by M. C. Grant
Kristy perches on the arm of the chair, her fingers stroking my hair, her teeth nervously biting the inside of her cheek. Sam sits across from me on the overstuffed couch. I tell them what happened and their eyes are wide.
Sam is first to speak.
“How did anyone know you were going to the warehouse?”
My eyes are cold. I’ve given that question considerable thought and I don’t like the answer.
“I talked to Aurora. If she did tip someone off, it wasn’t on purpose. She told me to wait until morning, so maybe whoever torched the warehouse was trying to get rid of the evidence before I turned up.”
“Even so,” Kristy says. “Arson is a long way from murder. Why would Kingston want you dead?”
“To save face. If—no, when—I expose his art scam, no one will trust him again. His empire could crumble.”
“But murder?” Sam interjects.
“I don’t think his hands are clean to begin with,” I reason. “I don’t have anything I can take to court, but he’s mixed up in Diego’s death too.”
“I thought Diego committed suicide?”
“That’s what we’re supposed to think.”
“But?”
“The night Kristy wouldn’t wake up,” I continue, “there had to be some kind of gas used. I think the same thing happened to the neighbor who lives below Diego.”
“The gas sifted into his apartment?” Sam asks. “How?”
“Any number of ways. A leak in the hose, or it could be heavier than air and drifted down through the vents. Then they turned on the AC full blast to clear the air and cover their tracks. But the point is, if Diego was gassed, his killer or killers could have positioned him any way they wanted before making it look like suicide. Hell, his signature on the canvas might not even be genuine. They could have used a stamp like they did with Adamsky.”
“Pricks!” Kristy shouts angrily. “I slept away a whole Goddamn day.”
Sam and I both grin.
“What are you going to do now?” Sam asks.
“Go to Kingston with what I have and shake some truth out of him.”
“You think that’ll work?”
I shrug. “I don’t need a confession. I just need to see his face when he realizes I’m about to hang him on the front page and let the readers watch him shit himself.”
“That doesn’t sound like you, Dix,” Sam reasons.
“I lost my objectivity in the fire.”
“You almost lost your life too.”
“But I didn’t. Kingston screwed up.”
“So now he pays?”
“Now he pays.”
Sam takes my face in her hands and locks eyes.
“Be careful,” she says gently. “You may have the lives of a cat, but even that number eventually runs out.”
Sam stands up to leave and Kristy leans in close, her lips tickling my ear.
“What Sam said,” she whispers, “goes double for me.”
She kisses me on the cheek before joining Sam at the door.
_____
Alone with my anger and self-pity, I pick up the phone and dial the Hall of Justice. When the receptionist answers, I hang up.
I don’t know what to tell Frank. I know he’ll be angry that I went to the warehouse without telling him, and then he’ll be angry that I broke in. Above all, he’ll be angry that I almost didn’t make it out alive.
The phone rings as I fight with myself. Automatically, I reach out for the receiver, stopping just as my fingers curl around it. The phone continues to ring as I walk into the bedroom to dress.
I don’t want to talk anymore.
Thirty-five
On the street, I allow the sun to bake my tender, virginal skin before picking a direction and walking.
My mind is in a fog thicker than the familiar ghosts that evaporate in the blinding light of morning. At the end of the block, I stop and stare through the window of a Mrs. Fields bakery. Not even the sight of fresh-baked, double-fudge-chocolate-chip cookies can lift the glower from my mood.
When I turn to continue my pointless walk, I notice a scrawny kid standing beside me. I recognize him. I’ve walked by him a thousand times, often tossing the odd bit of change into his hat but never once stopping to look into his face. He has become a fixture outside the shop, no more noticeable than the dented mailbox.
Looking at him now, I wonder: if he was struck by a car and lay bleeding on the sidewalk, would I be able to say I knew him or would his face haunt me like so many others?
He can’t be more than thirteen, yet I swear he’s more like an old man. Underneath shabby, mismatched clothes, I see a different story than the one every hypocritical journalist, including myself, has told over the years to the uncaring masses. This time, I see myself. His skin is a different color, the clothes a different make, but the boy is still a child and but for the grace of … for the grace of who? I’m no longer quite sure.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a twenty-dollar bill. Handing it to the boy, I watch his unblinking, milky eyes as his hand snatches it out of my fingers. His eyes never leave my face until the money vanishes inside a tight fist.
He nods. I nod back. He never smiles.
Inside the bakery, a skinny Chinese girl fusses with her clean, candy-striped apron. Her eyes narrow suspiciously when the boy presses himself against her glass counter to ogle the display of edible treasure.
It takes him a while, but finally the boy points toward the tray of double-fudge-chocolate-chip cookies and holds up two fingers. Sticking out from between the fingers is the twenty.
The girl scoops up two cookies and lays them on tiny wax-paper squares. As soon as they are within his reach, the boy crams a whole one into his mouth, his cheeks bulging as he chews. The girl takes the bill from his outstretched hand with an exaggerated look of disgust.
