me on the ladder. Sir, is anything missing?” A ball of tension materialized beneath her breastbone as she came to the realization that Roger Smythe was afraid. It was in his eyes, in the stiffness of his movements and the sharp, desperate tone of his voice.

  “No, no it’s OK. Get Senator Seaton’s office on the phone and tell them that I’ll be half an hour late for the meeting,” he said looking out the window, deep in thought.

  “Right away... oh... he was whistling Vivaldi.” she said absently as she stood.

  “What did you say?” His voice betrayed him again as he lurched forward in his chair.

  Katherine was startled at his reaction. “The elevator man was whistling Vivaldi,” she answered tersely; “Spring, from the Four Seasons,” she added. “It’s a tricky piece,” she swallowed, quickly trying to relate every thought that might help. Suddenly, seeing the looking Roger’s eyes, she became afraid. He stared at her, willing her to continue. “ I remember... “ she continued dryly, “because it’s a favourite of mine and I thought it was unusual that... you know... a worker, would be familiar enough with a classical piece to whistle it so well.”

  There was no joy in this last bit of news, nothing that immediately clicked into place. “Thanks Katherine, that’ll be all for now” Roger struggled with the words. “Oh, …get Hennessy in here right away.”

  She left quickly, keeping her questions to herself. Roger leaned back in his Van Cleat chair and gazed at the ceiling. ‘Well, at least I know the fucker is white and whistles. That sure narrows the field. He shook his head, thinking, a whistling wind. Makes sense in a perverted way.’

  Rick Hennessy was the Network’s chief of security. On occasion, when circumstances required, he was also Roger’s personal enforcer and had worked for him for a number of years. He was as tall as Roger, just over six foot three, cold handsome, strongly built with a perpetual smile featuring ultra white, capped teeth. Closer scrutiny revealed that his eyes never agreed with his happy expression. He had energy in abundance, moved with quick precise authority and rarely had to ask a question twice. Something in his aura marked him as a man to be wary of. He was the epitome of the tough cop and although the police had crossed his path a few times, he kept his run-ins with them to an absolute minimum. They had tried unsuccessfully on several occasions to put him behind bars. Hennessy was a telecommunications expert, clever with locks and other devices and when necessary, quite capable of terrifying people, sometimes just because he could. His total loyalty to Smythe was beyond dispute. “Something must be in the wind Boss, your silk tie is out of plumb.”

  Roger ignored the comment, fighting a blossoming headache. “When was the last time you checked the office for bugs?”

  “I scan about every three days? What’s happened? You look like shit!”

  Roger sighed. “Along with... some friends... I’m being blackmailed by someone that calls himself ‘Zephyr’”.

  "Jesus. Blackmail.... Zephyr? What kind of name is that?"

  "It's a wind, I think. You know? Invisible like the wind. Clever prick."

  “Any way one of your … friends… could be behind it?” he ventured.

  “No,” Roger snapped. “It was my first thought too. No... This is legit. I can smell a sting and this isn’t one.” He rubbed his temples, willing the headache to disappear. “This Zephyr shit has managed to get into some files, decode some important information. I want you to go over every fucking inch of these offices, the gym, the goddamn toilet, my car and my home. I want an electronic genius in here to figure out how this asshole got the data. He must have a network, he couldn’t do this alone. He may have tapped into some communications between our satellite and a company I’m involved with. Do you know how fucking impossible it is to do that without detection? Who is this guy? He thinks he’s going to retire? ... Well, I’m going to retire him all right, as soon as I get a line on him. Fucking wind”.

  Katherine, who hurried into his office without knocking, a package in her hand, interrupted Roger. “Sir, I was told to see that you got this immediately,” she said.

  Wordlessly, Roger held out his hand and she placed it in his open palm. On the front, he could see the return address consisted of just one word. Zephyr. He guessed correctly that there were two more packages being delivered. Well, he thought, all four of us are having a real bad day!

  Chapter Sixteen

  ADAM STONE:

  It was the perfect night for a walk, damp and dreary. Mack had phoned an hour earlier, insisting that I come over and share a homemade feast and pickup the information I wanted. I wasn’t in the mood but he insisted. Actually, I was too depressed to argue, glad he was giving me an excuse to leave the computer I had been glued to for hours, the result being yet another unsuccessful attempt at an outline for Best Seller, Number Two. Maybe I should write about an ex-cop who can’t come up with another blood-chilling story for a book? God, my brain was as numb as my butt.

  The evening seemed to thicken from the ground up as the mist rose from the steaming pavement. I’d hoped the walk would clear my head but I just felt drained as I stared at the melancholy houses that lined the deserted, zinc-coloured streets. I should have taken the car. A cold trickle of rainwater found it’s way under my collar and down my neck as I leaned into the drizzle. Hazy street lights pointed the way and sirens began to bray off in the distance, protesting yet another useless injury or death. The past is never forgotten; like a shadow, it belongs to us. The world is littered with the pasts of dead people.

