Dark Tide

by Josh Lanyon

  Could the mystery of Jay Stevens’s disappearance really be solved after all these years? Maybe solved wasn’t the right word. Obviously if his body had been shoved under the floor in the old hotel, he hadn’t died a natural death. This discovery might open more questions than it answered.

  We climbed past the second floor, and I absently noted that the crew had finished replastering the walls and sanding the floors. Nice to see that progress was being made, although this latest discovery was guaranteed to set things even further back than the revelation of a bunch of dead rats in the attic had.

  Up on the third story, the renovation was much less further along. In addition to battling fungus and wood rot, the crew was still stripping wallpaper and ripping out the old wiring.

  Fernando led me down the long hallway to the back. The floorboards squeaked ominously beneath our feet. We came at last to one of the small corner rooms. Water-browned wallpaper curled in sheets from the still-intact walls. The light fixture was hanging from the ceiling like a gouged-out eye. There were two double-hung windows, one with a view of the alley below and the other of the busy street to the south, where life went on as usual.

  Fernando closed the door on the crowd in the hall, and I saw the pulled-up, battered planks stacked to the side of the window. Something lay inside the gaping hole in the floor. I walked over and looked down at the raggedly clothed skeleton.

  Introducing Jay Stevens?

  He’d been wedged between the deep wooden joists. Then the planks of flooring had been nailed down again. Pretty simple, really. Assuming you had a crowbar, a hammer, and a chunk of uninterrupted time. If it hadn’t been for the mold staining the walls and creeping into the baseboards, the construction crew would have simply sanded the floors, refinished them, and moved on to the next room. He might have rested there for another fifty years.

  “Is there anything unusual about the room?”

  Fernando looked at me like I was insane.

  “Besides the dead guy in the floor.”

  “No.” He reminded me, “This level was sealed off. Nobody used it for years.”

  I nodded, unable to tear my gaze away from skeleton in the cavity at our feet: the empty, staring eye sockets, wispy, tarnished remnants of hair on the not-quite-clean skull, the yellowed and protruding teeth that gave the impression it — he — had been screaming when he died. Not an attractive sight. Natalie had been right about that.

  It would have been pleasant to take an academic view, to think of this like the twelve-thousand-year-old skeleton of a natufian shaman I’d been reading about at my cardiologist’s office yesterday.

  “There’s a suitcase in there too.” Fernando squatted down. He reached beneath and hauled out a long, flat suitcase before I could stop him. A fat spider scuttled toward my shoe, and I absently stepped on it.

  The shaman had been discovered with burial offerings that included fifty complete tortoise shells, the pelvis of a leopard, and a human foot. This skeleton had been walled up with a vintage Samsonite that bore faded labels for Delta-C&S Airlines and a couple of eastern hotels.

  Maybe it wasn’t archeology, let alone forensics, but it sort of indicated to me that the dead man — man, based on the filthy remnants of the polka-dot shirt — was circa the 1950s.

  It looked more and more likely that this was Jay Stevens.

  Judging by his luggage, he had been a man who liked to travel.

  “What do you think happened to him?” Fernando asked in a hushed voice.

  “Nothing good.”

  It looked to me like there were dark stains on the upper shoulders of the ratty shirt, and I knelt to get a better look, although, frankly, I didn’t want to get too close. He wasn’t the sweetest-smelling artifact to come out of this old building. Still, he didn’t smell as horrifying as something newly, freshly dead. All the same, I wondered how no one had…well…noticed him all these years? Even if the Huntsman’s Lodge had been pretty run-down by that time, surely the odor of a decomposing body would have made its presence known?

  “He must have been here a long time.”

  “Fifty years,” I said, “if he’s who I think he is.”

  “All this time he’s been waiting here for us to find him.”

  Happy thought. I opened my mouth to reply, but when Fernando had leaned over the broken floor to lift out the suitcase, he must have brushed against the bag of bones, because as we were studying it, the skeleton’s jaw dropped as though he were about to speak. Fernando swore and stepped back. I sucked in a sharp breath.

