"He passed by Aphrodite for you?" asked J.J., his eyebrows raised. "Don't get me wrong, you're a beautiful girl, but he must've already had it bad for you."
"Makes for the most potent spells," the mischievous archer told them. "If there are already feelings, my extra special potion just jacks 'em up a bit. Especially if someone's been having naughty dreams."
"You don't talk like an archetype," said Audrey, who definitely didn't want to discuss her dream interlude with her stepbrother or whatever J.J. was. No matter how many different ways she asked, he wouldn't tell her.
"I watch reality television," Eros told her. "There's lots for me to do on those, but I always feel like I need a shower after."
J.J. hung his head and put his hands on top of it. "No, this is not good. Damien wants to be in control of his surroundings, and especially of his emotions, at all times."
"I can understand that," Audrey said and ran a finger over one of the gold bars, which refused to decay like the rest of the office. "I'm starting to think there are worse things than the uncertainty of dating a police officer. What do you think he'd do if he found out?"
"Whatever it was, he would chew his own arm off before allowing someone else's will to dictate his emotions. If you want him to stay interested in you, you need to keep that a secret. Just let the spell run its course and see what happens."
Damien and Charlie walked into the Dream-N-Dash diner, where they found Lonnie, the secretary from Ames, Incorporated, at the counter with a cup of coffee.
"Lonnie, old pal." Charlie and Damien sat on the empty stools to either side of him.
"What do you want?" Lonnie scowled at them through his horn-rimmed glasses.
"We want to speak with the lovely Amelia Ames." Charlie signaled for coffees. Damien took a deep breath to anchor himself in mundane reality.
"I'm on my lunch break."
"Like that matters. We know you have her cell phone number, the real one."
"Like I could give that to you. If you're the cops, why don't you just look it up?"
"Because we want her to answer the phone, genius," Charlie said. "So why don't you give her a call? We know she'll pick up for you."
A pink flush crept up Lonnie's neck and turned his ears red. "And how do you know that?"
"Because we know you've got a thing for her, and she lets you get away with a lot because she likes the attention. Right under her husband's nose, too, you dog. Playing the gay secretary is pure genius if you ask me."
Lonnie looked frantically from one to the other. "I can't confirm or deny anything." His voice squeaked.
"It was a lucky guess." Charlie patted his shoulder. "You just told us."
"So do we need to tip off our gossip blog buddies or are you gonna help us?" asked Damien, leaning in close so that Lonnie got a good feel for his bulk. "I'm sure it would make good internet fodder."
"All right, all right, I'll call her." He picked up the phone with trembling fingers. "But I can't promise she'll talk to you."
"Oh, we don't want to talk to her. We want to meet up."
"Like that's gonna happen. She'll be busy all day with gala preparations."
"Do you know what that's about?" Damien emptied a packet of sugar into the coffee that had appeared in front of him. "The gala? Sounds like a big deal."
"All I know is that many of Lyle's closest friends will be there," said Lonnie. "It's all been very hush-hush."
"I'm sure. Now, the phone call?" Charlie nudged the phone. "Tell her it's in reference to what we discussed earlier."
They stepped aside and watched Lonnie lift the phone to his ear. "How did you know?" asked Damien.
"In that social class, affairs are often symmetrical, although sometimes it’s emotional rather than physical on one side. And if we could prove that he was messing around on her without her indiscretions coming to light, she gets a bigger check if there's a divorce. Even the rumor of infidelity on her part could royally screw things up for her."
"So we played into her plan?"
"Until now, yes."
Lonnie waved them over. "She'll see you. I hope you know what you've done."
"You didn't need any help messing up what didn't exist to begin with," said Damien, "Where do we meet her?"
"Walk back through the kitchen, and a car will be waiting for you."
"Nope, we're not falling for that one," said Charlie. "Call her back and tell her that my friend and I will meet her at the Greek Orthodox Church near the country club. And no funny stuff."
"You won't get away with this." Lonnie's pout wasn't pretty.
"The Greek Orthodox Church?" asked Damien once they were outside the door.
"The second floor security office, specifically. It should be empty this time of day. The secretary knows me and keeps the lunch hour free. Once you get to be a detective, you have to have a discreet place to meet your snitches. No one suspects a church."
"Do you meet in the confessionals? Do Greek Orthodox Churches do that?"
Charlie chuckled. "No idea. And even if they did, it would be too obvious."
"So the priests let you use their building?"
Charlie started the car and eased into the traffic on Peachtree. "They're pretty cool about it. My friend, the secretary, would lose her job if anything bad happened, so I have a reason to be careful. By the way," he said, his expression serious, "I hope you're not afraid of ghosts."
25
Damien glimpsed a sliver of blue sky between the buildings, and soon it was behind them. The Greek Orthodox Church stood gray in the waning light under thunder heads. A black car with tinted windows pulled alongside them.
"Officers, you can't expect me to play along with this." Amelia Ames rolled down her window, her eyes covered with dark glasses, her blonde hair hidden by a dark blue silk scarf.
"Sure we can, Mrs. Ames. And you won't have your goons try anything funny since we have reinforcements here in the building."
