He didn’t invite me to sit, so I stood. As I began talking, he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers against the tip of his chin. If he thought that made him look clever, he was wrong. It made him look silly.
I wrapped up. “The album was released in 1993, the year James was introduced to the joys of heterosexual orientation. I’m amazed your earlier investigators didn’t learn that.”
“In fact, we did know it.”
“What?” I shifted focus. The muddy spikes in his aura said he was lying through his teeth.
“I said,” he repeated, voice dripping with condescension, “we did know that connection.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “Mr Kommen, you’re lying. You didn’t know.”
His eyes narrowed. He pulled in a sharp breath and sat up straight. “How dare you!” He was clearly not used to being challenged by contract labor.
“How dare I? It’s easy, believe me. I have a sixth-sense kind of thing that goes off when someone lies to me. It’s very valuable, very reliable. You just made it ring, big time.”
I dropped the letters on his desk. “Find someone who doesn’t mind your bullshit, because I don’t have the patience for it. I’ll send your check back by courier this afternoon.”
“Wait.” He leaned forward, pushed the papers back toward me. “What I meant was that we were confident there was a connection to James Richardson’s past.” He paused. “It’s true, we didn’t actually know about the connection to the music album.”
“Still not interested. You don’t bother taking the most obvious step of researching the text of the letters, then you obstruct and mislead the efforts of the people you hire to help. I can imagine you’ve gone through investigators like shit through a goose. No wonder you finally ended up in my office.”
I turned toward the door and caught sight of Colin standing behind me, slack-jawed, eyes as wide as a spooked horse.
“What will it take to keep you on the case? I’ll double your fee.” The voice from behind the big desk actually sounded frightened.
I stopped, and turned back. “I don’t want double your fee. I want your cooperation. No more games. That’s what it’ll take. Starting with in-person interviews with the Richardsons. All four of them.”
“Very well.” Kommen sounded contrite. His aura sparkled with fear.
I pointed to the letters. “By themselves, these don’t constitute blackmail. There’s no demand. There’s not even a target. How do you know James is being blackmailed?”
“Reverend Richardson is convinced it’s aimed at him. I’ve just assumed he has good reason to do so.”
“And what does James think?”
Kommen hesitated only for a second. “He agrees.”
“I look forward to confirming that. If you jerk me around again, Mr. Kommen, I will quit, and you will pay me two weeks additional fees as the cost for your bullshit games. Please amend my engagement letter to say if I quit, you owe me two weeks.”
“Very well,” he repeated.
“Set up the Richardson interviews as soon as possible, please. I want to meet with each of them separately. Let me know when and where.”
I picked up the letters. “Colin, can you make copies of these for me?” I followed him out of Kommen’s office without looking back.
After he’d made the copies, Colin and I walked to the elevator together in silence. Once the doors closed, he grinned at me. “You’re pretty gutsy. I’m impressed.”
I shook my head, and a wave of sadness washed through me. Or maybe it was just fatigue. “No, not really gutsy. Just beat up enough to know there are things that leave bigger holes in your life than money, if you lose them.”
I could tell he didn’t really get it. But then when I was his age, neither had I.
“Still,” he said looking at me sideways with a bashful smile. “I liked it. Kinda hot.”
Had he batted his eyelashes on purpose? Oh, damn. Don’t, Morgan. Bad idea.
On the thirty-minute walk back to my office, I thought more about what I’d told Colin. I knew something about those larger holes firsthand, the ones left by integrity and love, when they’ve been lost.
I’d been sober just over fifteen years now—the same length of time, I realized with a start, since James Richardson’s conversion. We’d both started a new life in 1993.
Whatever he felt about his, I was grateful for mine. I’d worked hard to find a new sense of myself as a human being, one that I could live in with a little contentment.
I’d always told myself that I drank to insulate myself from the constant bombardment of other people’s auras, and that was probably true, at least in part. A few stiff drinks served as insulation that would last all night. The problem wasn’t that big a deal until I came out and began my new life. Somehow, suppressing my sexuality had also kept my sensitivity damped down. When the door to what I’d kept locked in the basement finally blew off its hinges I found not only did I have to build a new life, but cope with new receptivity that made me very vulnerable.
I had no idea how to keep some distinction between me as an individual, and those wild sensations that could literally bring me to my knees without warning, usually when I was near someone in rage or grief. I ended up on my knees a lot. Alcohol numbed me at first, which was helpful when I felt overwhelmed. Eventually alcohol taught me not to care at all, and that’s when it stopped being helpful.
I finally made it to AA and learned that an alcoholic could rationalize his drinking six ways from Sunday. Whatever the given reason was never as important as the behavior it sought to excuse, and the resulting wreckage it caused was just as terrible.
In my own case, I’d driven away a smart, gentle, loving partner by hiding in a bottle, and hadn’t seen much of love since I crawled out. Maybe I never would. But I wanted another chance at it now. I may have been fifty, flawed, and a little psychic, but I was as real as I’d ever been in my life. Some nights I wanted another chance at love so badly, the longing was a metallic tang along my tongue.
