5
Diddles
You would think nothing had happened. No explosion, no murder, no dead bodies, nothing. Albert Alderton stood in the center of the room, a champagne glass in one hand, and a dog treat in another. He hovered loosely over his pure-white Pekingese, dangling the dog treat directly above him.
“Come now, Diddles, jump for Daddy, I beg you.”
The overweight Pekingese looked up, clearly seeing the treat but showing little- to no interest in it at all. “Damned stupid puppy,” he exclaimed, but then he softened again. “Come on, Diddles. Just one tiny little jump. Pretty please! Don’t make Daddy look silly in front of the lovely lady.”
It was the first time Albert had acknowledged my presence. I didn’t care—I was not required to like or dislike the man, all I had to do was keep him safe, whether the threat be real or imagined. Did I like him? I hadn’t made up my mind yet, but it was hard to like such a caricature of a guy. So, I reserved my judgment, at least for now. Time, inevitably, would tell the tale. I stared down at Diddles, the porky Pekingese.
The dog was unrelenting, and finally yielding to the pup, the owner shoved the biscuit down the pudgy dog’s throat. I was torn between laughing and crying. The jury was still out.
I’d relieved Harrison about two hours ago, and in all that time the man had hardly uttered two words. He just kept on tap-tap-tapping at his laptop, the only object adorning a very elaborate, white writing desk. Every now and then he would gasp and raise a finger, like he was having an ah-ha moment, but then he would bury his head and start again. He was a writer, Harrison had told me, and a very good one, by all accounts. He wrote some television drama about dating elves. Whatever it was, I hadn’t seen it. I had little- to no time for T.V., and when I could catch a show, I stuck to the Food Channels. Each to their own.
“I’m sorry, he’s usually much more responsive,” Albert said. “I suspect it’s all the drama from the last few days. The poor pooch must be totally off his game. I have been myself—I’m like an ostrich when anything like this happens. I just bury myself in the zone and just write, write, write. It helps me forget about anything ugly, and this whole business has been so very, very ugly.”
Albert shuddered, then casually bent down to pet the dog. I was surprised he didn’t scoop the small thing up in his arms.
“He’s a very handsome dog,” I said, trying to think of something nice to say.
“Oh, yes, he is,” said Albert warmly, and he brought his nose down to the dog’s level and rubbed noses. I grimaced a bit when the animal licked him on the mouth. “He’s a very good doggy indeed.” Albert straightened.
“Do you have pets?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ve got a cat. Scratchpoop.”
Albert smiled, and I wondered if he was cataloging the name for later use. “A home isn’t a home without a pet.” He waved regally, taking in his entire penthouse. It was stylishly decorated, almost everything was white, from the carpet to the drapes at the window. The only splash of color was in the artwork on the walls, too surrealist for my taste. Even the bookcases were white, the custom cases reaching floor to ceiling and covering an entire wall. They were chock-full of books, and a part of me had a twang of regret I never had time to read.
“Um, Mr. Alderton….”
“Oh, please, call me Albert, I insist. Mr. Alderton sounds so old and frumpy and I’m not dead yet.”
“Okay, Albert.” I smiled. “May I ask—why do you think your life is in danger?” Looking around, I couldn’t imagine anything about this man that suggested a target. Except maybe Diddles. The name alone was enough to incite murder. But the dog seemed happy enough.
Albert’s face turned ashen white and he sat back down at his desk. Only this time his attention was not on his writing. He stared thoughtfully at his marble floor.
“I wasn’t sure at first, I mean, I had an idea, but when I went to the police, they just laughed me off. They said I was being a drama queen. Imagine that.” Albert rolled his eyes. “That’s how I connected with your agency, you know. A friend of a friend sort of thing.”
“Okay,” I said gently, wondering when he was going to get around to the meat of it.
