The Best Paranormal Crime Stories Ever Told

by Martin H. Greenberg

  Men were both harder and easier for her. Looking like she did, she could get close to them and touch them enough to get feelings for somebody she could become. And more than a few rich men had offered to take her home—for their own purposes, of course, but still, it got her a lot of intelligence for a later visit.

  So, the emerald lady or the opal guy?

  Even as she thought this, the opal guy looked up and noticed her. He smiled at the man he was talking to, said something, and ambled in her direction.

  Well, look at this. If he was going to do the work? Maybe that was a good sign . . . .

  “What’s a nice girl like you doing at a stuffy event like this?”

  “Waiting for you, it seems,” she said. She gave him her highwattage smile.

  He held his champagne glass up in a silent toast, as if to acknowledge her response to his pick-up line. “I’m Arlo St. Johns,” he said.

  “Layla Harrison,” she said, giving him a name she’d made up for herself in the orphanage years ago. One of housemothers who wasn’t too awful had been a big fan of the English rock invasion of the early sixties, and had lent Darla her books about the subject. She had discovered that Eric Clapton had written the song “Layla” after having fallen for George Harrison’s wife, Patti. That woman must have been something, Darla had decided, since she had been the inspiration for at least three famous rock songs—“Something,” by Harrison when he’d been with the Beatles; “Layla;” and “Wonderful Tonight,” by Clapton.

  Ran in the family, too—Pattie’s little sister had been Donovan’s muse for “Jennifer, Juniper,” and had gone on to marry Mick Fleetwood of Fleetwood Mac . . .

  “Penny for your thoughts?” he said.

  “Worth more than that, I think.”

  “No doubt. Want to go get a drink or something somewhere a little less crowded?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “My place is much quieter.”

  She smiled. “Why not? Seen one writer, seen them all . . . ”

  St. Johns had a high-rise apartment downtown, and he drove them to it in a black Cadillac Escalade, still had the new car smell. Sixty, seventy thousand bucks worth of car. This was shaping up to be a fun evening. Guy was good-looking, well-mannered, was obviously doing well enough to drive a high-end SUV and to sport expensive, tasteful jewelery. Bound to have something laying around his place worth lifting.

  She didn’t have a lot of rules in her biz, but one of them was that she didn’t get intimate—well, not too intimate—with her marks. Not that this was ironclad—she had slipped a couple of times—but it made her feel guilty stealing from somebody she’d slept with, and she didn’t need that. Darla had built a pretty good rationalization about stealing from the rich and their insurers who wouldn’t miss it; if she went to bed with somebody and had a really good time? It would feel wrong to take his stuff.

  Pretending not to look, she easily managed to see the numbers he punched into the alarm keypad just inside the door. She committed them to memory, converting them to letters. The first letter of each word corresponded to the number of its position in the alphabet: Thus 78587 became GHEHG, which in turn became a nonsensical but memorable sentence: Great Hairy Elephants Hate Giraffes . . .

  The apartment was gorgeous, decorated by somebody with money and taste. Oil paintings, fancy handmade paper lamps, Oriental carpets some family in Afghanistan must have spent years making. Upscale furniture, more comfortable than showy.

  While St. Johns built them drinks at his wet bar, she went into the bathroom, took her cell phone from her purse, and programmed it to ring in thirty minutes. That would give them enough time to have a drink and talk a little, but not get to the rolling-around-and-breaking-expensive-furniture stage.

  She went back into the living room.

  St. Johns was funny, smart, and twenty minutes into their conversation over perfect martinis, she was thinking maybe she would sleep with him instead of burgling him. That would be okay.

  But, she reminded herself, she was broke. She had a couple thousand in the bank, but her apartment rent was due, her car note, and her fridge was mostly empty. She needed the money more than she needed to get laid.

  A shame. He really was fun. He was some kind of importer, specializing in Pacific Rim antiquities, he said, and there were a few pieces of Polynesian or Hawaiian or other island art carefully set out here and there that she suspected were probably worth a small fortune. Jewelry she knew, painting and sculpture, she didn’t have a clue.

