by Meg Benjamin
“I’ll pick up some pepper spray. Don’t worry about it. I can look out for myself.”
He closed his eyes in exasperation, blowing another cloud of smoke. “We’ll discuss it another time. Did Delwin have any ideas about Alana DuBois?”
“You mean aside from dismissing her repeatedly as a lying confidence trickster? He’s going to get back to me after he checks with the cops.”
She rubbed the back of her neck. The tension she’d built up following Delwin around was finally beginning to ease. “He’s a real pain in the ass. Are you sure this whole thing is necessary?”
“You’ve handled skeptics before. Don’t tell me you’re going to let this one get under your skin. I thought you were disguising yourself as a dowdy librarian.”
She sighed. “It’s not a disguise. I am a librarian. Or anyway I was. I can deal with Delwin if I have to. The question is, why do I have to? Have you found out anything useful about Alana DuBois?”
Skag exhaled thoughtfully, watching the smoke rise toward the shadowy ceiling. “In a way, perhaps. So far I’ve been unable to find anyone who had any contact with her. On the other hand, I’ve also been unable to locate DuBois herself, which may or may not mean she’s still alive.”
“May or may not?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps I simply haven’t found her yet. Alana DuBois’s disappearance strikes me as mysterious. And I detest mysteries. Particularly when they concern mediums.”
“You think DuBois disappeared because she was a medium?” A quick prickle of unease drifted along Rose’s spine.
Skag shook his head. “It’s hard to tell. Mediums like Alana DuBois do move around a great deal, particularly when they’ve exhausted the possibilities in a given location. On the other hand, it’s troubling that this one managed to disappear after she contacted Delwin about Bradford.”
“What’s to say she didn’t just take off? That’s what Delwin thinks.”
“Delwin strikes me as a devotee of Occam’s razor, meaning he’ll always accept a plausible explanation rather than a melodramatic one.” He tapped spectral ashes into his spectral ashtray. “Unfortunately, the supernatural reeks of melodrama.”
“You would know,” Rose muttered.
“I, of course, am the exception.” He gave her a chilly smile. “At any rate, we need to find out what happened to Alana DuBois. It’s a matter of safety—judging possible threats to our enterprise. If we find she simply went looking for a bigger score and that Bradford is innocuous, you can bid Delwin farewell and proceed with our business.”
Her lips tightened. “And if we find she didn’t and Bradford isn’t?”
“We’ll decide precisely what to do when and if that happens.” He glanced around the room, looking for all the world as if he were avoiding her gaze.
“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked quietly.
His eyes glowed briefly in the gathering darkness. “Ah, Rose, such cynicism is really unattractive in one so young.”
She snorted. “I repeat—what aren’t you telling me? What’s really going on? Did you find out anything about her séances?”
“As it happens, I was able to find someone who was actually in attendance at Ms. DuBois’s last séance.”
“I assume you don’t mean a living participant.”
His eyebrow arched. “Of course not. My contacts with the living are limited to you.”
“Lucky me. Does that mean Alana DuBois was the real deal, that she really was in contact with the Other Side?”
Skag blew another cloud of smoke. “She had some basic sensitivity to the presence of the dead, but she had no idea she was really in contact with anyone. She was completely untutored. The séance itself was little more than a theatrical performance.”
“Okay, what happened at this particular performance?”
“According to my source, the séance started about ten minutes late because one of the guests got lost. It was the night of that unusual heavy fog.”
She nodded, thinking back. “That was just last week. I didn’t know her séance was so recent.”
“Ms. DuBois began by asking for a moment of silent meditation. Then she became confused.”
Rose glanced up at him. “Confused how?”
“My source said she lost track of what was going on. She became disoriented, as if she was having difficulty remembering what was supposed to happen at the séance.”
Rose’s mouth twisted slightly. “Maybe she was in contact with the spirits after all. The distilled variety.”
He shook his head. “My source didn’t say anything about her being drunk. He said she pulled herself together after that and began asking the participants questions about what they wanted to ask her spirit guide.”
“Spirit guide? I thought you said she didn’t have one.”
“She didn’t. Apparently, Ms. DuBois called her imaginary guide Angelus and described him as a resident of Ireland.”
“Terrific. She watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”
“Possibly. The rest of the séance was strictly routine. She passed on so-called messages from the spirit world to the participants for around an hour and a half, and then she left for home.”
“And disappeared?”
“As far as I can tell, yes.”
“That’s . . . unsettling.” Rose rubbed a hand across her suddenly tense shoulders. “What do you think happened to her?”
“I have a few theories.” Skag took a quick drag on his cigarette. “Nothing I can share with you yet. Should things become more definite, I’ll fill you in. Particularly if things become more dangerous.”
Rose frowned. “I didn’t think being a medium was supposed to be particularly dangerous.”
“Normally, it isn’t. Occasionally events can become more . . . threatening.”
She studied him for a moment, then shrugged, picking up an envelope from the coffee table. “What about the jobs we’re doing now? We just got another note from Lourdes Graziano. She wonders how we’re doing at finding out where and when her great-uncle Eloy bought that ghastly painting that turns out to be worth a mint if it’s real.”