  I turned to Fernando, who was staring at me with horrified eyes.

  “Time to call the police,” I said.

  * * * * *

  I’d had the unique pleasure of making LAPD Homicide Detective Alonzo’s acquaintance a few weeks earlier when I’d been seduced — almost literally — into getting involved in the murder investigation of a Hollywood producer by the name of Porter Jones. Alonzo had found it hard to believe that an innocent citizen could be involved in four murder cases and not be guilty, at the very least, of considerable bad judgment. I tended to agree with him.

  More so after getting shot.

  So I can’t say that my heart exactly leaped for joy when he walked into Cloak and Dagger Books wearing that familiar cheap suit, mirrored shades, and bad attitude.

  “Mr. English. We meet again.” Alonzo was showing lots of teeth, though I don’t think it was meant to be a smile. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy. Hispanic, midthirties, medium height, and compactly built. He scanned the empty bookstore, his gaze lingering too long on Natalie, while the crime-scene team pushed through with their usual brusque officiousness.

  “It’s a small world,” I said.

  “About the size of a jail cell.”

  “I like your optimistic spirit, but even you’re going to have trouble pinning a fifty-year-old murder on me. If this case were any colder, they’d have called an anthropologist.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you think you know how old this murder is? You get your online degree in forensics or something?”

  “Fair enough. I think this might be Jay Stevens. He lived at the Huntsman’s Lodge back in the fifties. He disappeared, and the rumor was that he was murdered. I’m guessing the rumor was right.”

  “How about you leave the guesswork to the police?”

  I opened my mouth; that was really too easy a shot. And if I were honest, I didn’t feel up to tangling with Alonzo again.

  He must have read the thought that crossed my face. He said with grim good humor, “First thing is, we’re going to have to close your shop till further notice. This is a crime scene now.”

  “Further notice?” I repeated. I tried to keep my voice calm, so as not to antagonize him further. “I understand closing the bookstore for today. And I realize that construction has to stop while you investigate, but this part of the building isn’t a crime scene. There’s no reason we can’t be allowed to open for business tomorrow.”

  “You don’t think so? And here you’re supposed to be a famous master detective.”

  “I don’t consider myself any kind of a detective, and I’ve zero desire to get involved in another murder investigation, okay?”

  “But here you are, right in the middle of another one, aren’t you?”

  “The crime scene is over there on the other side of the wall.”

  “And what wall would that be?”

  We both looked at where the plastic divider hung, torn and drooping.

  Alonzo smiled. “That’s about as much protection as a condom with a hole in it. No offense.”

  Was inadequate self-protection supposed to be a specialty of mine?

  Actually, maybe he had a point. I said, “Look, Detective. I know you don’t like me, and I know you resent the way —”

  “You don’t know shit,” he interrupted. “This isn’t personal. This is strictly police business.”

  “Then you have to know that I didn’t — couldn’t possibly — have
anything to do with this. I wasn’t even born when Jay Stevens disappeared. And this part of the building has —”

  “Sorry, English,” he said with that same cheery aggression. “Rules is rules.”

  He strode off but stopped as he reached the open space between the bookstore and the construction site. “Hey, give my regards to your boyfriend, ex-Lieutenant Riordan.”

  I didn’t have an answer, which clearly pleased him. He strolled away with a big smile on his face.

  “What an ass,” Natalie muttered, joining me.

  Answering was beyond me. I felt numb as a wave of fatigue seemed to roll in out of nowhere, sucking the sand out from my under my feet, nearly knocking me over. I needed to lie down. Now.

  I said, “I’ll be upstairs.”

  “Are you okay?”

  I nodded. I didn’t feel okay, though. I felt nauseated, with a combination of reaction and exhaustion. I just wanted peace and quiet while I lay perfectly flat and perfectly still in an imitation of the corpse I felt like.

