by Linda Welch
We tore down the faux paneling, painted the walls white and added an oak baseboard. Royal found an old sepia photo of Clarion’s Twenty-Second Street taken in the 1920s, had it enlarged and put in an oak frame. It looked perfect over the fireplace. One day I’d get new furniture, but for now the old would have to do. I pictured bookshelves either side of the fireplace, with more books in piles here and there on the floor; a six by nine rug, a huge armchair big enough for two people to snuggle in, with a big square footstool.
I so enjoyed not sitting in the kitchen all the time.
“Have you been in their database before?”
“A few times. It’s like peeling an onion layer by layer. Sometimes you can get farther than others. But Garret, Vanderkamp and Gunn have brick walls up just below the surface.”
I turned my new toy in my hands. I was just window-shopping, honest, when this sweet baby caught my eye. A Davis Derringer D-38 Special is a weighty little monster for its size, but not so heavy it dragged my hip pocket down. I liked the feel of it snugged in my palm.
Man, having money for a change felt good.
“What about the Gelpha community?”
“Nothing.” His brow pinched. “If the killer is Gelpha, he has done nothing in Bel-Athaer to draw attention. But I will speak to the Council. They should be warned.”
We were hanging out till lunch. You don’t have to dress up to eat out in Utah, but my frayed cutoffs and black T-shirt would be conspicuously ugh next to Royal’s outfit, so I changed into navy linen slacks and a low-necked rayon blouse with a silver and gray pinstripe which gave it a shimmer. Royal, fabulous as always, wore khaki slacks and a creamy dupioni silk shirt with his copper-gold hair unbound and glinting on his shoulders.
I noticed the silver chain around his neck, with a little something-or-other dangling from it. “You weren’t wearing that when you came in.” It didn’t look right on him; the chain was too short for a start.
He lifted the whatever away from his shirt so I could see it better: a small crucifix with a center of coiled silver strands. “The Celtic knot. Also called the mystic knot, or endless knot, thought to represent the timeless nature of our spirit. Do you like it?” He let go as I took it in my fingers.
Smiling, I nodded. “It can also represent an uninterrupted life cycle - no beginning, no end - a protective charm. I do like it.”
He slid his hands beneath his hair to his nape. “Good. It’s for you.”
He fastened the chain around my neck. I didn’t know what to say. Royal never bought me a gift before. Then I realized I had a silly grin on my face, so I said, “Thank you,” and leaned in to kiss him.
I broke away as I heard Jack coming. “Yo girl yo a ho girl but yo mo ho girl.”
I tried not to laugh. I trapped it in my throat and it burst out my nose as a combination squawk/chuff/snigger.
“What?” Royal asked.
“Jack thinks he’s a rapper.”
“Oh.” He picked up the newspaper from the couch arm and rattled the pages into place. Finding the financial section, he became absorbed. Royal pays as little attention to my roommates as possible, which you would not think difficult when he can’t hear nor see them, but he can’t escape my side of the conversation.
“They laughed at Michael Jackson, you know,” Jack declared huffily as he breezed into the living room.
Mel came a step behind him. “Did not,” she wheezed. Gripped by uncontrollable laughter, she held her stomach in the flats of her hands. “Anyway, Michael didn’t rap.”
Jack would not give an inch. “I expect everyone he knew laughed at one time or another, but he rose above the ridicule and you know where that took him.”
“Yeah, a heap of plastic surgery and a far from star-studded death,” from Mel.
I bit on my lower lip, presenting a thoughtful expression. “Maybe you’re onto something here, Jack. You can’t have plastic surgery and you won’t die from a physician-administered overdose, you’re way ahead of Michael.” I changed my expression to dreamy. “I can hear it now. The DJ announces, ‘And here’s the latest from superstar stud-muffin Jack the Rap. . . .’”
I cupped my open hand behind my ear as if listening. I frowned. “Strange, I don’t hear a thing.”
“Another promising career brought to a dead end,” Mel said, followed by an exaggerated sigh.