“I suppose it all started about a month ago. I was on the set of ‘For the Love of Elves,’ when a very tall man in a very dark cloak approached me. I didn’t see his face, but he put me in mind of that Dicken’s character—you know—the Ghost of Christmas Future. Well, I was on a television set, you see stuff like that all the time, so I didn’t think anything of it, not at first.”
Diddles pottered over to his master and slumped down over the top of Albert’s slipper-clad foot. The man bent down and gave his fur a quick tug.
“Anyway, he handed me a quick note and did an about-turn. At that point I barely glanced up, I mean, I was on set, watching the show. I couldn’t care less who the studio was using as a messenger boy. I never look at anything while the red light is on, so I slipped the note in my pocket and watched the rest of the performance.”
His hands were now clasped together, and I saw they were trembling.
“What happened later?” I asked. “Did you see him again?”
Albert shook his head. “No, I never saw him again after that.”
Pity, I thought. “What happened next?”
Albert gently nudged Diddles off his foot and turned to open a drawer in his writing desk. He pulled out a thin, folded piece of paper and handed it to me. “Here. You read it. I can’t bear to look at it anymore. Such god-awful handwriting”
I unfolded the note and read it.
Return what you have taken. Thieves will die.
“Of course, I shared it with your boss as well as you. He couldn’t make sense of it, either. Like I said to him, I’ve never stolen anything in my whole damned life. Except maybe a line or two.” His lips curled cheekily, sharing some kind of inside joke with himself.
“He’s not my boss, he’s my partner,” I corrected. I frowned, not knowing what to make of the note, either. I wasn’t surprised the police had sent him away. Even if it was a real threat, it was too vague to be of any real use. If something particular happened, well, that might be altogether different.
“I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it. “I can see how this would be very upsetting for you.”
“Yes, upsetting is definitely la motte de la jour. Sometimes I think this building is cursed.”
“Possible,” I said, but I wasn’t sensing a general curse here. Whatever was going on now felt very particular—someone was focused on a specific object, and general curses just didn’t work that way.
“Could you have taken up something by accident, maybe? I’m sure you would never steal something on purpose, but maybe you took something without realizing it?”
“I suppose that could have happened,” Albert mused. “But when? I do most of my shopping online, and I hardly ever leave this apartment. Except maybe to go to the set. Or to have dinner. Diddles and I so dislike mingling. We’d much rather stay in on our own.”
I nodded. I could imagine how he’d be like that.
“Wendy Cane or Chuck Shoesmith. Did you know either of them?”
“Lord, yes, of course. Quite well, actually.”
The enthusiasm of his reply took me somewhat by surprise. Albert didn’t seem the neighborly type. “What was your relationship to the victims?”
Albert grimaced at the last word. “They were my betas.”
“Your what?” I said, thinking this might be some kind of sexual reference.
“My betas. I’d give them an early draft of my new scripts and they would give me their opinion on it. Wonderful, wonderful people. Good betas are better than gold for a writer. And Wendy was exceptionally good. She could spot a plot hole at a thousand paces.”
“A plot hole?”
“Yes, a gaping, seeping nasty contradiction in a story, novel, or play. They happen all the time. Chuck was more of a grammar junkie, but that was great, too. I
have proper editors at the studio of course, but I could never feed off them like I could my betas.” He sighed. “You have no idea how much I’m going to miss them both.”
This was all very fascinating, but I was no further ahead. I stared down at the note.
“Do you mind if I keep this?” I asked. “I want to show it to a friend of mine in the police.”
“Oh, please do, take it away,” he said with a flick of his wrist. “I think I’ll sleep a lot better knowing that thing’s out of the house.”
I agreed, and carefully slipped the note in my pocket. If there had ever been any evidence of value on it, I was sure it was long gone, but why not have it looked over, just in case?
“I’ll return it as soon as I can,” I said.
