Shadow People

by James Swain

He kissed the tip of her nose. “I’m game.”

  They sat down at the kitchen table and dug in. Liza had hit the nail on the head. A fresh start was exactly what the doctor ordered. He couldn’t change the horrific things he’d done as a child, but he could make sure they never happened again. He was an adult now, and his own boss. He would stop the demon inside of him from controlling his actions.

  Finished, they stood at the sink with Liza washing the dishes and Peter drying and putting them away. “Do you remember that antique wristwatch that fell out of the sky while we were standing in the courtyard the other night?” she asked.

  Peter remembered the watch well. Made by Cartier, it had belonged to the shadow person he’d confronted in the lobby of Grand Central Station. He’d never understood its significance, and wondered if Liza had plumbed it secret.

  “I may have found its owner,” Liza went on. “I noticed it wasn’t working properly, so I found a store online that repairs antique watches, and sent them an e-mail along with a photo I shot on my iPhone. The manager e-mailed me right back. Come to find out, he thinks he’s repaired the watch before. His shop is called Time After Time, and is in the West Village. He asked me to come by this morning, and show the watch to him so he could confirm it.”

  “Did he say who the owner was?”

  “No. The manager’s name is Walter, and he was very mysterious about the whole thing. Maybe he can tell us who the owner is, and that will lead to figuring out what the shadow people want. It’s a stretch, but who knows.”

  Peter hung the dish towel on the hook next to the fridge. The other world was a difficult place to understand, the motives of the spirits never fully clear. Liza was reacting the same way he usually did, which was to plunge ahead, and hope for the best.

  “I’m game,” he said. “Let’s go talk to Walter.”

  “I’ll go change,” Liza said.

  Peter took out his cell phone and called Herbie. “Be at the brownstone in half an hour,” he told him. “We’re going on a fishing expedition.”

  * * *

  The West Village was old New York, its streets twisting and narrow. Time After Time sat in a dusty storefront filled with grandfather clocks and rare timepieces in glass display cabinets.

  Peter told Herbie to circle the block, and entered the shop with Liza.

  The cramped interior was a mess. Any more than a handful of customers, and the place would have felt crowded. An eccentric-looking manager with a halo of curly white hair stood behind the counter, and nodded courteously as they entered .

  “You must be Walter,” Liza said. “I’m Liza. We spoke yesterday on the phone.”

  Walter said nothing. He probably got a hundred phone calls a day. Or he didn’t get any phone calls, and was playing stupid. From her purse, Liza removed the antique woman’s watch that had fallen from the sky, and placed it on a felt mat on the counter. Walter stuck a loupe in his eye and studied the exquisite timepiece. “This is an original Cartier, special limited edition, very rare to find these days. May I ask where you came upon this?”

  “Is that important?” Liza asked.

  “I just would like to know, that’s all.”

  “My boyfriend and I found it.”

  Walter studied Peter briefly, then looked back at Liza. “May I ask where?”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s none of your business.”

  They’d been in the store less than a minute, and Walter was already giving them the third degree. Something wasn’t right with this picture, and Peter scanned the store’s interior. Not one, but three surveillance cameras were trained upon them, two from the ceiling, the third bolted to the wall behind the counter. The wall camera was a recent addition as evidenced by the sales sticker glued to the side. And there was a large rottweiler lying at Walter’s feet behind the counter. The dog was panting and its tail wasn’t wagging. Dogs fed off their owner’s emotions, and Walter was subliminally telling the dog to be on alert.

  Peter thought he knew what was going on. The watch was hot, and on a list of stolen items that the police sent to store owners in the city. Walter had recognized it from Liza’s photo, and had decided to set a trap. Better start telling the truth, he thought.

  “Look, we know that this watch belongs to someone else,” Peter interrupted. “How we came upon it doesn’t matter. What’s important is that we return it to its rightful owner. Right, dear?”

  The corners of Liza’s mouth turned up in a smile. He’d never called her dear before, and she seemed to like it.