Jack tossed his head and walked out with chin in the air. I heard all but inaudible, whispered phrases trail up the stairs. His voice cut off, then continued, louder. “By the way, Tiff. . . .”
I slid the Derringer in my hip pocket and spoke in an undertone. “Quick! Let’s go.”
Royal peered over the newspaper. “It’s early for lunch.”
“I’m hungry.” I widened my eyes, grit my teeth and jerked my head at the hall.
He got the hint. “Oh. Shall we go, then?”
I gratefully rose and headed for the door, nodding at Mel as I passed her. Royal brought the newspaper with him, but that was okay, Jack and Mel already read it.
Royal shut the front door. “Tiff, what - ?”
I silenced him with a finger on my lips. Jack may be challenged in his vocal range, but there is nothing wrong with his hearing.
We climbed in Royal’s big red truck and I closed the passenger door. “Whew! Jack is nagging me about Dale Jericho. I’m running out of excuses. And Dale phoned yesterday to see if I’m back in town. I let the answering machine get it, but Jack knows and wants me to return Dale’s call.”
He turned the key in the ignition and the truck rumbled to life. “Why not turn him down?”
I blew out an exasperated breath, not at Royal, at me for being a chump. “Because, I’ll never have another moment’s peace. I shouldn’t have said I’d consider it. In Jack-Speak, that’s a yes.”
“But he is. . . .”
I knew what he’d been about to say. But Jack is a ghost. Why can’t you ignore him? After all this time, my roommates were still not real people to him.
I didn’t want to argue with him. I cast my eyes back at the house as we drove away. “You don’t have to live with him.”
We drove down Beeches and took a right on winding Feldale Avenue. Royal took a contorted route down to Clarion and his eyes swept back and forth the entire drive. He can’t quite escape cop mode, always alert for anything which does not quite add up.
I looked along the winding road. “I wonder how many incidents there were, and where?” I didn’t need to clarify.
“I could not find anything. The FBI is keeping it close.”
“But there are more.”
“Perhaps not. The nature of the slayings in Arkansas could be serious enough to involve the Bureau.”
“Or something we don’t know.” Which seemed likely, with as little as Garrett and his gang told us.
We turned on Twenty-Eighth, drove west through the Avenues and down to Grant. I ruefully eyed Audrie’s as we sailed past, but perked up when we turned left on Benson. Royal parked out front of The Factory.
The Factory was once exactly that, a factory, though I don’t know what it produced. A big gray concrete building with small windows and a tin roof, it still looks like a factory on the outside. Inside, it’s spacious and washed by sunshine which streams through big skylights. There is no ceiling, just giant girders spanning the one huge room. Wooden partitions inlaid with glass mosaics in every color imaginable separate the place into a host station and two sections full of tables. Stairs at the back lead up to a wide balcony with more seating. Every table has a snowy-white cloth and a small Tiffany-style lamp in the middle.
I heard about The Factory when it had been in business six months. It didn’t advertise; news spread by word of mouth. In the old industrial complex, near the dog food plant, the place should have died before it got going, but it prospered to become Clarion’s best kept secret and a minor financial miracle. The Factory dishes up the best Italian cuisine you ever tasted. The white cloths are my only bugbear - we’re talking s
paghetti and pizza sauce here.
The host bustled over to us. “Welcome! Welcome!” He gestured with both hands. “Come, come, I have table for you!” Then off he went. I scurried to keep up as he wound through the partitions to the stairs. Royal glided behind me.
Our balcony table, next to the rail, let us overlook the entire dining area. No sooner were we seated, our water poured, than our waiter stood at my elbow. “Your usual, Señorita?”
I’m a creature of habit when eating out. I have my favorites in my favorite restaurants and seldom order anything other. “Yes, thanks. The cannelloni al forno.” Finely minced veal, chicken and Italian sausage stuffed in shells, on a bed of thick Alfredo sauce drizzled with marinara. I could eat it till it came out my ears.
Royal ordered Chicken Alfredo pizza. We didn’t talk as we knew the breadsticks and Alfredo dipping sauce would arrive any moment. You can never get enough Alfredo sauce.
