by Gareth Lewis
'ID, cash and cards untouched,' he says. 'No phone, but doesn't look like robbery.'
Good. More chance the killer knew her, and may therefore be linked to her. 'See if we can find a phone listed in her name,' I say.
Nodding, Jake pulls out his phone. He exhales in frustration. 'Signal's fluctuating too much. I'll try in the stairwell.'
I walk the scene until he returns, but get little from it. Forensics'll be more thorough. Assuming they get here before the place collapses from natural decay.
'What do you think?' I ask as he returns.
'Kinda cute.'
'About the murder.'
'Not angry,' says Jake. 'Unless they're controlled. Or tired from the hike. They just wanted her dead.'
'They took the murder weapon with them. Did they bring it? If the wound says a knife, then probably. So it'd likely be premeditated.'
'Doesn't the location make that likely?' asks Jake. 'I assume they'd have scouted it out rather than just turned up randomly.'
'The location is one oddity,' I admit.
Jake stands suddenly straighter, almost at attention. I follow his gaze to the stairwell, where the captain has emerged and is looking about. Great. Is the victim important? Or is she worried about IA's interest in me, and so keeping watch?
'What've we got?' she asks as she joins us.
Captain Walters is nowhere near the worst CO I've had, but I'm not entirely sure where I stand with her. She's by-the-book, and shooting people can get on her nerves. Even bad guys. She generally restricts herself to prowling the office, loathing the stats that govern her job, but resigned to the politics and management fluff of her rank.
I suspect she's not sure which side of the fence I'll come down on in the end, so she keeps her distance. But she's still a cop despite the promotion, and hates having to think in those terms.
'Looks like she was killed here,' I say unnecessarily. 'Single stab wound. Weapon's missing. Vic's phone's missing. Doesn't seem to be a robbery.'
'So not much then?' she says with a measuring gaze.
'Just got here.'
'IA?' She'll know I wasn't charged. She'd have been their first call.
'The usual,' I say.
'Yes.' Too usual for her liking, I don't doubt. She should focus more on my stats. She doesn't like IA any more than we do, but is probably also wondering if I'm crooked. If so, she'll want to isolate the rest of the squad from contamination. Because that's her job. 'Okay. Keep me updated on this.'
'Yes, sir.'
She turns and walks away, still looking vaguely distracted by the surroundings.
Was that it?
'What was that about?' Jake asks in a hushed tone.
'No idea. Focus on the case. Anything else you want to look at here?'
Jake shrugs.
'Forensics will tell us if there's anything of interest,' I say. 'Let's check her home.' And then her work, and anywhere they lead.
I can hope we have a bit of a trail, and that the killer doesn't just stumble into view. Or that if he does, he's armed. Although it's probably better to hope he's not. A mystery'd be more interesting, and I probably have all the IA attention my career can survive for the moment.
Dropping a body within hours of the interview would not be a good way to convince them to look elsewhere.
4
She lived alone, in an apartment in a nice, clean complex. Safe neighbourhood. Place looks like some kind of urban art installation.
'You know her at all?' I ask the complex supervisor as he shows us up to her apartment.
'Not really. Seen her about. Always seemed to be in a rush.' He shrugs an apology for not having more. Doesn't look like the type she'd talk with, anyway. Smartly enough dressed, for a glorified janitor, but he'd doesn't quite fit in with the business types who live here. Or much care to, from what I can tell. He gets a nice place to live, and the neighbours have to at least be polite to him if they want their drains fixed.
'No problems with her?'
Another shrug. 'Plumbing went out about a month ago. Otherwise I haven't heard from her. She pays on time.' Always a virtue in a tenant.
He opens her apartment and lets us in. Nothing jumps out to mark it as a crime scene. I turn back to him. 'Thanks. Forensics may be along in the next couple of days. Anyone wants to get in here beforehand, direct them to us. We'll let ourselves out.'
He nods, having nothing else to do, and I shut the door behind us.