  He smiled at her. “So, what do you do when you aren’t attending boring social gatherings?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. When my parents died, they left me a fair-sized insurance policy. I had the money invested, so it brings in enough to keep the wolf from the door. I take classes in this and that, work out, travel a bit. Nothing very exciting.”

  He smiled bigger.

  She smiled back. Oh, this wasn’t just ice cream, this was Häagen Dazs Special Limited Edition Black Walnut, you could get fat just opening the carton. The temptation surged in her, a warm wave. She had enough to pay the rent and car note, barely, she could buy some red beans and rice and veggies, make it another week before she had to have some more money . . .

  In her purse, her cell phone began playing Pachelbel’s Canon in D.

  Crap! What to do? Shut the phone off and stay?

  Because she wanted to do just that so much, she decided it wasn’t a good idea. A matter of discipline. If she slipped, that could lead her down a dangerous slope. Just because it had always been good didn’t mean it couldn’t go bad.

  Oh, well. She smiled, fetched her phone, touched a control.

  “Hey, what’s up?” A beat. Then, “Oh, no! That’s terrible! Are you all right?”

  St. Johns raised an eyebrow at her.

  “No, no, I’ll come over. I’ll see you in a little while.”

  She snapped the phone shut. “I’m sorry. That was my girlfriend Maria,” she said. “Her fiancé just dumped her and she’s in a terrible state. I need to go see her.”

  “I knew it was too good to be true. I’ll give you a ride.”

  “No, I’ll catch a cab. She lives way out in Hillsboro, I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “It’s no trouble. I don’t have anything else planned.”

  “Really, I appreciate it, but no. Could you, uh, give me your number? I’d like to see you again.”

  “Oh, yes.” He produced a business card that had nothing on it but his name and a phone number. “Take care of your friend,” he said, smiling. “And do call me. I’d love to see you again.”

  “I will look forward to seeing you,” she said. Unfortunately, you won’t know who I am when I do . . .

  “Let me call a cab.”

  “Thanks, Arlo.”

  “My pleasure.”

  After he called, he walked her to the door, and rested his hand on her shoulder. There was a moment when she thought he would kiss her—and she wouldn’t have objected—but it passed.

  Another road not taken.

  Too bad, but that’s how life was. Sometimes, business had to come before pleasure.

  Her taxi arrived. The night was warm, and she slid into the cab and gave the driver an address near a stop where she could catch a MAX train to a station near her place.

  “Yes, madam,” the driver said. He looked to be about fifty, and from his accent, she guessed he was Indian, or Pakistani.

  It really was too bad about St. Johns.

  The cabbie was chatty, going on about the warm weather and how the Bull Run Resevoir was low for this time of year. She responded politely, already thinking of how she was going to burgle St. Johns’s apartment. If the Glamour had worked on voices, it would be a snap—she’d become St. Johns, tell the security guy she’d lost her key, and have him let her into the place. Take something the mark wouldn’t miss, and adios.

  Too bad St. Johns wasn’t a mute—

  Ah! Wait a second, hold on,
she had something here . . .

  “Beg pardon, Miss?” the cabbie said.

  “Huh?” She looked at him.

  “You made an exclamation? Are you in distress?”

  She smiled. “Oh, oh, no, sorry. I was just thinking of something. I’m fine.”

  The cabbie smiled and nodded.

  Actually, she was better than fine. She had come up with a terrific idea. Why hadn’t it occurred to her years ago? It was so simple.

  She paid the cabbie, gave him a nice tip—what the hell, she’d be flush again in a couple days, right? She walked to the MAX station. A light rail train arrived, and she got on, along with several others. She exited at the stop near her house. An old lady dressed in khaki slacks and a tie-dye T-shirt and running shoes got off the train and set off at a fast walk ahead of her. The woman had long, steely gray hair and a lot of smile wrinkles and was obviously in pretty good shape from the pace she set. You could do worse than to be somebody like that when you got old, Darla decided. But not for a real long time . . .

