Death & Stilettos

by Jason Krumbine

  “He’s not that bad,” Brooke says.

  “Oh, he’s that bad,” Avery replies. “Plus, he’s ugly.”

  Detective David Jackson enters his office, two thin folders in his hands.

  “Oh, look,” Brooke says dryly. “Jackson’s back. I guess we’re going to have to stop talking about my love life.”

  Jackson’s in his fifties with graying hair, two chins and a stomach built for jelly donuts. He sits behind his desk with a grunt, dropping the folders in front of him. He counts the donuts on his plate before doing anything else.

  “I didn’t take any of them,” Brooke assures him.

  Jackson looks to Avery for confirmation.

  “It’s true,” Avery says. “She was distracted by me nagging her about how it’s a bad idea for her to get back together with her ex.”

  Brooke looks at her sister. “You didn’t actually say that it was a bad idea. You were just whining that I hadn’t told you yet.”

  “I think it was pretty obvious that I thought it was a bad idea,” Avery says.

  Jackson tears off a bite from his donut and jelly squirts onto his tie, joining the collection of other stains. “Is this something you have to do in front of me?”

  “Not really,” Avery admits.

  “Then don’t,” Jackson replies. “I get enough of this crap from my wife and my daughter.”

  “Should we be offended by that?” Brooke asks.

  Avery sighs. “Trust me, it could be worse.”

  Jackson gives them both a dirty look. “Hey, stop talking like I’m not even here.”

  “Sorry,” Avery says. “It’s just that you’re so easy to talk around.”

  Jackson gives an irritated grunt and flips open the first of the two folders he brought in. “Tell me this, why do you ladies always come to me when you need something on one of your creepy dead cases?”

  “You make it sound like we have any other kind,” Avery says.

  “I have to,” Jackson replies. “It helps keep me sane when I’m dealing with grim reapers.” He rubs his eyes. “You know, I never get any sleep when I talk to you guys.”

  “We’re not that creepy,” Avery says.

  “Tell that to my subconscious,” Jackson grunts.

  “You know, for a homicide detective, you can be kind of a basket case,” Brooke says.

  “Come on, Brooke,” Avery says somberly.

  “What?” Brooke looks at her. “It’s kind of true.”

  “You still don’t go saying it to the man’s face,” Avery chastises her.

  “This is nice,” Jackson says dryly. “The way the two of you so politely ask for my help and treat me with respect. It warms my heart. Really,” Shaking his head, Jackson finishes his donut.

  “You have our utmost respect,” Avery says.

  Jackson stares at them dubiously. “Uh-huh,” he grunts and starts skimming the report. “Here we go. Shannon Stanford. Seventy-six years old,” he pauses as he reads. “Wow, you girls found yourself a real humdinger of a case. The good Mrs. Stanford died of a heart attack.” He looks up at the sisters.

  “And?” Brooke prompts.

  “And what?” Jackson points to the folder. “She died of a heart attack. Case closed.” He grabs another donut. “They’re not all great unsolved mysteries.”

  “We were just hoping for a little more detail,” Avery says.

  “Yeah, like was there anything unusual at the crime scene?” Brooke asks.

  “As a matter of fact,” Jackson glances down at the report again, “there wasn’t. You know why?”

  “Why?”

  Jackson looks at the sisters. “Because it wasn’t a crime scene.” He finishes off the donut in three bites.

  Brooke looks at Avery. “I suppose we should have seen that one coming.”

  Avery ignores her. “Look, here’s the situation-”

  Jackson holds up his hand, cutting her off. “I don’t even want to know. The last time you two were in here it was about the Danvers girl. What you told me about her...” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t sleep for three days. I drove my wife crazy. So, no.” He points at them. “No details.”

  Neither of them says anything for a second.

  Finally, Brooke asks, “Are you on your man period or something?”

  “Seriously, it’s the respect that you guys show me that really gets me,” Jackson shakes his head and closes the Stanford file. He picks up the other folder and opens it. It’s empty. He holds it up for the sisters to see. “You know what this is?”