The place feels oddly like a showroom. There's some signs of habitation, but also a kind of distance. She'd only moved in a few months ago, but still.
'The place feel odd to you?' I ask.
Jake frowns. 'In what way?'
'Feels temporary. Second hand furniture. Possibly came fitted. No photos or personalisation.'
'You have photos in your place?'
There's nothing I need reminding of. 'You have a wedding photo in your place.'
'Karla has a wedding photo,' he says.
'Probably just to remind you you're married.'
He sends a light glare my way as he wanders into the kitchen.
I let my smile show. 'No landline. But she has a physical phone book.' Inside the front cover is a well-worn card. 'Madame Anastasia. Medium.'
There's a snort, and Jake pokes his head back around the doorway. 'Really?'
I hold up the card between my index and middle finger.
He rolls his eyes and disappears again.
'That's what we professionals call a clue,' I say. At the least it's something we should look into. To be thorough. And it is an oddity for a professional type.
The only other thing that doesn't look like it came pre-furnished is the contents of the small bookcase.
'Small non-fiction book collection,' I say. 'Lots of stuff on angels and demons. Some science stuff. Physics and sound technology.'
'Could be work related,' Jake says from the kitchen, slightly muffled. 'Looked up the company. Seems to be some kind of sonic technology. Haven't searched too deep yet. Didn't see anything on their website about angels and demons though.'
'Some of them look a bit esoteric. Manifestations of Angels and Demons in Elizabethan London.'
'Esoteric?' asks Jake.
'Yes. Use a dictionary app if you have to.'
'I'll pass. So she's a religious freak who visits a medium, and studies science.'
'You probably don't want to call her a religious freak around the captain,' I say.
'Captain religious?'
'You seen the cross on her necklace?'
'Assumed it's decorative,' says Jake. 'Lots of people wear them.'
'She unconsciously touches it whenever any of the squad are in danger.'
He strolls back from the kitchen, a half-eaten apple in his hand. 'Really?'
I give him the stare.
'What?' he asks, completely oblivious.
'I'll assume you brought the apple with you, and that you're not stealing from the dead.'
'Stealing? It'll just go off if left there. She's hardly going to care.'
'Hope she wasn't poisoned then.'
There's a moment's hesitation before he responds. 'And then stabbed?'
'I'm just saying. And to IA, theft is theft.'
I hear an inhalation as he starts to speak, but he apparently thinks better of it.
'What?' I ask, turning to face him. There's been something on his mind since he picked me up this morning.
'Nothing,' he says. He tends to be non-confrontation, except when facing criminals.
'Is it about IA?'
'Can we let it go?' He turns away.
That doesn't sound healthy. 'Is it about the shooting?' I ask.
He stops, sighs, and turns back.
'You think I was wrong to shoot him?' I ask.
'No,' says Jake, with a distinct lack of confidence. 'And I was clear on that with IA.' I never doubted that. 'But you do kind of push them into it.'
'They're hardly innocents.'
&n
bsp; 'I'm not saying they are.'
'You want them adding to our paperwork with appeals?' I ask. Not in an aggressive way. I'm more curious about his true opinion. Without the usual mask of bluster.
'The spirit of the law kind of implies we should try and arrest them so they have a chance to defend themselves.'
I could ask if that's the spirit of the law he'll acquire as a bribe and then piss up against an alley wall. But that'd come across as confrontational, so I don't. 'Okay. I'll try to be less inciting.'
At least while IA's watching. He'll probably also have to forego some of his perks, so it seems only fair.
He nods awkwardly, uncomfortable at getting so close to an honest conversation. Can't say I feel at home with such things, so best to focus on the job.
'Anything in the kitchen?' I ask. 'Besides fruit in danger of going to waste.'
'Not much. Calendar on the fridge has MA marked yesterday. And about twice a week going back a while. Madame Anastasia?'
'Worth a visit.' I bag her card from the phone book, then write out the details. I love paperwork. About as much as I love IA.
