by E. C. Bell
He looked even more miserable, if that was possible, and for the briefest of moments, I wished I could give him a hug.
“So I guess this means you are done with me,” he said, his ash dark eyes boring into mine so all I wanted to do was turn away. “You’ve had enough of stupid old Farley. Right?”
“No,” I said. I’d lost enough. I wasn’t losing him, too. “I said that stuff before because I was scared, you know, because I almost got caught and almost lost my job. Farley, I can’t be what you want me to be.” My throat tightened. “I can’t be your friend, but I want to help you. When you’re ready.”
“I feel ready.” His mouth worked. “I don’t belong here anymore. This stuff—all this stuff, doesn’t matter anymore. Does it?”
“Maybe it does.” I stood up and clenched my hands together on my chest. I realized it looked like I was praying, so I released them. “I know you don’t want to talk about moving on to the next plane of existence, but trust me, the alternative is much worse.”
“You’re talking about fading away, right?”
I thought about the ghost in the phone booth who had gone to her own form of hell. “Yeah, fading away is one,” I said carefully. “And there’s other things that can happen. If you aren’t clear about everything.”
“Clear?” He frowned. “Is this something your mother told you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Mostly. So, please, take my mother’s advice. You need to regain your memory.”
“Regaining my memory will help catch the guys who did it?”
“Maybe,” I said. I tried not to roll my eyes. He had to get off this “catch the bad guys” track. He just had to. “But—”
“Good,” he said. “So let me tell you about my last dream. It wasn’t the same as the other ones. This happened a couple of days before I died.”
“Oh.” I couldn’t decide whether that was good or not, and decided to be absolutely neutral. “What did you remember?”
“I remembered listening to Carruthers. In the vents.”
“The voice you heard was Mr. Carruthers? You’re sure?”
“Yep,” Farley said. “He was trying to talk somebody—I think the name was Samosa, but I could be wrong—into investing in a plan he had for the downtown core of the city. Once the new hockey arena was in place, he figured they’d need a bunch more hotels and stuff, and he wanted to develop as much as he could. He told the guy that he could use the extensive underground malls and walkways already in place to connect all the hotels. Plus he wanted to turn the old Hudson’s Bay building into a great big casino. ‘We’ll be able to bring in the big Vegas acts,’ he said. ‘We can call it Las Vegas north.’”
“Las Vegas,” I whispered. “So that’s where that came from.”
“Yep,” he said again. “He really was giving the hard sell to this Samosa guy. How easy it would be to turn this city into Las Vegas north.”
“All right,” I said, and held up the flash drive. “That ties into what I found in his old computer. He’s been buying up buildings all over the downtown core. So, what you heard was him trying to get someone else to invest. It all ties together.”
“Yeah. It seems to,” Farley said. “But here’s the thing. Remember when you found out about that society trying to get the Palais designated as historical? That apparently was the fly in the ointment. The Palais was like ground zero. If they couldn’t tear it down and build the first hotel, the rest of the plan would fall like a house of cards. Samosa even asked about it.”
“What did Carruthers say?”
“He told Samosa not to worry about it. That he had it handled. What he said was, ‘I got a guy who deals with these kinds of problems all the time. The Palais is as good as gone.’”
Oh.
“That’s what I heard, down in that furnace room two days before I died.” Farley looked at me, his eyes two black holes in the translucent grey of his face. “My boss hired somebody to get rid of the Palais. Somehow, whoever he hired fucked up, and the place is still here. And I’m dead.”
“Son of a bitch,” I whispered. If this wasn’t just a dream—if this really was a memory—Farley had just implicated Carruthers in Farley’s death.
“Yep,” Farley replied. “Exactly.”
“I think I’m going to go back into Carruthers’ computer files and see if I can find confirmation.”
“Confirmation?” He quirked a half-smile, and I felt a bit better, until he glanced over at me and I could feel the deadness of his gaze. “Don’t trust me?”
“I have to be able to show the police something, Farley. I can’t tell them I got the information from a dead guy. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah. I know what you mean.” He got up and walked a few steps away from the desk. Actually, he shuffled, as though he didn’t have the strength to lift his feet.
“Stick with me for a while longer, Farley,” I said. “We’ll get this all figured out.”
“Yeah,” he said again, without turning around. “You probably will.”
And then he left.
There was nothing more I could do for him, past proving that what he’d remembered had been the truth, so I went back into Carruthers’ files to see if I could find anything that confirmed what Farley had said.
The good thing? I found some. Mr. Carruthers had money invested in properties all over the downtown core. Even in the old Hudson’s Bay Building. He had everything set out in a complicated spreadsheet, including money invested, and what could be made if the investments were sold. The numbers were from months before, which had to have been the last time Carruthers had entered anything into the computer.
I couldn’t find any emails, or anything that gave me a hint who this ‘”Samosa” person was, or who Carruthers had hired to destroy the Palais. However, I thought that the spreadsheet and his badly written biography would be enough.
I would take this information to the police, and let them deal with it. Maybe if they reopened the case, that would be enough to help Farley.
I hoped so, anyhow. I really didn’t know what else I could do.