Skag ground out his cigarette, tossing the butt into the ashtray and pocketing the holder. “I’ll check on the provenance with Great-uncle Eloy myself. At this time of day he should be well sloshed on martinis. And he tends to be a garrulous soul. Until later, Rose, my treasure.”
He faded gradually until he was only a shadow before disappearing into the evening twilight. A lingering haze of smoke hung in the air above the chair, and then it, too, dissipated.
Rose stared across the room. She’d ceased long ago to be frightened by Skag’s sudden entrances and exits. Nonetheless, she couldn’t help wondering where ghosts went to become sloshed on martinis. She pictured a forties nightclub populated entirely by spirits. The Spook Club, perhaps, or the Corpseacabana.
She wouldn’t mind a little sloshing herself, but drinking alone was pathetic. She didn’t pause to consider just why Evan Delwin’s face popped into her mind at that point as she headed for her computer to spend a couple of hours tracing William Bradford’s exploits in San Antonio.
***
Harry Dominguez was on his computer when Evan arrived at the police substation. He glanced up with a grimace before returning to his hunt-and-peck. “What’s up? If it’s anything that requires more than five minutes, you’re out of luck. I’ve got to finish this report by this evening.”
“Shouldn’t take that long. I’ve got a name for you to check for priors.” Evan found a metal visitor’s chair at an adjoining desk and pulled it up beside Harry so that he could peer over his shoulder. “Another medium.”
Harry’s grimace intensified. “I don’t have time for this, Evan.”
Evan gave him a bland smile and waited.
Harry sighed. “Okay, you bastard, w
ho is it?”
“Her.” Evan handed him the photograph. “The name’s supposedly Alana DuBois.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Supposedly?”
“You know anybody who’s actually named Alana DuBois? Particularly somebody who talks to spirits for a living?”
Harry stared at the photograph for a few minutes, brow wrinkled in something close to thought. “Doesn’t look familiar, but I don’t know every medium working in San Antonio, particularly if she stays under the radar. What’s she done?”
“Nothing I know of.”
“So why do you want to know about her?” Harry handed back the photo. “Looking up innocent citizens can get a man in trouble, Delwin, even if they’re mediums.”
“She’s disappeared. And she’s got a connection to Bradford. I just want to make sure she didn’t end up at the bottom of the river. And I need to know if she’s got a record.”
“What’s her Bradford connection?”
“Somebody left me a voice mail saying she had information about Bradford. She disappeared before I could track her down. She hasn’t been back to her apartment for over a week.”
Harry shook his head. “So why do you think she needs to be looked for? What’s to say she didn’t just take off? Are her relatives worried? Did she miss some appointment she was supposed to show up at? Did the family silver go missing in the house where she did a séance?”
“I don’t have any evidence that she didn’t take off, and to answer your other questions, not that I know of, not that I know of, and of course not because that would be a crime and you’d already have heard about it.” Evan sighed. “Look, Harry, we’ve both got stuff to do here. Could you just check her out for me?”
“Okay, okay.” Harry turned back to his monitor and clicked a few keys, then typed in DuBois’s name.
Evan stared over his shoulder, watching the database sort through the alternatives. After a few seconds, another screen appeared with a picture and some text—a mug shot of a very pissed-looking, somewhat older Alana DuBois.
“Surprise, surprise. Not an upstanding citizen. Did time for fraud in Dallas.”
Evan peered at the screen. “What’s her name—her real name?”
“Sylvia Morris. Looks like she used Alana DuBois as her professional name.”
“Professional? She run any scams around here?”
Harry pursed his lips. “Not that she got caught for. Hang on, let me check under Sylvia Morris to see if we’ve got anything recent on her.” He tapped a few more keys, with no apparent result. “Doesn’t look like it. Maybe she’s been clean since she came to San Antonio.”
“And maybe she just got better at whatever she was doing in Dallas.” Evan frowned again. “What was the date on that arrest?”
“Four years ago. She did ninety days. Doesn’t look like she was all that skillful—they got her for selling lucky charms to elderly customers after telling them they’d die without them. My guess is if she’d been active around here doing anything other than spook shows, we’d have heard about it.”
“Spook shows.” Evan leaned back in his chair. “Speaking of spook shows, what do you know about a club called Nightmare on Novalis?”
Harry shrugged. “They run some of the local ‘ghost tours’ for the tourists. You know, take them down to see the haunted railroad tracks, go over to the Menger to check out Teddy Roosevelt, that kind of thing.”
“No trouble?”
“Not that I’ve heard. Of course, they’re in a part of town where I wouldn’t go wandering around by myself if I was a tourist, but since I’m not, it doesn’t bother me.”
“What about the guy who runs it, Garcia?”
Harry shook his head. “Forget it, Evan, I’m not checking Augie for you. You’ve got no good reason to ask.”
Evan leaned back in his chair again. “He hired Alana DuBois to conduct the séance where she was last seen, so he’s one of the last people who spoke to her. She disappeared after she ran the séance—didn’t even go back to pick up her paycheck.”
