Ashes To Ashes: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective

by Don Pendleton

  His eyes narrowed. He crushed out his cigarette and immediately lit another, toyed with his coffee cup, finally said to me, "You're a pretty good fisherman but a lousy psychic."

  I said, "Other way around, TK. But never mind, neither applies here. I'm also a pretty good detective. Matter of fact, though, it does not take much of a detective to catch the action around here. Why was Carl leaving?"

  Kalinsky was a bit slow moving to the opposite corner to return that serve. He bit his lip for a nervous moment before replying. "Did he tell you that?"

  It was a weak return, and it caught me off balance. I could have offered a better volley than this: "No. We were talking about God and Satan when you came in on us. Trying to decide who's in charge here."

  "I'm in charge here," said my host immediately. "Don't forget it. And don't take too many liberties with my patience. You may be a high-mucky guru in certain circles, but you're small change in this division, kid."

  So the hell with it. I went back to hardball. I said, "I was supposed to be Karen's victim, wasn't I? You ran me through your gristmill and decided I'd make the perfect turkey. That's the only reason you allowed Karen the freedom to cultivate me. Carl sent her to Zodiac for the specific purpose of finding a cuckoo to crucify. Then he got cold feet or an attack of conscience and wanted out. Adding insult to injury, he was going to take Marcia with him. That little subplot came to a head down beside the pool tonight, when you thought you'd lost Marcia the hardest way and you realized how much she really meant to you. Ipso quicko, that emotional head of steam sent Carl to the crucifix in my place. A brilliant move, sure, in the short look—but you should never let a momentary emotion replace years of careful planning, TK. It's all coming unglued, now, the timing shot to hell—and then, also, there is this small change rattling around in the basement and threatening to bring the billions tumbling down."

  Kalinsky growled, "You're crazy as hell."

  I told him, "Not as crazy as you think, if you believe I walked into this mess unprepared." It was time to make a believer of him. "Karen has not killed anyone. She has not tried to kill anyone. She is not mentally incompetent. She shall not be deprived of her rightful inheritance."

  I produced the Xeroxes of JQ's final papers from beneath my shirt and slid them across the table to him. And I lied a little. I do that, sometimes, in a good enough cause.

  "The originals of these papers are in legal hands and will be formally recorded with the probate court on Monday morning. There will also be an emergency motion to have you removed from further influence over Karen, plus a change of venue to an impartial judge. Then we'll all discover who is really in charge here, kiddo."

  Kalinsky was giving me a stunned, sick look—even before he picked up the papers. He muttered, "We've been eleven years closing this thing. It's scheduled for formal conclusion in less than a week. You can't ...

  By this time he knew what he was holding in his hands. They were shaking somewhat as he scanned down the lines of spidery handwriting. He did a quick scan of both papers, then went back for a close reading, and he did that twice before he pushed his chair back, refolded the papers, and slid them back to me.

  He said, very quietly, "If this is fraudulent ..."

  I said, just as quietly, "You know it's not. If anybody could recognize JQ's handwriting, it should be you."

  He sighed and admitted, "It looks like his. ‘Course, it would take an expert opinion."

  I said, "I'm sure it will pass muster."

  He sighed again. "Yeah ... probably. Well, shit. This makes me feel like hell, you know. All these years... Thought I enjoyed JQ's confidence. Looks like ... Well, hell, makes no difference to Karen, all comes out the same, anyway. Except—well, shit, Ash—this will just muddy everything up again if you introduce this thing at this point."

  I replied, "Probably."

  "And it would place Karen in great peril if you try to challenge the conservancy."

  I said, "Maybe."

  "Well, maybe we could come to some..."

  I said, "Maybe we could."

  "I don't give a shit about the money."

  I said, " 'Course not."

  "Really, I'm sincere about that. Won't make that much difference, anyway, not to me. Time for the turnover, anyway. I've earned my fees. I don't see how a court in the land would take them away from me at this point. But, for Karen's sake ..."

  I said, "For her sake, right."

  "What would it take to persuade you to keep this out of public view until the probate formally closes? That's only a few days from now."

