Darkside Blues: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 3)

by Ambrose Ibsen

  The things he'd seen on that rooftop wouldn't soon leave his mind, but he tried his damnedest to scrub every trace of that night from his memory. Buried beneath the covers, the cat pawing about the bed and studying him narrowly, Ulrich closed his eyes and prayed that he'd bring this case to a close within the next twenty-four hours.

  If he didn't, then there was really no telling what might become of him. Though Harlan Ulrich's sense of self-preservation had always ranked amongst his keenest attributes, the constant intrusions upon his life by Vivian's tortured spirit gave him some insight into the thought process behind suicide. Some things were simply too much to live through, and if subjected to the same horrors, night after night, then who could say what he'd be driven to do? Perhaps he'd find himself standing on that precipice downtown, staring at the sidewalk...

  He shut his eyes and buried his face against his pillow.

  Don't even think about it. You'll find some way to end this in the morning. Michael will get all the answers he wants―and more. Maybe once he knows how his daughter really feels about him all of this will stop.

  He was some hours in falling asleep, and even when sleep came he found he couldn't doze for more than a half hour at a time. When these staggered naps finally brought him to the early hour of six and the sun was still a no-show, Ulrich took a quick shower and propped himself up with a coffee. A light breakfast later and he was charging around his living room, cell phone in hand, giving Michael a call.

  The voice on the other end was a touch groggy, and in the background there arose the shuffling of many feet. "Mr. Ulrich?" said Michael confusedly. "It's like seven in the morning. What're you calling for?"

  The investigator wasted no time and started into his pitch at once. "I need to meet with you. This case has wound down to its conclusion and it's time we had a talk. Sooner rather than later, of course. Can I come by?"

  Palming the phone to hide a grumble, Michael eventually returned. "What is this? Is this how you usually treat your clients? I have a hard time believing an investigator of your reputation got to where he is today by calling his customers and ordering them around like this. You've been acting rather strangely the past few days and I can't say I like it."

  "Yes, well, this case has been damn strange, so you'll have to excuse my questionable behavior," was Ulrich's retort. "Are you free this morning or not?"

  Sighing, Michael relented. "At the moment I'm headed into a meeting. Should be over within three hours. You can swing by the house before then. Meredith will see you in. What... what exactly is the rush, though?" The irritation in Michael's tone was replaced with concern.

  "It's complicated," the investigator evaded. "Let's just say I've done what you hired me to do. We have a long talk ahead of us."

  Accepting this, Michael promised to swing by his home for a meeting around ten in the morning, once his other responsibilities were met.

  He wasn't going to sit around and wait for the man to finish up his work. This little delay on the client's part had given him a golden opportunity. Meredith, one of the people who'd been closest to Vivian in the end, was the only one Ulrich hadn't had a chance to speak with privately. This was his chance to get her side of the story, to fill in any missing details. His account of Vivian's life and death was a patchwork of so many different lies, but maybe in speaking with Meredith he'd fill in some gaps.

  He was in his car within ten minutes of hanging up the phone.

  The wife met him at the door, a look of surprise plastered to her face and an undeniable undercurrent of annoyance etched into the corners of her newly mascaraed eyes. Meredith Poole stood in the doorway of the large home, mouth set in a frown like she was thinking of some excuse to send him away. Instead, she quickly turned her lips up in a tight smile and stepped aside. “Mr. Ulrich, right? To what do I owe this... honor?”

  The investigator stepped into the foyer, batting a few snowflakes off of his shoulders. “I came to meet with your husband.”

  She nodded. “I see. Well, I'm sorry to inform you that Michael is out on business right now. He'll be gone for a little while yet. You're welcome to stay in the meantime, and I'll fix you some coffee if you please, though it could be some time.”

  “I'm aware,” replied Ulrich. “I spoke to him this morning. And as it happens, that's no problem, because at present I'd like to talk to you, if possible.”

