No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale

by Pope, Christine

  Blood rushed to my cheeks as I recalled the events of the evening before. Some time in the middle of the night he had awakened me, seeking my body in a moment of renewed ardor, and I had willingly gone to him once again. Now I felt tired and more than a little sore—that’s one thing the romance novels never tell you about, I thought. But amidst the fatigue and the slight embarrassment over how easily I had fallen in bed with him, I was aware of a great contentment. I would not have wished to be anywhere else but here next to Erik, here in Erik’s bed.

  “Phone,” I said to Erik, who seemed to be having a more difficult time waking than I had.

  He groaned and rolled over toward me. “Machine’ll get it,” he murmured, his voice still fogged with sleep. Then his eyes opened, and he stared at me, as if registering for the first time that I was lying in bed next to him.

  Sure enough, the phone stopped ringing.

  I smiled at him. “Good morning.”

  One hand went to his face, as if he couldn’t believe that he was casually facing me without the mask. Then I saw the beginnings of a wary smile in return, perhaps his first tentative realization that the mask really didn’t matter very much to me. “Good morning,” he replied at length. Then his gaze went to the heavily curtained windows across the room. “What time is it, anyway?”

  “I have no idea.” I leaned down and kissed him softly on his scarred cheek, gratified to see that this time he did not flinch. “It feels pretty late.”

  With that he sat up, the bedclothes slipping away from his torso. He was very pale, of course, but I found the effect pleasing nonetheless. The carefully sculptured musculature of his upper body reminded me an ancient Greek statue; apparently he spent at least some of his time working out in a home gym.

  Still clutching the bedcovers about his waist, he leaned over and began reaching for something with his left hand. “Oh, Christ,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I appear to have lost my underwear. Would you mind—” and he broke off, a faint flush of color dusting his cheekbone.

  “Averting my eyes?” I asked, unable to keep from grinning. How odd he was sometimes—here we had been as intimate as two people could be, yet he couldn’t bear for me to see his naked backside. I turned away, still smiling. “I promise I won’t peek.”

  And I didn’t, even though the temptation was almost irresistible as I felt him get up off the bed and then drop to his knees on the floor.

  Something soft hit my arm. “What the—”

  “Found yours,” he said, and then, “Ah—got them.”

  “Is it safe now?” I asked, and then opened my eyes to see him standing there in a pair of black boxer briefs. I had to admit that they clung to his well-muscled thighs very nicely.

  I didn’t get to admire him for very long, however, for he went to his closet and drew on a lovely red silk dressing robe and then handed a second one to me.

  “Unless you’d rather not?” he asked delicately, his gaze dropping to where my breasts were beginning to slip out from the sheet I had pulled around myself earlier.

  It was my turn to blush. “Thank you,” I said, taking the dressing robe from him. It was obviously Japanese, dark green with silvery cranes and bamboo leaves woven into the liquid silk. I pulled it around me, then took advantage of the relative cover it afforded to wriggle into my own underwear.

  The phone chose that moment to start shrilling again. Erik muttered something under his breath and then looked over to the opposite wall, where a handsome carved mahogany clock showed the time as being a little before one in the afternoon. I could almost see him weigh the consequences of not answering the phone again, then decide that whoever it was would probably just keep calling until they reached a live person.

  He crossed the room and punched a button on the multiline phone that sat on a side table there. Even the scarred side of his face looked annoyed. “Yes?”

  Of course I couldn’t hear who was on the other end of the phone, but it only took a few seconds for Erik’s expression to transform from annoyance to worry. “He’s not there? He didn’t call?”

  A pause while Erik listened to the reply.

  “I don’t have anyone here who can pick you up—yes, she’s here—yes, she’s fine—no, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Can you call a cab?”

  Another long pause, during which Erik began to shake his head.

  “No, I have no idea what could have happened. I just saw him yesterday, but I gave him the evening off. I’ll have to have Greenburg look into it.”