  I told him, "I would have to be persuaded that I am really a lousy detective and that my scenario is all wrong, that our interests are identical."

  "They are," he assured me, "if you're talking about being on Karen's side."

  I said, "That's what I'm talking about."

  The guy really looked like hell. He was coming apart, for whatever reason. I felt a movement of sympathy for him—a movement tempered, however, by the unknown factors.

  His eyes were watering. He produced a handkerchief and delicately blew his nose into it, carefully refolded it, and returned it to a pocket.

  "How can I persuade you?" he asked humbly.

  I said, "Believe that my only interest is to arrive at the truth of Karen's situation. Help me find that truth. If I then decide that she is in proper hands, here, and that the proper things are being done for her, then I will fold my tent and leave you all in peace."

  Kalinsky dabbed at his eyes with a knuckle and said, "Fair enough. Where do we start?"

  "We start with the truth," I told him.

  "That," he said with a sigh, "is going to be damned difficult to find. And it just might knock both our socks off, if we ever get there."

  I would remember, later, that he told me that.

  Chapter Nineteen: Dimensions

  So that you may know where I was coming from, and with what: I had felt that it was vital that I secure some degree of cooperation from Kalinsky, even if I had to club him to get it, and even if his reaction was only an appearance of cooperation.

  Consider the circumstances at this point in the case. My client had been formally accused of manslaughter and, although she had been released and returned home pending some adjudication of the crime, the very nature and terms of her release actually placed her farther beyond my reach than if she had been jailed. Certain constitutional protections accompany any suspect into a jail cell; she could have legal counsel, proclaim her innocence, begin some sort of defense. In this particular situation, with Kalinsky the jailer, Karen had no rights whatever but was totally dependent upon the good intentions of her jailer as to her ultimate fate.

  It is important that you understand the fine legal shadings of the situation. There was not going to be a

  "trial"—there would never be a trial in which Karen's guilt or innocence would be determined or even examined. The adjudication would be no more than a closed-door hearing, presided over by a judge—not a jury—the central focus of which would be to rubber-stamp an already existing legal determination that Karen Highland is not mentally competent to answer charges on any criminal complaint. In its very essences, this would be almost purely an administrative procedure and Karen would be remanded to the care and "protection" of her legal conservator.

  Now this could be good—very good—or it could be very, very bad—depending upon the dimension of reality in which it is cast. I am not knocking the law—it is a good one, when not abused. If Karen was, indeed, mentally incompetent, then she deserved that sort of protection—and especially so if she was indeed guilty of felonious behavior.

  On the other hand, though, if she was not incompetent and had committed no crime, then the net effect of all this would be to place her under the total domination of the person most likely to be the actual criminal.

  I had to dimension Kalinsky as a rat if only because the theory was so pure and the coup so perfect—but there were other reasons, as well. Suffice i
t, for now, to say that I had my guard up all the way during the interchange that follows, that I was merely probing for truth and hoping to recognize it when it hit me—that I was simply trying to dimension the reality.

  Bear in mind, too, that Kalinsky is a very sharp cookie. He was probably playing me at the same time that I was playing him; buying time, the same as me; looking for advantage, the same as me.

  Assuming for the moment that he is, indeed, a rat, then both considerations—time and advantage—were vital to us both, whether or not he had actually bought my bluff regarding the death-bed will. In the rat dimension, he has had the luxury of eleven years of time to painstakingly manipulate events, and he is now within hours of his goal. These hours now, however, could be the undoing of the previous eleven years; one fumble, one wrong step, and it could all come tumbling down to engulf him.

  It is not that I am so impressive an opponent, it is simply that I am there and he has not yet been able to "handle" me, therefore I am an unknown factor—a slippery surface, so to speak, upon which he has decided to test each step before consigning his weight to it. So he is playing me carefully, thinking maybe that he just needs to waltz me through another thirty-six hours or so and then he is home clean.