"What reinforcements?" She looked around the deserted parking lot. "There's not a soul here."
"There are several. They're just quiet. Now, please, Mrs. Ames." Charlie held out an arm, and she emerged from the car, careful not to lose her footing on the slick pavement. She put her hand on the crook of Charlie's arm, and they entered through a side door.
Once inside, they skirted the sanctuary and the reception hall and climbed the stairs. The building smelled of incense, mint, and garlic. Their footsteps echoed through the empty halls, but Damien heard rustling sounds in the classrooms they passed.
"What is that?"
"Just some of the resident ghosts. You're not afraid of ghosts, are you, Mrs. Ames?"
She looked more like she was afraid of him. "What are you, a mad man?"
"One can always hope." Charlie showed her into the security office, where three chairs and a sofa flanked a coffee table. A desk had been pushed against the wall and supported a bank of monitors, almost all of them black. The ones that were on had spots that moved in erratic patterns across the grainy, gray-scale screens.
"Please, have a seat where you're comfortable." But Charlie guided her to where she could see the screens.
Damien couldn't help but look over his shoulder. Either he'd given Charlie way too little credit for creating a good atmosphere to interrogate a witness by making her feel off balance, or his friend really was a mad man. It’s always the ones you least suspect.
"Now, Mrs. Ames," Charlie said after she'd settled herself in one of the chairs and crossed her legs, "Officer Lewis and I have a few questions for you. And don't worry, they're not about your ambiguously gay secretarial lover wannabe. Although I imagine that's one way to find a man who will listen to you—have him write down everything you say. Does he know shorthand?"
She didn't laugh at his joke or seem to react much aside from tired annoyance. "It's not that easy to intimidate me, Officer. I'm not admitting to anything."
"Right, actually, I'm curious about your husband's affair tomorrow night. Or ma
ybe I should use a different word. I'm referring to the gala."
"What about it? I'm planning the basic components of it, but I don't know anything else."
The rustling noise resumed, and Damien looked over his shoulder, as did Amelia. It seemed closer this time. Charlie, unruffled, continued his questioning.
"Did your husband tell you what the purpose of this party is? The theme?"
Amelia raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. "He is unveiling his new venture, whatever that is."
"And does this have anything to do with his absences?"
She shook her head, and tears sparkled in her eyes. "I promise, I don't know anything else. Please." She looked over her shoulder at the doorway. "I don't like it here."
Tingles danced along the back of Damien's neck like ghostly fingers tickling his hair. "Charlie, maybe we should continue this somewhere else."
"No, really, it's fine. Did he have you hire extra help for the party?"
She shook her head and bit her lip before replying in a rush. "He said not to worry about it."
"So it's a major gala, but he's not having you hire any extra personnel? Is the hotel providing staff?"
"No. They offered, but he said it was taken care of."
"What kind of food did he request?"
"Greek finger foods. Stuffed grape leaves. Spanakopita."
Damien took notes and watched Amelia's reactions. She seemed genuinely frightened, but he had the sense it wasn't necessarily due to whatever lurked in the hallways. What is she afraid of, then?
"And how is your relationship with your husband these days?" Charlie asked. He studied his nails while she considered her answer.
"If you're asking if he would confide in me, the answer is that we're not that close right now."
"Do you think he's seeking comfort elsewhere?"
"I've already told you my suspicions, Detective."
"Right, then. I think that's a great start."
Amelia looked over her shoulder again and licked her lips. "May I go now?"
"If I can have your cell phone number. Your real one."
She sighed, and with a flourish, dug her card out of her purse and handed it to him. He flipped his phone out.
"Just making sure it works this time." He pressed the call button, but nothing happened. Now they heard a scratching noise followed by a sigh.
"What's out there?" Amelia asked, wide-eyed.
"Nothing that will bother you unless you continue to lie to me. Now, your real cell phone number, please."
"It's 404…"
He put the number in the phone while she gave it to him, and this time, when he called, her purse started playing the Black Eyed Peas' "Let's Get It Started."
"Not bad," Charlie said. "I consider myself to be more of a Marvin Gaye man."
Amelia stood, and Damien and Charlie did likewise. "Please, can I go now?" she asked with a tragic Southern-belle expression on her face. Damien couldn't tell whether bolting or fainting appealed to her more.
"I think you've had enough," said Charlie. "Just remember one thing."
"What?"
"If you're scared or frightened or need help dealing with whatever your husband has dragged you into, you now have my cell phone number. Store it when you get to the car." He walked to the door and looked down the hall in both directions. "All clear. Just stay close."
She stumbled, and Damien caught her before she collapsed. They got her to the first floor, and she regained full consciousness before they reached the side door again. Damien helped her to walk on wobbly legs to her car. When the driver turned around with a query, she just shook her head and nearly slammed the door on Damien's hand. Not that he blamed her—the rustling and sighing sounds had followed them out of the building.
Damien watched the black sedan pull out of the parking lot. "Okay, what the hell was that?"
"What?" Charlie had his cell phone to his ear. "We're out now. Thanks again, Cass."
"All the noises. You couldn't have planned those."
"Come on. Let's see how Maggie's doing."
