by Linda Welch
Chapter Twenty-One
Daven flew out of Salt Lake City International Airport early Tuesday. He left Dallas early afternoon, Dallas time, and arrived in Tokyo early Wednesday evening. He e-mailed Gia, Royal and me collectively. The first came from Tokyo:
“Arrived in Tokyo. Long and tiring flight. Leave tomorrow on the first available flight to Yangon. Daven.”
The next e-mail came two days later from Myitkyina:
“Everything proceeding smoothly. I have hired a local to drive me to Ngawlawngtam. He will take a seldom used route, assures me it is suitable for travel. Will contact you again when able. Daven.”
Everything proceeding smoothly. Yeah, I bet. I bet he put the evil eye on anyone who needed persuasion to let him trek off across Myanmar. I bet he could go where even the natives were not allowed.
I spoke to some of my contacts. I asked about a black Mercedes-Benz, a white-haired man, anyone who could be European, but nobody had seen them. I didn’t mention the big white van as there are always plenty of those in town, and the description was vague. Of course, these chats were not simple question and answer sessions. I had to spend a good amount of time with each shade I talked to. It seemed to take an age.
Despite the activity, the days dragged, because Royal wasn’t here. We’d not spent every moment together, but now he felt unavailable to me. Every time I thought to call and ask him something or tell him something, I held off. I ran around, my head full to bursting, yet my days felt empty. Pre-Royal, I had my part-time position with Bermans and my work for Clarion PD. Royal and the Marchant case came along soon after Bermans let me go. I was usually busy and Royal filled in the gaps, not necessarily by being with me, but as a presence in my life.
I’d have welcomed another case, any case, even a lost kitty, so my time was one-hundred-percent occupied, so I didn’t have one moment to spare for anything else, not one free second during which Royal occupied my thoughts.
That’s when I knew I didn’t want to give him up, no matter if a lingering sense of outrage and pure commonsense tried to tell me otherwise. I missed him. And if I missed him after only a few days, how would I feel if we were apart permanently?
I’d regretted splitting up with former boyfriends, but I didn’t have heartburn over it. Losing Royal would hurt. A relationship is all about give and take, the bad along with the good. I could work with that. Not wanting to be alone again didn’t make me needy and pathetic. He filled an empty space inside me nobody else had. Maybe that was worth a second chance.
I would not, could not, fall into his arms and declare all forgiven, but I could try to see life through his eyes, for a change.
As for the Borrego case, I was stuck, at a loss, clueless. We would have to give up on Rio if something didn’t turn up soon. I didn’t want to tell Gia.
“Aw, honey, don’t take it so hard,” Mel said.
I turned my head and squinted up at her. “Call me honey again and I’ll make you wish you were dead.”
Jack went off into peals of artificial laughter.
Mel put hands to hips. “I could call you Tee-fanny,” she said, drawing out the name. “See how you like that.”
I scooted the kitchen chair back and got to my feet. “Earplugs. I need earplugs.”
***
I stood at the counter stirring raw brown sugar into my oatmeal, when Royal burst in. He swooped on me and whisked the bowl away before I could have a taste.
He looked excited, but I didn’t appreciate his putting my breakfast out of reach. My oatmeal is not your traditional sort. I make it with lots of whole milk, not water, and cook it for a long time until it’s all soft and creamy, and then add just enough sugar to sweeten to perfection. Making oatmeal is not a performance I take lightly.
I retrieved my bowl. “Do you mind!”
He grinned, hands braced on the counter, the muscles of shoulders and arms filling the denim fabric of his shirt, flashing those lovely white, perfectly even teeth. “I saw the Mercedes.”
I dropped the spoon in the bowl. Oatmeal splattered across the counter and the back of my hand. “You what?”
He wiped a smidge of oatmeal off my hand with one finger. It seemed like forever since I’d felt his skin on mine.
He licked the glob off his finger with his pointed demon tongue, which brought other memories to mind. I held my breath. He caught my gaze and I thought I saw a familiar twinkle in his copper eyes. I think we both forgot to speak for a moment.
