Ashes To Ashes: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective

by Don Pendleton

  I felt for life signs, even though I knew there would be none. The whole front of his skull was crushed in and blood was everywhere.

  All the while Karen was rocking him in her arms and sobbing over and over, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry ..."

  It took me a while to pry her loose and disentangle her from the still-warm corpse and get her onto her feet, then I half carried, half led her back along the trail and put her into the car.

  Then I put myself in and cranked up the mobile phone and called the cops. I did not know exactly where I was, but I gave the location as best I could and told the dispatcher I'd leave my headlights on.

  Next I called Kalinsky, briefed him, suggested he call his lawyer, and hung up on his spluttering.

  Then I lit a cigarette and settled in for the wait. Karen was into a blank stare. She had not uttered a word except for the automatic speech noted above.

  It took about ten minutes for the police response. An LAPD black-and-white rolled up as I was finishing a second cigarette. I had not thought of the Walther again until that very moment, but decided then and there to slip it onto the floor and kicked it under the seat as I got out to meet the cops.

  Two other cars came screeching in before the cops hit the ground.

  Kalinsky and troops.

  It was going to be a long night.

  It was, indeed, a very long night.

  Chapter Twelve: Time Factor

  The suspected "weapon" turns out to be a rock weighing about ten pounds, roughly the size and shape of a football. Theory has it that Karen could easily heft such a stone in both hands, raise it overhead, and smash it against a human skull with sufficient force to crush same.

  Another theory has Karen alone and terrified in the night, mistaking Powell for an attacker and thus putting his lights out.

  This without benefit of any input whatever from Karen, herself. She is seated in my car, staring blankly at nothing, while a guy introducing himself as Macllliney or MacAllaney, the staff lawyer, holds her hand in silence. He is no more than thirty years old and very ill at ease in the situation.

  There are other people all over the damned place. There are also floodlights, helicopters, ambulances, many police units, couple of television crews with minicams getting no cooperation whatever from the officials.

  Some of Kalinsky's people are quietly discussing fine points of the law with some plainclothes cops.

  Kalinsky himself is pacing nervously about, obviously awaiting the arrival of something or someone else, shooting me an occasional murderous glance and muttering under his breath.

  I am leaning against the front fender of the Maserati, arms crossed, feeling almost like a casual spectator until a uniformed cop approaches with a clipboard and asks me to sign my statement. I scan it and sign it, hand the clipboard back, the cop thanks me politely and walks away.

  The night wears on.

  The cops seem bent on an interview with Karen over the continued objections of Kalinsky's people. There seems to be a standoff of sorts.

  Finally, Kalinsky's "someone" arrives in a chauffered limousine. Kalinsky runs over and climbs inside; I get a glimpse of a silver-haired man wearing a business suit.

  It is midnight, now.

  The cops have completed "securing the scene." The corpse has been transported. There has been a huddle around an open door of the limousine. Kalinsky emerges from the huddle, goes to my car, takes Karen and the lawyer to the limousine. I follow, because I am the curious type.

  I hear a plainclothes cop refer to the man in the limousine as "your honor." Another guy in the huddle is apparently representing the DA's office. There is some give and take, there, outside the limousine, before Karen is allowed to enter. Fine points of law again. Or, maybe, fine points of bending the law. I overhear phrases such as "medical affidavits" and "conservator's certification" and I begin to get the drift.

  A "conservator" is someone appointed by a court to manage the affairs of a mental incompetent.

  Through all of this, Karen stands woodenly with head bowed. As she is being helped into the limousine, though, she swivels her head to stare directly at me. Our eyes clash for maybe a tenth of a second and then she is inside and the car is moving. I am left with an electric jolt racing through my nerve tissue and I know that she knows what is happening to her.

  One of Kalinsky's men comes over to me, a guy I now know as Herbert, to give me an edge on the flow.