  Or, in the other dimension, the same reasoning applies. In this reality, Kalinsky is a devoted and dedicated servant, convinced or at least fearful that his hard work of many years is coming to the final test under the most disheartening of circumstances, and he is trying valiantly to hold it together to the finish line. Again, I am there, too, an unknown factor that could be fortune-hunting for itself—and he needs only to stall me through and fake me out while he end-runs the scoring drive.

  All this I am aware of. I am also aware that I must manipulate him while he thinks that he is manipulating me, otherwise I am outside the walls and out of play.

  In the time dimension, I am more at tension than he. He is holding a pat hand while I bluff with jacks up and nothing whatever in the hold; he can call this bluff at any time while I must wait for fresh cards to tell my tale. Time is on his side, each tick of the clock taking him closer to victory; it is aligned against me, each tick carrying me farther into the wilderness of Karen's despair.

  I beg your indulgence in all this exposition. I want the ting to develop for you as it developed for me, so I felt it necessary to put you in step with my own feelings, the understanding that accompanied me into this surprising discussion with Terry Kalinsky.

  Is he a rat or is he a saint? Which dimension are we exploring here? I give it to you as it came to me, for your personal determination.

  It is now close to three o'clock on that Sunday morning at the Highland estate. By mutual agreement, and for obvious reasons of privacy, we have moved to Kalinsky's office. The houseman has brought coffee and pastries because both of us missed dinner and the temple must be served.

  Kalinsky is now coming at me like a regular guy— on the surface, anyway—and I am responding likewise. He has been perusing, once again, JQ's final thoughts while munching Danish. The conversation begins, in its substance, at this point.

  —Kalinsky: "Can't get over this. Just can't get over it. Okay, if he didn't want me, okay, but hell, I'd have to think he was of unsound mind to tap TJ for the job."

  —Me: "His own son, though."

  —Kalinsky: "I don't mean inheriting, I mean executor and trustee. Hell, I always did think it was wrong to cut TJ out. I mean, he was provided for, sure, but not in any way he could call his soul his own. So I'm not bitching about this. It sets things right. As for inheriting, I mean. But TJ never took any interest in business. Doubt he could even read the Dow and tell you what it meant. How'd you get this, by the way? Bruno give it to you?"

  —Me: "Why Bruno?"

  —Kalinsky: "Well, I noticed he witnessed. And Tony. Where the hell has it been all these years?"

  —Me: "That's an interesting pair."

  —He: "That's putting it mildly. Were those jerks sitting on this all these years? Why? I don't understand. Did he tell you?"

  "Tell me what?"

  "About the affidavit he and Tony filed?"

  —Me: "I'd like to hear your version."

  "No version to it. About four—no, maybe five years ago. They filed this affidavit saying they'd witnessed a late-hour change in the will. Claimed they didn't know what it contained because JQ had it covered up, exposed only the signature line. Said he died a few hours later and they never saw it again."

  "No effect on the probate, though."

  —Kalinsky: " 'Course not, how could it. There was a search, of course. We looked everywhere, talked to everyone who could have been in contact with him during those final hours, but ..."

  —Me: "Who all was that?"

  —He: "The personal physician, now deceased. A nurse. One of the security boys and a couple of staff people. Oh, and Karen."

  "And she was just a kid."

  "Yeah. Not quite fourteen. Is she the one... ?"

  —Me: "Anything significant you can see about the fact he had Bruno and Tony witness?"

  —Kalinsky: "No, I guess that would be—they were with him all the time, his personal men, 'specially those last two years, night and day. Never saw such devotion. And not just because ..."

  —Me: "Huh?"

  —He: "Very devoted. Guess you knew, they both had that problem."

  "You mean, mute. Yeah. Family trait?"

  —Kalinsky: "Something in the chromosomes, I guess. More than that, though, no disrespect meant, but more than that was wrong."

  —Me: "The Valensas?"

  —He: "Well ... those two, anyway. A little slow, if you get me."

  —Me: "What aren't you telling me?"

  —He: "About what?"

  —Me: "Valensa."

  —Kalinsky: "Oh. Well ... maybe you know already. Maybe not. Doesn't really make a shit not, I guess. They were Karen's uncles, only living relatives. Now there are none."