Royal cleared his throat. ”I was driving down Temple and realized I was right behind a black, older model Mercedes-Benz.”
“And?”
“I lost it,” he said cheerfully.
I know my eyes widened. “You were a cop. You are now a private detective. How can you lose a car?”
“Got stuck at a light. But it is here, Tiff.”
“Well thank you, Royal, but I already knew.” I know it came out snarky, but I smiled as I spoke. “On Temple?”
He nodded. “Yep.”
I took a step back. “I’m going down there. Coming?”
“To look for the Mercedes?”
“To have a chat with an old friend.”
Jack and Mel followed us to the door. After they did their good deed by reminding me they were human, and Royal was pretty human, for a demon, and pointing me in the right direction several times, I rewarded them by telling them everything I knew about the case, right down to the tiniest detail. But it backfired on me, because now they were more miffed than usual at not being able to tag along.
We took Royal’s pickup downtown and drove the length of Temple till we reached the Megaplex.
***
A big old mall and parking garage occupied two entire blocks in downtown Clarion when Brenda Lithgow died. Everyone hated the garage, with its dim lighting, and mall security rarely bothered to patrol the area. There were a number of muggings and one murder.
The mall failed due to poor management. Most of the stores had already moved to the new Westgate Mall in West Clarion when the owners announced the closure. It was torn down, along with the parking garage. Now the Megaplex - which houses a movie theater, a conference center, the extreme sports center with climbing walls and wind tunnel, a bowling alley and two restaurants - occupies the space. But Brenda is still there, where the garage used to be.
Brenda was sixty-two when she died and still trying to sell her body, although men no longer considered it saleable. A bag-lady, she pushed a shopping cart loaded with old clothes and god-knows-what-else about town, sometimes trying to entice a man into an alley. A junkie murdered her for the few dollars left over from her social security check after she spent the rest on booze. He strangled her as she settled down for the night in a corner of the mall’s parking garage. Poor, deluded woman, she thought she had a customer.
Brenda wears so many sweaters, I cannot see the shape of her body, much less the mark on her neck. I think an equal number of skirts cover her, and her legs are thick with torn, dirty-blue hose. Her streaked gray and yellow hair sticks out from beneath a navy-blue beret.
Brenda stands in the middle of the pedestrian-only walkway between the west end of the Megaplex and sports center with one hand on her shopping cart. Why is she stuck in one place when other ghosts, like Jack and Mel, can roam a bigger area? I have never figured that out.
Her voice came out low and rasping. “Hello, lovely.” She nodded to where Royal stood at the curb. “I see you brought Sir Gorgeous along.”
I paid my regular fee of a half hour of conversation and asked my question.
“Yeah, I see it around here. Can’t miss it, can you. They knew how to make cars in them days.”
Brenda is reliable. Unlike shades I meet for the first time, who are likely to tell me anything to make me happy, thinking it will draw me back to them, Brenda knows a lie will have the opposite effect. Brenda and I go way back. She was the first shade I met in downtown Clarion.
“Where was it?”
She ges
tured at the narrow street ahead. “Around here and on Temple. You should ask Irving.”
She waved, high in the air, at the little man who stood on the sidewalk on the east side of Temple. “Hi, Irv!” she shouted. He waved back crookedly with his left hand.
At night, when the streets are almost free of traffic and quiet, they shout back and forth to each other.
“He’s next on my list,” I told her.
After exchanging a few more words with Brenda, Royal and I headed down the walkway and along Twenty-First to Temple.
The car which hit Irving Prentice didn’t stop to see what happened to the man it tossed on the sidewalk. Irving died right there of massive head injuries. Consequently, he is not a pretty sight. You know how it is when you know someone with a disfigurement, and after a time you don’t notice - I don’t think I will ever reach that stage with Irving. Seeing him still gives me a jolt. The right side of his head and face are bashed in and bloody, and his body is crooked. He shuffles in his little area like a skinny Quasimodo in a business suit.