Farley:
Dying for a Bad Cause
I left Marie alone while she worked, and went down to the entranceway. I pressed my face against the barrier, staring out at the tree and the buildings, and the sky. I had died because of a money scheme. And, according to Marie, a bad one at that. The whole idea made me wince. Really.
I’d managed to convince myself that if it had been for a good cause, you know, a noble cause, then maybe it was all right that I was dead. But a shitty—really shitty—scheme to make that clown some cash? That was more than I could take. So I watched the sky, and the trees, and the buildings, and tried not to think about it. At least for a while.
Marie:
Taking It Under Advisement
I carefully saved the information I’d gathered, shut down my computer, and put a call into Constable Williams, the weak-chinned cop who had talked to me about the fire in my apartment building. I decided he was going to help me catch the bad guys.
I figured—actually, I hoped—this was one way to get Farley the closure he needed so he could move on, and I could begin pulling the shards of my life back together. I really needed a checkmark in the win column. It had been a tough couple of days.
So, I was thrilled when the cop answered the phone himself, his nasally voice droning, “Constable Williams, how can I help you?”
The thrill factor receded appreciably when he reacted coolly to my request for a follow-up talk. His day was full, he whined, any chance we could put this over until the next week? I persevered. Well, really, I got massively pushy and wouldn’t take next week for an answer. He reluctantly agreed to meet me at his office in a half hour.
I slammed the phone down and pelted out of the office, barely taking the time to check the door to make certain it was locked. I practically ran all the way to the downtown police station, to make it on time.
Then, I cooled my heels for what felt lik
e an hour as Williams took some calls, had coffee, played a video game, and wasted my time. Now, I don’t know if he was actually doing any those things, because I was waiting for him to come and escort me to his office, but it sure felt like it.
By the time he did come down to talk to me, I wasn’t in the mood for any foolishness. But that’s what I was going to get.
“What information do you have for me, Miss Jenner?” He stared at me with his flat eyes, thumbs hooked into his utility belt, the fingers of one hand rubbing the edge of his flashlight like he could already feel it smacking me on the top of the head for wasting his time. I tried to put some semblance of a smile on my face as I gestured to the locked door that kept the rabble separated from the police.
“Can we go up to your office? I’ll only take a minute of your time, I really would rather not talk to you about this down here.”
I wished for a moment that my hair didn’t look like a bad ponytail, or that I was wearing something more revealing, anything to break through the big wall of “I don’t give a rat’s butt” between him and me. He thought he already had all the information he needed to close the case, and nothing I was going to say was going to change his mind.
I tried anyway. I told him everything I’d found out about Carruthers. I told him about Las Vegas north, about the name of the potential investor sounding like Samosa, and about Carruthers hiring someone to destroy the Palais. I even explained why the Palais was going to be destroyed. Because of the historical designation, which would be decided in the next week. When I finally stopped talking, he stared at me with his flat blue eyes, thumbs still stuck in his belt.
“I don’t see how this relates to the fire in your apartment building, Miss Jenner.”
I stared at him, open-mouthed. I’d honestly forgotten that he was the one investigating the fire. “I’m—I’m sure it’s all connected,” I finally said, choking on the words. “I’m sure if you check, you’ll find out Carruthers had something to do with it, as well. There’s something going on, Constable! Please check this stuff out!”
He stared at me for a few moments more, then thanked me for coming down and giving him the information. He would take it under advisement, and get back to me. Next week.
I tried to hand him the flash drive with the information I’d gathered on it. He pulled his hand back as though I’d tried to burn him with it.
“I can’t take that,” he said. “Viruses and such. You know. Maybe you can print it all off and send it to me, next week.”
I stared at him. “Aren’t you at least going to write down what I said?” I finally asked. “I thought you were supposed to write everything down.”
“I’ve got it all up here.” He disengaged one thumb from his belt and tapped his forehead, twice.
“So that’s it, then?”
“I’ll get back to you next week.”
That’s when it hit me. It was the Friday of a long weekend. Constable Williams didn’t care one way or another what information I had. He was trying to get out early, to start his long weekend early. I saw red.
“Who is your supervisor?” I didn’t think I’d spoken very loudly, but everyone in the entrance turned and stared at me.
“You should calm down.” Williams had obviously seen the looks, and took a step toward me, lowering his own voice to get me to lower mine. “You’ve had a bad couple of days, and—”
“I don’t think you have any idea how bad my last couple of days have been, Constable Williams!” Yep, my voice was definitely loudish. The cops staffing the desk gave us a “do we have a problem here” glance, prompting Williams to give a quick head shake. No problem here. Absolutely not.
“Tell me who your supervisor is,” I yelled, “and we are done here.”
“Fine. You want my supervisor’s name, fine. Her name is Sergeant Sylvia Worth.”
Sergeant Worth was the other officer who had come to speak to me about the fire. If I could get hold of her right away, I could maybe put a kink in good old Constable Williams’ long weekend plans.
“Great,” I said. “I’ll go and talk to her right now.”