As we dunked and nibbled breadsticks, I replayed what happened in Arkansas in my mind - as if I hadn’t already been over it a dozen times. I tried to come up with a killer other than Gelpha. An animal? Did Alva go crazy and attack her people? I didn’t think so.
I felt sure the murderer looked like a tall alien person to a dog’s eyes, like Royal, and that is why Alva went for him. Maybe dogs see Gelpha as they truly are, as I do.
Mac is okay with Royal. He only bit him once and didn’t even break the skin above his ankle. There again, this is MacKlutzy and even I don’t understand the little turd.
Another kind of animal? The same rules apply to human and animal killers and getting rid of shades killed by animals is faster and easier. You find the animal, kill it, and say bye to the lingering victim.
But surely the FBI can identify animal bites from different species.
This was the sticking point: the Bureau couldn’t identify the murder weapon. But I bet they never had a case in which the victim had body parts torn off and chunks ripped out by another person’s bare hands.
Definitely a person. The idea an animal could be the killer was wishful thinking.
My phone rang as I swirled the end of my breadstick in the dish of sauce.
“Miss Banks, this is John Vanderkamp.”
Crap. I shouldn’t have answered. “What can I not do for you, Agent?”
“We - ” His voice cut off and I hoped we’d lost the connection, but he probably just realized exactly what I said.
He began again. “Our file indicates the crime scene doesn’t have to be . . . fresh, for you to get a . . . reading.”
They had an actual file on me. I should have known that. When the Bureau keeps tabs on you, everything they discover goes into a database. You can be sure someone, somewhere, is gathering information on you, but to know. . . . I did not like the feeling that gave me. “You’re right. If something’s there, I’ll see it.”
“We’d like you to look at the first crime scene.”
“Why, when I didn’t get anything worthwhile in Arkansas?”
Royal had his breadstick halfway to his mouth and a frown on his face. I grimaced back.
“We’d like you to try again.”
I bit a piece off the breadstick and let Vanderkamp hang as I chewed.
“Miss Banks?”
I swallowed. “I don’t like.” I swirled the sauce again. “And I don’t see any check for Arkansas in my mailbox.”
“You’ll be paid when we no longer require your services.”
“Huh. I thought we were finished.”
I might as well have spoken to a brick wall. “Las Vegas. We have reservations for the two-fifteen from Salt Lake. We’ll have you home this evening.”
But we’d have to leave for Salt Lake soon. “Let me talk to my partner. Call me back in fifteen.” I snapped the phone shut.
As I told Royal, his frown deepened to make a vertical furrow between his eyebrows. “We should go, Tiff.”
I knew it. If the killer was Gelpha, we needed anything we could get from the Bureau.
I drummed my fingers on the tablecloth as the Alfredo sauce cooled. “If I see anything in Vegas, should I tell the agents?”
“Depends on what. We should give them something if we want to stay in the loop.”
“Precisely what I thought back in Arkansas. But if I give them a description and they put out an APB - Royal, he tore the Fenshams apart. People will get hurt if they try to restrain him.”
“I doubt they’ll get near him. And there is the possibility, if they do, they can bring him down with enough firepower.”
I broke off a small piece of breadstick and chewed. I hoped I was wrong about the killer, but what else could move like the wind and inflict that kind of mutilation?
I glanced up as our waiter arrived bearing a huge tray. “Can you get us two orders of cannoli to go?”
Royal’s eyes twinkled. “I like a woman who knows how to prioritize.”
A sparkling stream of sunlight pierced a skylight and bathed our table, but even the sun was not as bright as Royal’s copper-gold hair, nor warm as what I saw in the depths of his glowing copper eyes.
***
When the FBI has its eye on you, it could do so literally, so we used a conventional mode of travel to Salt Lake City International: Royal’s truck. We walked in the terminal at two-fifteen. We spotted Agent Vanderkamp lurking in the concourse.
I tossed my empty cannoli carton in a bin and winked at Royal. “Darn. We missed our plane.”
“Nice try, Miss Banks.” Vanderkamp wore a disagreeable expression as he approached us. “Come this way.” He strode along the partitioned passage by which incoming commuters leave the gate area, ignoring people who had to move to avoid him. I cocked an eyebrow at Royal and we followed.