  St. Johns needed to be out of the building, so she had to risk using her car. She parked near the exit to the garage early, and waited to see St. Johns’ caddy leave.

  At about nine in the morning, the Escalade pulled out.

  Okay, kid, here we go . . .

  Darla approached the building’s street entrance. She put a hand on the doorman’s sleeve as she asked to see the security man on duty.

  Inside, she was conducted to the security desk. The man behind it looked up.

  “Help you, Miss?” He stood and moved to the counter.

  “Yes, I saw a car parked out front and there were two men in it who seemed to be watching the entrance,” she said. “Probably it’s nothing, but I thought I should say something about it.”

  “Two men? What kind of car? They still there?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not good with cars. Like a van, maybe an SUV? Dark, kind of old, muddy? But they left.”

  “Uh huh. You get get the license number, ma’am?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “Ah. Well. Listen, we appreciate it. We’ll, uh, keep an eye out for it.” Probably thinking was a twit she was. Two men in a car, right . . .

  She reached out and touched his arm. “Probably it’s nothing,” she said. “But these days, you can’t be too careful.”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s true.”

  Darla stepped into a doorway in the next building and lit the Glamour. Show time . . .

  “Morning, Mr. St. Johns,” the doorman said. He opened the heavy glass door.

  Darla smiled and nodded, knowing that her disguise was perfect.

  She walked to the security desk.

  “Mr. St. Johns. How may I help you sir?”

  She shook his head and touched her throat. In a raspy voice as low as she could manage, Darla said, “Laryngitis.” She coughed.

  “Oh, sorry to hear that.”

  “Forgot my key,” she said. Her voice was a passable imitation of a sick frog.

  “No problem, sir.” The guard opened a wide drawer, scanned the contents, and produced a door key. “Here you go. Drop it off whenever.”

  Darla smiled, nodded, and coughed as she took the key.

  Perfect. She didn’t have to sound like St. Johns, she had set it up that her—his—voice was gone. Very clever, if she said so herself.

  People were coming and going, and the guard’s attention veered away from her.

  There weren’t any cameras on the elevators, at least none she’d seen the night before, but she lingered until a couple other people arrived to ride up. They would see her as Darla, and if there was a hidden camera on the elevator, the guard would see three people in it. How much track would he be keeping?

  So far, it ran like a Swiss watch.

  She opened the door, stepped inside—it wouldn’t do for somebody to see her instead of St. Johns, though they might assume she was his special friend, since she had a key.

  Inside, she shut the door and reached for the alarm pad, but realized that it was green. He hadn’t even bothered to set it.

  She shook her head. Man didn’t turn on his alarm? He deserved to have his stuff stolen. Lordy.

  In the bedroom, it took all of ten seconds to find the jewelry box—it was leather, trimmed in brass, and it sat atop a dresser made of what looked like ebony.

  Darla opened the box.

  My. There were gold coins, loose gems, mostly diamonds, but a couple of emeralds, a diamond-studded money clip that held three thousand dollars in hundreds. There was a banded 5K stack of hundreds next to that, but the band was broken and two were missing. There were a dozen platinum coins and ten platinum oneounce ingots, and several sets of cuff links and tie pins, done in assorted gems—rubies, emeralds, sapphires . . .

  Quickly, Darla decided what she could remove without it being immediately noticed. There were thirty-two gold coins, Eagles, and she took two of those. Nineteen loose stones, fourteen of which were one or two-carat, round-cut blue-white diamonds. She took one of the two-carat stones, and one of the single carats. She took two hundreds from the money clip, three from the banded stack. One of the platinum coins, one of the ingots. She considered the tie-tacks and cuff links and decided they were too easily missed.