“She’s not here,” Constable Williams said, and had the gall to sneer a half-smile at me. “The boys at the desk can give you her number so you can leave her a message. She’ll probably get back to you next week. Now, I have to go.”
He turned without another word, disappearing through the door that separated the inner from the outer—with me still standing, fuming, on the outer.
I stormed into the Palais, stormed up the stairs, and would have stormed down the hallway to Latterson’s office except Farley popped up in front of me.
His colour was good. Surprisingly so. He had a pink tinge to his face I’d never seen in the dead before.
All that did was piss me off even more. Of course he’d be doing something else I’d never seen before. If I didn’t move him on soon, I was pretty sure I was going to go stark raving mad.
“Did I ever tell you that cops are idiots?” I asked, before he could even open his mouth. “I tried to explain to that cop, Williams, or whatever his name is, what I thought was going on in the building, and he told me he would take it under advisement.”
It took me three tries to get the key in the lock, my hands were shaking so badly. “What the hell does that even mean?” I yelled, as I fought with the lock. “I’ll take it under advisement. Jesus!”
“I don’t think you should go in there,” Farley said.
“Why not?” The lock finally clicked open, and I walked into the office. Mr. Latterson’s door was shut. “Any idea whether he’s in there or not?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “You have to leave. Now.”
“I can’t leave. You know that,” I said, glancing up at the clock above the door. It read 4:25. I still had time before the building was locked up for the weekend. I slapped my computer to life and pulled the flash drive from my pocket. At the very least I could go through some more of the files.
“So just check and see if he’s in there,” I said. “If he catches me doing this, I’m dead.”
“That’s why you have to leave,” Farley said. “I think you might be in danger.”
“Danger? I’m not in danger,” I said, still staring at the computer screen. “What I meant was, I’ll be fired, really this time, and I won’t be able to help you. Know what I—”
“Shut up!” Farley yelled. “Listen to me. You are in danger!”
Shut up? He had the gall to tell me to shut up? I glanced up at him, ready to give him what for—and saw that he was even pinker than he had been in the hallway.
“Why are you pink?” I asked. “Any idea at all?”
“What?” Farley stared at me as though he couldn’t understand what I was saying. Then he looked down at his hands, which were glowing as pink as his face. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “Why am I pink?”
“Of course you don’t know,” I snorted. This was so ridiculous. “Why would you?”
His colour deepened, turning quite neon.
“It’s actually getting hard to take you seriously,” I laughed.
“Because I’m pink?”
“Well, yes.”
“Get over it. You have to get out of here, now.”
“Why?”
“Because Jimmy boy caught that kid who’s always visiting your boss—”
“Are you talking about Raymond?” I asked.
“Yes,” Farley snapped. “Now shut up and listen!”
I snapped my mouth shut. That was the second time he told me to shut up in as many minutes. I didn’t think I liked it.
“Jimmy caught him coming out of the furnace room with a bunch of tools. The idiot tried to convince Jimmy that he was doing work down there, but when he didn’t have a work order, Jimmy roughed him up, and then called the cops.”
“What?” I gasped. Raymond, down in the furnace room? Why would he be down there, unless—
I turned and stared at Mr. Latterso
n’s door. “Is he in there?” I asked again. “Please check. If he’s not, I need to get in there, right now, because if Raymond broke into the furnace room, then Mr. Latterson has to be involved. I need proof.” I tore the flash drive out of my computer. “It will be in there. Please.”
Farley shook his head. “You gotta get out of here, Marie.”
I shook my head. “I have to do this, so you can move on, Farley. I think if I do this, you won’t be tied here anymore.” My throat tightened, and I put my hands to my eyes, just for a moment, to try to stop the stupid tears before they started. “It’s all I can think to do.”
“You don’t have to do anything more for me,” Farley said. He looked frantic. “Please, get out of here. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Always the gentleman, aren’t you, Farley?”
“No, not always,” he said. “Now please, go.”
I didn’t have a chance to go. I didn’t have a chance to do much of anything past ram the flash drive back in my pocket, because Mr. Latterson came out of his office at that moment, with his arms full of papers.
“Ah, Jenner,” he said. He looked absolutely frazzled. “Glad you’re here. I have to leave, but I’ve got a job for you.”
“A job?” I asked.
It was hard to hear him over Farley, who started yelling, “Get out, get out, get out!” at the top of his lungs.
“Yes,” Latterson said. He sounded calm, but his hair, which was standing on end all over his head, quivered in time with his pulse. “I’m expecting a phone call.” He glanced at the clock. “In about fifteen minutes. I need you to handle it.” He smiled, and I noticed his right eye was twitching in time with his hair. “You don’t mind, do you?”
I looked at the clock. If I stayed, it would be after five. “Who’s calling?” I asked.
“It’ll be my lawyer,” he said. The topmost sheets on the pile of paper he was holding began to shift, and he attempted to slide them back into his arms. “Papers to sign and whatnot.”
He overcompensated, and the sheets slid to the floor. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered and reached down to gather them back into his arms. The rest of the sheets of paper slid from his grasp and landed on the floor at his feet, like the petals from a huge white flower. Without thinking I reached over to pick them up for him.