  "She will be booked on a preliminary charge of simple manslaughter and immediately released to Mr. Kalinsky's custody."

  I said, "That's nice."

  "Mr. Kalinsky will be wanting a conversation with you immediately upon his return from the police station."

  I said, "That's fine."

  "You are to make no further statements to the police or to the press unless Mr. Kalinsky is present."

  I said, "That's right."

  But as soon as Herbert spun on a military toe and marched away, I ambled over to the DA's man and told him, "She didn't do it, you know."

  He smiled at me and said, "You are ... ?"

  I smiled back as I replied, "I are the guy who

  found them out here, your principal material witness."

  "Mr. Ford."

  "That's right. And apparently I found them too quick. There is a time problem. It was a cute trick, but not quite cute enough. Do you know what is at stake here?"

  The guy went right on smiling as he told me, "Yes, I do, Mr. Ford. I would say that my entire political career is at stake here."

  I said, "Too bad," and left the guy staring at my back as I went on to the Maserati and got the hell away from there.

  I made a beeline to the Highland estate while jotting down distance traveled for every compass heading and trying to maintain a steady 30 mph pace. It took me just under three minutes to hit the front gate, which figures about a mile and a half of distance traveled via the most direct roadways.

  The gate guard had nothing to tell me about traffic through there before midnight since his shift had begun at that time.

  I put the Maserati in the same parking space as before, but she was now the only vehicle in the area. Obviously the party was over. I retrieved the Walther and tucked it inside the waistband of my shorts, then went on toward the pool.

  The service force was busily restoring order to the patio-lounge area. The bartender who helped me with Marcia was cleaning the island bar outside; he looked up at my approach and recognized me with a smile so I steered that way and went over to thank him for the assist, then I asked him in a casual way when he had last seen Miss Highland.

  He replied that she had come into the lounge at "a bit" past nine o'clock, apparently while the dinner guests were dawdling over desserts, to check on the musicians and to make sure that all was in readiness there.

  "You haven't seen her since then?" I asked.

  He dropped his chin and leaned a bit closer in the response. "No sir, not since then, but something very strange has been going on around here the past couple of hours. I think maybe Miss Highland had another one of her spells or something. I mean, the whole executive staff is very uptight and they sent the guests home early."

  I thanked him and started away, then checked myself and leaned back to inquire, very casually, "Mr. Kalinsky get back yet?"

  The guy gave me a blank look and replied, "I wondered where he was, I mean I figured he was with Mrs. Kalinsky. Haven't seen him since, uh, since I guess right after Miss Highland."

  "You mean since right after dinner."

  "Yes sir, it—well, I guess more like about nine-thirty. He was looking for her—Miss Highland—asked me if she'd come through. Because by then the party had moved out here, you know, here on the patio and in the game room. Because people were dancing and—about nine-thirty, yes sir."

  "He was in a dither," I suggested.

  "Sure was."

  I asked, "See Doc Powell around that same time?"

  The guy was beginning to wonder about all these que
stions. He was getting an edge to the eyes and the body language was definitely one of withdrawal. "Not since we pulled Mrs. Kalinsky out of the pool, no sir."

  I thanked him again and went on inside.

  There was no sign of life whatever in the executive wing. The operations center was shut down and darkened except for a small nightlight at the back wall. I expected the executive office to be locked, as well, but the doors were not even closed, not even the one to the inner sanctum.

  My unsigned contract still lay on the desk. There was evidence, also, that Kalinsky had quit the place in a hurry: an open cigarette humidor, a dead butt with an inch-long ash still attached in the ashtray, a doodle pad with several used sheets filled with hieroglyphics and detached, but not discarded; more importantly, a lighted LED on the telephone console indicating "Record Pause."

  I studied the console for a moment, doped it, rewound the tape through three brief conversations, and hit the playback.

  My own voice came through the speaker, bearing the message of my grisly find out Stone Canyon.

