He smiled at his own joke. The same jokes seemed always to amuse him, and probably always would.
He stepped out of the bathroom, still naked, and shut off the radio. The phone rang and he began to get dressed as the answering machine picked up on the third ring.
“Octavian Investigations. No one is here at the moment, but if you leave a message and your telephone number, someone will get back to you as soon as possible.”
“Peter. Frank. Just calling to check in. I spoke to Ted Gardiner earlier, but the cops haven’t got a clue. If you need anything from me, please call.”
Peter pulled his brown leather bomber jacket over the blue cotton oxford shirt, effectively hiding his armpit holster. Inside the holster was his .38. If it was good enough for Spenser . . .
Really, though, it was for show. If he had to hurt somebody, it was just as easy, and generally more satisfying, to do it with his hands. The part of him that craved that satisfaction frightened and revolted him, but he refused to deny its existence.
To overcome something, he knew, one must first accept it. So he did. But he kept a tight rein on that atavistic urge. Very tight.
Tonight he was on a personal job. Frank Harris was a friend, one of the few Octavian could claim, and his only daughter had disappeared. Peter knew better than most what it was like to lose someone, he’d lost plenty over the years, and he’d do whatever could be done.
Frank had given him little enough to work with. Janet Harris worked for a big Boston law firm as a paralegal. Six days earlier—that would have been Wednesday—Janet left work at her usual time, went to her usual bar with her usual friends, and left early with an unusual but far from extraordinary headache.
Six days was a long time. Trail could be awfully cold by now.
The cops, as usual, had done no more and no less than what was mandatory and then gave up the girl for lost. They figured she had run away with the milkman, or some such, and had unofficially quit on Monday night.
It was Tuesday, and Frank and Peter had spoken three times during the day. Normally, Octavian would have been up by 5:30, but he’d been out of slate for a few days—and out during the day—and he’d needed some rest. He probably would have woken up earlier if Frank hadn’t kept interrupting his slumber. But how do you explain such an unnatural need for rest?
Now it was 11:00 P.M., and Peter walked into the Publik House, the last place Janet Harris had been seen.
The first things to draw his attention were the eyes of Courteney MacGoldrick, which were giving him a very vigorous appraisal. Caught in the act, she blushed slightly, but did not look away. He kept his eyes locked on hers as he crossed the room and gave her a long-practiced, lopsided grin.
The grin won her over, but it wasn’t the only thing she noted. His eyes were gray, flecked with silver, which gave them a slightly hypnotic quality. His six-foot-four frame was wiry, and he carried himself like an old western gun-fighter. His face was ageless, but most people’s best guess, and Courteney MacGoldrick’s, since she happened to be thinking about it right then, was that he was probably in his early to midthirties.
“What can I do for you?”
“For now just a glass of white wine, and maybe a couple of answers.”
“The wine’s coming right up. The answers depend on the questions.”
As she poured his wine he reached into his pocket and retrieved his ID and a photograph. He laid both on the bar.
“Pretty self-explanatory,” he told her when she returned, and he began sipping his wine.
Courteney recognized the picture right away.
“Janet came in a lot. Flirted a lot, a nice, funny woman. But she left alone, always. Only once talked about a guy at work she was attracted to, I don’t remember his name. The night I saw her last, she got a headache after two beers and left. I already talked to the cops, but I’m sure nothing will come of that.”
“That’s all?” he asked.
“That’s all,” she answered.
Peter got up to go.
“Come back and see us sometime?”
“It’s a date,” he promised.
Out the door and into the street, on his way back to the State House parking lot, where he had left his car, he thought of her, and then forgot her, storing only what she told him. He had driven tonight, which was rare, but he was in the mood for music and had picked up the latest Seal disc. He hoped there was no ticket on the Volvo.
The night was quiet; and then it was not.