  “We just want to do the right thing,” Liza continued. “Yesterday when we spoke, you indicated you knew who the owner might be. If you’ll tell us, we’ll return it to her right away. Or you can do it. Whatever you think is best.”

  Walter looked perplexed and let out a deep breath. “Oh, my,” he said.

  “Is something wrong?” Peter asked.

  “You’re not thieves. I can tell by listening to you. Thieves come into my store often, and try to sell me hot timepieces. You’re not like them.”

  “Of course we’re not thieves,” Liza said with a little laugh.

  “Well, I’m deeply sorry, then. Truly, I am.”

  The shopkeeper took a deliberate step away from the counter. As he did, a black sedan pulled up in front of the store, and double-parked in the street. Four plainclothes detectives wearing silver NYPD detective shields pinned to their jackets piled out, and rushed through the front door. Each had a gun drawn. At the same time, a door behind the front counter parted, and two more gun-toting detectives appeared.

  “Don’t tell them anything,” Peter said under his breath.

  46

  Peter had lived on TV cop shows as a kid, and knew what was about to happen. The detectives would separate him and Liza, and grill them. They would ask each of them a series of questions, and write down their answers in spiral pads. Then the detectives would reconvene, and compare notes. If the detectives caught either of them lying, the drilling process would continue until they got to the truth.

  Liza was sent to the back room of the store while Peter remained in front. As she was led away, she winked at him. She didn’t appear the least bit nervous or afraid. She’d been through a lot lately, certainly a lot more than any of his other girlfriends had ever put up with. He winked back.

  “Cut the crap,” the detective in charge barked.

  The detective’s name was Velasco. Short and balding, his most prominent feature was his beach ball stomach. Who needs a six-pack when you can have a keg? Peter thought.

  Velasco pulled a stool out from behind the counter, and made Peter sit on it. The detective towered over him while another detective covered Peter’s back. A third detective stood by the locked front door. The shades had been pulled over the window for privacy.

  “What’s your name?” Velasco asked.

  “Peter Warlock.”

  “Very funny. Your real name.”

  “Peter Warren. Warlock’s my stage name.”

  “You some kind of performer?”

  “I’m a magician. I have a show in town, Anything’s Possible.”

  Velasco nodded like he’d heard of him. Early in his career, Peter had performed a number of stunts around the city to gather much-needed publicity for his show. As a result, there were a lot of people who had heard his name but who’d never seen him perform.

  “All right, Mr. Magic, tell me where you got the antique watch,” Velasco said.

  “I found it,” Peter replied.

  “Be a little more specific.”

  “Do you know who the owner is? I’ve been trying to locate her.”

  “I’m the one asking the questions, pal. Now tell me about the watch.”

  “It fell out of the sky,” Peter replied truthfully.

  “Oh, boy, a regular comedian. How do you think it’s going to look if I run you and your girlfriend in? Think that kind of publicity is going to help ticket sales?”

  “Are you going to arrest us?”
r />   “I will if you don’t come clean with me. That watch doesn’t belong to you.”

  “That doesn’t mean we stole it. You don’t have a case, Detective. Let us go, and I’ll be happy to explain to you how the watch came into our possession.”

  Velasco didn’t like being told how to run his investigation, and wagged a finger in his suspect’s face. “Keep up the banter, and I’ll throw your skinny ass in jail.”

  “Which jail?” Peter wanted to know.

  “MCC. Ever been there?”

  MCC was the Metropolitan Correctional Center on Park Row behind the U.S. Federal Courthouse. Peter knew the facility like the back of his hand, and said, “Matter of fact, I have. I was locked up in a cellblock in the basement that the warden claimed was inescapable. I managed to escape in four minutes flat, and beat Houdini’s record by thirty seconds. There’s a video on my Web site if you don’t believe me.”

  “I remember that stunt,” the detective guarding the door said. “You moved all the other inmates in the block into different cells. That took a lot of nerve.”