  Then Kalinsky cussing in a husky voice to himself, then a dial-out followed by a brief and cryptic conversation:

  "Yeah."

  Kalinsky: "Okay, it's hit. Meet me out front in two minutes. Better bring the squad."

  "Are we ready for this?"

  "We better be. Where's Herb?"

  "He's mobile."

  "Okay, we'll catch him on the way. Better bring Mac."

  "He's been partying. May not be ready."

  Kalinsky: "Fuck that, just bring 'im."

  A hang-up, another dial-out, but already I was beginning to sort the players. "Herb" was no doubt Herbert, one of the security honchos; "Mac" was Macllliney or MacAllaney, the lawyer who had hand-held Karen during the ordeal in my car.

  The second call-out was much more cryptic and even more brief:

  "Yes, hello."

  "This is TK. I need that package. Can you get started?"

  The other voice was cultured, mature, maybe even silvery-haired. "You mean, right now? Do you know what time it is?"

  "We both better know what time it is. Get started. I'll contact you on the mobile."

  That was it. I removed the cassette and put it in my pocket, replaced it with a blank, then gathered up the doodles and took them, also, and got the hell out of there.

  I wanted a moment with Marcia before Kalinsky and his goons returned to the palace.

  And maybe, time allowing, a shot at Doc Powell's doodles.

  Time allowing ...

  The time factor had become all-important. As important, probably, as life and death.

  Chapter Thirteen: Engineering

  The Kalinsky quarters seemed to be a mirror image of Karen's apartment, about the same size but reversed in layout, and upstairs over the executive offices.

  Marcia was propped up with pillows on a large, overstuffed couch. She wore silk pajamas and a dressing gown but was otherwise uncovered. A large-screen projection TV was playing an old movie at murmuring volume. She seemed a bit pale but otherwise looked none the worse for the near-drowning experience.

  I said, "How you doing?"

  It was a different Marcia from the one I'd known as she replied, "Much better now, thanks. I understand you saved my life. Thanks."

  I showed her a grin and a shrug. "Seemed the thing to do."

  She said, "You're a nice man. And I have been a terrible jerk. Sorry."

  I did not argue the point. I just said, "Sure."

  "Have they found Karen?"

  I said. "Yeah. She's going to be okay."

  "Thank God. It was a stupid thing I—did you hear about that?"

  I replied, "I heard a version. Like to hear yours."

  "Why?"

  I said, "Karen is in deep trouble. She came to me for help. I am trying to help. But I need a handle. What did you say to her?"

  Her gaze fell away and there was a brief silence before she replied, "I'd had too much to drink, but I was not that drunk. I went down to make sure the staff was properly setting up for dinner. Then I thought I might as well take a quick dip because there really wasn't time for me to bathe and all. As I entered the pool, I saw Karen standing in the shadows by the diving board. She was wearing her yellow bikini. I remember thinking, well how 'bout that, she remembered her suit this time and she doesn't really need it. I mean, we always skinny-dip here after dark. I was looking for her as I came up, to see if she was coming in with me. I was looking straight at her and she was looking straight at me. I know our eyes were locked all during that horrible struggle."

  I said, "What horrible struggle?"

  "I could not get to the surface." She shivered in the memory of it. "It was as though a hand was holding me under and I could not escape it. I fought like the devil, let me tell you, but no matter what I did there was always a few inches of water above my head."

  "How do you account for that?"

  She shifted position slightly on the couch and gave me a flash with the eyes. "Come on, now. How would you account for it?"

  I said, "I suppose you know my background."

  She replied, "I sure do. And I'm sure you know what happened to me down there tonight."

  I inquired, "Has Karen ever before, to your direct knowledge, exhibited any such power?"

  She immediately replied, "Nothing I can put my finger on, no. I mean, nothing like that. But we've talked about it. You know, telekinesis, telepathy, psychic phenomena. I've had an interest in that stuff ever since Bridey Murphy. We've talked about it a lot. And lately Karen has seemed almost obsessed with it."

