Soul Food

by Gareth Lewis

  His bedside manner has always been as homey as the décor down here.

  Yet more oddness to the case. This time something more concrete. Or at least verified by another source. It isn't just my mind looking for patterns that aren't there.

  9

  'This is a bad idea,' Jake says for maybe the dozenth time.

  'This is where the trail leads.'

  'No, this is the only lead we can currently see. There's a difference.' He's probably right. But there's no point letting it go to his head, so I keep quiet. 'We could at least have told the captain.'

  She would've stopped us doing it. Maybe not directly, but she'd have insisted on clearing it with organised crime, who wouldn't have been happy with us making contact with a known criminal they've probably got eyes on. Or claim they have eyes on. If they don't, it'll be even worse. They wouldn't want us learning anything they should know.

  So we walk openly into the kind of club that always looks artificial in daylight. The spaces are slightly too wide, the décor a bit too painted plasterboard. But the customers probably don't come for, or are in any fit state to appreciate, the architectural aesthetics. And low lighting covers a multitude of blemishes.

  Stone glances up from a table where he seems to be going over the books. He wears the smile of someone determined to enjoy their day, no matter how many people he has to kill to do so.

  'Don't you have people to do the accounts for you?' I ask. 'Or don't you trust them?'

  'Trust but verify,' he says, reclining in his chair. A wooden one, that looks like he brought it out from his office. The metal ones around him don't look that enticing in this light. 'Besides, I find it kind of relaxing. Numbers are reliable. They can be twisted, but never ultimately lie. What may I do for you, detectives?'

  Is it that easy to spot? Or would we be the only ones that'd approach him so brazenly?

  He doesn't surround himself with heavies, but I've no doubt he could call some up pretty quickly. Not immediately, if we decided to do something. But a thug nearby could easily overreact. From everything I've heard about Stone, he's too smart to risk his setup on the temper of criminal types.

  We show our badges anyway, because there are protocols. And if we get in trouble we can at least say we went by the book. 'Detectives Blake and Reilly,' I say. 'Homicide.'

  'Homicide?' He raises an eyebrow, and maybe stiffens a touch. Surprise? He relaxes quick enough, and his tone maintains a casual, curious timbre. 'That doesn't sound good. Who died?'

  'Fiona Mortimer.'

  No hint of recognition. A moment of thought as he tries to place the name, then he relaxes. Not entirely. He still wants to see where this is going. 'I don't recognise the name. Do you have a picture?'

  Jake calls it up on his phone and shows it to Stone.

  He takes a moment to study it, then looks at me. 'No. Sorry, I don't recognise her. Should I? Is this random harassment, or is she simply one of the many patrons of my establishment that I've no recollection of meeting?'

  'Her body was found at the Apollo Hotel this morning.'

  That gives him pause. If he considers being evasive about owning the hotel, it doesn't last long. He knows we wouldn't be here unless we knew he owned it.

  'Why exactly do you own a derelict hotel? Seems like a bit of a liability.'

  'It's an investment,' says Stone, his tone devoid of inflection.

  'I can't see that district getting much attention anytime soon.'

  'Maybe that's why you're still a cop, and I can afford to own a derelict hotel.' Stone smiles faintly. 'Not that I'm questioning your real estate expertise.'

  'More my detective's sense for dodgy business.'

  'Maybe the stink of the squad room has addled your senses.'

  That one I can't really come back on. The place could do with better ventilation. Maybe a fumigator on a weekly rota.

  He stares at me with that appraising gaze, unconsciously playing with a medallion on the chain around his neck. No, not a medallion. It's a bullet. A bit bigger than is practical. A decorative bullet?

  Stone sees me looking, and catches himself before shoving it out of sight. 'You like it? It's a reminder. I took five bullets. Ended my time on the force, even though I did make a more or less complete recovery. I had what they dug out of me made into this.' That doesn't exactly sound healthy, mentally speaking. 'Now it's a reminder of how the force, my brothers, abandoned me to desk duty. Hoping I'd crawl into a corner and die. I'm sure you can therefore understand my reluctance to help.'

