by Jayne Castle
Shrimpton nodded. “I like it. It has possibilities.”
Lydia dropped her head into her hands.
20
THE DAMP FOG had driven off the usual denizens of the tiny park, but Emmett and Zane had to weave a path through a maze of discarded bottles of Night Vibe wine and Acid-Aura beer.
“The Transverse Wave?” Zane looked away from Fuzz, who was investigating the grass around a tree. “Yeah, sure, I know it. A lot of street kids hang there. They’ve got free food and video games and a neat gym. I used to go there sometimes after school until Lydia found out.”
Emmett shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “Lydia doesn’t approve of the place?”
“Nah.” Zane rolled his eyes. “She convinced Aunt Olinda it wasn’t a good environment for me.”
“Ah.”
“She said it was a place for kids who didn’t have a home. She said I’ve got one.”
“Guess there is some logic to that.”
“Maybe. Aunt Olinda bought it, at any rate.”
Emmett watched Fuzz tumble toward them across the scraggly lawn. “Is it open twenty-four hours a day?”
“Used to be. But a few months ago they started closing it at midnight. Someone said the lady who runs the place claimed there were new legal problems and restrictions on all-night shelters.”
“Think you could describe the interior of the place to me?”
“Sure.” Zane squinted up at him. “How come you want to know about the Wave?”
“I’m thinking of dropping in to take a look around.”
“Lydia probably won’t like that.”
“Probably not.”
They headed back to the Slider, leaned against the fender, and watched Fuzz bob happily around the empty bottles.
“Lydia thinks I should go to college,” Zane said after a while.
Emmett nodded. “Doesn’t surprise me.”
“I don’t want to go to college. I want to join the Guild.”
“No reason you can’t do both.”
Zane snorted. “College is a waste of time for a ghost-hunter.”
“Lot of hunters lose interest in full-time ghost-hunting after they’ve done it for a while. Or they get fried one too many times and decide to call it quits. If they haven’t trained for anything else, they have a tough time finding another job.”
“I can’t imagine ever getting tired of hunting.”
“It’s okay once in a while. But it’s not exactly the most intellectually challenging occupation in the world.”
Zane gave another snort. “Who cares about intellectual stuff?”
“Being good at ghost-hunting is sort of like being good at crossing a busy street in the middle of the block. If you’re fast you don’t get clipped too often. Sure, it’s kind of exciting for a while, but do you really want to spend your whole life doing it?”
Zane glowered. “It’s not like that at all.”
“It’s no different from being able to de-rez illusion traps the way Lydia does. She’s good at it and she could probably make a living doing nothing but springing traps, but she’d get bored if that was all she did.”
“I won’t get bored ghost-hunting,” Zane vowed.
Emmett shrugged. “Maybe not.”
“Did you go to college?”
“Yeah. I zapped ghosts in the Resonance catacombs on the side. Did it full-time for a while after I graduated. But I got tired of seeing the para-archaeologists get all the credit for the discoveries.”
Zane scowled. “What do you mean?”
“No one gives the hunters any credit when a new catacomb is excavated. We’re just hired muscle as far as most people are concerned. It’s the P-As who get their pictures in the papers and write the articles in the journals.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I know,” Emmett said. “But that’s how it works.”
“Please come in, Mr. London.” Denver Galbraith-Thorndyke rose from behind the broad desk. He pushed his glasses up higher on his nose and motioned Emmett to a chair. “I got a call from Mr. Wyatt telling me to expect you.”
“I won’t take too much of your time.” Emmett surveyed the plush offices of the Guild Foundation. Tamara had certainly pulled out all the stops in her goal to start reshaping the Guild’s image. The rich paneling, expensive carpets, and deeply polished wood furnishings had obviously been chosen by a designer who had been instructed to project Expensive Good Taste.
Denver Galbraith-Thorndyke fit in naturally with his surroundings. The years of private schooling and social connections were evident. But there was an earnest, determined quality about him also. Mercer had gauged him correctly, Emmett thought. This was a young man out to prove himself. He wanted to make it on his own. Tamara had offered him the means of doing just that.
“I understand that you’re interested in the details of our contributions to the Transverse Wave Youth Shelter.” Denver adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses again and opened a thick file. “I don’t know exactly what it is you want, but I’ve got a full financial summary here, if that will help.”
“I’d like to see it.” Emmett reached across the desk to take the report. He glanced through it quickly. “I assume any prospective charity is well researched before you authorize funding?”
“Of course. I verify all of the relevant facts personally. Background checks on the individuals associated with the organization are always performed, as are financial checks. The objective is to assure ourselves that the institution is legitimate. There are a lot of scam artists out there, you know.”
“I know.” Emmett scanned the financial data in front of him. “I see that the Transverse Wave was in financial trouble when the Foundation began funding it.”