  “Thanks,” Peter said.

  “Shut up,” Velasco told both of them. Looking his suspect in the eye, he said, “I think you’re hiding something. I’m hauling you in.”

  “On what charges?”

  “I’ll think of something. Get up.”

  Peter gazed into Velasco’s eyes and read his mind. The detective was having a bad day. He’d started his morning by having a knock-down, drag-out argument with his teenage daughter. Then the battery on his car had been dead when he’d tried to start it. Now this wiseass magician was giving him a hard time. Peter and his girlfriend were going to spend the rest of the day in jail if Peter didn’t think of something quick.

  Velasco pulled open his sports jacket and removed a pair of nickel-plated handcuffs from his belt. Peter wanted to tell Velasco that he could escape from those, too, but didn’t think the detective would appreciate the humor.

  “I’ll tell you about the watch, but first you need to call a friend of mine,” Peter said.

  Velasco eyed him suspiciously. “Who’s that?”

  “His card’s in my wallet. You’ll understand when I show it to you.”

  “All right, show it to me.”

  Peter pulled Special Agent Garrison’s business card from his billfold and handed it to the detective. Velasco stared at the embossed lettering on the white card.

  “The FBI? What do they have to do with this?”

  “Just call him,” Peter said.

  * * *

  Garrison barged into the watch shop with his badge pinned to the lapel of his sports jacket and a disgruntled look on his face. Peter wondered what pressing matter he’d pulled the FBI agent away from. New York was the greatest city on earth, but there were plenty of bad people here as well, and the life of a law enforcement agent was nothing but a challenge.

  “Thanks for getting here so fast,” Peter told him.

  “Who are these guys?” Garrison asked.

  “This is Detective Velasco. He wants to arrest me.”

  “What for? You tell him one of your jokes?”

  “Possession of stolen property,” Velasco said. “You know this smart-ass?”

  “He does consulting work for me. Now, tell me what he did,” Garrison said.

  “He was caught with a stolen wristwatch whose owner has been missing for over a year,” Velasco replied. “When I tried to question him, he started talking in riddles.”

  “Peter’s a psychic, he does that sometimes,” Garrison said.

  Velasco’s jaw dropped open. “Cut it out.”

  “I’m dead serious. Don’t tell me you’ve never worked with psychics before.”

  “Tried to. They were worthless.”

  “They were probably fakes. Peter’s the real deal.”

  “I’m having a hard time believing this.” Velasco spoke to Peter, “So read my mind.”

  Peter was boxed into a corner. He tried to avoid public displays of mind reading whenever possible. When mind reading was performed onstage, all sorts of explanations were possible; when done in person, there was only one explanation—the person doing the mind reading was a psychic. He lowered his voice so the other detectives would not hear. “At breakfast this morning, you had words with your daughter over her choice of boyfriends. Then your car’s battery died, and you had to carpool with a cop you can’t stand. When you got to work, the coffeepot was empty. That good enough for you?”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Velasco said.

  “I told you he was real,” Garrison said smugly.

  The antique Cartier that had brought them together lay on the counter. The watch was a mystery, along with most of the events of the past several days. If Peter could plumb the watch’s secrets, then perhaps the rest of the puzzles would solve themselves.

  “What can you tell me about the watch’s owner?” Peter asked.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  “Her name is Barbara Metcalf,” Velasco replied. “Single woman, early fifties, lived alone, got a couple of PhDs, is one of the top brass at the CDC. Went missing about a year ago and hasn’t been heard from. We suspect foul play, but don’t have a suspect or a motive. Metcalf had a nice collection of antique jewelry. This watch was one of her favorite pieces, which she often wore. When she went missing, so did several pieces of her jewelry, including this watch. We asked every jewelry store in town to be on the lookout for it.

  “Yesterday, your girlfriend e-mailed the manager of this store a photo of Metcalf’s watch, asking if he could repair it. Walter immediately recognized the watch, and contacted the police. We laid a trap for you, and you walked into it. That’s it in a nutshell.”