  Frowning, Erik stood quite still as he listened to the speaker on the other end of the line.

  “Yes, I know, but my hands are tied. Just get home, and then we’ll try to figure out what happened.”

  With that he hung up the phone, his face drawn into lines of anxiety. Any afterglow from the night before had been completely erased.

  Immediately I got up from the bed and went to him. “What’s the matter?”

  “That was Ennis calling from the hospital. Jerome was supposed to pick him up at noon, but he never showed up. I told Ennis to take a cab.” He frowned. “Jerome would not forget an appointment like that.”

  “So what do you think happened?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. All I can hope is that he was merely in a car accident.”

  At first the words didn’t quite register. “You hope?”

  “Absolutely.” He stepped away from the phone table and moved quickly across the chamber, heading for the bathroom. As he went he shrugged out of the silken dressing robe, and it fluttered to the ground in a shower of bloody fabric. “We both need to get ourselves ready. Ennis should be home very soon, and I don’t want to meet him like this.”

  I looked down at my own dishabille and realized he was probably right. But that still didn’t answer my question. “Why do you hope Jerome was only in a car accident?”

  “Because,” he said, and now the cloudy green eyes were more than merely anxious—they seemed almost frightened, “the alternative is so much worse.” Erik reached out to brush away a stray curl from my forehead. “I’m afraid he might have been arrested.”

  Ortiz peered through the one-way glass to watch the man who sat alone on the other side. Unlike most suspects brought in for questioning, he did not appear at all restless. Often when a subject was left alone for any length of time he would tap his feet, drum his fingers on the arms of the chair, even get up and pace about the room.

  But Jerome Manning did none of those things. He merely sat in the chair, hands resting lightly on his knees, blue eyes alert and fixed on the one-way glass. Of course he must have known that one or more persons was on the other side, watching him, and he obviously wasn’t going to give anything away.

  He was dressed casually but expensively in a black lamb leather jacket over a dark striped shirt and dark jeans, an ideal outfit for a night on the town. Apparently that was what he’d been up to when the two officers watching his condo caught him walking back home at around one in the morning. He’d casually informed them that he’d spent most of the evening shooting pool at the 35er on Colorado and was on foot because he didn’t want to monitor the amount of beer he had to drink.

  Up until the time of his arrest, he’d probably been having a pretty good evening; the officers who brought him in found several slips of paper with women’s phone numbers scribbled on them in his jacket pockets. Even afterward he had seemed unruffled, asking only when he would get his phone call. No one had volunteered the information, however, and he’d spent the night in a cell by himself, since the officers on duty knew better than to put an ex-FBI agent out in the common holding area.

  Ortiz’s pager had gone off at around two in the morning, and he’d called in to find that Manning was already in custody. After a few moments of deliberation, Ortiz decided to hold off on seeing him until the next afternoon. Extended time in a jail cell often worked wonders in making people more receptive to questioning, and besides, he knew he’
d be more effective if he didn’t have to drag himself over to the station in the middle of the night.

  So now he stood here, holding a cup of the sludge that passed for coffee in the station and watching Manning from behind the one-way glass. Despite his time in a cell, the guy didn’t look too much the worse for wear, except for the beginnings of some stubble on his cheeks. Ortiz scowled. It didn’t seem fair that someone could spend the night in jail and still look like a candidate for the cover of GQ.

  Kosky appeared at Ortiz’s elbow and made a face at his coffee mug. “For the love of God, let me buy you a cappuccino.”

  “Not now, Kosky.” Ortiz chewed his lower lip. This interrogation wasn’t going to be easy, he knew—the guy wasn’t just some loser off the street but a former government agent who’d probably forgotten more tricks about questioning suspects than Ortiz had ever known.

  Shaking his head, Kosky looked through the glass at Jerome Manning. “Nice jacket,” he commented.

  “Did you need something?” Ortiz asked, his tone acid.

  “Chief asked me to sit in on this one.”