“Yes.” Denver leaned back in his chair. “When the founder died, the finances were in chaos. We almost didn’t go through with the project because of that. But historically the shelter has had a good reputation for getting kids off the street, and Mrs. Wyatt was determined to fund a project that was oriented toward street youth. We decided we could work with Miss Vickers to get the Wave back on its feet. We’ve been quite successful.”
Emmett looked up. “Miss Vickers?”
“She’s the person responsible for the day-to-day operation of the shelter. She went to work for it shortly before Ames died. A very dedicated woman.”
Lydia gazed down into the sarcophagus where Chester’s body had been found. The janitorial staff had done an excellent job. The bloodstains were gone. But, after all, the translucent green quartz the Harmonics had used to construct their cities and the catacombs and much of what went into them was not only virtually indestructible, it cleaned up easily. If humans ever learned how to duplicate the para-resonating process used to create the stuff, Lydia thought, it would probably sell well to home builders and remodelers. It would be perfect for use in bathrooms and kitchens, assuming your interior designer liked green.
She turned slowly on her heel and surveyed the dimly lit gallery.
What had Chester been doing here the night he died? Detective Martinez and everyone else assumed that he had come to steal one of the artifacts. On its good days Shrimpton’s House of Ancient Horrors was only a third-rate museum. There was nothing of extraordinary value here, but there were some things, such as the tomb mirrors, that would be of interest to small-time collectors. And Chester had a reputation, after all, of being a petty thief.
But if she and Emmett had interpreted Chester’s note correctly, he had not come here to steal. He had been attempting to conceal the key to his private code.
It was likely that he had been killed before he accomplished his goal. If that was the case, then his killer had the key and there was no point looking for it.
But what if he had been murdered on his way out of the museum? What if he had hidden the key before some one slit his throat?
She studied the row of display vaults that lined the gallery. On Shrimpton’s orders, the green quartz urns
, tomb mirrors, and other objects had been dramatically lit so that they glowed eerily in the shadows.
There were literally hundreds of places in this wing alone in which Chester could have hidden his key. He must have known how difficult if not downright impossible it would be for her to search the entire museum.
“Lydia?”
The sound of Ryan’s voice behind her startled her out of her reverie. She turned quickly and saw him walking toward her with an urgent stride.
“Hello, Ryan.”
“I left a dozen messages for you,” he said without preamble.
“I saw them.”
“Why in hell didn’t you return my calls?”
“I’ve been a little busy lately.”
“Damn it, I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, Ryan, I don’t work for the department anymore. That means I don’t always return phone calls to my former colleagues with my former efficiency. I’ve got other priorities these days.”
“Such as your new so-called client?”
A chill of unease shot through her. “Not so-called,” she said evenly. “Mr. London is as real as clients get.”
“He answered the phone in your apartment this morning. You’re sleeping with him, for God’s sake. Do you have any idea who he is?”
“Yes.”
He ignored that. “London’s a Guild boss from Resonance City. I would have thought that you, of all people, would have a few problems with the idea of having an affair with a guy like that.”
“He’s an ex-Guild boss.”
“You know what they say, once in the Guild, always in the Guild.”
“My client is my problem, not yours.”
“That’s not true.” Ryan’s voice softened. “We’re friends, Lydia. Colleagues. I have a responsibility to warn you about London. He’s using you.”
“Consider me warned. Look, I haven’t got time for this. Let’s cut to the chase here. What do you want?”
“Damn it, I’m trying to do you a favor.”
“The last time you did me a favor, I lost my job.”
“Work with me on this and I might be able to get you back into the department.”
She had been right, she thought. Only one thing could explain Ryan’s persistence today. He must have heard something about the dreamstone.
“What’s going on, Ryan?”
“I need to talk to you.” He glanced around, apparently assuring himself that the gallery was still empty. “Something big has come up.”
It might be smart to find out just how much he knew about the dreamstone. She folded her arms and propped one hip on the corner of the green sarcophagus. “Tell me about it.”
“We can’t talk here.”
“Why not? The museum closed a few minutes ago. We’re alone.”
He shoved his fingers through his hair and glanced back over his shoulder again. The tension in him was palpable.
He turned back to her and took a step closer. When he spoke, it was in a whisper. “I’ve got a private client of my own.”
“Congratulations. What does that have to do with me?”
He watched her closely. “Last night he approached me about a rumor concerning a piece of worked dreamstone.”
She went cold inside, but she managed a derisive chuckle. “Sounds like your hotshot private client is an escapee from a para-psych ward. Everyone knows there’s no such thing as worked dreamstone.”
“My client is serious.” Ryan continued to focus on her with unwavering intensity. “He’s no fool. He thinks the rumor is solid, and he’s asked me to help him check it out.”
She grinned. “Easy money. You wrack up a bunch of hours looking for a bogus piece of dreamstone, and then you tell him it doesn’t exist and send him the bill.”
“He thinks you may know something about it, Lydia.”
“Me?” She deliberately widened her eyes, going for stunned innocence. “Why in the world would he connect me to a wild rumor about dreamstone?”