After receiving his change, the boy carefully wraps the second cookie in the wax paper and slips it into a pocket of his torn sweater. He vanishes out the rear door.
I walk around the corner to see where he is running to, but he’s already vanished. I am left to wonder how long he has stared at those cookies, only imagining their taste.
Deep inside, I feel the same way he must.
For too long I have been tracking a killer always just out of reach. And like the boy, I need a key to open that door in order to get the goods inside.
I straighten my back and flex my shoulders. I know what I have to do.
_____
Back in my apartment, I dial Kingston’s number.
“Sir Roger Kingston’s residence.”
“This Oliver or Oxford?” I ask.
“It’s Oliver, miss. How may I assist—”
“Your master in?”
“If you are referring to Sir Roger, I’m afraid he is visiting the city on business today.”
“What business?”
“He didn’t share that information.”
“Visiting his galleries?”
“That is something he enjoys,” Oliver says. “Perhaps I could take a—”
“One question.”
A pause. “Yes?”
“Did you plant the da Vinci in my trunk, or was that your brother?”
Another pause. Longer this time and followed by a soft sigh.
“That would be my responsibility, Miss Flynn, not my brother’s.”
“He’s the good one, huh?”
“Quite.”
“You have anything to do with Diego’s death?”
A third pause and the sound of shallow breathing.
“My responsibility ends at the castle gates, Miss Flynn. What happens outside these walls is something I am not privy to.”
“I’ll try
to keep that in mind.” I hang up.
My second call is on speed dial.
“Dix, baby, you sound terrible,” says Mo, his familiar raspy voice filled with genuine concern.
“I took up smoking to sound more like you. You don’t like?”
“Smokin’s for fish, Dix. Not fragile creatures like you and me.”
“You listen to your own advice?”
“Trying to.”
“Stick with it,” I say. “ ’Cause if your lungs feel anything like mine, breathing must be a bitch.”
“At my age, sweetheart, everything’s a bitch.”
I laugh, but it hurts too much and ends in a wracking cough.
“You OK?”
“Yeah,” I gasp. “Fine. Really.”
“OK. Cab’s on its way.”
“Thanks.”
_____
At Ghirardelli Square, I give the driver a two-dollar tip. It doesn’t buy his silence. As soon as I head down the stairs to Stellar Gallery, I spy him grabbing his mic to report back to Mo.
Big Brother is watching, like it or not.
At the bottom of the stairs, I stop in front of the gallery and stare through the main display window at a garish Adamsky. Sitting on a steel easel, thick swirls of red and yellow flicker like otherworldly flame on a three-dimensional checkered background of cobalt blue.
My fingers twitch, my mouth is dry, and my lungs ache. Deep inside, a scream claws its way out from the charred pit of my belly. They wanted to burn me alive for this assembly-line shit?
Beside me, a rock-speckled garbage can stands patiently, its own mouth open wide for candy wrappers, paper coffee cups, and the remains of bagged lunches. I bend my knees, wrap my arms around it and, with a strength I didn’t know I possessed, heave it high in the air.
A volcanic screech escapes my throat as I hurtle the can. Upon contact, the picture window shatters into a hoard of angry mosquitoes and the frame of the Adamsky snaps in half as the can crashes through it.
Even before the reverberations subside, I step through the jagged frame of glass. Declan stands frozen in shock in the middle of the showroom. When he recognizes me, confusion replaces shock.
Shards of glass crunch underfoot as I lift the broken Adamsky off the floor. I slip my father’s gift from my boot and flick it open. A five-inch blade locks with a menacing click.
Declan’s eyes transform in disbelief as the knife rips the painting into worthless scraps. He struggles to speak as I storm through his gallery, my blade slicing through a second Adamsky and carving into a third. The knife screeches as its tip scrapes on the wall behind each canvas. I cross to a fourth and slash it with a zigzag cut that makes it fall in strips at my feet.
“STOP!” Declan screams, finding his voice.
He moves toward me but halts when I turn the knife on him. “Why, Dix? For God’s sake!”
The answer flows in another voice, faraway tones of a woman whose childish ideals have been burned away. “You set me up.”
“What do you mean?” His eyes search the faces of startled onlookers standing outside the shattered window, too scared to enter.
“They’re fake, just like you.”
I can hardly stand to look into his eyes. His face, which just a few days ago had flushed me with excitement, now fills me with loathing.
“I was in the factory while your partner burned it to the ground.” I pause. “Why do you want me dead?”
“I … don’t … don’t know what you’re talk—”
I explode again, my knife jabbing out like lightning to slash the face of another Adamsky.
Declan curses and runs into his office to snatch up the phone. I stomp after him, too angry to be stopped. As he slams the door, I lash out to hit the glass with a heavy boot. My heel catches it in the perfect spot and the glass shatters into a million chunky pellets.
Someone behind me screams for the police.
Declan freezes, one hand on the phone, his jaw hanging.
“How did he know?” I ask sharply.