  She was taken aback by this and gave her blonde mane a toss. “Pardon? You want to talk to me?” Meredith chuckled uneasily. “Whatever about?” The subject of Ulrich's visit must have become clear to her in the next instant because the frown made a reprise. “Oh, Mr. Ulrich... I'm afraid that I don't take part in my husband's hobbies. I know that he's hired you to look into certain perceived experiences of his, however on those matters I don't have--”

  Removing his coat and draping it over the bannister to his right, Ulrich grinned. “This may come as quite as surprise to you, however my investigation has yielded some rather peculiar things. I'm not interested in discussing the sighting he had downtown, though. Not specifically. If possible, I'd like to take a bit of your time and talk about Vivian's life. You did know her, correct?”

  The reaction in her was immediate and visceral. Barely managing to veil her gasp, Meredith's powdered cheeks flushed with real color, and she stole a glance through the open door as if wishing her husband might burst in. “I... I don't understand. Why... what could I possibly... It is true that I knew her, yes. I took care of her for some time before she died, though what that has to do with anything--”

  “It's nothing too serious,” offered Ulrich, hands in the air. He wanted to set the woman at ease so that she'd speak freely, but the urgency of the situation on his end made it difficult for him to play the long game. He wanted answers, damn it, and didn't feel like beating around the bush. “I just want to know a bit more about her. Michael, you know, he spoke about her in very sentimental terms, but I never got a good idea of who she was as a person.”

  She seemed primed to resist further. “I'm not sure what that has to do with what my husband has hired you for,” she began. But then, just as suddenly, perhaps because she saw no real harm in it, she acquiesced. “I... I suppose I have some time, yes. Um, please follow me. We can sit in the kitchen. I was just about to put on some Earl Grey. Can I interest you in a cup?”

  Ulrich had been slamming coffee all night. Making a change to tea sounded surprisingly reasonable to him. “Sure.”

  The pair walked through the foyer, hooked a quick right and found themselves standing in a pristine kitchen. Marble countertops, rich wooden cabinetry; it was a kitchen worthy of a TV show. Not the kind of place where real cooking or eating occurred. As he watched Meredith fumble clumsily with her teabags and kettle, this feeling was only reinforced.

  She worked silently for a time, preparing tea and keeping her eyes glued to her work. It was doubtful that she was merely a devotee of tea culture, or that she was meditatively absorbed in her work. More likely, Ulrich knew, she was unnerved at the very mention of the girl. Just what this meant, and why discussions about Vivian should so bother her, was yet unclear. Still, this marked reaction in his host made him feel in some small way that he'd made the right decision in heading over to the house to speak to her. He felt himself on the verge of uncovering something meaty and remained at the kitchen table, legs crossed, while waiting for her to finish with the tea.

  When she eventually carried over two large cups of piping Earl Grey tea and added two large spoonfuls of sugar to her own, Meredith's forced smile resurfaced and she smoothed out her sweatshirt. “So... you want to know about Vivian? My husband's daughter?”

  “That's correct,” replied Ulrich, sipping his tea. “How long did you know her?” He teased his Moleskine out of his breast pocket, and Meredith's eyes shot to it like an arrow. “I would just like to take a few notes, if that's all right. It's simply for my reference. Pay it no mind.”

  She stirred her tea absentmindedly for a moment, chewing
over the best reply and weighing various starts. “I first met Vivian when she was roughly eighteen years old, I think. I was one of a number of nurses working for a local home care agency. Michael was looking for someone who could provide more involved care for the girl. She was usually quite independent, though as the years went on I understand her condition worsened and she refused to assist with her own care. When I was assigned to the job, and afterward, when I became her full-time nurse, I saw this first hand. She was a very moody girl, infantile in her way. She made unreasonable demands of me and her father, ordered us around. Often she would stay in the Prescott, in her own suite, and I would care for her there. Day and night I was at her beck and call.”

  As Meredith's story progressed, Ulrich couldn't help but note the growing sense of disdain she possessed for the dead girl. “So,” he replied, “I take it that Vivian was quite a burden, then? A... strain on your burgeoning relationship with Michael?”