  Jesus Christ, Ortiz thought, does the guy think I’m a complete amateur? “All right, but you stay in here. Don’t interrupt unless I call you in. Got it?”

  “You’re the boss,” Kosky replied amiably. He pulled out a chair and sat down.

  With a sigh, Ortiz left the observation chamber and went out to unlock the door to the interrogation room. Manning turned his head to watch him enter. There might have been a flicker of recognition in his eyes, but the neutral expression never changed.

  “Good morning, Mr. Manning,” Ortiz said, settling himself opposite Jerome on the other side of the scarred table that separated the two chairs. Ortiz placed Manning’s file in front of him, brought out his ubiquitous yellow pad, and clicked his pen. “I’m Detective Ortiz.

  “I know,” Manning said. “You used to be LAPD. The Baumgarten case?”

  “Good memory,” Ortiz replied. “So do you want to tell me why you think you’re here?”

  “I was hoping you’d fill me in. Sure, I had a few beers last night, but I wasn’t exactly being drunk and disorderly.”

  He should have known that Manning was not going to make this easy. “Okay, then. I’ve been working the Christine Daly case.” Ortiz watched Manning carefully while making that statement, but the guy didn’t even blink. “You hear of it?”

  “I think I saw something on the news a few days ago.” From all the concern in his voice, he might have been discussing an out-of-date weather report. “Any luck with that?”

  “I was hoping you might tell me.” Ortiz leaned forward a little, wishing he could read more from the handsome, impassive features. “A witness tells us you paid him to have Miss Daly’s car stolen and then crushed. You want to explain that to me?”

  Manning glanced at his watch—a Rolex, naturally. “When do I get my call?”

  “Why don’t you tell me about Miss Daly’s car first?”

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “So you are stating for the record that you have no knowledge of what happened to the car?”

  “I believe I don’t have to tell you anything without a lawyer present.”

  Well, he was right there. On the other hand, Ortiz had approximately twelve more hours before Manning had to be formally charged with a crime; in these sorts of situations, Ortiz was usually looking more for reactions than actual admissions of guilt. Still, he knew he was fooling himself if he thought the former FBI agent was going to let anything important drop.

  Ortiz decided to try another tack. “Do you own a 2011 Range Rover, license number 6GBH271?”

  “Yes.”

  “You paid cash for it?”

  Manning’s eyes narrowed for a split second before he answered, “Yes.”

  “Doing well for yourself in the private security business?”

  “I get along.”

  More than “get along,” Ortiz thought, considering the guy owned a vehicle worth more than sixty grand free and clear, lived in a half-million-dollar condo, and had about ten thousand bucks’ worth of watch strapped to his wrist. “And what sort of services do you provide?”

  “I consult with clients on security systems for their various needs. Occasionally I’ve worked with high-profile individuals as a personal security consultant.”

  Which was just a fancy name for bodyguard. “Do your consulting services include disposing of stolen vehicles and planning kidnappings?”

  The line between Manning’s brows deepened momentarily, but that was his only reaction. After a pause he said, “You know you’re reaching here, detective.”

  “Am I? Would you be interested to know that a Rigoberto Alvarez has positively ID’d you as the man who ordered the theft and disposal of one ’93 Honda Civic, currently registered to Miss Christine Daly?”

  Manning settled back in his chair, apparently unconcerned. “And who is this Rigoberto Alvarez?”

  “He owns an automotive repair business in El Monte.”

  “Ah.” Manning looked faintly amused. “I can guess what kind of business it is. So you’re going to take his word over mine?”

  Shit, Ortiz thought. The guy was right—if you put the two men in a courtroom right now and had them offer up testimony, no jury in the world would believe Rigoberto Alvarez over Jerome Manning. He hoped none of the desperation he was feeling had crept into his voice when he asked, “What reason would Alvarez have to accuse you of anything?”

  A lift of the shoulders under the expensive leather jacket. “How would I know? Maybe I cut him off in traffic one day. Maybe one of my company’s security systems got one of his buddies arrested. But I’ve never heard of the guy.”