Damien jumped into the front seat of the squad car and looked back up at the classroom floor of the church. A child with very pale skin and big brown eyes looked back at him. He blinked, and she vanished.
"Charlie, did you see that? There's a kid up there."
Charlie shrugged and waited for a gap in traffic to turn back on to Ponce. "There are several. There was a big fire at the church in the sixties, likely set by some racist, anti-anything not WASP group. It killed a bunch of parishioners there and some kids, who were trapped in the classrooms. They died from smoke inhalation before anyone could get them out. The place is haunted as anything."
"So the kid who was looking at me while we drove out…?"
"Probably little Marina. She's a doll. I leave her lollipops, and she and her buddies make noise when I bring guests up there. They think it's great fun."
"You bribe ghosts with candy?"
"They can't really eat it, but c'mon, they're kids. They like it anyway."
Damien looked out the window. "I'm finding out way more about you than I ever wanted to know."
"Maggie turned me on to the idea. It's a nonviolent way to get answers. Witnesses who are freaked out give you what you want to know so they can leave. It's called negative reinforcement. Plus, the panic limits their cognitive resources for lying, so if they do try to deceive you, it's easy to tell."
Damien watched the passing trees to erase the image of that little girl, fifty years dead. "That's twisted."
"Hey, it also gives you an idea of who has a sensitivity to supernatural stuff. Or who might have been exposed to the C.U. You and Amelia both showed interesting responses."
"So she's a sensitive?" Damien pulled the term from somewhere, likely too much late-night television.
Charlie drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "No. I'm thinking she's been exposed to the C.U. beyond regular dreaming."
"When would she have been there?"
"If Lyle's been mucking around, she likely dreamed about some of it. Those suspicions don't come from thin air, nor are they entirely the result of her projecting her own guilt on him. I'll ask her about it the next time we see her."
Damien snorted. "Like she's going to let you anywhere near her."
"It all depends. What did you think about how she acted?"
"I wouldn't pick her for the fainting type. She seemed more scared than unsettled by everything. It makes me wonder if something else has her nervous, even beyond the suspected affair with Lonnie the ambiguously gay secretary and its detrimental effects on her hypothetical alimony."
"Bravo. Good observations there. I had the same idea. That's why I gave her my cell. I'll text her yours as well. She'll probably be more likely to talk to you after all that anyway."
"Yeah, as long as you don't come along."
After they left the church, Charlie's cell phone rang, but it wasn't Amelia.
"Maggie, what do you have for us?" Charlie asked. "I'm driving, so I'll put you on speaker."
Maggie's voice came through with an extra echo like she stood in a small space. "I hung out around the ballroom after you left, and a toad and a couple of nymphs came down to feed the were-bats."
"A toad?" asked Damien.
"Yes, half troll, half demon, and all nasty. I overheard them talking about a transfer. I'll continue to look into it, but the toad smelled you, so you better stay away for now."
"Roger that," Charlie told her. "Doesn't sound like something I'd want to meet, anyway. You be careful."
"Will do."
Damien and Charlie spent the afternoon catching up on paperwork. Apparently the procedure went a little differently for cases of a "particularly delicate nature," as Charlie put it. The one surprise was a visit from a sheepish Harold Smith, the father of Daniel Smith, who had shot Rizzo. The front desk clerk showed him in to Charlie's office.
"Detective," he said to Charlie, and to Damien, "Officer."
"I have to apologize to you, but first, how's your friend, that doctor?"
"Still in a coma." Damien cringed inside when he remembered that he hadn't called to see how Rizzo was doing although he knew his friend was somewhere in the C.U. hopefully with Audrey, who was never far from his thoughts.
Touched, the little voice inside his head told him, you've been touched.
"Right. If there's anything we, my wife and I, can do to help, just let me know."
"That's very kind of you, Mr. Smith," said Charlie, "but I'm curious to know why you're here."
"The gun is gone."
"Excuse me?" asked Damien. "Which gun?"
"The gun that I kept in the house, that I knew Daniel couldn't have taken. It's gone."
"But you said you checked on it."
Harold Smith looked at Charlie. "It's the craziest thing, Detective. We got home from talking to you yesterday, and it was gone. I looked everywhere, tore the house apart."
"I appreciate you coming down to tell us this," said Charlie. "A phone call would've worked just as well."
"I thought you might want me to come and identify the weapon that Daniel used on Doctor Rizzo. Just in case. I wouldn't want to stand in the way of your investigation." He swallowed, his face gray but resolute.
Damien felt like putting a hand on the man's shoulder to steady him. It took a lot of guts for him to come down and be willing to incriminate his only son. The guy must have an honest streak the size of Lake Lanier after a rainy spring.
"We appreciate the offer, Mr. Smith," said Charlie. "But why don't you give us the gun specs and serial number, and we'll compare it?"
He nodded and pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "This is my registration. It's kind of beat up. I kept it in the tool box so the wife wouldn't see it."
"I understand," said Charlie. "Thanks for coming down. We'll let you know if anything turns up."
"So?" asked Damien once Mr. Smith had gone.
"So what?"
"Are we going to look at the gun and see if it's the same one?"
Tangled Dreams Page 24