“Hi there, Irv. How’s tricks?”
Irving’s voice is upper-class American. “How do you expect me to reply? Do you see me performing for the masses? Do you see anything up my sleeve?”
He didn’t stay irritable for long. “I see it all the time.”
“You don’t happen to know in what direction it heads?”
“I do.” He pointed with his index finger, across the street and half a block down. “Right in there.”
I looked back at Royal, pointed. He was in the Emerson Building’s parking garage in a flash, demon style.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“What is the Phillip Vance Executive Agency?”
“It’s new, not listed in the phone directory yet. There is a nameplate by the elevator, but does that indicate it is a private elevator to their floor, or the agency uses all four?”
We got to our feet simultaneously, but Royal went through the kitchen door first and up the stairs to my bedroom. I stood behind him chewing on a hangnail as he booted up my computer. Jack and Mel were already there.
The Phillip Vance Executive Agency was a fancy temp agency. In other words, they placed employees in executive positions on a temporary basis, with the option of the employer taking them on permanently. Although they had their head office in Clarion, their employees worked throughout Utah.
Temporary executive positions? Did the agency mean actual executives, or executive-type assistants? You would need exemplary qualifications to walk into a business and immediately take over an executive position. Why did they operate out of Clarion? Wouldn’t Salt Lake City or St. George be a better location?
Unless they had a specific reason for setting up in Clarion. Like, two Dark Cousins lived here. I hoped they didn’t know a Gelpha also lived in Clarion.
More delving found agency offices listed all over the country. Some were still open and profitable, but several had lasted only a few months before closing shop. Royal brought up a data base with the one already on the screen. Trust Royal to keep a digital record of Gelpha and Dark Cousin deaths.
I tried to count down the list. “But there are. . . . How many were killed?”
“Here in the States? Seven. We found the other three, took their bodies and cleaned up the crime scenes.”
Murders had not occurred in every city with an agency, but every kill on Royal’s list matched up with an agency location.
I leaned closer to the screen. “The agency is a cover. They set up where Dark Cousins were. Then Vance had them killed.”
Royal stared hard at the data on the screen. “It looks so. Or where he thought they were.” He swung to face me. “We have to be careful here, Tiff. We could be jumping to conclusions.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
“I do not think so either, but it is possible.”
He could well be right. Jumping the gun happens when you want something so much. But we could have the Charbroiler, and that sent my pulse leaping.
His fingers tapped a rat-tat-tat on the desk. “We need evidence.”
I knew, then, he didn’t mean to share this information with Gia. I stepped back a pace and looked down at him. “You’re going the legal route. You don’t trust Gia and Daven any more than I do.”
He kind of laughed, but it cut off in a snort. “Why would I trust anyone who forced my mouth shut without a by-your-leave?” He half turned the chair, reached back and punched at the keyboard to close the programs. “We will look into this ourselves, but it will not be legal.”
Feigning wide-eyed excitement, I clasped my hands at chest level. “Oh, goody! We’re going to be real detectives and detect!”
“This is so exciting!” Mel said. Jack echoed her. As always, their faces looked the same as on the day they died, but instead of being at odds to what they felt, the expressions seemed to fit their excitement.
Jack struck a pose, crossed his legs and flicked the brim of an imaginary fedora with one finger. “You want my opinion, sister?” he growled in a pretty good imitation of Bogart.
I made for the stairs. “No thanks, Jack. No time.”
Royal came on my heels. “I will never grow used to that,” he murmured.
“Used to what?”
“You chatting with your two friends.”
I stopped on the stairs. I knew Royal felt uncomfortable when I talked to Jack and Mel, he’d told me so, but those were lighthearted comments. He’d even teased me about them. But now he had an edge to his voice.
“I can’t pretend they’re not here. I don’t want to pretend, Royal.” I did it enough throughout the years. I didn’t see why I should when Royal knew about Jack and Mel.