Sirens pierced the air and Peter winced. His ears were sensitive. An ambulance and police car sped past, rounded the corner, and stopped in front of the garage beneath the secretary of state’s building. Peter was right behind, following on foot. He couldn’t help it. He survived by curiosity and a sort of prescience that told him which things deserved his attention. This was one of them.
Two cop cars were already there when this latest arrived with the ambulance. The paramedics were getting out their gurney and wheeling it inside. He hoped that Janet Harris would not be on it when they returned. It seemed he had spent several lifetimes delivering bad news, and he was tired of it.
“Octavian.” The voice belonged to Ted Gardiner, a lean, black plainclothes detective with few manners but a lot of charm. He smiled at Peter. They weren’t good friends, but there was respect there, and that was about as close as Peter usually got.
“What a surprise,” Gardiner said. “Chasing ambulances now?”
“Thought I’d get a look at your next unsolved mystery,” Peter quipped, a trait the cop brought out in him.
“Come on in.” Gardiner ushered Peter through the door. “It’s actually pretty interesting. I . . . Hey, you know, you need to get out more. A little Florida vacation. You need a tan.”
“Are you going to fill me in on what you’ve got, wise-ass, or should I guess?”
Ted smiled. He knew about Peter’s aversion to the sun, a medical thing, he’d been told, and he was just sarcastic enough not to care whether it upset the PI or not.
“Touchy, touchy. Just concerned about your health, Peter. You look like a fucking vampire.”
“Asshole,” Peter said, laughing at Ted and with him, “I am a vampire.”
Ted smiled at him and then mustered up his serious face, which was rare. They had arrived at the scene, and the paramedics were bagging the body. Peter saw that the car door was open, and a lot of photographs were being taken of the interior. He looked at the corpse with the back of its head gone.
“Martin, Roger Francis,” Gardiner informed him. “Age, thirty-three. Occupation, yuppie. Cause of death, pistol fired approximately six inches from the victim’s forehead. Clean shot. Roger was nice enough to roll down the window for the guy. Motive, definitely not robbery—cash and credit cards still in the guy’s wallet. Unless, of course, there was something of significant value in Roger’s briefcase, because it seems our man rifled through that particular piece of baggage. The other ambulance had come and gone by the time you showed up.”
“Other ambulance?”
“The janitor walked in on the thing. From what we know, he probably saw the guy who did it. But he won’t be talking to anyone for a day or so. Bullet in the chest can do that to a guy.”
The paramedics were about to zip the black bag holding Roger Martin’s body.
“Mind if I take a look?”
“As long as these boys don’t mind.” Ted motioned to the paramedics, who stepped back to allow Octavian access to the body.
He bent down, looking closely at the wound, and took a deep breath.
Ted raised an eyebrow. Was this guy smelling the corpse? God, that was gross. But then, everything Octavian did was peculiar.
“What time did Martin leave work?”
“No idea. Why?”
“He’s only been dead about an hour and a half, which puts the murder somewhere between ten and ten-thirty,” Peter answered. “He smells of beer. If you check his work area, and don’t find any trace of alcohol, t
hen he must have gone somewhere local to drink and come back here afterward. Find out where he went, and what was in the briefcase, and you’ll be that much closer to finding his killer.”
Peter zipped up the body bag and stood to face Ted, who was looking at him with a sort of bemused smile on his face.
“You always give me the creeps when you pull that Sherlock Holmes thing.”
“Elementary,” Peter said, and winked. He was wondering whether or not to get involved, and decided against it. If he was supposed to be involved, the mystery would follow him until he paid attention to it. But just in case . . .
“Ted, do me a favor. Call me tomorrow and let me know how this thing turns out. And while you’re at it, scoop me a copy of the missing-persons file on Janet Harris.”
“Man, you don’t miss a trick. I would have called you right away, but I thought you were still out of town.”
“Got back this morning.”
“Yeah, sorry. God, it’s awful. Frank’s been holding up, but just barely. And officially, I’m not even supposed to be on that case.”