  Vivian back-pedaled immediately. “God, no, I... I don't mean for it to sound that way. The girl, bless her, she had her share of troubles. A disability like hers can make for a very difficult life, make no mistake. And Michael and I were careful not to reveal our relationship to Vivian lest it upset her. We were very discrete about that.”

  Ulrich nodded, but recalled in his chat with Michael that he'd said the opposite. According to the client, his relationship with Meredith hadn't really begun until after Vivian's passing. Strange that their accounts should differ, thought Ulrich. “And when the end came. When... when she committed suicide, there were no warning signs, in your professional opinion?”

  Meredith was a kept woman, probably hadn't even looked at a pair of scrubs in over a decade. “No,” she replied flatly. “None. Like I told you, her mood was always poor. Very poor. Stewing in that negativity, I imagine she must have been in an awful place. What happened is a tragedy, no doubt, but it wasn't something that any of us could have prevented.”

  On this final point, Ulrich was less than sold. “And why do you think that she acted out? That she was 'moody' as you say?”

  Crossing her arms, Meredith shrugged. “Er, well, her disability made it hard for her to live a normal and happy life. Being confined to a wheelchair--”

  “But,” interrupted Ulrich, “people with disabilities live happy and productive lives all over the world. They don't all commit suicide out of nowhere. Why was Vivian different? Did she grow up in an environment that made her unhappy? Did she not have a good support system? What do you know about her childhood?”

  Meredith looked as though she'd been attacked, and even took to massaging her jaw like she'd just been struck. “What are you implying? That she was a prisoner? That her father was some kind of monster? Vivian was well-loved.”

  “What about her friends? Did she have many?”

  “I... I don't really know about that. She... she didn't have any that I was aware of, though--”

  “And what about schooling? Did she go to college?”

  “Well, no, but I remember Michael telling me that she had no interest in a degree; that she was unmotivated and...” Meredith trailed off, the wheels in her head turning. “What did my husband tell you?”

  Ulrich wasn't about to correct the record. He'd caught Michael in another lie but didn't want to show his hand so early. Michael had claimed that Vivian had been enrolled in college, that she'd committed suicide during her Christmas break. That seemingly wasn't true, and it pointed to the very real possibility that Vivian's life was indeed one of secluded suffering and neglect. Smiling, Ulrich shook his head. “Never mind. Were you acquainted with Vivian's mother, Ligeia? Did you ever meet her?”

  Meredith was sweating now, looking constantly to the foyer. No matter how many times she did so, her husband never materialized however. If Ulrich didn't slow down in his questioning, she was going to clam up. In his line of work, an oft-used technique existed for the questioning of people of interest called “pacing and leading”. It was a way to control the flow of conversation and allow a witness to divulge information that they wouldn't ordinarily relate through persuasive means. This situation was probably too far-gone for that. He'd dived in head-first, asked too many of the wrong questions. Now her guard was up and getting her to speak candidly would be a struggle.

  But her discomfort and silence were enough for him, real indicators that Michael's account was rife with lies and that he was on the right track. Vivian's life had been less rosy than the client had initially led on. When Michael finally returned home, Ulrich planned to lay into him for his deceit. He wasn't fond of being played by his clients; especially not in a case like this one, where the stakes were so high.

  His host literally lit up at the sound of an engine idling in the drive. Hopping out of her chair and leaving behind a cup of nigh untouched, lukewarm tea, she positioned herself at the front entrance and threw open the door. “Oh, I see Michael's home early. Thank goodness. Now you can get on with your business,” she said, straightening her hair. It was her subtle way of saying, “Once you've spoken with him you can get out of my house, you nosy ass.”

  Ulrich stood up just as the front door opened and Michael entered. When the client stepped into the kitchen, Ulrich offered the warmest smile he could, but there wasn't much goodwill left in him to ignite the gesture. Michael, in a tailored overcoat and red in the face for the cold, extended a hand to shake. Ulrich found his grip to be too forceful and withdrew his hand with a grimace. “I'm sorry to have kept you waiting,” began Michael. “I was able to leave a bit early, so I hope this is worth it.” He motioned to the stairs. “Come with me, to my office. We can talk up there.”