As tasty as Colin looked, he was an hors d’oeuvre, not a full meal. Above the belt, I knew very well he wasn’t what I was hungry for, but if he made it clear he wanted to play, I wasn’t convinced I’d be strong enough to say no. Sometimes a snack is better than no meal at all.
I wondered if James Richardson’s hunger for love had been satisfied, but that was well outside the scope of my assignment unless he’d started fooling around with men again, and someone was blackmailing him about it. But if this really was blackmail, it felt to me like the letters were aimed at Howard, not James.
I pushed all those question marks aside as I unlocked the door to my office and my home, which is upstairs. A few years ago, I bought half an old two-story red brick duplex on the corner of Sixteenth Avenue and Pearl Street. I’d set up my office in the front room downstairs in what had been the living room, complete with a small but functioning fireplace, expanded the kitchen and half bath in the back, then made my living quarters upstairs.
I’d furnished the place with comfortable, well-made used items. Maybe it was a reflection of my age and condition, but I found most new furniture to be soulless and uninteresting. I preferred something unusual, sturdy, and a little beat-up any day.
I loved my little place. It represented so much of what I’d managed to build in my new life. It wasn’t huge, but it was plenty big for one. In fact, it was plenty big for two, but that was a different problem altogether.
I made fresh coffee, went upstairs, and parked in my favorite armchair next to the front windows overlooking the street.
A little more Internet research showed that all the messages used lyrics from the same album. I shut down the laptop and put it away, then spread the letters in chronological order.
April Fool’s Day, 2009 — But you can’t fool God!
This is The Cross of Changes
That one I’d already looked at, so I turned to the next.
April 15, 2009 — Tax Day! Soon i
t’s time to pay…
The Silent Warrior
This one was more ominous, a promise of a judgment day for those who abuse the name of God. “The Silent Warrior” was the title of the song, but Enigma also had to be saying it’s time to pay some silent warrior, presumably him-or herself.
May 1, 2009 — Beltane, sex and fire! Who have you been screwing?
Out From the Deep – come terrible secrets…
Clearing ancient debts and learning over lifetimes were the themes of this one. New Age blackmail? Interesting concept.
May 31, 2009 — And then it’s all over.
I Love You—I’ll Kill You
The title alone gave me chills. Mixing love and hate, the song was a poetic declaration of enduring love and a promise of imminent death.
Was it a literal threat? The police probably wouldn’t think so, even if Kommen had wanted them involved. If the threat was less than literal, there still had to be a skeleton or two in the Richardson closets that danced to these tunes. My incentive of 25k told me just how seriously they took the letters.
Mr. Enigma—or I suppose Ms. was a possibility—had a strong attachment to The Cross of Changes. I could easily understand how this stream of oblique references to wrongdoing and the inevitable working of justice could make the Richardsons nervous. Some intuition whispered at me about that, but I couldn’t make sense of what it wanted me to see.
I closed my eyes to listen better. Nothing came for a while, but I’d learned how to wait.
When I’d settled into the stillness, I glanced down at the papers in my lap. A line about playing games with ones who loved you called to me from the last page. Okay, good. That felt right—a clue that family issues might be at the heart of this case. Not very specific, but a working start. Maybe there was more.
I closed my eyes again, and Colin showed up, fresh and eager. Or not Colin, but his face reminding me of what I wanted, what I’d thrown away by playing games with one who had loved me.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Robbie,” I whispered into the hole in my heart, knowing there would be no answer, since he’d packed up his stuff and moved out over fifteen years ago.
Again I saw him standing sadly at the front door holding his last box, his tears all cried out weeks earlier.
“You love him more than me, babe,” he said, pointing to the bottle in my hand. “I wish I still loved you like I used to, but I just don’t. Can’t. I can’t compete, and I can’t stay to watch you kill yourself.” And then he was gone.
Even though I was five years sober when he and Eric got married, I couldn’t go to the ceremony. I couldn’t bear to see the man I threw away marry someone else, knowing that I could have had him if only I had….
If only. That was pure bullshit. If nothing. I hadn’t, and I was living with the consequences. If I kept swigging from my favorite barrel of self-pity, a tumbler of booze might not be far off, and that was one hell I did not want to revisit. They say in AA you learn not to regret the past nor close the door on it. Apparently, I wasn’t finished working on that.
I stared at the papers again for a long time. They felt incomplete.
Was this really blackmail, or something else? Knowledge of wrongdoing was clearly implied, most explicitly in the third letter: “Who have you been screwing?” But was that literal or figurative? Then again, maybe the blackmailer was just preparing the ground for a demand more specific than “soon it’s time to pay.” Regardless, he/she was definitely sending loaded messages to the Richardsons. Enough to make Howard Richardson call his high-powered, and no doubt very expensive, lawyer.
I needed to listen to the music, see if I could get some other lead from it. I phoned Pete at my favorite indie music store, Wax Trax. He had a used CD, and I asked him to hold it for me until I could pick it up. Pete was eager to give me the whole history of the album over the phone, but I asked him to hold off until I could get it in person.
As soon as I hung up, Kommen called. He’d regained his aggressive tone, but to his credit, he kept most of the sneer out of his voice. I had appointments tomorrow with the Richardson men at his office, Howard at nine and James at one-thirty. Colin would arrange any other appointments I needed, and I should call him directly.
