by Peg Herring
“Seamus, I’m scared.”
“I know. Try to stay calm. I’ll get to you somehow, kid. I promise.”
As soon as Carmon awoke, Tori began whispering, “Madison,” repeating it every few seconds. Carmon’s reaction was confusion, resistance, and frustration, thinking, I’m not over this bug yet.
Preparation for the day began. Carmon arranged her hair in a casual ponytail, moving quietly through the house in order to let her brother sleep in. As she listed the items to be done today, Tori doggedly kept repeating Madison’s name. For a time, Carmon ignored it. She was still focused on Abe. She kept telling herself she didn’t trust him, but Tori noticed she couldn’t stop thinking about him, either.
“Madison.” Tori’s job was to get Carmon to go to the police. Detective DeMestrie seemed competent, and he would look for his partner, might even know where he had gone last. Tori knew Carmon was debating whether to tell the police her suspicions about Abe, and her whispered encouragement was helping to push her along. She was pleased when her friend finally grabbed her purse and her car keys, and, with a sigh that revealed how difficult it was for her, left for the police station.
The Honda made no grinding sound and started right away. “One good thing,” Carmon murmured as she backed out of the driveway.
She almost changed her mind several times, but Tori willed her on, aware that when her carefully constructed defenses were threatened, Carmon always preferred to retreat rather than advance. Police paid to solve crimes. No reason to get involved. Loath to tattle on a man she liked, Carmon would have put it off indefinitely except for Tori’s insistent whisper: “Madison!”
Carmon almost lost her nerve when she arrived at the police station, and Tori had to step up the tempo of her whispered command. The brakes of the little car grated noisily as she pulled into a parking space, attracting the attention of two patrol officers standing on the sidewalk. Carmon turned off the engine and sat for some time, her thoughts a jumble of doubts.
“Madison,” Tori repeated, seeing all too well what Seamus meant. It wasn’t easy to influence a host. Finally, Carmon opened the car door, ramming a shoulder into it to encourage the sticky mechanism.
Carmon almost gave up again when the man at the desk said Detective Madison was not in today. I tried. She turned away.
“His partner is there, if you’d like to speak with him.”
“Yes!” Tori urged. “Yes, yes!”
Carmon shut her eyes briefly in recoil but unconsciously echoed the insistent monosyllable, “Yes, please.”
She was escorted through a locked door and down a hallway to a medium-sized office. The office testified to the contrast between DeMestrie and Madison. An impressive wooden desk sat in neat splendor on one side, where the detective sat. A junky metal desk surrounded by assorted cardboard boxes huddled in the other. The room smelled faintly of peanut butter.
DeMestrie was a hunk, as Yvonne had testified, and a neat freak too, judging from his desk. The computer, though not new, was free of smudges, and a tiny brush to clear the screen of dust attached to the side with sticky pads. His phone, positioned precisely in one corner, was shiny clean, and the desktop was clear except for the file he was reading and a set of inexpensive but stylish sorting trays. Madison’s desk was quite the opposite.
DeMestrie tossed the wrapper from a recently finished peanut butter cup into the trashcan beside him, straightened an already perfect knot in his tie, and rose. “Can I help you, Miss Calley?”
“I came to talk to Detective Madison.” Carmon glanced at the empty chair at the other desk. “They said he isn’t here.”
“We’re not scheduled on Saturdays. I came in to catch up on some paperwork.” DeMestrie slid the papers before him to one side and took out his phone. “I can call him.”
“No, that’s all right. I should have realized. Saturday.”
Inside her head, Tori reacted with frustration. “Yes!” she telegraphed. “Yes!”
Carmon pulled her head toward her shoulder as if she had been struck, and DeMestrie asked, “Is something wrong?”
“No, I—I just haven’t been feeling very well.” She rubbed her forehead with the fingers of one hand. “I wanted to tell him—” She stopped, and in that moment, Tori made a decision. DeMestrie was her best chance to help Madison. Without further ado she jumped—and suddenly looked at Carmon through the detective’s eyes.
