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

by D. L. EVANS

  Hennessy was dying of curiosity. "What's this about a woman? Who do you suspect?"

  "Whom... “ he corrected. He looked down at his manicured nails. “Something that Lauren said quite innocently. Got me thinking. She's become quite close to one of the Stanford women, the younger one, Annie.” He took a bottle and one glass out of a drawer, poured himself a brandy, made no offer of a drink to Hennessey, took a mouthful, swished it around in his mouth like mouthwash and swallowed. “It's possible that Lauren's being used... maybe to get information about me. And Lauren’s no slouch, so this Annie character has to be good.” He caught Hennessy’s puzzled expression and continued as if speaking to a child. “An edge,” he stated firmly. “Annie Stanford would have to have an edge to get past Lauren’s professional mistrust and cynicism; all those natural barriers that make her so good at her job.” It was obvious from Hennessy’s expression that he was still lost. Roger lowered his voice and growled. “You know, to see what she knows. At first I thought it was a load of crap about this bitch Annie and her ESP abilities or whatever the hell she’s supposed to have but I’m beginning to think there may be more to it."

  "Like what, Boss?" Hennesey cleared his throat uncomfortably. The brandy was probably delicious and he swallowed dryly.

  Roger stared out the window lost in thought. "Well first,” he answered, “Annie ingratiates herself to Lauren, by telling her that her brother, Adam, an ex-cop, has lost the will to live, if you can believe that!” he smirked. “But, damn it, Lauren did. It actually shook her up.” He was incredulous. “Nothing I said made any difference. All the logic and common sense in the world meant nothing against this Stanford woman’s supposed insight. Could have been complete bullshit too for all I know, but the point is that Lauren didn’t even question it. She ended up fussing about in his life until she felt satisfied that the dear boy now has a goddam grip. I was sick to death of hearing about him and I had to swallow it because Lauren believed what Annie Stanford said. Seems little brother has started writing again... Thank god."

  “I thought you said he was a cop?” Hennesey said staring at the golden liquid in his boss’s hand, knowing it was the best money could buy.

  “An Ex-cop. Now he writes about it. Are you following the hard parts?" Roger asked, giving him a tight penetrating smile.

  "Sure,” he answered coldly, “but how did you make the jump to blackmailer?"

  "That was just the beginning.” Roger lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. Smoke curled to the ceiling. “The more I think about this Annie Stanford the more I can see a pattern. She’s setting the stage. It’s a perfect way to get to Lauren… through her brother. He’s her weakness.” Hennessy’s head bobbed with affirmation. “After her insightful comments,” he continued, “Lauren was ready to believe anything she said. Right? A few days later Lauren is all-agog because Annie 'felt' something at that artist's studio and her brother, the unstable Adam, believes an apparent suicide is a murder. The cops should have laughed, right?"

  "What suicide? I don't see..."

  Ignoring Hennessy’s confusion, he continued, "So now the cops are investigating a murder. Lauren thinks that ‘Saint Annie’ can walk on water. Lauren and I had lunch together today and the latest news is that she saw a fire- in her head- that was actually happening a few miles away.”

  “Who... Lauren?” Hennesey asked.

  “Will you get with the fucking program?” His temper flared like magnesium. “Annie Stanford saw the fire that wasn’t there, and told Lauren? Jesus... are you deaf? Morgan something-or-other, the artist that was in all the papers a while ago. Fished her out of the harbour in her Mercedes. It was the same dead artist whose house just burned to the ground. The story is that Annie Stanford was on a date with my mentally-unstable-future-brother-in-law and somehow they ended up at the scene of the fire. There's something weird going on. Maybe this 'Annie' is psychic or maybe, just maybe there's something else..."

  "Like what?" He was afraid to render an opinion but picked up on the general direction.

  Roger stared hard at the bottom of his glass. "Maybe she killed the artist in the first place and is having a little fun with the police.”

  “Annie?”

  “Of course Annie, you moron. Do you think I’m talking about Lauren?” He stared at him angrily and continued, “She could have started the fire too and gave a little performance to hook her boyfriend, knowing he'll probably tell his cop friends that she sensed it was arson. See what I mean?” He said, more to himself than Hennessy. “She's pulling everyone's fucking strings but they're falling for it. Even Lauren can't see through her because her damn brother is involved. Something doesn't sit right. She just sort of slid in where she doesn't belong a little too easily. I want you to check her out." He jammed the cigarette into the crystal ashtray.

  Now confident that he knew what his boss was talking about, he ventured, "Rough her up a bit?"

  "First, check out her place,” Roger ordered. “I want to know if she's a classical music fan. You know... like Vivaldi? And never mind why." He picked up his pen and started beating a tattoo on the desk, his eyes on some distant thought.

  "You want to know her taste in music?" Hennesey felt he had just started to understand when the rug was pulled out from under him again. Jesus, Roger was hard to follow.