  Without a word, Ulrich fell into step behind Michael, mindful always of Meredith's cutting gaze. She sank into the background, thankful to be out of the hot seat, but that she resented the investigator for his prodding was crystal clear.

  Ascending to a spacious and well-lit second story, Ulrich followed Michael into a room on the right side done up in cream-colored carpet and framed reproductions of famous paintings. There was handsome furniture within, pieces of darkly-stained wood and leather-backed chairs. The door was unceremoniously eased shut and Michael motioned to a lone chair near the wall while making his way over to the windows. Adjusting the blinds, the room was flooded with light and he made himself at home behind the oaken desk, hands pressed together. “All right. What've you got?” Then, he added, “Whatever it is, it'd better be good. I just walked out on a meeting with several investors, citing a family emergency. I haven't done that once in my entire career, so if this isn't a bombshell, then--”

  Walking up the stairs, Ulrich had been considering how he might handle this briefing. Having lost every shred of respect for the man he was working for however, an idea came to him as he stood beside the leather chair. Extending a finger and pointing straight at his client, Ulrich shook his head. “Liar.”

  19

  Michael shifted uncomfortably in his chair, face reddening, until he cracked an uncertain grin. “What?”

  “You're a goddamn liar,” growled the investigator. “I should have dumped your case the minute I uncovered the first of your lies, but I was stupid enough to give you the benefit of the doubt. You made yourself out to be a saint, Michael. I think myself a relatively good judge of character, but I'll admit you threw me.”

  Jaw tensed, Michael leaned back. “Now, what is it you're going on about? What lies did I tell you, hm?”

  Crossing his arms, Ulrich began to pace. “Where shall we begin? You lied about your ex, Ligeia. She's alive, and I spoke to her.” He didn't even allow his client to find words for his outrage before continuing. “Then there's the fact that you lied to me about your relationship with Meredith while Vivian was still alive, and the fact that your daughter never attended college despite your claims that she did. How is that for starters?”

  Michael slammed a rosy fist into his desk and stood up. “This is a load of shit, Ulrich. I don't remember throwing my hard-earned money a
t you so that you could try and find skeletons in my closet. You went behind my back and spoke to my ex-wife, to that snake Ligeia? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't throw your ass out of this house right now and demand my money back?”

  Stepping up to the desk so that the two of them were mere feet apart, Ulrich grit his teeth. “I wasn't finished, Michael. The fact of the matter is, I found out why your daughter's still around ten years after her death. It's because she hates you and can't move on from the awful life you provided for her. After everything I've learned about you, I can't say I blame her, either.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  Ulrich fumed. “It means that she despises you, Michael. She told me that you and Ligeia never listened to her. She seems to have lived a very somber and isolated life, and the impression I'm getting is that you only trotted her out in public so that you could get a pat on the back for being single father. I heard all about the messiness of your divorce, the connections you used and the lengths you went to to shut Ligeia out. I'm not saying that she was any better than you, but Vivian's last years were probably spent shut up in that hotel of yours with only her visiting nurses for company. Is that about the length of it? No friends, no opportunities. Just four walls and constant loneliness.”

  Michael said nothing, his eyes boring into the investigator.

  Taking out his wallet, Ulrich thumbed out a number of bills and cast them upon the desk. “I think that'll cover what you paid me. I worked hard for that money, but earning my wage by working for a prick like you doesn't exactly sit well.”

  Michael was stunned into silence. He shook, broke into a sweat, but couldn't even order the investigator out of his office. When he finally walked over to the window, unbuttoning his dress shirt and staring out at the bright morning, he punched the wall until his knuckles opened. “I didn't hire you to come in here and talk to me like that. I asked you to find my daughter, and this is what you've done for me?”