“Well, you can unofficially snag me that file and keep your ears open. I’m sure I’ll need your help on this one.”
“Sure thing,” the cop said. “Have a good night.”
“I’m working on it.”
He walked to the lot where his car was parked—there was indeed a ticket—and decided to see if Janet Harris’s roommate, Meaghan, was still awake. It was twelve midnight, exactly.
2
AS PETER DROVE HE THOUGHT ABOUT THE city. He would probably have to move on soon, and it would not be easy. Boston had been his home for ten years and he had come to care a great deal for it and its people. Sometimes it seemed like he had wandered through every major city in the world, staying in each only as long as it was healthy. Then he would drift into another city, perhaps in another country and under a different name. But this city was so much warmer than New York, London, Paris—than any of the cold, flashy cultural centers of the Western world. And the Eastern world was not the safest place for his kind.
Buildings of the future stood side by side with buildings older than the nation. It was a city with a small-town attitude. It was a political city, but the politics were old-fashioned baby-kissing politics and didn’t show a sign of change. Networks of acquaintance crisscrossed from the highest office to the lowest shop. Even so, you could always hide away in the hustle and bustle if you wanted to, or needed to, as Peter did from time to time. A small, quirky, contradictory city, but it had taken in an orphan of the world, and he was grateful.
Peter parked the Volvo in front of an old house with a new coat of pea-green paint. Getting out, he looked up at the second story, where Janet Harris and Meaghan Gallagher shared an apartment. There was a single light on.
The house was off of Huntington Avenue near Northeastern University. It was a far cry from the city’s best neighborhood, but it wasn’t bad. Trees lined the road, bare this time of year, and streetlights cast a ghostly light across small but well-manicured lawns and the cracked and potholed pavement. The silence and the cold of the night combined to lift him, energize him.
The wind brought the smell of fireplaces not too distant, and a major snowstorm coming in from the northeast.
Peter let himself into the foyer and scanned the few names on the battered black mailboxes. Three apartments in the house, and the middle label read HARRIS/GALLAGHER. He pushed the buzzer.
After a few moments he pushed it again, this time holding the button down for a few seconds. Still, there was no answer, so he buzzed once more and turned to leave. He had the outside door open, but paused a moment. His hesitation paid off when he heard a sleepy female voice.
“Hello?” it said. “Who is it?”
Peter let the door shut again behind him as he answered. “Hello, Miss Gallagher? My name is Peter Octavian, I’m a private investigator, a friend of Frank Harris. Janet’s father?”
When the voice did not answer immediately, he added, “I realize it’s late, maybe if I come back early tomorrow evening?”
“No, that’s okay. I’m sorry Mr. Octavian. I was kind of vegetating for a sec. Come on up, I was having trouble sleeping anyway.”
She buzzed him in, and on the way up, Peter thought about that voice, wondered what she looked like. That scratchy, sleepy tone had been kind of sexy.
He smiled, inwardly laughing at himself. It had been far too long since he’d had sex, and even longer since he’d had a relationship. There was always something more important to do, but he was beginning to feel the itch again. Unfortunately, now was not the time, and he was glad he had more pressing matters to attend to.
He knocked twice, softly, and he could hear first the chain and then a dead bolt sliding back. A pair of chocolate-brown eyes peered around the door at him.
“Please come in,” Meaghan said, swinging the door wide and then closing and locking it after him.
Peter had made his way inside and taken his jacket off. When he turned around, he noticed her scrutinizing him. She smiled.
“You don’t look like a detective,” she said.
“Really? What do detectives look like?”
“Oh, it’s not that you don’t look the part. Only that most of the real-life cops I’ve met are . . . well, they’re nothing like the ones in the movies, that’s for sure.”
There was a moment of silence as her amused smile—corners of the mouth turned up slightly—met his lopsided grin head-on. Peter shook his head, chuckling.
“I guess I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said.