“I am going right off the man,” I heard Mel say.
Royal ran his palm down his face. “I do understand. I know they are here. I know you all are . . . roommates. But I do not hear them, I am not part of your relationship. Seeing you, hearing you, it is . . . surreal. ”
“I know that, I really do, but it’s not about to change.” I refused to give an inch. My new philosophy: take me, take my ghosts. I softened my tone. “Please understand. It’s a fact of my life. They’re like. . . .” Don’t tell me I’m gonna have to say it out loud. I lowered my voice. “They’re like family,” I squeezed out.
Over his shoulder, I saw Mel and Jack standing stock-still above him. Jack, for once, did not have a sarcastic retort. Maybe I surprised them.
I got away lightly. They would save their smart-mouth comments for later.
I went in the kitchen and picked up the phone. My oatmeal had congealed in the bowl. I dialed the Philip Vance Agency.
***
The plan: I had a five o’clock appointment. I would go to the Phillip Vance Executive Agency on the pretense of signing on. While in there, I’d scope out security. Then Royal and I would go back in the evening after the agency closed.
Presuming Vance would call the names on my carefully prepared resume, we purposely made the interview late in the day, hoping he would not do a background check on his prospective employee until the next morning.
Another e-mail from Daven arrived just before we left. Isn’t the Internet wonderful? All you need is a clear view of the southern sky and you can communicate from anywhere to anyone.
“For the last leg, my guide and I rode bicycles along a well-maintained trail. The ancient city looks how I imagined it would from EH’s description but more overgrown, although efforts have been made to keep down the vegetation. Some parts are blackened and one temple is a heap of charred stones. The locals spoke of EH’s expedition and the end of the story as we know it. It is part of their lore. I think I will be here a few days longer. Daven.”
***
I entered the Phillip Vance Executive Agency through the main entrance on Temple. The reception area took up the width of the building to the height of two floors, but there had to be offices behind it. The door to the west of the receptionist’s desk probably gave access to them.
Smooth, gleaming, creamy marble floors, chrome and glass. The front and side walls were floor-to-ceiling windows, the kind you can look out of but nobody outside can see through. A curving staircase flanked the south wall, something like those in the Gelpha High Lord’s House, only with a chrome banister. Big artificial ferns and tropical plants sat in pale marble pots in each corner of the room and at the bottom of the staircase. Leaflets concertinaed along the top of a chrome and glass table.
The receptionist’s desk was also chrome and steel, the receptionist a pretty little blonde with puffy hair who - dare I say it - looked like she should have a nail file in one hand. Not to sound stereotypical, but she chewed gum, loudly.
In the otherwise silent building, I heard only the gentle whir of the air-conditioning and the pop of the receptionist’s gum. My high heels clacked on the marble floor as I made for her desk. I don’t often wear heels. I hoped I’d not fall flat on my ass. I was a bag of nerves.
“Hi. I’m Hilary West. I have an appointment with Mr. Vance.”
She popped the gum and smiled at me. I could see the wad poised for action in the corner of her mouth. “Mr. Vance is expecting you. Take the stairs and follow the corridor to the end. It’s the only office up there.”
I smiled my thanks, turned and headed for the stairs. I spotted surveillance cameras high on the walls. They would get every angle of the room.
I couldn’t see cameras in the upstairs corridor, unless they were those miniature marvels of modern technology. I tugged at my clothes, checked the lay of my wig in the shiny brass plate on Vance’s office door, and knocked. A masculine voice told me to enter, the accent slight but distinct. Austria? Switzerland? I went inside.
Phillip Vance wasn’t at the big brushed chrome desk in the middle of the office. He sat at a computer console off to one side, a younger man than I expected, with light-brown hair in a crew cut and the physique of a bodybuilder. His clothes had to be made-to-measure; you don’t find them in that shape off the rack. Even so, the material strained across his back as his hands moved on the keyboard. “Please take a seat, Miss West. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