  “Do you need any help?”

  I shook my head impatiently and went upstairs. The cat appeared out of nowhere, springing along beside me — and again, nearly underfoot — equally happy to escape to the privacy of our quarters.

  Closing the door behind me, I staggered into the bedroom. I kicked my shoes off and flopped down on the bed.

  The next thing I knew, Natalie was bending over me saying, “Adrien?”

  I blinked up at her worried face. “What?”

  “I’ve been calling and calling you. Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” The lamp was on; the corners of the room were in shadow. I wiped the corners of my eyes with the heels of my hands and sat up. “What time is it?”

  “Seven.” She was frowning. “Have you been sleeping this whole time? Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “The police finally finished downstairs.”

  I pushed myself to my feet. “Is Alonzo waiting to talk to me?”

  “No. They’ve left.”

  “Left? Without talking to me? What did they say?”

  “Nothing. Do you want me to go pick up something for dinner?”

  Dinner? The cops had shut us down, and she was worried about dinner?

  I sank down on the edge of the bed again, trying to understand. “They didn’t say anything about what they found?”

  “They — that asshole in charge — said we can’t open the store tomorrow.”

  “The hell we can’t.”

  She was shaking her head. “I don’t think you should push him, Adrien. I have a feeling he’s dying for a reason to hassle you. He tried to insist that you had to vacate the premises.”

  “Oh really?” I said dangerously, rising again.

  “It’s okay,” she said quickly. “You don’t have to do anything. Everything’s been taken care of for you.”

  “What?”

  “I called Daddy, and he called the chief of police, and the final decision was Detective Asshole can’t make you leave, but he does get to make the call about when the shop can open again.” She smiled reassuringly. “As you can imagine, Daddy had a thing or two to say ab —”

  “Goddamn it. I don’t need your daddy running interference for me.” I heard the echo of that in the harsh silence that followed my interruption.

  “I” — her expression was stricken — “I was trying to help.”

  What was I doing? None of this was her fault. I was lucky to have her. Lucky to have Bill Dauten willing to go to the mat for me. And he would. He’d do anything for Lisa and, by extension, me.

  “I know you were. I don’t even know why I said that.” I didn’t know how to explain the raw compound of frustration and resentment that surfaced lately when I least expected it. “I’m sorry. It’s not that I’m not grateful. I am. Truly.”

  Natalie was still hurt, still waiting for me to say whatever it was that would make her understand why I was being such a prick when she and everyone else were doing their best to take care of me. I offered lamely, “I thought I’d be feeling better by now.”

  About a lot of things.

  She softened. “I know. The doctors said you’d be up and down. Like an emotional roller coaster. They told us what to watch for.”

  I resisted the temptation to undo my apology by throttling her. “Uh, yeah.”

  Bucking for sainthood, she volunteered, “Would you like me to make you something to eat?”

  Natalie’s cooking skills were even worse than my own, so it was a truly noble gesture. Or revenge. I shook my head. “I’ll figure something out.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Soup,” I said irritably. “Tuna. I’ll find something. What did the cops say?”

  “Why don’t you come home tonight?” she coaxed. “Lisa said she’ll make chicken potpie just for you.”

  “I am home.”

  “I know.” It was the tone of one humoring a crabby child. “But wouldn’t you feel better in a house with other people than in this creepy old building where someone was murdered?”

  I sighed. “He was murdered fifty years ago, Nat. I don’t think I’m in any danger.”

  “You don’t know who that skeleton belonged to. You think it was the trumpet player the old guy was talking about. Maybe it was someone else. Maybe that murder was a lot more recent than you think.”

  I ignored the suggestion of wholesale slaughter in my home and hearth. “Did the locksmith show up?”

  “Yes. The new keys are on the table in the hall.”

  “What happened to that old guy, anyway? What was his name? Henry Harrison?”

  She nodded. “I think so. I don’t remember. I think he wandered out again after your — Mel — arrived.”