“But you’ve got no evidence that anything happened to her at the séance itself, right? And you’ve also got no evidence that Augie did anything illegal, either to her or anybody else. I’m not doing any fishing expeditions for you. Not unless you turn up something that indicates foul play.”
Evan sighed. “Okay, you win. I’ll dig around and see if I can find a threatening note or something bloodstained.”
“That would be nice.” Harry reached for the photograph again. “You want me to show this around? See if anybody recognizes her?”
“That’s my only print. I’ll see if I can make a copy for you.” Evan tucked the picture of Alana DuBois, a.k.a. Sylvia Morris, into his pocket.
As he headed back down the hall, he told himself the uncomfortable clenching in his gut was probably the result of his lunch at that taqueria on Frio. It had nothing to do with a vanishing con artist named Alana DuBois or maybe Sylvia Morris.
After all, people disappeared all the time, usually because they wanted to. And it was even more of a stretch to think that Rose Ramos had a point and that Alana/Sylvia’s disappearance after the call to him was a little too convenient.
Evan’s stomach clenched again. He sighed as he headed for his car. It all boiled down to something he’d already figured out, around the time Rose Ramos had ambled into his office.
Ms. Rose Ramos was trouble on a stick.
Chapter 7
Rose spent a couple of hours searching through newspaper databases for articles on William Bradford in San Antonio. What she mainly found were photos of Bradford at charity events. He was usually with some attractive woman, seldom the same one twice.
Considering the size of the donations the charities wanted, Bradford was apparently either very successful or sought out for his celebrity value. Maybe both.
Around seven she went to the kitchen for a sandwich. She should have been delighted to be on her own for a change. Instead, she found herself thinking about giving Delwin a call. Maybe he’d talked to the police and found out something more about Alana DuBois.
She picked up her phone and started to select his number from her address book, then caught herself just in time. What the hell was she doing? She didn’t really want to talk to Delwin, did she? Why would she contact him?
She had a sudden image of Delwin the way he’d looked when she’d first walked into his office. The slightly overlong, blue-black hair, the odd amber-colored eyes that tipped up a bit at the ends. The nose that looked like it belonged on an ancient Roman statue. Delwin might look a little like a man with some personal demons, but she had to admit it—he was surprisingly hot.
Which had no bearing whatsoever on her plans for the rest of the night.
Sighing, Rose punched the number for Nightmare on Novalis into her cell phone. Maybe she could get some more details from Augie on that potential customer.
The phone rang five times then switched to voice mail. Rose disconnected, brow furrowing. Maybe she should just go to the club. She felt restless suddenly. Probably something else that she could blame on Delwin.
She remembered his expression when she’d told him she’d been to the club before, that polite disbelief. Okay, so she’d been wearing her thrift shop clothes, but still. She really hated feeling like somebody’s homely cousin and dressing like a bag lady. And she was good and tired of Delwin assuming she was a charity case, even if that was what she wanted him to think.
She headed for her bedroom, tossing off her T-shirt and cutoffs. Maybe it was time for her to do a little hell-raising of her own, just to remind herself that she could. The rest of her work could wait until tomorrow. Tonight she was going back to Nightmare on Novalis, this time to have a little fun.
Forty minutes later, she studied the new bouncer running the door at the Nightmare. He was checking IDs with minimal inter
est, flicking his gaze from face to face, making sure they were the same as the ones on the driver’s licenses.
Okay. Hell-raising time. Rose caught his glance deliberately, putting enough heat into it to singe his eyelashes. Then she peeled off the jacket she’d worn to walk from her car.
The bouncer blinked, swallowed, and caught his breath in a small gasp. “Have a good evening, ma’am,” he stuttered, handing back her driver’s license.
Rose smiled, showing teeth. “I intend to.”
The Nightmare looked slightly less dismal at night than it did during the daytime, but it still didn’t bear much close inspection. There were a couple of tables full of goth girls near the front of the room, all black leather and chains, but not too many other customers yet.
The goths were barely legal and probably too poor to buy more than a couple of drinks during the evening. On the other hand, they added enough atmosphere to almost make up for the cheesy fake spiderwebs in the corners and the Frankenstein’s monster doll slumped behind the bar.
Rudy had turned on the accent lights that made him look a little like the bartender in The Shining. Augie would probably have had him in full zombie makeup if he could have gotten Rudy to go along with it.
Rose climbed onto a barstool, letting her black leather skirt ride up to midthigh on her bare legs. The deep V of her blue satin blouse dipped down to her sternum. Grandma Caroline’s smoky blue chalcedony pendant jostled against her cleavage. Smiling, she hooked the three-inch heel of one silvery sandal over the barstool frame. “Hi, Rudy,” she purred.
Rudy glanced her way, eyes widening. “Hey, Rose. You sure look better than you did this afternoon.”
“Thanks.” Rose grinned more widely. Just the kind of reaction she was looking for. She felt better already. “Is Augie here?”
Rudy nodded. “In his office.”
Rose gave him another smile. She’d take care of business with Augie and then see who there was to dance with. The DJ in the corner was just getting warmed up. “Thanks.”
Augie’s office door was closed, probably because it was still early in the evening. Rose knocked and waited.