  I arrived on time at Mack’s two-bedroom flat in Cabbage town, an enclave of Victorian homes in the south east part of Toronto, now elegantly restored by the BMW crowd. He had the ground floor of a three-story about twenty blocks east of mine. Feeling soggy from the permeating mist, I retrieved the mickey of bourbon from my inside coat pocket as I rang the bell and took a swig. The aromas that hit me when the door opened made my mouth water and I realized that I was starving. The place was a comfortable mix of modern leather, natural stone and polished wood.

  One wall was ceiling to floor books, mostly classics. In stark contrast to my apartment, everything looked neat as a pin and super organized. Mack greeted me with his patented gargoyle grin, closed the door behind me and rushed back to the oven mumbling something about critical timing. “Make yerself at home, Adam. I’ll be with you in a sec.”

  “I hung my limp coat on a peg and proceeded to warm the right places at the stand-up bar in the living room. Accustomed to the no-hard-alcohol-in-the-house rule, I poured myself a shot out of my personal stash. He usually had a beer or two in the fridge and expensive looking wines reposed in an iron rack against the cool outer wall of the kitchen. He was becoming quite a bore about vintages.

  I sat in an overstuffed chair and stretched my legs. “Hope you haven’t gone to a lot of trouble, I can’t taste the difference between a hamburger and a fishcake if you recall. I live on frozen dinners.” I gave a silent toast to my microwave and took another delicious swallow.

  No answer, just continuous domestic noises from the immaculate kitchen. God, what a walking contradiction this guy is. He used to look like an unmade bed in his drinking days. Now he's a fashion plate inspired by Bill Blass. Altho
ugh he still drives a decrepit car that should be scrapped, his life is as organized as his classical music tapes. There were new prints of Chagall and Vermeer on the wall (Lauren's favourites) and an upgraded kitchen that would please Martha Stewart. His notes and files were a work of art also, a reflection of his steel trap mind. Never forgot a detail. Mason Green, the hero detective in my book, in the flesh. Mack had morphed into Mason Green and loved being famous, once removed. I wandered around the familiar room, noticed the single photograph of his mother and another of an elderly dog on the mantle, and placed at a forty-five degree angle from the right hand corner. It was an old habit of his, instead of pacing; he lined things up, adjusted pictures on the wall etc. Signs of an organized mind... I noted, but not a single memento remained of the various females that had temporarily graced the premises. Nothing had changed. Except for the prints, the place looked exactly the same as I remembered, warm and lived in and not an unpacked box in sight. It hit me that I was getting so used to looking at stacks of boxes in my own place that I didn’t notice them anymore. Savannah had always liked Mack, from day one. The colourful language hadn’t bothered her although I suspected the multiple girlfriends did. We rarely socialized after work as I knew she didn't want to meet the latest decoration (her term) and have to make polite conversation although he’d always been welcome at our house on his own. Mack joined me with a bottle of wine for the table. He was dressed in his favourite clothes, a purple silk t-shirt, jeans and bare feet.

  “Well old son..." He flashed his big teeth, crinkling his eyes “You’ve been needin’ a decent meal for a while, by the look of you. Christ Adam, yer losin’ weight and you look like death warmed over, dark circles under yer eyes like a raccoon. Have y' not slept for a while?”

  “I have been sleeping badly as a matter of fact,” I agreed. “I’ll have to get myself some pills I guess. Bloody nightmares are making me crazy.” Mack stayed quiet waiting for me to continue. “The strangest thing is that I keep seeing the face of Annie Stanford. She has walk-on parts in my head, you know, cameo appearances in my various hauntings. It’s weird. I’ve only seen her once in person and we didn’t exactly hit it off, but I keep seeing her face.”

  “The answer’s obvious,” he chuckled. “Fuck the sleeping pills mate, you need to get laid. I don’t know anythin’ about Annie but I know her sister Alison is a looker if you like them cool and snotty. Not camera shy either. I’ve seen her in the gossip pages at the supermarket and on Lauren’s show but if you ain’t talking about her, she ain’t listening.” He laughed. “Too high-maintenance for me. She gets around. Great tits too. I prefer my women a little more loosely upholstered myself.” We laughed. I knew that was one of the reasons that Lauren intimidated him.

  I sat back in a comfortable leather chair. “Yes, Alison is polished alright, but she’s not the one that made the impression... obviously.”

  Mack walked over to his desk on the far wall and took a file out of a drawer. He rummaged through some papers. “I checked out Richard Stanford and Winston Lucas... he seems to be a strange little fart alright... but I didn't find anything interesting. Seems both of them obey all the rules and pay their parking tickets so there wasn't much on them. The old guy, Richard, never married... they could be a couple ...but who cares these days? Here, while I’m finishing up in there, hit the play button on the VCR. We’re going to watch one of your sexy sister’s shows. I record them automatically and watch her later while I eat. Actually, I've already seen this show a couple of weeks ago.” He placed the DVD into the VCR. “It’s that loud-mouthed, arrogant Russkie sculptor that was hired at year or two ago to do a piece for the new big bank plaza. He’s been in all the papers, the asshole. Quite a coup though, for Lauren to get him for an interview. Apparently he hates the media, especially reporters. You can see the effect she has on him.”