  Okay, a quick total: Couple gold Eagles, probably worth eight hundred each. The platinum Eagle was worth fourteen, fifteen hundred, probably, the ingot a little less, say twelve hundred, and that was money in her pocket, since they didn’t have to be fenced. The diamonds were clean and clear, figure six, eight thousand on the smaller one, and at least twenty-five or thirty on the bigger one. Less Harry’s cut on those, so say they were worth twenty thousand to her total, if she was lucky. With the cash, she’d net about twenty five grand total. Unless St. Johns did an inventory, he likely wouldn’t notice anything was gone, and she’d buy herself three or four months of lie-about time. Not nearly as good as what she had gotten from the widow’s place, but she had that laryngitis trick, and that would come in handy.

  Once again, it was tempting to scoop it all into her pocket—there was enough here to keep her from having to score again for a couple, three years, maybe longer. But, no . . . Better to stick with what had kept her out of jail for all this time, greed was a killer. She sighed, and closed the jewelry box.

  As she turned to leave, she noticed the corner of a box jutting out from under the bed. A bed with black silk sheets on it, she also noticed, and neatly made.

  She stopped, bent, and pulled the box from under the bed. It was long, wide, and fairly flat, as big as a large suitcase, if shallower. She opened the box . . .

  It was full of thousand dollar bills, stacked into rows, fifteen across and eight down, and the bills were loose and mostly used.

  Holy shit!

  She picked up one stack, her breath coming faster, and counted it. Then another stack. A third. The first had thirty, the second twenty-eight, the third, thirty-three. Non-sequentially numbered.

  She did some fast math. A hundred and twenty stacks, say thirty bills in each stack on average.

  Three million six hundred thousand dollars.

  Oh, man!

  What was St. Johns doing with this much cash under his bed?

  Darla stared at the cash. If she took one or two bills from each stack, he might not even notice! She could take a hundred thousand, two hundred thousand, and unless he did a count, he wouldn’t be able to tell. And even if he did that, she was pretty sure this wasn’t money he wanted anybody to know about—it had the smell of something not quite legal . . .

  Of course, she couldn’t just walk into a bank and plunk down a couple hundred-thousand-dollar bills and expect that to fly without raising questions; but Harry knew people who could move big notes without batting an eye and he’d take ten or fifteen percent, no more than that . . .

  Two bills from each stack. Two hunded and forty thousand dollars, she could give Harry the two-carat blue-white for his cut and�
��no, she decided, she’d put all that back. No point in risking this much for petty cash. With two hundred grand in her pocket, she could take a long damn time before she had to make another score.

  Yes. That’s how she would do it. Put the coins and gems back, pack a quarter of a million into her pockets—no more carrying it in purses, thank you very much—and walk away with a big smile under her Glamour . . .

  Darla drove toward her place, using a long and winding route, to make sure she wasn’t followed. She was almost home when she heard the sound of a police siren. She looked into the rearview mirror and saw a plain, tan Crown-Victoria with a blue light flashing on the dashboard behind her.

  “Oh, shit!” she said. An icy wave washed over her, as if she’d been drenched in liquid nitrogen, turning her stiff with fear.

  She pulled to the curb. This wasn’t a traffic stop.

  A tall, heavyset, balding man alighted from the car. He wore a cheap, badly wrinkled suit and brown shoes, and a tie that failed to reach his belt. Might as well have had a neon sign over his head flashing out the word “Cop!”

  He walked to her driver’s door.

  “Would you step out of the car, please?”

  “What’s the trouble? Was I speeding?”

  “No, lady, I’m a detective, I don’t do traffic tickets. Out here, please, and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Dead. She was dead. She had considered it over the years, what she would do if she was ever caught, but it had never seemed real to her, it had been so theoretical.

  What was she going to do?

  The Glamour.

  Of course! In her panicked fear, she had forgotten she had a perfect weapon. She’d touch him, and when the moment was right, she’d distract him, change, and that would be that!

  The woman? she’d say, when he turned around and saw an old man there, She went that way, she was running!

  Okay, she’d be okay, she could do this. He’d have to pat her down, and that would be enough, his hands on her would be fine. A touch was a touch.