  I didn’t like the delicate inflection on my Mel. The legendary Mel, no less. God only knew what information Lisa had shared about my past. Not that it was much of a past, but it was my own, and I’d have preferred to keep it that way.

  “He didn’t leave a card or anything?”

  She shook her head as she stooped to pick up Tomkins, who had wandered in. “Hello, bootiful boy. He looks so much healthier now, doesn’t he, Mr. Tomkins?”

  I wasn’t sure if she meant me or the cat. Probably the cat. I wisely remained silent.

  Mr. Tomkins put up with being cuddled with better grace than I did, although his eyes did slant my way in a silent appeal for aid when she started kissing his nose.

  “So what’s the problem with the temporary help?” I asked.

  Natalie hesitated before admitting, “Well, as you may have noticed, there was no temporary help today. This is the third day she’s called in sick.”

  “Tell the agency we need someone new.”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “The thing is, you’ve got sort of a reputation.”

  “I have?”

  “The bookstore has.”

  Oh. I considered this glumly. Yes, I could see where Cloak and Dagger Books might not win any Employer of Choice awards.

  “Let’s try a new agency.”

  “I did. Several of them. I finally found one who said they’d send someone out tomorrow. Or at least they were going to try. Now I’ll have to get them to postpone until we’re open again.”

  I nodded, preoccupied. If I really wasn’t going to be able to work — and admittedly, I’d felt ready to die with weariness by the time I’d dragged myself upstairs to rest that afternoon — we were going to need more help.

  Natalie let Tomkins down, and he sprang onto the bed and shook his head as though he’d been on the roller-coaster ride with me.

  “Are you sure you won’t come back to the house tonight?” she coaxed. “You’d make Lisa so happy, and you’d save Lauren a drive tomorrow, and Emma misses you so much.”

  “At the risk of seeming more ungrateful than I already do, I want to spend the night in my own bed.”

  She didn’t li
ke it, though she had to accept it in the end.

  Following Natalie’s departure — after reciting the usual list of warnings people seemed to feel obliged to deliver to me — I felt relief — for all of an hour. Long enough to feed the cat, make myself a small dinner salad, and relax in front of the TV.

  Usually the Partners and Crime writing group would be meeting downstairs, but I didn’t have the energy for it that night. Instead I watched TV and caught the tail end of the 1944 noir classic Laura, directed by Otto Preminger. Naturally that reminded me of Mel and his invite to the LACMA noir festival on Thursday. Thinking of Mel made me restless. I couldn’t seem to decide if I wanted to go out with him or not. I was flattered that he’d asked, that he seemed to want to resume…friendship, at the least. There was a time I’d have given anything to believe he regretted walking out. Now I felt little. But then, I felt little, period. It had to be some lingering emotional miasma following the trauma of getting shot and nearly dying. I couldn’t seem to make myself care about much of anything. I just wanted to be alone, but when I was alone, I felt edgy, almost nervous. Had I lost the knack of living by myself?

  In the midst of these gloomy thoughts, the phone rang, and my heart jumped. I went to the phone, made myself take a deep breath, and answered.

  “So you are there,” Guy said in that slightly affected accent, and I felt a flicker of disappointment. Not that I wasn’t happy to hear from Guy. I missed Guy, truth be told. I guess I’d been hoping…

  “I’m here.”

  “I was sure you’d be at Riordan’s.”

  “No.”

  I could feel a dozen questions in that brief pause. He said easily enough, “Good. I’m glad of that. How are you feeling?”

  I was really quite tired of that question.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Lisa sounded…”

  “Lisa is ticked off because I left the nest AMA.”

  “Against medical advice?”

  “Against Mother’s advice.”

  Guy chuckled. “That sounds about right. I heard you had a spot of excitement at the bookstore today?”

  I filled him in on the discovery of the skeleton in the floor, and he said, “I don’t think there can be much mystery about it. They’re all but announcing on the telly that it’s this Stevens bloke.”