  "Just do it,” Roger snapped. “I've got some people working on her background. She's got some pretty heavy security living in an apartment that's the top floor of a warehouse building full of valuable art.” He passed him a folder. Bet a few million she could whistle Vivaldi, he thought. “The address is inside. One of Harmon’s security companies put in the system so I got you a copy of the layout. Don't get caught!” he hissed. “Find out if she’s on the level. It'll just be another mugging. If my digging finds she's the blackmailer, we'll be rattling her cage until I can get the shit she has on us."

  "Sure you just want her ruffled? Can I have some fun?" Ruffling meant carnal knowledge to him. Fun was something else again.

  "Are you listening, you dumb fuck? Just rattle her for now. Don’t kill her. If she's this blackmailer, you can take care of things permanently later.” When the poker players have solid alibis.

  "Right. When do you want this little dance to occur?" he asked trying to lighten the atmosphere.

  "I'm going to meet the Stanford sisters tomorrow at their gallery, with Lauren. It's some kind of party for that dead artist, if you can imagine. Jesus. Parties for a corpse, what fucking next? Be waiting for her when she gets back to her studio. I'll be with Lauren."

  "What if she's not alone?"

  Smythe rubbed his forehead in frustration. "Then wait 'till she is alone. I'll be on my cell phone. Call me when you get back to your apartment, no matter what time."

  "Got it. See ya later."

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ADAM STONE:

  Why does everything lately seem to revolve around this one location? The Stanford Galleries were taking on a sinister life of their own. Can one hate a building for no rational reason? It had been three weeks to the day that Lauren and I had attended its official opening and here I was again, reluctantly, for Morgan's wake. Mack had insisted that I show up and since I hadn’t told Lauren about the freaky experience with Annie at the fire, she also wanted me there. Besides, I damn well wanted to sort things out. Three weeks! I looked up at a small video camera tucked into a corner of the foyer and smiled. It was difficult to see tucked into the shadows. Mack had arranged with the security system to have still-frame photos taken from the video of every person who would be attending tonight. Chumming for suspects, no doubt, fisherman that he is. I must admit, Alison did one hell of a job organizing this little shindig practically at the last minute.

  The main gallery and left staircase were sectioned off with brass stands and velvet ropes to guide the public up the right staircase and into the smaller galleries. It was the right move. If she had set up Morgan's work in the huge main gallery it would have been lost in the ma
ssive space. The smaller galleries were more intimate. Two rooms were given over to the event; one for the work and the other was being used as a reception area. Enlarged pictures of Morgan face were everywhere, surrounded with flowers in tribute. A string quartet played Schubert in the background.

  Annie and Alison were dressed in formal black gowns at the head of a receiving line that included Felicia Farr and the four cousins from Warsaw. Unfortunately, the relatives looked hopelessly overwhelmed; farmer types. But then they were soon to be rich and did seem to be enjoying themselves. Big smiles, somehow out of place, warm hugs, air kissing beside cheeks and lots of meaningless fluff about the dearly departed. The method of departure would be tastefully avoided but it hung in the air unsaid, draped over the gathering like the black velvet around the photos of Morgan's smiling face. Only one of the four cousins spoke any English, so how sincere was this gesture anyway? They were hardly bereaved since I knew they had never actually met their newly famous relative, so it seemed to me that condolences were redundant. Felicia was the only one truly in mourning. I should congratulate the cousins for having the good fortune to be sharing the same DNA as their newly famous and late benefactor. Of course that would mean a death sentence from Lauren as I'd been warned to be on my best behaviour. No one appreciates honesty anymore.

  I slipped into the room with a crowd of students, thus avoiding the welcome and formal introductions. I tried unsuccessfully not to stare at Annie, exquisite in black, but she was busy being host. She was probably the only one in the room that hated crowds more than me. It was some consolation. At least I wasn't stuck shaking hands and being nice. I had to get her alone and sort things out. I saw Winston Lucas mingling through the gathered groups, looking frazzled.

  No wonder. The place was quickly filling with the strangest assortment of humans I've yet seen in one place. At a quick glance, one could mistake the gathering for a costume party. I thought the late Morgan in real life looked like one of Fagan’s boys, but in this crowd, she would have been positively conservative. I'm sure some vagrants had slipped through Winston Lucas' guards and were taking advantage of the free bar. Several homeless types were already grazing at the food table, and at least one ‘off-worlder’ was filling her pockets with goodies. Somehow, I felt Morgan would have approved. There was ‘money’ here too. The major designers were well represented in dark sober tones and cultured voices. I spotted Lauren and Roger and made my way over to them. Big sister was genuinely happy to see me and gave her special hug. Roger shook my hand warmly and made suitable comments about the generous tribute the sisters were putting on for Morgan. I nodded in agreement. They sure did look like the perfect couple. People were hanging around them waiting to be honoured with a few moments of their time. Lauren was gorgeous in grey crepe and satin and Roger, as usual, did Armani proud. He chatted amicably, generous with compliments and sensitive observations, just the right balance of scholarly wit and humility. I felt a strange dislocation, some undigested gloom as I watched and listened to him. He had an unusual accent that I hadn't noticed before, sort of Ivy League grafted to a southern drawl. If one looked past the first impression, the radiant charm was condescending and the smile was constantly reset for public consumption as he gazed around and locked eyes with various notables. I was suddenly hypersensitive to Lauren’s presence. Her puzzled expression warned me to bury my thoughts. I was desperate to ask him what the fuck happened to your seventeen year-old, pregnant first wife? I scanned the crowd avoiding my own emotions.