  Peter felt numb. The story wasn’t what he’d expected to hear at all. He’d assumed the shadow person he’d confronted in Grand Central Station was a thoroughly evil spirit whose human life had been filled with crimes against society, as well as humanity. A person wicked through and through, and in league with the Devil.

  “What’s does CDC stand for?” Peter asked.

  “Centers for Disease Control,” Velasco explained. “Metcalf ran their research department. She was responsible for finding cures for things like bubonic plague and anthrax.”

  “So she was a good person,” the young magician said.

  “That’s what Walter told us,” Velasco said.

  “The shop manager knew her personally?”

  “Yes. They were friends.”

  “I need to speak with him.”

  Walter was led into the front of the store. There was nothing more powerful than the truth, and Peter’s head was still spinning from the things Velasco had told him. If Barbara Metcalf had been a good person on this earth, then it was not possible that she’d turned into an evil spirit in the afterlife. That was not how things worked. Which meant that there had been a black mark in her background which Velasco didn’t know about. It was the only explanation he could think of, and now he needed to hear the shop manager confirm it.

  “What can you tell me about the owner of this watch?” Peter asked.

  Walter’s face softened as he was overcome with memories. Peter took a look inside Walter’s head, and saw the woman he had known. Short and rather petite, her clothing suggested a person who appreciated the finer things in life, while the way she carried herself indicated she was used to getting her way. The description strong willed came to mind.

  “How do I describe Barbara?” Walter scratched his chin. “Brilliant, headstrong, filled with passion about her work, demanding at times. She had quite a temper. I remember one time, this is going to sound funny, but once I promised to repair her watch, only I stuck the watch in a drawer, and forgot about it. You should have seen the look on her face when she found out.”

  “Did she get mad?” Peter asked.

  “Mad was not the word. She became furious. She started to stomp out, and then she turned around, oh, I shouldn�
��t be telling this, not with her missing for so long.”

  “Please. It’s important you tell me everything.”

  “Very well. Barbara went to the front door like she was going to leave. Then she spun around in a huff, lifted her foot, and pulled off her shoe. She threw it across the store at me!”

  “Her shoe,” Peter said in shock.

  “That’s right. Of course she immediately apologized. I later learned from a mutual friend that Barbara had done this before.”

  “She threw a shoe at someone,” Peter said.

  “Yes. It happened in the lab where she worked. Another doctor made a mistake, and ruined a week’s worth of work. Barbara pulled off a shoe and tossed it at him. She had a boiling point. When she got mad, she threw shoes at people.”

  Peter thought back to Friday night, standing on his front stoop talking to Garrison, when a shoe had come flying through the bedroom window, and landed at his feet. Was this Metcalf’s not-so-subtle way of telling him that she was angry at him? If that was the case, then he’d gotten this whole thing terribly, terribly wrong.

  He broke out of his thought. Liza had returned to the front of the store with two of the detectives. The look on her startled face said she’d heard every word Walter had said, and was thinking the same thoughts that he was thinking.

  “Oh, my God, Peter,” she exclaimed. “Oh, my God.”

  47

  “I need to talk to Peter in private,” Garrison said to Velasco. “Do you mind?”

  The FBI had jurisdiction over the NYPD, and Garrison didn’t need to be asking Velasco’s permission for anything. Velasco appreciated the gesture, however, and said, “Be my guest. Be careful. He’s a slippery one.”

  “That’s one way to describe him,” Garrison said with a laugh.

  Peter and Garrison walked outside. It was bitter cold and blowing hard. Peter’s limo was parked across the street by the curb.

  “Want to talk in my limo?” Peter asked.

  “Beats freezing to death,” Garrison replied.

  They crossed and climbed into the backseat. Herbie looked up from the sports section. Peter shook his head and his driver went back to his reading. The interior was toasty and they spent a moment getting comfortable. Peter handed his guest a bottled water.