“If you like,” Meaghan countered.
They both laughed, easily and comfortably. And then Meaghan sobered.
“Any news on Janet?”
“None yet, but I’m just getting started.”
Peter looked her over. He thought she looked charming. An old-fashioned word, but it fit. She stood there in her tattered blue terry robe, a couple of sizes too big, and what looked like a man’s button-down oxford shirt underneath. The apartment had hardwood floors, and she wore sport socks to walk around. Her auburn hair was wild from the pillow, and she brushed the last of the Sandman from her eyes.
She took his jacket.
“Please, sit down,” she said, and gestured toward the couch. Peter glanced about the apartment: two bedrooms, one bath, kitchen, living room, dining room. The place was attractively decorated in white with soft blues and pinks, and the furniture definitely had a New England feel to it, sturdy yet elegant. Full bookshelves almost completely covered one wall, and throw rugs decorated the floors. Framed prints adorned the walls, from Monet to completely indecipherable modern art, as well as a large photograph of whales with their tails out of the water. Old-fashioned iron radiators stood in several places around the living and dining rooms, but it was a bit chilly in the place. He liked it.
They sat down, he on the couch and she on an armchair across from it. It took him a moment to notice she was looking at him expectantly.
“Um, I . . .” he mumbled. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long night.”
“No problem.”
“I figure you’ve already been a few rounds with the cops, so I’ll try to keep the questions to a minimum.”
“Whatever you need to know to find Janet. The cops sure aren’t gonna do any good.”
“Okay. Miss Gallagher . . .”
“Meaghan.” She smiled, and he returned it.
“Yes, Meaghan. First things first, I guess. Would you mind if I had a look around Janet’s room? It might give us a clue.”
“No problem,” she answered, getting up again.
“It’s the back room,” she added, and Peler got up to follow her.
The room was spartan, but elegant. One bureau, two night tables, each adorned by a lamp, and a wicker chair in the corner. A large brass bed, a small TV set, a good-sized throw rug on the floor. A floral print hung over the bed. Janet Harris’s only real vice seemed to be clothes. She had a hug
e walk-in closet filled with them.
“She’s a snappy dresser, your Janet?” he asked.
“You’ve never met her?” Meaghan seemed surprised.
“Not actually, no. Her dad talks about her all the time, though.”
“Frank’s a sweetheart. Right now I’m almost more worried about him than about Jan.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know. I guess it’s just wishful thinking, but I have this feeling she’s okay.” She paused. “So, how long have you known Frank?”
“Almost ten years. Since I stopped some kids from breaking into his restaurant. After that he gave me the run of the place when I needed to take clients out.”
Meaghan sal down on the bed, one leg drawn up under her, and hugged herself light against the chilly room as Peter glanced around.
“I’m surprised I’ve never met you.”
“It’s not too surprising actually. I only go in there once in a while, and even then it’s very late. I always work at night, that’s when the bad guys come out.”
“And you’re a good guy, eh?” she asked with a pleasant laugh.
“Yes, ma’am,” he returned in a cowboy drawl. “An official member of the Fraternal Order of the White Hats . . . at least most of the time. I’ve been considered a bad guy once or twice, but then again, who hasn’t?”
Her smile was warm, and then she was serious again. “I suppose we ought to get down to business?”
“Well, unless you intend to stay up all night.”
“Would you like me to leave the room, let you concentrate?”
“Actually, if you don’t mind, it’s better if you stay here. You’ll be able to help me find things.”
“You know something, I must have really been asleep when I answered the door. I never even asked to see your ID.”
Peter started to reach for his wallet.
“No, Mr. Octavian.” She was smiling again. “Don’t bother now. I guess if you had wanted to have your way with me, you’d have made your move already.”
She was flirting, but he figured that was healthy right about now. “Don’t be so sure about that. And call me Peter, okay?”
Of Saints and Shadows (1994) Page 2