  I said, "Has she spoken to you about her ethereal companion?"

  "Her what?"

  "A spirit, or something, that comes to her."

  She said, "No, I have not heard of that."

  I said. "Tell me about Elena."

  "Elena. God. She's been dead ten years."

  "Did you like her?"

  "Never really knew her. Look, I know what happened to me tonight. It was dumb of me to yell at Karen that way, but I damn sure knew what I was yelling about. She tried to kill me."

  "Why would she want to do that?"

  "Beats the hell clear out of me. I'm the only real friend she has had all these years."

  "But you never really knew Elena. Why not? She

  was around for—what?—more than fifteen years before she died? And you were here, too, most of that time?"

  She said, "I was here all the time, but Elena was not. Not much, anyway. Until that last year, and then—well, we just were not together all that much."

  I said, "If Elena was not here then, where was she?"

  "In institutions one after another, I guess."

  "What sort of institutions?"

  "You know what sort of institutions."

  "What was her problem?"

  Marcia sighed, as though suddenly becoming weary of the conversation. "I'd guess," she said quietly, "that JQ was her Number One problem."

  "How so?"

  She sighed again and replied, "Look, don't quote me on any of this. I don't know all of the facts and I doubt that anyone now living knows all the facts. But it seems that JQ never liked Elena. He was very upset by TJ's marriage, and I believe he just never accepted it. So he could not very well accept Elena, either, could he?"

  "But he accepted Karen?"

  "Absolutely doted on her. JQ's one soft spot was that kid. He spent the final two years of his life, while he knew he was dying of cancer, setting up his affairs so that most everything would go directly to Karen instead of to his own son."

  I said, "That's interesting. And now she is about to come into all that. Is that what you had reference to when you told me, earlier tonight, that things here would be changing soon?"

  She said, "I told you that?"

  I said, "Words to that effect. You also told me that Terry was setting me up for something. We had a date for ten o'clock—remember?—when you were supposed to tell me what I was being set up for."


  Marcia smiled a bit uncomfortably and said, "Give a girl a break, eh? I drink too much. And I am not very smart when I drink." She made a rueful face. "Well, what the hell—why not? No, I probably had something else in mind when I mentioned big changes. I'm leaving here next Saturday. And never looking back."

  That last bit gave me pause. I said, "You mean ... you are leaving Terry? Or you are both—?"

  "You bet I am. Look, I was little more than a kid, myself, when I came here. Now I'm practically a middle-aged matron, and enough is enough. I made the commitment a long time ago to stick it out here with Karen and now the commitment is fulfilled. I'm leaving one week from tonight."

  "Terry know about this?"

  "No."

  "Karen know about it?"

  "No. That makes you my confidant, doesn't it? So please honor it. I'll tell them my own way, in my own time."

  I said, "Sure."

  She said, "Just you and Carl."

  I said, "Carl knows?"

  She replied, "He'd better. He's going with me."

  I thought but did not say, "Oh shit." I did say, "You are not worried about Terry's reaction?"

  "Of course we are worried about Terry's reaction. But there is nothing he can do to stop it, now."

  I told her, very quietly, "You could be wrong about that, Marcia."

  She saw it in my eyes, the emotion that I was trying to conceal. I had to break the eye contact. She squirmed about on the couch, removed a pillow, slowly transferred it to the floor, very quietly inquired, "Exactly what are you trying to tell me?"

  I took her hand, squeezed it between both of mine, looked squarely into those worried eyes, and told her, "Carl is dead. Karen has been charged with his death."

  She moaned, "Oh my God!"

  I said, "Can you think of any reason why—?"

  She cried, "Just get out of here! Please! Get out!"

  I offered, "I'll shut up and just hang out for a while, if you'd like."

  Tears had erupted and were bathing her cheeks. "No, just please ... leave me alone."

  I went out of there feeling like a bastard.