“Where’s your buddy?” I asked as we stepped on the escalator.
“Agent Gunn is not with us.”
“I adore the way you state the obvious. You have a flair. Do you learn that in FBI Agent School?”
He ignored me and his expression became stony. Was I finally getting on his nerves? Good for me! Whoopdedo!
He led us to our gate and down the tunnel to the plane. We were the last to board; they must have held the plane for us.
We settled in our seats in the middle row with Vanderkamp between us. Drat.
An elderly lady with finely wrinkled skin and long gray hair in a braid sat on my left. Her gaze slipped up to my face, she beamed and said, “There were giants in the Earth in those days.”
I squinched one eye. “Pardon?”
“The Book of Genesis.” She laid her head back and closed her eyes.
Weird.
All the flying here, there and everywhere began to wear on me. This flight would be short, but the knowledge didn’t cheer me. Another damn plane, another stuffed and stuffy cabin. But Royal was right, we had to do this. A maniac Gelpha on the loose, killing humans - it didn’t bear thinking about.
Royal dozed, Vanderkamp stared ahead, I fidgeted, and an hour and a half later the plane touched down at McCarren International Airport.
Chapter Eleven
I wilted when we stepped out into the Nevada heat. Of all the times to visit Vegas, August is not a good choice. Yet another black SUV with a driver waited at the curb. Not that I complained; getting in the air-conditioned auto was a blessed relief. They even had cold bottled water waiting.
The worst thing about these little FBI joyrides was not being able to chat freely with Royal. We didn’t exchange a word on the flight and now, with Vanderkamp in the SUV’s front passenger seat, I still felt uneasy about talking and I know Royal did too.
We took the 215 and turned on South Rainbow Boulevard. I tried to let the scenery divert me.
When we turned on Sahara Avenue, a leaden feeling swept through my limbs, as if my blood cooled and thickened in my veins. Vanderkamp eyed me in the rearview mirror. I felt my expression set like concrete, the skin of my face taut, my mouth tight.
The first crime scene. No, it can’t be
. . . .
We drove through tall, wide, open gates and panic welled in my chest.
Royal took my hand and spoke softly, merely a breath in my ear. “Tiff, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I didn’t dare tell him with Vanderkamp near.
We pulled up outside a stucco home with a small garden out front. Shaken, I gripped Royal’s fingers. I can’t go in there. I know her. I know Janine Hulme.
He spoke to Vanderkamp. “You said this was the first murder?”
The Suit nodded and turned his attention to Royal. “A month ago. Janine Hulme. Her fiancée is clearing out the place, but he agreed to make himself scarce this afternoon so Miss Banks can have privacy for her . . . investigation.”
I hoped he’d add more, but he opened the door and got out the car. Royal climbed out his side, me mine. They came from behind the car to join me and we stood in the street, looking at Janine’s home. The driver stayed in the SUV.
Her name hummed in my head. Janine, with her big bony body and scraggly hair. A year since we sat in her great room, talking about Elizabeth Hulme? It seemed like yesterday. She would be the first dead person I talked to before they died. The skin on my arms pebbled again. I stood in the dry heat of a Nevada afternoon and shivered.
Vanderkamp made a shooing motion with one hand. “Off you go, Miss Banks.”
Condescending bastard. I wanted to deck him.
The street seemed so . . . normal. An elderly couple worked on their garden two houses down. The man prepared to start his little electric lawn mower as the woman clipped at a glossy green shrub. Farther down, on the other side of the street, a family with two small kids climbed out their gray sedan and moved along a path. A white-haired woman opened the door, greeting them with a sunny smile. Just another tranquil day in Janine’s neighborhood, one she could no longer enjoy.
I walked up the sloping path between flowerbeds and opened the door. Standing in Janine’s small hall, I listened, but heard nothing. I slowly walked between the dining-room and formal living room, remembering how the glass walls impressed me when I first came here. Cardboard cartons sealed with packing tape were stacked between the furniture.