“Because you’re working for London, and he thinks London came to Cadence to find the dreamstone.”
“Look, Ryan, your client obviously got badly fried somewhere along the line,” Lydia said. “Mr. London is not chasing a fantastic rumor. He came here to look for a family heirloom.”
“I don’t believe you.” Ryan moved in closer. “You’re not cooperating with me because you want to keep this to yourself. You think you can find the dreamstone on your own.”
“Are you crazy? You think I’d be working here at Shrimpton’s today if I was on the trail of a piece of dreamstone? Believe me, I’d have quit to spend full time on a project like that. Locating a chunk of worked dreamstone would put me on the cover of the Journal of Paraarchaeology. I’d have my pick of posts at the university. Heck, they’d probably make me head of the P-A department. Just think, Ryan, I could have your job.”
Ryan blinked, apparently startled by that possibility. Then he recovered, his handsome features twisting into a grim mask. “My client is an experienced collector who knows all about ruin rumors. He’s convinced the dreamstone exists.”
“What’s the name of this experienced collector?”
“I can’t tell you that.” Ryan’s shoulders stiffened. “He prefers to remain anonymous.”
“Yeah, I’ll just bet he does. If people find out he’s searching for dreamstone, someone may call the guys in white coats to have him taken away.”
Ryan clamped his teeth together so fiercely that Lydia heard the click. “Damn it, Lydia, it’s in your best interests to work with me on this.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“My client has not only agreed to pay me a fortune if I turn up the dreamstone, he’s agreed to allow the artifact to be studied and written up by the department.”
She pursed her lips. “That means that your name would go on all the journal articles.”
“Naturally, I’d make sure you got credit.”
“Oh, boy. Just like the old days, huh? I write the article and you get to put your name on it as lead author. Be still, my beating heart.”
He drew himself up. “All right. I promise you will be listed as lead author.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment. You’ve tried that line before, remember?”
“Lydia, this is no time to indulge in petty quarrels. If my client is right about this dreamstone, you and I are standing on the brink of the most important career moment of our lives.”
She studied him for a moment. “You really believe your client is right about the dreamstone, don’t you?”
“Like I said, he talks like an experienced collector. I think he knows what he’s doing. He sounds much too smart and too savvy to be chasing a fantasy.”
“I dunno. Collectors are weird. They wouldn’t be collectors if they weren’t a little strange.”
“But if he’s right, there’s a fortune at stake here. And not just in cash. This could wipe out your past for you. No one would give a damn about what happened to you six months ago if you show up with dreamstone.”
“Okay, convince me. What do you know about this so-called dreamstone?”
“I’m not going to tell you a bloody thing until you’ve agreed to work with me,” he said warily.
“Well, in that case”—she straightened away from the sarcophagus—“looks like this conversation is over. See you around, Ryan.”
“Wait.” He grabbed her arm in a fierce grip as she made to walk past him. “You’re a pro. You know as well as I do that if there’s any truth to this rumor, it would be the find of the decade. This is too important to allow personal feelings to get in the way.”
“If there’s any truth to it.” She looked pointedly down at his hand on her arm. “Kindly take your hand off me.”
“It’s London, isn’t it?” Ryan shouted furiously. “He is after the dreamstone, and you figure you’ll do better to stick with him instead of teaming up with me.”
“Take you
r hand off me, Ryan.”
“He’s Guild. That means he’s dangerous.”
“Let me go, Ryan.”
“Shit, haven’t you figured out what’s going on here? He’s using you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You now damn well what I’m talking about. He’s got an agenda.”
“Everyone’s got an agenda. Including you.”
“Whatever London is up to, you can bet it’s outside the law.”
“I wouldn’t go around accusing Emmett London of being a criminal if I were you.” She recalled Emmett’s words in the café. “He might not like it.”
Ryan flushed a dull red. “What is this? Just because he’s screwing you, you believe every word he says? I thought you were smarter than that, Lydia.”
“My private life is none of your concern, Ryan. Not anymore.”
“Pay attention here,” he snarled. “The fact that London hired you in the first place should tell you he’s got plans that probably aren’t going to do you any good.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know as well as I do that if his consulting job had been legitimate, he’d have gone through the Society to hire a private P-A. Instead, he chose you. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“I think you’ve said enough, Ryan.”
“He picked you, a tangler working in a place like this because she got so badly fried that she lost her job at the university. You tell me why he’d want a P-A who will probably never work on a reputable excavation team again.”
“Shut up, Ryan,” Lydia said steadily.
“Have you seen your own para-psych files?” he demanded. “At least two of the shrinks who treated you after you came out of the catacombs recommended that you check into a nice, tranquil para-psych ward for an extended stay.”
She clenched her fists. “Those files are supposed to be private.”
“Ghost-shit. Everyone in the department knows what’s in them. You were diagnosed as suffering from extreme para-dissonance, amnesia, and general psychic trauma. We both know what that means. As far as the experts are concerned, you’re liable to crack under the slightest pressure.”
