After Dark gh-2

by Jayne Castle

  "Whew, that was close," she said.

  "What do you mean?"

  Lydia frowned. "You heard Martinez. They know someone searched Chester's shop and apartment. You told me you went through his things looking for a lead on your cabinet, remember? That's how you found that photo that led you to me."

  "Someone else must have gone in after me." Emmett looked thoughtful. "I left everything exactly the way I found it, except for the photo."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Of course I'm sure."

  Lydia nibbled on her lower lip. "That means that someone else—"

  "Uh-huh. Maybe the same someone else who tore your place apart last night."

  Lydia shivered and looked out at the deserted cemetery. "Too bad the old cop theory about the killer attending the funeral didn't work this time."

  Emmett removed his sunglasses from the pocket of his jacket and put them on. He took Lydia's arm again and walked toward the Slider.

  "I'm not so sure the theory failed," he said quietly.

  "What do you mean?"

  "If you look up at that stand of trees on the hillside above the cemetery, you can see sunlight reflecting off something. Metal, maybe. Or glass."

  "Are you serious?" Squinting against the glare, she studied the trees for a few seconds. "I don't see anything." She started to turn back. Light winked at the edge of her vision. "There. Yes. I caught it. Could be anything."

  "Anything including the lenses of a pair of field glasses."

  "A bird-watcher? Kids playing in the woods?"

  Emmett said nothing. He opened the door of the Slider.

  "Okay, okay." Lydia got into the car. "It could have been someone watching the funeral with a pair of field glasses. But why?"

  "Maybe because he knew Martinez was here and didn't want to take the risk of being seen. Or—" Emmett closed the door and walked around the front of the Slider.

  "Or what?" Lydia prompted the instant he got behind the wheel.

  "Or maybe he was there for the same reason Martinez was."

  "He wanted to see who showed up at the funeral?"

  "Yeah."

  "Kind of gives you the creeps, doesn't it?"

  Emmett did not reply. He rezzed the ignition. Flash-rock melted. The big engine whined hungrily.

  He swung the Slider out of the small dirt lot and drove toward the narrow road. Lydia sank back into her seat and took one last look at the sad little cemetery.

  She thought about the very abbreviated graveside service the funeral home had arranged. The check she had written to cover the cost of Chester's funeral had taken her account dangerously low. She hoped she wouldn't have to cut back Fuzz's pretzel ration.

  Then she thought about how she was the only one who had attended the funeral for personal reasons. Emmett and Alice didn't count. They both had other agendas.

  She shouldn't have been surprised by how pathetically lonely the short service had seemed. It was only to be expected. That was the way it was when you didn't have any close family or friends.

  Memories of something Chester had once said to her over a couple of glasses of cheap wine at the Surreal Lounge returned. You and me, Lydia, we got something in common. We're both alone in the world. Got to stick together.

  She wondered how many people would have turned up today if it had been her funeral. Mentally she started to tick off potential mourners. Olinda and Zane would probably have attended. Ryan? No, he wouldn't have bothered to come. A couple of others from the para-archaeology department might have shown up, though. Melanie Toft? Maybe. They had worked together for several months now.

  Emmett glanced down at her hand on the seat. "What are you doing?"

  "What?" Briefly distracted from her reverie, she looked at him. "I was just thinking about something."

  "You were counting."

  "Counting?"

  "On your fingers," he said.

  She looked down at her left hand where it rested on the seat beside her thigh and was embarrassed to see that she had extended her first three fingers.

  "Math was never my strong suit," she said. Very deliberately she splayed all five fingers on the car seat.

  Emmett, thank heaven, did not push it. She did not want to have to tell him that she had been trying to figure out how many people might show up at her funeral. The last thing she wanted to do was give the client any reason to believe the rumors that she was not mentally stable.

  Nevertheless, for the first time in several months she thought she detected a hint of the dull gray mist that had obscured her world for a while after her Lost Weekend. She knew from experience that it was better not to examine the fog too closely. Better to focus on something else.