  “And you would testify to that in a court of law?”

  “Of course.”

  He’s lying, Ortiz thought suddenly. Somehow he just knew—maybe Manning’s responses were a little too smooth, a little too controlled. Unfortunately, there was very little he could do about it, except have him submit to a lie-detector test, and Ortiz knew there wasn’t enough evidence to get departmental approval for that. All the data so far was completely circumstantial and based on hearsay from a pair of witnesses who were far from credible. Ortiz had just hoped that he might be able to get Manning to slip and say something incriminating.

  No such luck, though. Clearly, the guy wasn’t going to give up anything. Ortiz remembered Kosky, sitting up in the observation room and watching the whole thing and thought, Any time you want to step in here, buddy....

  But of course Kosky had probably already realized it was a lost cause. It happened, Ortiz knew; sometimes you could just feel it in your gut that someone was guilty, but if you didn’t have the evidence to back up your instincts then you were just shit out of luck. As he appeared to be here.

  He hated the words even as he said them. “Well, Mr. Manning, it appears we were misled. The Pasadena Police Department sincerely apologizes for any inconvenience we might have caused you.”

  “No problem, detective. You had evidence you needed to investigate.” Manning’s face was still bland, but Ortiz couldn’t help but hear the faint flicker of amusement in his voice. “Am I free to go now?”

  “Of course.” Ortiz stood, picking up his paperwork. “However, we may need to ask you some additional questions, so we would appreciate it if you could notify the department if you have to leave Pasadena for any length of time.”

  Manning stood as well, then extended a hand. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem. Nice seeing you again, detective.”

  Talk about coals of fire, Ortiz thought, repressing the urge to punch the guy in his smug mouth. The hand he’d wanted to curl into a fist he instead extended to Manning. They shook briefly, and then Ortiz said, “Let me show you the way out.”

  Somehow he managed to maintain his composure until they got to the front lobby. Somehow he managed to give a barely civil farewell to Manning, who walked off jauntily toward the Paseo C
olorado shopping center. Of course—his condo was only a few blocks away.

  “So long, Manning,” Ortiz said aloud, after he was sure the man was out of earshot. “Make sure you say hello to Christine Daly for me, you son of a bitch.”

  Then he turned and walked slowly back to his office, cursing Manning, the invisible Erik Deitrich, even the still-absent Christine Daly. Right now, he thought, I’d be happy if I never heard of any of them again.

  But that, he reflected, as he tossed the useless Manning file onto his desktop, was just more wishful thinking. He knew no matter what, he would see this thing through to the end.

  Chapter 26

  Erik watched as the taxi came to a stop at the uppermost curve of the circular drive, where the path leading to the front door ended. Of course, all he could do was wait in the shadowy foyer, not daring to allow the cab driver even the briefest glimpse of his half-masked face.

  Christine did not suffer the same restrictions as he, however. As soon as Ennis emerged from the back seat and stood waiting for the driver to retrieve his valise from the trunk, she tripped lightly down the steps to meet him. Although to Erik Ennis still looked pale and drawn, there was no mistaking the sudden light in his eyes as he saw Christine come to greet him. As she took the valise from the driver, Erik could sense Ennis’s gaze drawn to where he stood in the shadows, waiting for the two of them to come back into the house.

  They exchanged a few words, although Erik could not hear what was said. Ennis handed the driver a couple of bills, waved off the proffered change, and began to make his slow way up the path to the front door. Christine appeared to offer her arm to steady the old man, but Ennis only smiled and shook his head at her, obviously determined to continue unaided.

  Then came the moment Erik had been anticipating, yet at the same time dreading. There had been so many things he wanted to say to Ennis, apologies and explanations that he could only hope would make things all right between them, but now as he watched his butler approach he felt curiously tongue-tied. All he could manage, when Ennis crossed the threshold, was to say, “Welcome home, Ennis.”