Jake heads into the bedroom as I enjoy myself filling out the details. 'You find anything else there?' he asks.
'No clues.' The place feels kind of wrong though. Not in a way I can clearly define. Maybe I want a mystery too much, to spice up the game, that I'm trying to imagine something. 'Don't go pilfering from her underwear drawer while you're in there.'
His response is uncalled for, and possibly in contravention of department policy for addressing co-workers. I'll have to remember to query IA next time they're interviewing me. They like pausing for unrelated questions.
5
We visit Madame Anastasia first. Mortimer's workplace already knows she'd dead, having been contacted to see if they knew the next of kin - they had none listed. At least we have reason to believe we're catching this witness in a state of ignorance.
Her place is on a commercial street, nestled between a fast food joint and an ambulance-chaser. Not exactly upmarket, but there're worse places in the city. At least it's relatively clean, and Mortimer wouldn't necessarily have looked too out of place.
The name stencilled on the door is more professional looking than I'd expected. If you didn't pay too much attention to what it said, you might mistake it for a dentist's office. Especially if you looked inside and saw the waiting room. Not necessarily the kind of dentist you'd have much confidence in, but if you were in the area then it'd probably be all you could afford.
The waiting room is empty, although the place is open for business. No receptionist's desk. I glance around.
'No bell,' Jake says in a whisper. 'Does she just sense when someone's here?'
A sign near the far door thanks us for waiting. We have neither time nor inclination to pay attention to signs, but out of respect for her charade I knock on the door rather than barging in. No need to start off on the wrong foot if it can be avoided.
Madame Anastasia emerges after a few moments. Her scowl eases to a frown when we show our badges. A mid-thirties black woman in a casual suit that doesn't really match expectations of the name.
'How may I help you?' she asks, with maybe a touch of impatience.
'We need to discuss a client of yours,' I say. 'Are you alone?'
'No. I'm in the middle of a consultation.'
'We need you to ask them to leave.'
She starts to say something, before closing her mouth and turning back to the room.
'Their loved one'll still be there next visit,' says Jake. Sometimes it's as though he can't help himself.
She sends him a glare before disappearing. I listen in case she's running, which I doubt. Always a possibility, though. I hear reassuring tones but can't quite make out the words, and she soon emerges with an older Latino lady who gives us deeply suspicious glances. She must have told her we're cops. It often earns that look.
After showing her out the front door, Madame Anastasia turns the sign to read closed, and leads us into the back room.
Like the waiting room, it's disappointingly bereft of supernatural paraphernalia. More like a psychiatrist's office. For group therapy, with a few chairs around a bland table. Would it hurt her to get a crystal ball or something? Surely the customers can't feel they're getting their money's worth. You don't go to a Madame Anastasia expecting this.
It takes little more than a cursory sweep of the room to locate a couple of cameras in artfully obscured positions.
She waves us to chairs, and takes one herself.
'Your name?' I ask.
'Marcy Lyons.' Not even an attempt to say Madame Anastasia's her real name. Not sure if I'm disappointed or relieved.
'Not Anastasia?' Jake says in fake shock. He's not making any effort to keep the witness on side. Guess we'll have to go with good cop/irritating cop.
She glances at him, but looks at me when replying. 'Madame Marcy just doesn't have the right ring to it. Anastasia's my aunt's name.'
'Her spirit tell you you could use it?' asks Jake.
'No, her voice over the phone from Phoenix.' She makes a creditable show of maintaining a calm tone.
'You know a Fiona Mortimer?' I ask, before Jake gets distracted by the sound of his own voice.
There's a pinched look to her face, as she tries to keep from showing anything. 'She was a client. Why?' She doesn't quite keep the weary edge from her voice. 'Has she lodged a complaint?'
'Should she have?'
'If anything, I should have reported her for harassment.' She calms her tone before continuing. 'She can't accept that her husband has moved on. That I can no longer help her.'