  "I think Detective Martinez may actually be sincere about wanting to find Chester's killer," she said. "But it doesn't sound like she's going to get much support from her superiors."

  "Priorities," Emmett said. "Everyone has them, including cops."

  "Yeah, right. Priorities. You know, Emmett, I don't think Detective Martinez is going to find Chester's killer."

  Emmett said nothing.

  Surreptitiously she fished his limp handkerchief out of her pocket and mopped up a few more ridiculous, totally unwarranted tears.

  Chapter 12

  Shortly after five that afternoon, Emmett eased the Slider into a loading zone on the street a short distance from the entrance to Shrimpton's House of Ancient Horrors. He got out, leaned against the fender, and folded his arms. Waiting for Lydia.

  After the small funeral that morning he had dropped her off at Shrimpton's and told her that he would pick her up after work. He had spent the rest of the day plotting a new strategy for finding Quinn. At least that's what he had told himself he was doing.

  He had been reasonably successful in focusing his attention on the mess he had come to Cadence to resolve. The problem was that Lydia was part of that mess, and every time he thought about her things got a lot messier.

  Her words from last night reverberated dissonantly in his brain, disrupting the rest of his orderly thoughts. Every type of psi talent produces certain eccentricities… Don't worry. I'm sure you'll be back to normal in the morning.

  Damn. Did she really think the passion that had resonated between them was the result of a peculiar para-rez eccentricity that affected only ghost-hunters?

  He forced his mind away from that line of thought and studied the outrageous, over-the-top imitation Dead City facade of the structure that housed Shrimpton's. In his opinion, the building itself, with its garish domes, phony spires, and fake arches, qualified as a horror, architecturally speaking. It was supposed to be a replica of a ruin, but the only thing vaguely authentic about it was the green paint on the walls. It lacked the characteristic grace and Harmonic proportions of the aboveground Dead City structures.

  As he watched, Lydia walked out through the front gate, spotted the Slider, and hurried toward him.

  How the hell had she ended up working in a place like this? he wondered. Then he reflected on what he knew of her personal history. He thought about how and why she had formed a bond with a character like Chester Brady and knew he had already answered his own question. She was alone in the world. When disaster had struck six months ago, she'd had no family and very few resources to cushion the fall.

  Ryan Kelso had certainly not rushed to her aid. Emmett found that interesting. He knew from the hastily assembled background report his people had prepared that Lydia and Kelso had worked on the same team together for nearly a year. They had coauthored several papers on Harmonic excavations. Apparently after the Lost Weekend, Kelso had concluded that she would be of no further professional use to him. What was it Martinez had said? Priorities.

  Sonofabitch.

  "Something wrong, Emmett?" Lydia came to a halt in front of him, frowning in concern. "Did you get a ticket for parking in a loading zone?"

  "No." He shook off the ambient hostility that he felt toward Kelso, straightened, and opened the door for
her. "My record as an upstanding pillar of the community is still clean."

  He closed the door behind her and went around to the other side of the Slider. She looked better than she had that morning, he decided. The worrisome shadows had retreated from her eyes. He had the feeling that they were still there, somewhere, but the familiar look of determination had returned. Definitely a fighter.

  "How did things go at work?" he asked as he pulled away from the curb.

  "Quiet." She made a face. "Shrimp is whining because the little flurry of business we had following Chester's murder has faded. I almost slugged him. Probably would have if Melanie hadn't stopped me."

  "Good way to lose a job."

  "I know." She fell silent for a while. "I've been thinking about Chester all day."

  "What about him?"

  "I want his killer found, Emmett."

  "Martinez is doing her best."

  "Martinez as much as admitted that she's got nothing. I've been thinking about hiring a private detective. How much do you think it would cost?"

  "A lot more than you can afford," he said gently. "We've got other problems at the moment, Lydia. Stay focused."

  "Yeah. Focused. Maybe it's all connected, Emmett. Maybe when we find your nephew and your cabinet we'll find Chester's killer."