“Oh, please, take your time, no rush,” said Albert, turning up the end of his nose. “Now, if you don’t mind, it’s time Diddles and I had our little nap. There’s PH balanced water in the refrigerator, guzzle as much as your heart desires. Greta, my housekeeper, left earlier, but she keeps me stocked with plenty of things to nibble on, just in case I get an attack of the munchies. Help yourself to anything you like.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, one more thing.” Albert glanced up and down my new outfit. “Hmmm. Well, I have no events planned for the rest of this week, so please, dress down just as you did today. I’d like you to be comfortable at least.”
Aghast, I stared down at my five-hundred-dollar ensemble, representing my entire paycheck for a typical week. Shit. I thought this was the classiest thing I’d bought. I looked up just in time to see an interior door close behind Albert. Diddles yapped one tiny little bark, then I saw nothing more of the pair of them for the rest of the night.
6
Speeding Gods
The doorbell dragged me from my sleep. I peeled my face off the pillow and trudged reluctantly to my front door, scratching my armpit for good measure. I caught my reflection in the mirror by the door in the front room, and seeing my jammies were lopsided, straightened them up before answering. At least my hair looked good, like it always did.
It had to be Liam. After opening the door, I just left him to make his own way in and dragged my ass over to the Keurig. Shit. The water reservoir was empty. I hated it when it did that.
“Did I wake you up?” asked Liam, playfully.
I cast him a stone look. “You think? Some of us are working night shifts you know.”
He didn’t apologize, but he did kick me out of the kitchen and marched me ahead of him over to the bathroom.
“I’ll take care of this,” he said. “You take a shower.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” I protested, but I did as I was told.
I liked my showers hot, fast and hard, just like my men. In less than five minutes, I was out from under the jets, dousing myself in powder and antiperspirant. “Since you’re in there, you might as well make me some toast,” I hollered. My gut felt empty. And having a man make me coffee and toast didn’t make me feel one iota less of a powerful woman. Liam could whip up a batch of pancakes for all I cared. With syrup. Lots of it.
“The note is on the counter,” I cried, as I balanced myself against the wall to pull on one leg of my jeggings. “Have a look at it when you’re done playing house bitch.”
I grinned. Perhaps that was a little harsh. I heard no argument from the kitchen area, so I finished dressing in peace. Scratchpoop watched me sleepily from the bed, his six-toed little paws curled before him and he turned so his belly was up. I tickled his tummy and he purred like a trooper.
“It’s a bit melodramatic,” Liam remarked, still reading the note as I walked over to the kitchen. He’d been busy fixing breakfast since I’d left him. Everything was nicely arranged around a little dinner plate, from the symmetrically placed knife to the open jam jar with a spoon in it. I’d forgotten about the butter thing. Liam hated the butter knife in with the jam.
“Yeah,” I replied. “No specifics, no demands. Like something out of a novel. You think it might be a bad joke from a fellow writer?”
“Maybe, I dunno.” He shrugged. “You want me to run it for prints?”
“Sure, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope. Pretty much everyone from the housemaid to the chief of police have probably had their mucky hands on it. But sure, why not? Can’t hurt, can it?” It was a rhetorical question.
Liam was looking at me funny, a weird smirk on his face. “What?”
“Do that thing,” he said.
“What thing?” I asked, smearing jam on my toast.
“The thing you used to do with your hair.”
“Get real.”
“No, go on. Please, I miss it.”
I shook my head but smiled, anyway. Sometimes it was fun to show off. “All right then.”
I inhaled and turned my focus inward, searching for the first conscious memory of my mother braiding my hair. I felt my scalp tingle, but it felt good, like many tiny hands massaging me all over. And then I focused on the braids and pictured my mother as she crossed each lock of hair, one over the other. And then my hair began to braid itself. It was simple magic, but it felt good. Liam remained mesmerized until the last plait tied itself off.
“Happy now?” I said.
He grinned. “That never gets old.”
“It’s the simple things.” I wiped a grain of toast from the corner of my mouth and slid off the bar stool. “How long will that take?” I motioned toward the note.
“I’ll sweet talk the lab tech into bumping it up the line,” said Liam.
I bet, I thought, thinking of the fake blonde who worked there. I could just imagine how.