Finally some traction. This was good. I headed out to Wax Trax for the album, and Pete’s enthusiastic history lesson.
Next morning, Colin met me in the foyer right on time. He was so deliciously puppy-eager, I began to worry about what I might do if he was hitting on me. Neither of us needed that complication.
I opened to a quick look at his aura. It’s hard to describe what I do for that, even though I have some control over it. I kind of expand the energy around my head and shoulders, making space, and relax my eyes until my vision shifts—pretty much like when an optometrist clicks away one of those obscuring lenses and suddenly you can see things you couldn’t before.
Colin wasn’t flirting, although I thought I saw the warm glow of attraction. His aura was more professional than mine, congruent with his full-bore Eagle Scout mode. The kid just loved helping others. I understood. In my own more jaded way. I hoped he wouldn’t get too badly hurt for his natural generosity, even though I knew it was inevitable.
Odd. I was both relieved and offended he wasn’t flirting with me. I’m impossible to please sometimes.
This time we marched directly to the elevator, and went up to the big shots’ floor. Once inside Kommen’s office, Colin led me past the massive desk and through a door behind it into a spacious sitting room. He backed away, and there was a soft click as he closed the door behind me.
Kommen and the Reverend Howard Richardson sat next to each other in a pair of overstuffed leather chairs against the far wall. They’d been talking for a while, I could feel it. The air between them hung thick with their conversation.
I looked around. Very comfy in a bland way. Private. The place shouted with whispers, it was so full of secrets. A wall of glass looked south and west over the Platte, and off through the tawny Denver haze to the mountains. On the opposite wall, a kitchen and fully-stocked wet bar waited for customers.
Neither one stood as I crossed the room, but I stretched out my hand to Richardson and waited.
After a beat of silence, Kommen introduced us. “Reverend Richardson, this is Rhys Morgan, our investigator.” The reverend stayed put as he shook my hand. His grip was firm and crisp with a fast release. Very professional, and not as oily as I’d expected. But underneath the smooth polish, panic sparked off his hand, stinging mine. Sometimes, it still physically hurt to be an empath.
Richardson reached up to caress his hair into place. He needn’t have worried. It remained fixed in silver perfection. His whole face was so smooth I figured it had benefited from a little cosmetic surgery.
I gave him a polite smile. “Please, call me Russ. Nobody uses Rhys.”
Richardson turned businesslike. “Well, Russ, thank you for your help with this unfortunate business.” He turned on a just-between-us grin. “I hope Andrew hasn’t been too hard on you. He’s my fiercest protector in the entire congregation, and I know he can be, ah, intimidating.”
So Kommen was a congregant. That explained a lot about his behavior, including his fear at losing another PI while his spiritual leader panicked.
I sat on the near end of a cream leather-covered love seat, where I could see both of them at the same time. “I’m sure he’s doing the best he can to protect you and your ministry, Reverend. And I’m not intimidated in the least.” I saw that register in both.
“Good for you. Good for you.” Richardson sat back in his chair and raised his hands, palms turned slightly out and up, a gesture of openness, welcome, and benediction all in one. “You have some questions for me.”
“Yes.” I pulled out my pocket recorder and set it on the coffee table in front of me.
“No recordings. Absolutely not.” Kommen’s voice dropped the temperature in the room about fifteen degrees.
I raised an
eyebrow at Richardson, who shrugged an apology. I put the recorder back in my pocket and took out a pen and notepad. “Okay, no recording. This will take more time, then. I’m pretty slow at taking notes.”
I got myself set and shifted my vision so I could watch Richardson’s aura. “I’m told that these threatening messages are blackmail against your son. Is that your take?”
“It’s the only explanation that makes any sense to me.” His aura spiked. A serious lie. I nodded studiously, and made a note.
“What’s your most likely scenario?”
“I believe someone wants to harm me and my ministry by discrediting my son.”
He fixed me with an intense gaze worthy of a Biblical prophet surviving in the desert on locusts and honey. “As you know, since he was delivered from the chains of homosexual desire,” he intoned, dragging out the bad word as HOE-moe-SEX-shul, “he’s become my right arm in Abundant Life and Gospel Ministry Church.”
My body contracted at his pronunciation, as if I were fifteen again, braced against my own father’s righteous fury pouring from the pulpit. It’s sad, in a way, how the body can remember the pain of darkness long after the soul has found the light switch.
“How might they attack your son and your ministry, Reverend?”
“You don’t need to answer that, Howard,” Kommen cut in. He glared at me. “That’s your job, to find out how.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Kommen,” I said, putting more emphasis on due than was polite. His aura darkened. He got it. “That’s not true. You hired me to find out who’s sending the letters. It seems to me that understanding how the letters might be effective in doing damage to your client could yield some idea of who might be behind them.”
“Now, Andrew,” Richardson’s mellifluous pulpit voice wafted sweet as the balm of Gilead across Kommen’s darkening face. “I’m sure the man means well. We must let him do his job no matter how uncomfortable that makes us.”
Kommen’s hands turned into claws on the arms of his chair, but he said nothing.
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