  —Me, about twenty seconds later: "Elena's brothers."

  —He: "Yeah."

  —Me: "They had a take in that new will, TK."

  —He: "Maybe so. Too bad they didn't produce it sooner, then. I told you, slow. Probably thought it would be disloyal to Karen."

  —Me: "They didn't have the will."

  —Kalinsky: "Who did, then?"

  —Me: "JQ still had it."

  —He: "Don't get you, there, Ash."

  —Me: "You wouldn't, so let it slide. I'd like—"

  —Kalinsky: "No, I want to know what you meant by that."

  "You want to know who have me the will?"

  "Yeah."

  "JQ handed it to me."

  Kalinsky, about thirty seconds later: "Aw ... Don't play games. You mean ...?"

  —Me: "Literally, yeah. Only his hand was like an energy wave. It imbedded the hiding place and ejected the will. Fell at my feet. Pure energy. I could feel the heat from it."

  —He: "I never believed in this shit. So don't think I'm calling you a liar. It's just ..."

  —Me: "Doesn't matter. Why did JQ oppose the Marriage?"

  "What marriage?"

  "Elana to his son. Was that before or after Bruno and Tony—?"

  —Kalinsky: "No, after Elena brought them here with her. She worked for JQ at first, personal secretary. That was before me. I came along a few years later. Way I got it, JQ didn't oppose the marriage. I believe he engineered it. Maybe a last desperate stab at making a man out of ... "

  —Me: "TJ?"

  —He: "Yeah. Guy had problems, I guess. I used to hear stories, some of the staff snickering about him. I shut that off damn quick."

  "What kind of stories?"

  —Kalinsky: "Listen, if you're really on the level ... I mean, do you—are you sincere about that? That energy wave thing?"

  —Me: "Yep."

  —He: "Well, the implications of that are just absolutely mind-boggling. Don't you think?"

  —Me: "It used to boggle my mind. Still does, sometimes.
What kind of stories?"

  "You mean this kind of stuff is routine with you? Really?"

  "More or less."

  —Kalinsky: "So what you are saying—what this really means—if JQ could—shit, he's still living, somewhere. He's still aware, he knows what is ..."

  —Me: "Seems that way, doesn't it."

  —He: "Do you believe that?"

  —Me: "Is there some reason I should disbelieve it?"

  —He: "Well, I mean ..."

  —Me: "The wisest men who have ever lived have almost with a single voice declared that the human soul is immortal. The problem, as I see it, is that a living soul needs to imbed itself into the energy universe before it can be made manifest in our reality. Since that normally occurs only during the phenomenon of sexual conception and parturition—the involvement with matter on this plane, I mean—we have come to think that any other method must be impossible. But how the hell do we know what is possible and what is not?"

  —Kalinsky: "Well, Jesus ..."

  —Me: "Are you deliberately evading the stories about TJ?"

  —He: "Well ... it's embarrassing. I'd rather Karen never hear this."

  —Me: "This is all in confidence, isn't it?"

  —Kalinsky: "Oh, well, okay. Some of the staff claimed to have seen TJ strolling the grounds at night dressed like a woman."

  —Me: "That, uh, by itself, doesn't mean a hell of a lot."

  —Kalinsky: "JQ thought he might be queer."

  —Me: "He actually voiced that to you?"

  —He: "Not in so many words, no, but I could tell."

  —Me: "Did you think that too?"

  —Kalinsky: "I don't know what to think. TJ was not the kind of guy you ever got close to. Hardly knew him, yet I shared the same roof with him for about ten years. Yeah, ten years. Karen was three or four when I came on board ... they died ... 'bout ten years later."

  —Me: "How did they die?"

  —He: "Is that a test question?"

  —Me: "I'd be interested in your version."

  —Kalinsky: "Carl told me that Karen thinks she killed them."

  —Me: "How do you feel about that?"

  —He: "All in her head, of course. Guilt, probably. She probably wanted Elena dead. When it happened that way, she translated it as—in her mind, she did it."