  “An empty folder?” Brooke guesses.

  “It’s Shannon Stanford’s record,” Jackson replies. “Incidentally, it’s also her daughter’s record. Not even a parking ticket.”

  “What about the other thing?” Avery asks.

  “Yeah,” Jackson’s chair creaks loudly as he stretches back in it. “I checked on that. I went back as far as ten years. There’s never been so much as a code enforcement violation at the Stanford’s home, much less any violent murders.” He burps loudly.

  “That’s it?” Brooke asks.

  “That’s it,” Jackson replies.

  “Not even,” Brooke pauses. “I don’t know. There should be something.”

  “And yet,” Jackson gabs another donut. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I want to finish these donuts in private and then look into some real crimes.”

  sixteen

  Thirty minutes later the Graves sisters pause outside a brown office door. The hallway’s poorly lit and Brooke’s pretty sure she saw a rat scurry around the corner.

  “Here’s the thing,” Avery says. “Don’t talk while we’re in there.”

  “Excuse me?” Brooke asks, giving her sister a double take.

  “You have a habit of irritating him,” Avery explains. “Also, what we’re doing, it’s a little outside our authority. So, if you don’t talk, there’s less of a chance you’ll irritate him and more of a chance he’ll help us out.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Brooke mutters.

  “It’s not new information,” Avery points out. “You did deflower the man’s nephew.”

  “The kid was over twenty,” Brooke argues. “I was doing him a favor. I should be thanked.”

  Avery rubs her forehead. “And this is why I don’t want you to say anything.”

  Brooke holds up her hands. “Fine. I won’t say anything.”

  “I should get that in writing,” Avery mutters. She gives a courtesy knock on the door and then walks right in.

  It’s a small one-room office with a tiny bathroom. The other two walls in the office are covered from floor to ceiling in bookcases. Each book looks like a massive tome. Collectively they appear to threaten the structural integrity of the bookcases, with the shelves bending under the combined weight, but, as of yet, not breaking. The man beyond the desk is a nebbish fellow of an indeterminate age, but it’s probably somewhere between thirty and forty. He’s wearing thick, horn-rimmed glasses that are always sliding down the bridge of his nose. He’s dressed in a plaid, shirtsleeve with the buttons buttoned all the way to the top. His stark black hair is meticulously parted down the middle of his head. His name is Steven Russell and works as the local representative for the Council of Reapers.

  Russell’s got his nose buried in a thick, leather-bound book. “Ms. Graves and Ms. Graves, what can I do for you?” Russell’s got a nasally voice that grates on a person after about five minutes. He doesn’t bother to look up from the book as he addresses them.

  Brooke whispers to her sister, “How does he do that?”

  “I have no idea,” Avery says. “How do you do that?” she asks Russell.

  “You’re the only reapers in town who don’t bother waiting for me to invite you in,” Russell puts the book down and pushes his glasses back up his nose. “Also, I could hear the two of the whole time while you stood outside my door. It’s not soundproof, you know.” He looks at Brooke. “And your sister’s right, you do irritate me.”<
br />
  Brooke smiles and waves her fingers at him. “But admit it, its kind of cute the way I do it.”

  Russell ignores her. “What do you want?”

  And that’s the end of the small talk.

  There are no other chairs in Russell’s office other than the one Russell himself is sitting in. Avery and Brooke stand awkwardly.

  “Please tell me you’re not here to whine about your lack of work,” Russell says. “It’s unbecoming of a grim reaper to complain about a lack of death.”

  “That’s not the word I would use,” Brooke mutters.

  “We’re not here to complain about work,” Avery says carefully.

  “Not yet, at least,” Brooke says.

  “You still keep track of all the reapings that occur in the city, right?” Avery quickly asks before Brooke can get them in any real trouble.

  “Yes,” Russell says. “You know I do. Was that your question? Because, it was a stupid question for you to ask.”