“Know what? Who?” He sounds genuinely scared.
“You know damn well. Who told Kingston I was going to the warehouse? Did Aurora call you? Or Casper? I can’t see Kingston wanting to sully his hands directly.”
“Aurora? I don’t know any—”
I slam the knife into the plaster wall beside me. When I pull it out, a shower of white drywall dust pours from the hole.
Actual tears spring to Declan’s eyes. He struggles to hide them, but his fear is palpable and I feel the scream inside me weaken.
“Where’s Kingston now?”
“I don’t—”
“Where is he?” I snap, my patience too thin, my anger too hot.
“The Devonian Hotel. He keeps a room there for when he’s in the city.”
Declan looks at me with the eyes of a puppy that’s just been kicked in the ribs by its master.
“We’ll take your car,” I say, tilting the knife so it catches the light. “Unless you want me to finish redecorating your gallery.”
Forty faces stare at us, most of them sporting I ♥ Frisco t-shirts adorned with happy cartoon characters. Nobody attempts to stop us as we cross the gallery floor and exit through the rear.
_____
Declan sits beside me in the soft leather passenger seat of his Mercedes. His tears have evaporated and his face is a ruddy mask of controlled rage.
The car idles against the curb, a pebble in a fast-moving river of cars and hand-tailored suits. Above us, smooth towers of glass reach for the sky; around us, a rushing mass of ants.
In the midst of this jungle stands the Devonian. A fat-assed, fourteen-story antique made of mortar and brick. It huddles there, mostly forgotten and ignored, so easy to pass without noticing that all the men who stroll through its doors are wealthy, white, and soft-bellied. These are the holders of old wealth; the people behind the people behind the power.
Leaning back in the driver’s seat, I stare through the moon roof and wonder what I will do to the man who waits above. Kingston left me screaming in the middle of a burning building. No escape; no mercy.
How do you forgive that?
Maybe I should have talked to Frank, but what could he say? There had been a time when Frank needed revenge, and he quenched it in blood. He’d never once told me that he regretted pulling the trigger.
“What are you going to do?” Declan’s voice trembles slightly, but whether it is from rage or fear, I don’t know.
“I’m not sure.”
“Kingston may be a lot of things, but I can’t believe he’s a killer.”
“Would you say the same about me?”
His lips vanish in a thin, white line. He doesn’t answer.
“Where does he stay?” I ask.
“Top floor. He has a private elevator.”
“Do you need a key?”
His eyes give me the answer. I pull the keys out of the ignition and study the fob. There are two gold keys of differing size. Each has a decorative D etched on them.
I drop the keys in my pocket and slide my old video-rental card from my wallet. Declan looks away as I slice the card in half with my knife and force it deep into his seatbelt lock. I cut away the excess to make sure it will stay jammed, then toss his cell phone to the back seat. There is nothing I can say that will stop him from warning Kingston, but I know by the time he wriggles out of the belt it will be too late.
_____
The hotel lobby is elegant with brown leather smoking chairs around knee-high card tables on plush red carpet. Genuine crystal goblets hang in rows above a stand-up bar, and a walk-in humidor sports a generous selection of cigars. How they get around the city’s smoking bylaws is story fodder for another day.
I walk directly to the elevators, my eyes never wavering. Everyone ignores me. All eyes are glued to a ticker-tape display of the stock market that flashes across TV screens mounted on oak-paneled walls.
The smaller gold key is warm in my sweaty palm as I slide it into the elevator lock and turn. The doors open silently. When they close again, I brace myself against the cold, mirrored wall. Sweat beads on my brow and I can smell my anger and fear.
The elevator glides to a stop on the fourteenth floor, the doors opening onto a narrow hallway that stretches on either side of two floor-to-ceiling doors. On each end of the hallway is a window.
One window offers a view of the street, the other of the back alley. The alley window doubles as a fire escape and I’m not surprised to see the black metal staircase outside is just as worn and tired as the rest of the building. Perhaps money buys that kind of false security.
After a deep breath, I return to the giant doors and slip the second gold key into the lock. The doors swing open effortlessly to reveal Kingston’s bleached-white lair.
No one is there to greet me as I walk into the inner sanctum and find myself blinded by Kingston’s sterile eccentricity.
Everything is white. Even the fine, antique furniture has its grain bleached out and the walls are scrubbed a medicinal clean. The effect is overwhelming, like a Hollywood version of Heaven. But if this is Heaven, I’d rather be in Hell.
“What are you doing here?”
Kingston storms into the room, his trim body wrapped in a white silk kimono. His legs stick out like sapling trunks, smooth and hairless. He holds a crystal glass in one hand. The liquid inside is colorless.
“I have questions,” I say coldly.
“How did you get up here?”
I shrug. “Both angels and demons have wings.”
“Are you drunk?” He advances toward me. His chest and arms look larger and more defined than I remember.
“No.” I stand my ground as my one good hand curls into a tight fist. “I’m dead.”