Jake doesn't bother suppressing the snort, which earns him a glare.
'I'd sooner we dropped the garnish from your act,' I say. 'If we search the place, I'm sure we'd find information on clients that you use to sell your performance. And do they know you record the session, no doubt to take further notes?' That she's a fraud isn't even a question. But who among us isn't, at some point. That's not the crime we're investigating.
She lets the mask of indignation drop into guarded resignation. 'Fine. I provide a service to the bereaved. Let them speak to those they've lost.' Without admitting it's a one-way conversation. 'I tell them what they need to hear, what I think'll help. But I'm no parasite. I don't want them to keep coming back for a fix. I want them to move on, be happy.' The service industry then. Entertaining people who want to be fooled.
'Doesn't sound like a robust business model,' I say.
'I get by,' she says, a touch defensive. 'And like I say, I'm no parasite.'
'So what went wrong with Mortimer?'
'She wouldn't move on. Wouldn't let go. She was growing desperate. Needy. It was depressing. I tried getting her to say goodbye to her husband.'
So she'd been married. No signs in her place. It's something to look into.
'She wouldn't. I said he'd gone, and I couldn't help her any more. She insisted I call him back. I stopped answering her calls, refused to see her when she came by, but she wouldn't stop. I hoped she'd get the message. Or at least find a less scrupulous medium and stop bothering me.' She fixes me with a vaguely concerned gaze. 'What's this about? What exactly are you investigating?'
I hold her gaze for a dramatically appropriate pause. 'We're from homicide.'
Her eyes widen a touch, her mouth starts to open and then stops, and she sits back in her chair. If it's not genuine, then it's practised. Although she is a professional liar. 'Fiona?'
I nod. 'When did you stop seeing her?'
She takes a moment to gather her thoughts. Understandable. 'About two and a half weeks ago I tried stopping her. A week ago I told her to stop bothering me. Last time I actually saw her was Monday. She turned up for her cancelled regular appointment. Scared a new client away. My own fault for booking it then without making sure she'd stop.'
'Fairly sure she will now,' says Jake. Trying for bad cop, but still stuck in irritating.
<
br /> 'She had your initials marked on her calendar for yesterday,' I say.
'She called me the day before. Pleading with me to see her. I said no, and finished early the last couple of days. She usually comes after work, so those were the times I wanted to avoid her.'
'And where were you last night?'
'Home.'
'Alone?'
'Yes. Am I a suspect?' She looks more irritated than worried at the prospect.
'You're of interest,' I say. 'We may need to talk to you again.'
She's understandably uneasy. Police interest can have that effect on civilians. She reaches for a pile of cards on the sideboard, like the one I took from Mortimer's place, and hands me one. 'Please call ahead next time. Some clients are in delicate states.'
I promise to do so, and we leave her to her business. Jake thankfully keeps his comments to himself until we're back in the car. He's probably irritated her enough, and she could still have information.
'You think our supersize medium was involved?' he asks.
'Supersize? You think everyone not unhealthily malnourished is fat.'
'Hey, I'm not knocking your tastes.'
'She's a witness, potentially a suspect. Some of us maintain a detachment from such individuals. It's called professionalism.' And I wouldn't call her fat.
'Sure. Whatever gets you through.'
'No pictures of her late husband at her place,' I say in hopes of getting him focussed on the case. 'It was a single person's apartment.'
He checks his phone for information. Thankfully, I get to the driver's seat first this time. 'Just over three months since she rented the apartment.'
'Let's check where she was before,' I say.
'I'll need to be at the desk to do that.'
'We'll visit her workplace first.'
'You thinking anything yet?' Jake asks.
'Always. But nothing coherent enough to share. We haven't got anywhere near enough facts. And those we have don't feel like they fit together.'
6
Seeing her workplace, I'm inclined to consider suicide as a possibility. Or maybe assisted suicide. It'd be convoluted, but if I had to work here I'm fairly sure I'd consider it.