  “Wow,” Brooke mutters, “somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

  Russell closes the book with a heavy smack. “I’m sorry, what was that, Ms. Graves? Were you saying something about how you robbed my nephew of his virtue and ruined his future? It’s odd that you would bring that up, considering how much trouble it could get you in.”

  Brooke opens her mouth, but Russell cuts her off a harsh glare.

  Brooke shrinks back behind her sister. “I’ll just be quiet now.”

  Russell frowns. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he looks at Avery. “Well?”

  Avery takes a breath and tries to strike an ambivalent, almost nonchalant attitude. “There was a reaping about six months ago. Shannon Stanford. We were curious as to who reaped her.”

  Russell doesn’t say anything at first. He merely purses his lips together and taps his fingers on the cover of the book he’s reading.

  “It’s not privileged information,” Avery points out, trying to cut off his concerns.

  “No,” Russell agrees. “But it is an,” he pauses, ”unusual request, especially from non-Alpha Reapers. Why exactly do you want to know?”

  “Favor for a friend,” Avery says simply. She throws in a shrug.

  Russell frowns, his lips pressing together to form a thin line. “The Council frowns on freelancing.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t say we were freelancing,” Avery replies. She runs her fingers through her hair. “Just a favor for a friend. It’s as innocent as it sounds.” She stresses the word ‘innocent’

  Russell snorts. Avery’s not sure, but it might have been a laugh. He gets to his feet and walks over to one of the bookcases anyway. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Our mother was close with Shannon Stanford before she died. She’s,” Avery pauses, “kind of looking after Stanford’s daughter.”

  “Uh-huh,” Russell murmurs distractedly as he examines the books on the shelves. “And how is Emma these days?” he asks with a touch more interest in the subject than Avery feels comfortable with.

  “Well, she’s still our Mom,” Avery replies, putting a little extra emphasis on the label. “So, you know, she’s doing great.”

  “Emma and I had a wonderful dinner together a few months back,” Russell says, missing or ignoring the subtext in Avery’s response. “I was checking in on her for the Council. They were concerned how she was handling your father’s passing.”

  “Really?” Brooke says. “Is this a new service you’re providing? Trying to diversify into consoling grieving widows?”

  Russell looks over his shoulder at them. “The Council looks after its own.” He turns back to his books. “She seemed to be in excellent spirits at the time.”

  “And is there a problem with that?” Avery asks.

  “Of course not,” Russell says, working his way down to the bottom of the bookcase. “It had been almost a year and a half since your father’s unfortunate passing, I don’t see why she wouldn’t be in good spirits.” He looks back and smiles at the sisters. The expression looks uncomfortable on his face, like his muscles weren’t used to stretching out. It also made the sisters feel very uncomfortable. “Emma is a remarkable woman. She handles herself with grace…She was taking up pottery at the time. Is she still doing that?”

  Avery shifts her body, growing increasingly uncomfortable with the topic. “Yeah, no, she dropped that pretty quick. Too messy for her. How’s finding that grim reaper coming.” She nods back at the books.

  Russell smiles wistfully, it comes off as vaguely creepy, and stares out the window for a minute. “It’s a shame. I always found the connection between women and pottery to be,” he pauses again, “erotic.”

  Brooke makes a noise behind Avery. “I think I just threw up in my mouth,” she whispers.

  “So, yeah, Russell, we’re kind of on a timetable here,” Avery says, trying not to imagine her mother doing any form of pottery or being anywhere near Steven Russell. “I’ve got, like, laundry and stuff to pick up. If you could just pass along the name of that reaper, we’d really appreciate it.”

  Russell’s gaze snaps back to the present and the smile drops from his face. He pushes his glasses back up his nose. He clears his throat. “Of course.”

  He turns back to the bookshelf and immediately pulls off a book.

  “What the hell?” Brooke mutters.

  Despite the book’s large size and weight, it’s more of a mammoth tome than just a simple book, Russell carries it as if it weighs no more than a common paperback. He drops it on his desk with a dull thud. He opens the book to the approximate middle, flips forward a few pages and runs his finger down to the bottom of the page.