  "Maybe," he said cautiously.

  "I'd like that." She flexed her hand. "I'd really like that."

  He did not want her to start obsessing on that aspect of the case, he thought. According to the reports he had read, she was inclined to take risks in pursuit of a goal.

  "With luck I'll get some information out of Wyatt tonight that may give us a lead," he said.

  Her head came around very quickly. "Are you nervous about the dinner with Mercer Wyatt?"

  "No. But I'm not exactly looking forward to it."

  "I don't blame you. I can think of a thousand other things I'd rather do, including go to the dentist."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Mercer Wyatt is very powerful in this town. That means he's dangerous."

  "All of the heads of the Guilds wield a lot of economic and political influence in their cities."

  "Wyatt runs the Cadence Guild as if it were a private fiefdom. Everyone knows it. He's grown enormously wealthy off Guild income. Politicians jump through hoops when he suggests that they do so."

  "So he's a man with a lot of clout. Every community has its movers and shakers." He was in no mood for this. "No offense, Lydia, but your anti-hunter paranoia is showing."

  Her mouth tightened in an annoyed line. For a couple of seconds he thought she was going to tell him that he was free to fire her after all.

  Instead, she said, "I've changed my mind. I'm going with you."

  He was so surprised that he nearly missed the turn into the Dead City View Apartments parking lot.

  "Not necessary," he said brusquely.

  "No, it's okay. You're my client, after all. And this is a sort of business dinner, isn't it?"

  He thought about just how complicated this dinner was going to be. "Sort of."

  He slid his vehicle into a slot beside an aging Float, de-rezzed the engine and opened the door. Lydia got out on her side. Together they walked toward the security door.

  Lydia stopped and stared in astonishment. "It's fixed."

  "Zane and I took care of it today while you were at work," Emmett explained. "Unfortunately, I don't know much about elevator repair." He de-rezzed the lock.

  "Hey, Lydia, Mr. London." Zane waved to them from the third-floor landing.

  "Hi, Zane. Nice job on the security gate."

  "Mr. London helped," Zane said proudly. "Guess what?"

  "What?" she asked.

  "A letter came for you. A guy from Resonance Relay Messenger Service brought it. He wanted someone to sign for it, so I did."

  "Wow." She gave him a wry grin. "Probably my invitation to the Restoration Ball. I've been wondering what happened to it. Dang, I just hope it isn't too late for me to get a decent ball gown. The good ones are probably all gone by now."

  Zane guffawed. "No, no, this is for real. I'll get it." He whirled and ran off down the hall.

  Emmett looked at Lydia as they started up the stairwell. "Restoration Ball?"

  She wrinkled her nose. "Big society shindig at the end of the year. Seventy-five years ago it started out as part of the annual festivities staged to celebrate the end of the Era of Discord, but somewhere along the way it became the social event here in Cadence. Everyone who matters in local politics and business will be there."

  He nodded. "Got it. Do you usually attend?"

  She gave him an amused look. "Don't be ridiculous. I was just joking. Of course I don't go to the Restoration Ball. What do I look like? Ameberella? Fairy godmothers don't hang out in this neighborhood after dark."

  Zane popped into the stairwell waving a brown envelope, saving Emmett from having to respond to what he was pretty sure was one of those awkward rhetorical questions.

  "Who's it from?" Lydia asked.

  "Don't know." Zane handed it to her. "The return address is one of those box numbers they use at those private mail service operations."

  Lydia eyed him as she took the envelope. "Already checked, did you?"

  "Sure. We don't get a lot of deliveries from outfits like Resonance Relay. I think the guy was a little nervous about being in this neighborhood. That's why he made me sign for it. He didn't want to have to make a return trip."

  "Wimp." Lydia tore open the envelope. A key fell out. It clattered on the step.

  "I'll get it." Emmett scooped up the amber-and-steel key.

  "Thanks." She opened the single-page letter that she had withdrawn from the envelope. The amusement evaporated from her eyes. "My God, it's from Chester."