  'We're used to such reluctance from certain... types.' And I'm sure that's not the full story. I'd heard he was crooked while on the force, so his career change didn't come as a shock. But there are similar rumours about me, I'm sure. I won't judge him purely on hearsay.

  I try not to wonder if this is how I'll end up if IA get their way. I'd like to think not, but I'm not sure I know myself well enough to know what I'd do if kicked off the force. Which is what permanent assignment to desk duty amounts to.

  No, I can't accept this is what I'd become. His life seems too compromised.

  'And I understand your fear of paperwork,' I say. 'You're well off getting away from that.' I don't glance at the books arrayed before him.

  He flashes a grin. Or maybe he's baring his teeth. 'If you've any interest in moonlighting, I can guarantee a complete absence of paperwork.'

  'Mister Stone, that sounds suspiciously like an attempt to bribe me.'

  'Did it?' he asks with a mildly shocked expression.

  'Did it sound like that to you?' I ask Jake, who's been unusually circumspect. Probably doesn't want to anger the dangerous criminal, since we'll likely anger our superiors. Could be wise.

  'Yeah,' says Jake. 'And it's rude trying to bribe just you. I mean I'm standing right here. It'd be polite to offer me something.'

  Stone nods towards the bar, without taking his eyes off me. 'Peanuts on the bar. Help yourself.'

  'Club peanuts,' Jake makes a face. 'That's just nasty.'

  Stone ignores him. 'No bribery, I assure you. Just think of it as headhunting.'

  'Not interested,' I say.

  He shrugs. 'Stay on the job long enough, you will be. Call me when that happens.'

  That isn't happening. If I switch, it wouldn't be to become a thug for hire. So what would I do? While I don't want to consider it, the way things are going I may need to.

  'You have anything to do with the hotel on a day to day basis?'

  'Haven't been there in a while,' says Stone. 'I occasionally have some of my employees discourage squatters from taking up residence. Make sure nothing unseemly is taking place on the premises.'

  I'm sure the message gets around. That may be why it was relatively free of litter, all things considered.

  'It wasn't locked?'

  'Padlocks kept getting stolen.'

  'Appalling the level of crime to which upstanding citizens are subjected in this city.'

  'Isn't it,' says Stone, still amused. 'Fortunately, there's little of value left inside that can be carried off.'

  'Yes, we've been there.'

  'I trust the caretaker is providing everything you require,' says Stone. Not really asking.

  'He is.'

  'And is there anything further I can help with?'

  No point being subtle about it. 'Do you have any adversaries who might want to draw police attention to your business?'

  'Detective Blake. What kind of a business do you think I'm in?'

  'All kinds, I'm sure.' As sure as I am he won't tell me if he knows of anyone. From his reaction, I don't think he does. He's considering it too long. So either he's got too many enemies who would - in which case I'd expect more visible security here - or he doesn't know anyone who'd do this just to send a message. But I might've stirred things up enough to make some answers float to the surface.

  'No, Detective. I know of no one who would do this.' The statement has the air of finality for the conversation. At least if we don't want
to make it an interview and invite his lawyer to contribute.

  'Thank you for your time, Mister Stone.'

  Do I believe him? In part. I doubt he had anything to do with the murder. He seemed genuinely surprised.

  He wants to ask a lot more about it though. But he knows we won't reveal any more than we have to. I suspect he'll be on the phone to the caretaker, or whichever intermediary he uses to contact the caretaker, to learn all he can about what happened.

  At least his involvement may make things interesting. And hopefully the choice of site wasn't random. Otherwise I may just have complicated matters.

  10

  We don't even reach our desks before the captain barks out a command for us to get in her office. Since she isn't usually so aggressive, I imagine our visit to Stone has been noticed. Maybe organised crime are watching him.

  We join her.