  “Oh, irony of ironies,” Russell smiles and, again, it’s kind of creepy looking. “You’re going to love this.”

  “I don’t think we’re going to love it,” Brooke whispers.

  “Ms. Stanford was reaped by Victor Gamboa six months ago.” He chuckles.

  Avery shakes her head. “I have no idea who that is.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Russell replies, closing the book. He replaces it on the shelf.

  “Am I missing something?” Avery asks.

  “Victor Gamboa is not an independently operating grim reaper,” Russell explains, stepping back behind his desk. “He works for the Messor and Decessus outfit.”

  Avery and Brooke look at each other. Messor & Decessus. Irony of ironies.

  “As I understand it, you’re entertaining a job offer from them,” Russell continues.

  Avery raises a surprised eyebrow. “And how would you know that?”

  Russell just looks at her as thought she just asked him how to drink a glass of water. “Please, Ms. Graves, don’t pretend to be stupid.”

  “She’s not pretending,” Brooke mutters. Avery elbows her silent.

  Russell continues, “The Council gives grim reapers an enormous amount of latitude in how they do their job.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, exactly?” Avery asks.

  “Exactly what it sounds like,” Russell replies.

  “In that case, it sounds like you expect Brooke and I to run out and pick a fight with this Victor Gamboa,” Avery says.

  “Or maybe that’s just what you’re hearing,” Russell suggests.

  “We’re just doing a favor for a friend,” Avery insists.

  “Of course you are,” Russell says. He doesn’t sound very convinced, but he doesn’t push the issue. He picks up his book and resumes reading. “I believe you know the way out.”

  seventeen

  Messor & Decessus operates out of the thirtieth floor in the Tauyt Building in the financial district. They employ thirty-five grim reapers within the city limits. This is their fourth office. Their main office is located in Los Angeles and houses twice as many reapers. They are the largest grim reaping firm in the nation.

  Victor Gamboa is a man in his forties with salt and pepper hair. He’s got a square jaw and a strong nose. He’s dressed in
an expensive suit with a dark green power tie. He carries himself like a man with a heavy burden.

  Gamboa is in the middle of a phone conference. The table seats ten. Gamboa is on the opposite end, a speakerphone set in front of him. He gestures, almost distractedly, to the chairs at the other end of the table, indicating that the Graves’ sisters should sit.

  Avery and Brooke grab the seats closest to the door and try not to feel like they’re eavesdropping.

  “And what I’m saying, Jack,” Gamboa continues, “is that everyone else is benefiting from all this fantastic space age technology, why shouldn’t the reaper community benefit as well?”

  “Because that’s not how it works, Victor,” Jack says from the other end of the phone. He sounds like a younger man. There’s a slight rasp to his voice as it comes out over the speaker. “The reaper community is built on a class structure. You can’t just shove game changing technology into that.”

  “Sure you can,” Gamboa cuts him off. “It’s called a revolution, Jack. A revolution.”

  Brooke looks at Avery and mouths, “What’s going on?”

  Avery just shrugs.

  They had been stuck out in the waiting room for almost an hour before the receptionist finally told them Gamboa would see them in meeting room three.

  “Look, we’ve made exceptions for your firm,” Jack continues. “We’ve made a lot of exceptions.”

  “And we’re not ungrateful for that,” Gamboa interjects.

  “Of course you’re not,” Jack replies, bristling slightly. “And that’s about as far as it’s going to go. There is just no way the Council is going to authorize a fourth reaper class.”

  Gamboa sighs, rubbing his forehead. “It’s not a fourth reaper class. How many times do I have to explain this to you?”

  “You can explain it as many times as you want, Victor,” Jack says. “It’s not going to change a thing.”

  “This is going to change everything,” Gamboa says. “This is reaper technology.”

  “They tried to do the same thing in the eighties,” Jack says tiredly. “And you know what happened then?”