  "Brady?" Emmett closed his fingers around the key. "When was it written?"

  She scanned the note. "His writing is terrible. I don't see a date. Oh, yes, here it is. Last Monday."

  Emmett calculated quickly. "The day before he was killed. Wonder why you didn't get it until today?"

  Lydia scanned the note quickly. "He says he left instructions for it to be delivered after his funeral."

  Emmett propped one shoulder against the stairwell wall. "Let's hear what he has to say."

  Lydia took a breath and started to read the note aloud.

  Dear Lydia:

  If you're reading this letter, it means I've gone back through the Curtain the hard way. You can consider this my last Will and Testament. I know we've had a few run-ins, but that was just business.

  I never told you this, but sometimes when we talked about stuff over drinks at the Surreal, I used to pretend that we were out on a real date together. Sometimes I went back to my place and thought about how things could have been if you weren't so nice and I wasn't so screwed up.

  I always told you that you're too good for your own good. I still say being honest and loyal and hardworking and all that shit won't get you far. But, I got to admit that it was kind of nice to know that there actually are people like you out there in the world—and I'm not saying that just because I made a lot of easy money off folks like you.

  Anyhow, what all this is leading up to is that if anything happens to me I want you to have the assets in my retirement plan. It's at the Bank of Rose. Use the key to get into it.

  Good-bye, Lydia. And thanks for everything.

  Love, Chester

  P.S. I still say you're better off without that son of a bitch Kelso hanging around. You'll see. He's a user, Lydia. I know his kind. Maybe it's because I'm one of them.

  Lydia stopped reading suddenly. There was a short pause during which Emmett watched her dig out the handkerchief he had given her at the funeral. Zane looked alarmed when she brushed away the fresh tears. He opened his mouth to say something but subsided when Emmett caught his attention and shook his head.

  After a while Lydia stuffed the handkerchief back into her purse and took the key from Emmett.


  "Well," she said, "this should be interesting. I wonder what kind of assets Chester would keep in a retirement plan?"

  He glanced at his watch. "Too late to find out tonight. The banks are closed."

  "Not the Bank of Rose," she assured him. "It never closes."

  Chapter 13

  THE SURREAL LOUNGE was everything one would have expected in a place that had served as Chester Brady's home away from home, Emmett decided an hour and a half later. The atmosphere reeked of second-rate liquor, synch-smoke, and rancid cooking grease. The place was drenched in the perpetual gloom that was the quintessential hallmark of cheap nightclubs.

  It was nearly seven o'clock. The regulars had already begun to settle in for the evening. The shabby booths were populated with men whose hair gleamed from too much pomade and women whose dresses fit too snugly. There was a small stage. A sign announced that a musical group calling itself the Earth Tones was scheduled to play at nine. In the meantime, some surprisingly good rez-jazz emanated from a pair of speakers.

  Emmett thought about the photo of Lydia sharing a drink with Chester Brady in one of the red vinyl booths.

  "Come here a lot?" he asked dryly.

  "Couple of times a month for the past two years," she said quite seriously. "The music's good."

  "Two years?"

  "I told you, that was how long I knew Chester."

  "Ah."

  He adroitly eased both of them out of the path of a waitress. The woman carried a tray laden with bottles of White Noise beer and a bowl filled with bite-size chunks of something that had been deep-fried beyond recognition.

  "Which one is Rose?" Emmett asked Lydia.

  "Behind the bar." She led the way through the crowded room with the ease of someone who knew her way around.

  Emmett watched her as she moved ahead of him. She made an incongruous picture here in this sordid setting. Her red hair glowed like a cheerful bonfire in the sickly yellow gleam of the table lamps. She had dressed for the dinner with Mercer Wyatt as though she were going to meet with her lawyer or banker. All business in her trim, dark-brown business suit and demure pumps, she looked wildly out of place. But the waitress gave her a friendly nod. Lydia returned the gesture.