  I was becoming more and more aware of the reservoir of violence that moved beneath my skin. If Mr. Smythe continued being nice, I was going to kill him. Time for a drink. Timing is everything. I made polite small take, nodding in all the right places. Lauren must have sensed my discomfort; something in my expression or body language, or whatever. She flagged down an important looking couple and allowed me a graceful exit under the introductions. Roger-Dodger wasted no time winning them over with huge handshakes and compliments. He was wall-to-wall politician all right, no under-padding in sight.

  I glanced over to Annie and she turned to face me, just at that very same moment. She smiled and left the receiving line, making her way towards me through the crowd. I felt frozen to the spot.

  “Adam, I’ve wanted to speak to you all day,” she said in her soft whispery voice. The room seemed to fade away around her.

  There was so much I wanted to say but all that came out was, “I called but Alison said you were busy ‘til tonight.”

  “Damn her," she said and an unguarded bolt of anger flashed in her eyes. I felt a shiver. She took a second to compose her words and then said, "I asked if you had called but she just kept on and on about needing to give each other breathing space.” She took both my hands. “The thing is, she’s right. Things have been moving fast Adam, don’t you feel it?”

  I swallowed dryly. Was this a kiss-off? “Annie you haven’t even mentioned the fire. Your vision... How can you even talk to me if you think...”

  “I don’t think, Adam. I mean…. I don’t even know what happened to me at the fire. It wasn’t a vision. The dream state happened before we arrived at the fire. You felt it, remember?” I agreed. I did feel like there was lightening in the area. “What happened when I watched the flames wasn’t the dream state at all. I’ve never experienced whatever it was. I felt... well... hypnotized is the only word that comes close.

  “Annie, we need time together.” I was so relieved that she needed me. I was sure I was floating off the ground. “There’s so much to ... “ Felicia interrupted with a profusion of apologies and before I knew it she whisked Annie off promising to return her later. As Annie was led away into the babbling mob she glanced back to wink at me over her shoulder and in that magical instant I knew she was mine.

  Mack met me at the bar looking preoccupied. He explained that the radiant goddess Alice had just informed him that the great Vladimir Roman would be unable to attend and sent his regrets via his beautiful agent, Ms. Hough. I didn't understand why this was such a loss when he explained that Roman had actually arrived at the front door in his limo, complete with entourage a few minutes ago, according to one of Mack's men. He was met by one of the artists outside according to Mack spies. A few words were exchanged and the great man quickly got right back into his limo and drove away. Mack was justifiably puzzled. I suggested that maybe the fact that the media was not invited might have made the evening a waste of time for him. Mack agreed it was a possibility but thought there was something else that put him off. After all, Mack reasoned, the place was full of devoted followers, and with this guy's inflated ego, he should have been thrilled to be worshipped for the evening. Another mystery. The place seemed to attract them. I’d bet even money that this information was going to throw a fly into the works for Alison. She counted on ‘his highness’ to elevate the gathering to media noteworthiness. A few words in tomorrow's paper at least. (Which is what this occasion was all about, in my opinion.) Now she would have to improvise a eulogy herself. Thank goodness the lady was never at a loss for words and enjoyed the spotlight. At the moment Alison was chatting to the mayor, Allan Meadows and his lovely wife, Helen. He was a puffed pigeon-chested man whose shifty eyes could shrink-wrap and categorize you in a second and she looked just like Beaver's mom, plastic hair, pearls and all. I guess this event would make the papers tomorrow after all. The mayor wouldn't leave the room until he'd met every single important person who could vote.

  Somehow the intrigue going on in the room didn’t affect me at all. I was still floating from my moment with Annie. All was right with the world.

  I noticed Mack giving the back of Roger Smythe’s head the evil eye. "Did you get to say a few words to Lauren's betrothed?” I asked. “I mean, without reaching for his throat?"

  "Yeah.” Mack sniffed. “I asked him where he got his shirts stuffed," I laughed knowing it was just wishful thinking.

  "I take it you weren't too impressed with him. What a shame. And he's trying
so hard," I said with great sarcasm.

  "Look at him standing there,” Mack hissed, “holding court like he was fucking ‘James Bond’ himself. Jesus. That composure looks like its built into his DNA but I could crack him like a piñata with a few questions. Another example of upper crust inbreeding… the hippo-bloody-crit. I'm sure that hair's a piece. Whaddya think?"

  I failed to suppress the inappropriate laugh and politely disagreed. "You better get back on cruise control in case you shoot him by mistake. Lauren will do you an injury for sure."

  "Ya, I know. It's on my 'Don't do' list. It’d be worth it though. Wipe that perma-smile off his face," he growled. "Look at her, Adam." I smiled at Lauren and she gave a royal wave back at me. "She’s incredible... Mack sighed, " and he’s just here allocating face time like a good politician. God, I'd like to be the one to tell her what a prick he is and prove it. She would be delightfully grateful... soon, I hope."