Liam pulled a familiar plastic bag out from his jacket pocket.
“You brought the postcard with you?” I asked, taking an involuntary step back.
“Yes,” he said. “They’ve been over it a dozen times in the lab, but they’ve drawn a blank.”
“Shit,” I said, another lead down the toilet. I’d hoped never to see the damned thing again.
“But I was wondering if maybe you’d show this to your client, Albert. He said he knew both victims. It’s a long shot, I know, but maybe he’ll spot something they missed.”
Reluctantly, I agreed. Any chance was better than no chance.
I was just about to push Liam out my front door when my iPhone went off. Looking down I saw it was Albert. “Talk of the devil,” I said, flashing the display in Liam’s face so he could read the name.
I hit the speaker button, and Liam nodded—he knew to stay quiet.
“Is everything okay, Albert?” I asked.
“Oh, Lord have mercy, I got another one,” Albert gasped, his voice quivering with fear. “Please come over.”
“Where’s Harrison? Isn’t he there with you?”
“Yes, well, you know, he was, but then he had to pop out for five minutes. He said he wouldn’t be gone long. It’s been almost an hour.”
Damn Harrison, that was not how we were supposed to do business. If word were to get out he’d fucked up a simple babysitting number, our firm would be dead in the woods. “I’ll be right over, Albert. Sit tight—I’m bringing a cop with me.” I glanced up at Liam, and he nodded. “Now listen very carefully, Albert, okay? I want you to do exactly what I tell you. Leave the note on your desk and don’t touch it anymore, you understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“And don’t let anyone in until I get there.” I paused, hating myself for my next thought. “Not even Harrison, okay?”
“Okay,” said Albert in a faint voice. “Please hurry. Greta is off today, and Diddles and I can’t bear being left on our own. We’re very, very frightened.”
“Try not to worry,” I said, grabbing the keys to my Miata. “I’m coming over right now. Sit tight and all will be well, trust me.”
My last words sounded hollow in my ears. I knew full well twenty minutes was more than enough time to take Albert out for good. And where the fuck was Harrison? If he wasn�
�t lying dead in a ditch somewhere, I’d probably kill him myself and dump him in one. Or better still. Set a demon on him. Goblins hated demons and it would damned well serve him right.
“Let’s take my car,” I said, “it’s faster than yours,”
“Sure.”
We passed my lanky landlord, Mikey, doing his daily dive into my personal mailbox. He shot me a knowing grin as we dashed on past him and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Liam’s mouth drop open.
“Not now,” I said, seeing he was about to stop. Liam sighed but came running after me.
“Bye, you two,” he called, “mwah, mwah, mwah,” but I was in no mood for his shenanigans—this girl had shit to do.
The speeding gods were with me as we flew across town breaking every speed limit in the city. Liam promised hand on heart that if any cameras were to get me, he’d take care of them. This was a genuine emergency after all, and he’d call it official police business. And though I’d called Harrison a thousand times, my calls just kept bouncing into his voicemail.
“Pick up, damn you,” I groaned after call number 1001.
I punched out a text and prayed to God my trust in my partner was well-founded. Either way, though, he would have to be in deep shit not to pick up when I called.
“Would you mind not texting while you’re driving?” Liam croaked, and I saw he was holding onto the handle above his door, his knuckles as white as his face. Screw him, this was no time for pussies.
When we got there, I abandoned my car in the street, and we ran inside. My heart raced while we waited for the elevator, and if it wasn’t the damn penthouse, I wouldn’t have bothered, I’d have just sprinted up the stairs. But the doors pinged, and we jumped in. The elderly couple who were waiting stepped forward, but they were moving so slowly, and I just wanted to get to Albert.
Liam whipped out his badge and flashed it in front of their rheumy eyes. “Sorry, sir, madam. This is official police business. Please ride up in the next car.” Before either set of eyes adjusted, the doors closed, and we were on our way.
A Postcard From Hell Page 4