  Her office is unsettlingly quiet with the door closed, no matter how much activity there is out among the squad. Even if there were more than a few others here, I doubt it'd be too loud at the moment. Everyone's busy looking busy, while surreptitiously watching the entertainment, even if they can't hear us.

  The Captain's gaze is unusually suspicious as she stares up at us from her chair. Cold, even. 'Why were you talking to Bartholomew Stone?'

  She's not offering us seats then. 'We were questioning him. His name came up in the investigation. Is he under surveillance, or are we?'

  She ignores that. Which I expected. 'Involved how?'

  'He owns the hotel.'

  Her eyes widen a touch in genuine surprise. 'Seriously?'

  'Few layers of obfuscation,' I say. Why the surprise?

  'And you think he's involved with the murder?'

  'No direct links. But a known criminal owns the murder site. We'd be remiss not looking into it.'

  She gives a slight glare at that, but lets it go. 'You think his criminality is a factor?' she asks.

  'I think we'll bear it in mind. He seemed genuinely surprised when we mentioned the hotel, if not that we were investigating a murder. I don't get the feeling he was directly involved. The body being left there could be a message to him though.'

  She gives a deep sigh. 'That's just what we need.'

  'Why were you surprised he owns the place?' I ask.

  There's a flash of defensiveness at my questioning her, but it passes. It's related to the case, and may help. 'It was around twelve years ago. Maybe thirteen. Eastern European people-traffickers were using it. Place was pretty low rent by then. I think there were some sections already blocked off as unsafe. But the neighbourhood was marginally more upmarket than it is now, so they could still make money on the rooms.

  'Anyway, the Eastern European gang paid good money, so they had a couple of floors where they kept their merchandise between shipments. No trade on the premises. They didn't want attention. We found out about them anyway, went in in force. Not fast enough to get to them before they were alerted. They put up a fight, and were heavily armed. Even so, it was dumb. They weren't getting out.

  'It went bad. Some good cops got killed. Some bad ones didn't. Stone got lucky there. Earned his pension, he claimed. But as bad as we had it, the trafficked had it worse. The sick bastards holding them tried to destroy the evidence by burning them. Locked them in burning rooms.'

  She looks away, hand unconsciously covering nose and mouth as though she can still smell them. 'We got some out alive. Even they were burned. And it wasn't many of them. The number of bodies they pulled out later...' She shakes it off, her eyes growing hard. 'Forensics were in the place for a month afterwards, piecing it all together. It had to be shut down while they were there, and probably a while after to rebuild. Don't know that it ever recovered financially.'

  She grinds her teeth for a few moments, lost in thought. I don't intrude. 'One of the officers we lost, Sergeant Peter Grady, was killed by friendly fire. That much they could determine.'

  From the look in her eyes, I gather she knew him. 'Stone was suspected?'

  She nods. 'By pretty much everyone. He'd always been crooked, and had had run ins with Grady before. But then he got shot up in the firefight, and left the force.'

  'You knew Grady?' Maybe intrusive, but I'm nosy. Occupational hazard.

  Another nod. 'Rode with him a few times. Strict, but honest.'

  'So is it Stone being watched?' I ask. 'Or us?'

  'What do you mean us?' asks Jake.

  Captain Walters sighs. 'Stone. IA are sure he's got some cops on the payroll. Or under his thumb. Rumours are he's got a sizeable blackmail database. That's how a cop managed to get in with the underworld so quickly.'

  Could that be related, if it exists? Someone wanting to move on him without showing themselves? Too spurious to affix any theories to.

  'I don't think IA seriously suspect you,' says Walters. 'Or they would've waited to amass information.'

  It obviously hadn't been Wolfe, or she'd have called for my immediate suspension.

  'How do you want us to handle it?' I ask.

  'You don't. Forward me what you have linking Stone to the case. I'll get them to back off for now, but don't go near Stone. If you have to talk to him, have him come in, with a lawyer, where it can be recorded. Are you likely to want to talk to him again?'

  'Not at the moment,' I say. 'Nothing says it's more than coincidence. Although the choice of site seems deliberate, so I'm not saying it's unconnected to Stone.'