  He flashed his big toothy smile again and snorted. “Y’have to see it for yourself, Adam. Starts off like the real prick he is but ends up stammering and sweating like a stallion around a mare in heat. You almost feel sorry for the bastard. Lauren chewed him up. Led him around by the nose. He couldn’t wait to blab everything about his shitty life, except of course, what he’s working on in our fair city.”

  "How do you know all this stuff?” I said. I thought I knew Mack, but he surprised me with his hidden depths. “You'll be telling next that you watch soap operas."

  He continued his dialogue, completely ignoring my remark. "Probably thinks she’ll eventually just fall into bed with him in gratitude. Even looks like a fucking bear... anyway, let’s have a look while I put the grub on the table.”

  I pressed the ‘play’ button and the logo for Town Talk filled the screen. The volume was set loud enough to shake my fillings, (I presumed he had it set so he could hear it in the kitchen). I tuned it down so we could speak over her. “You record all Lauren’s shows?” I spoke to his back through the open doorway. Was he kidding?

  “Every one. Look in the closet,” his disembodied voice (without embarrassment) floated out from the kitchen. Lauren appeared in her casual studio set, smiling at the camera as she mouthed her well-prepared introduction. Her guest was a large, rather pompous looking man with a mane of shoulder length hair brown hair, shot with grey and large stormy eyes. He seemed uncomfortable and glared at the camera. He would have been more at ease on a horse, leading the Mongol hordes into Europe. The hall closet was slightly ajar and I glanced in and saw piles of DVD's, neatly labelled and stacked almost completely covering the back wall. There must have been a few hundred in there. “Are all these DVD's just Lauren?” I was amazed. Was Mack a fan or did this go beyond adoration into obsession? I walked into the kitchen as he put the finishing touches on a salad.

  “Yup. I ain’t missed one yet.” He replied in the worst John Wayne imitation that I'd ever heard. His hands reached for something chopped on a wooden tray and poured it into a bubbling pot. The aroma of tomato and garlic filled the air. His movements looked choreographed. No effort wasted, no false moves. Not a man to get into a fight with. He caught me watching and seemed to search for an explanation for his obvious pleasure. "Ya know, I’ve been meaning to tell you something about your book. I was more than a little disappointed that super-cop Mason was not an incredible chef. You left out that part.... I wanted to talk to you about including some recipes in the sequel. I’ve been writing some of the special ones down.”

  I was speechless. Recipes in a murder mystery novel? Was he kidding?

  “And I would have preferred a more identifiable name y’know, like Mack. Mason sounds like a fucking Brit," he scoffed.

  I laughed.

  “Mason has a better grasp of the language too.” I said. “You only have one adjective. If you insist on assuming his identity, get a thesaurus.” I was starting to enjoy myself.

  “What about the recipes?”

  “Jeeesus Mack. How can I say NO BLOODY WAY so that you’ll understand? Let me think on it.”

  “The sequel needs more of my Irish charm, he said without guile. I wondered if he had already been at the wine. “God this is good.” he said tasting the sauce and added a sprinkle of something. “It’s all in the timing, you know. Fresh ingredients, brilliant planning and a master’s touch... kinda like sex. You can tell Lauren what a fan I am, in a quiet moment. Get her past that … uh… first bad impression but don’t mention what’s inside that closet, of course.” At least he looked a little sheepish. “Just tell her how much I really like her show. She’ll be impressed, right? I think it’s time we got together for a drink... I’ll leave the details up to you.”

  I leaned against the doorway, finishing my drink. “I can’t believe this, Mack. The video collection, I mean. You never told me. Hell, with the women you’ve had in your life, I thought you used them like Kleenex. This thing with Lauren looks like a genuine crush. Aren’t you the least bit embarrassed?”

  He gave an evil grin as he passed me carrying a large plate of noodles covered in the fragrant sauce an
d put it on the table... Obviously not.

  “I don’t have every show recorded, just the ones since that fateful day when we met at your place a couple of years ago. Guess you could say that she made an impression on me... Anyway, at first I was just curious, but I really enjoyed her, …you know, attitude. How she managed to get things out of people without ruffling their feathers. She’s really good you know. Reads people like we do except she’s funny and charming. I got hooked. Started recording them so I could watch when I wanted. It ended up as a routine, sort of... I would eat dinner and watch her show. Better than eating alone.”

  “Humph. And I thought I knew you like a book. Well, now I really hate to break the news, and burst your bubble but Lauren just got engaged to Roger Smythe.”

  “Saints preserve us!” He placed a hand over his heart and sat down. It was a comic imitation of a heart attack but the expression on his face stopped me from laughing.

  “You’ve got to break it up Adam, not for me, for her!”