  She nods. 'Until you have firm evidence, stay clear of him. I'll smooth things over with IA. And organised crime. You just keep everything by the book.'

  Irritating, but I'll just have to look on it as a challenge.

  She waves vaguely for us to leave, the dressing down obviously over.

  We don't wait around for her to think of something else, and finally reach our desks.

  A minute later, Jake leans around his monitor. 'Tech got back to me. No sign Mortimer was married. They have a clear timeline, enough to be sure of that. And her social media profile appears to have been retroactively edited. Looks like most was backdated when put up four months ago.'

  'So the husband was faked.'

  'Enough to fool a cursory inspection.'

  'Like a fraudulent medium researching her clients,' I say.

  'Yep. Seems like a lot of effort to expose a fraud, though.'

  'Or to support a psychosis. All we can be certain of is that Mortimer fabricated the history.'

  'Or someone did it for her,' says Jake.

  'Granted, but she played along with it. And it was set up before she moved here.'

  'Did she move to avoid people who may know the truth?'

  'Why?' I ask. More of myself than to Jake. 'The only one here who seems to know of the fake husband is Madame Anastasia. Is she the sole target of this deception?'

  'She moved city just to target a particular medium?'

  'Seems unlikely. We need to check if they've ever crossed paths.'

  'I'll look into Ms. Lyons' history,' says Jake, scribbling on his actions list.

  'Later,' I say. Standing, I grab my coat. 'We need to talk to Madame Anastasia again. See what we can shake loose.'

  'Remember to call ahead this time,' Jake says in mock seriousness.

  What the hell. It gives witnesses time to worry.

  11

  She greets us in the waiting room this time, not looking particularly worried. Slightly perturbed at the intrusion, maybe.

  She ushers us through to her inner sanctum again. I briefly wonder if she's recording us. Maybe we should question her out in the waiting room. Too late to change now. I'm not intending doing anything illegal anyway. But I seldom intend to.

  'What can I do for you now?' she asks when we're seated.

  'Fiona Mortimer was not a widow,' I say. 'She was never married.'

  She stares at me, confusion taking hold. She starts to say something then stops. She tries again, with more success. 'Maybe it wasn't official. Some people...'

&n
bsp; 'Her online profiles were faked. The man in the pictures? No idea who he is. But all the stuff was set up shortly before she moved here.'

  Doesn't look like she's capable of saying much this time. Her eyes dart about as she recalls what she can of what Mortimer did and said, in search of some clue. 'She was genuinely distraught. Was she... Did she have any psychiatric conditions?'

  'Not that we know,' I say. 'And there's no sign of her being unbalanced in the rest of her life.' Not really, anyway. 'The widow role seems to have been purely for your benefit.'

  Marcy stands, and starts pacing in distraction. 'I don't understand this.'

  'Did she threaten to reveal you as a fraud?'

  'What?' That gets her focussed, her gaze returning to me. There's a glint of fear as she realises we're looking at a motive. It feels like it's laced with genuine surprise though. But I've been wrong before. 'No. She never gave any hint of that. Even at the end, it was all desperation.'

  'Did you know her before she came here? Maybe years ago.'

  'No,' she says automatically. Then she considers it. 'No, I don't have any recollection of her.'

  'Is there anyone you can think of who'd want to expose you as a fraud? Any unsatisfied customers.'

  'No. I always make sure they're happy with my services. That's the last thing I need. There are some who want to expose any medium, of course. But why would she have dragged it out so long? If the husband was faked, she'd caught me out in the first session.' She takes an almost audible gulp. 'Am I a suspect?'

  There it is, out in the open. Things would go so much easier if suspects didn't ask awkward questions. Avoiding it will just be taken as a yes, and once they think that there's a good chance of lawyers getting involved. Which benefits no one but the lawyer.

  'We haven't yet ruled you out.'

  'But I...' She trails off, her frustration evident. She sits again, looking tired.