Carmon’s eyes widened in surprise then she seemed to brighten, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
On the other side of the desk, DeMestrie’s thoughts went astray for a few moments. Wow! What was that? He swallowed once before speaking aloud. “You have information for us?”
Carmon took a deep breath. “I don’t know if it’s useful or not. A man at PLK, Abe Gougeon, told me something I found out isn’t true. It’s probably a misunderstanding, but—Abe told me he got his job through Mr. Loomis, but Loomis says he hardly knows him.”
“Really.” I must be getting sick, he thought. Despite that, the detective began recording notes on his phone.
Tori congratulated herself on the move. DeMestrie’s mind functioned even as he adjusted to her presence.
Carmon went on, both earnest and embarrassed. “Yesterday I heard Mr. Falk say Abe sneaks into files he isn’t authorized to see.”
“Clients’ personal information?”
“I suppose so.”
DeMestrie frowned at the notes he had made. “Anything else you want to tell me about him?”
“He’s…nice.” She rubbed one hand over the other. “Abe’s a good person, really.”
He gave a curt nod. She’s got a thing for the guy. “I see.”
Carmon blushed, apparently aware how her defense of Abe sounded to the detective.
DeMestrie felt bad for the pretty young woman, obviously torn between loyalties. “I appreciate your coming in.”
“I don’t want to make trouble for anyone, but Tori was my friend.” It looked for a moment like Carmon might cry, but she pressed her lips together until composure returned.
“You did the right thing, Miss.” DeMestrie rose, but the movement made him dizzy. He didn’t walk Carmon to the door, merely waited until she turned away before sitting back down with an ungraceful plop.
After she left, he sat staring at the shiny blank space at the center of his desk. Tori waited for him to adjust. You’ll get used to me, Detective, but you need to hurry. We’ve got work to do.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Be Not Afraid
Jaime DeMestrie was one of those people whose thoughts became spoken words unless circumstances required silence. Most people get over it by age six; some never do. “Can’t believe a bug hit me that fast,” was his comment as soon as Carmon Calley was gone. “Power of suggestion, maybe. She says she feels ill, and all of a sudden, it’s like a plumber’s snake went through my gut.” He reached into his pocket and touched the candy bar waiting there. “Wonder if another one will help or make things worse.”
Tori listened to the hum of the police station as her new host sat willing himself to feel better. After a while, he sighed. “Better, maybe.” He pulled the file he had been working on back into place. “But I don’t think the Three Musketeers is a good idea.”
“Madison.” Tori began her dull but necessary repetition. DeMestrie worked on for a while but finally paused and pulled out his phone. He called his partner’s home, but there was no answer. Next he tried Madison’s cell, which went immediately to voice mail. Finally, he called the front desk. “Miller, have you heard anything from Chuck today?”
“No,” came the answer. “He’s not on the schedule.”
“I just wondered if he left me a message.”
“Don’t see anything. I think he said he was getting sick.”
“Yeah, he did say he felt like he was coming down with something. I think he gave it to me.”
“Don’t bring it out here!” Miller said cheerfully.
“Did
he mention checking out an address on Clingell?”
“Not that anybody wrote down,” Miller hedged. It wasn’t unheard of for a message to get lost. So many officers, so much paperwork.
He thanked Miller and hung up, but Tori didn’t let it rest. “Madison!” DeMestrie tried both Madison’s numbers again with the same results. “Okay, so he isn’t answering at home and his cell is turned off. Guess I have to wait to see if he checked out the lead.”
“Look.”
DeMestrie scanned the room nervously as the voice spoke inside him, sounding through the constant ringing of phones and whirr of clerical machinery outside his office.
“Look!”
“I guess I could drive down there. Fresh air might do me good.” Jaime grabbed his coat as he mumbled to himself, “Just wish I didn’t feel like I ate an entire Thanksgiving dinner in five minutes.”
Tori was pleased with her ability to influence Jaime DeMestrie. He was receptive to what he regarded as hunches, so she repeated her urges to investigate. Nearing the place where the cab had dropped its late-night fare, Jaime drove slowly, eyes moving constantly as he took note of salient facts. Nothing gave Tori a clue to Madison’s whereabouts. She saw no abandoned garage.
Jaime would have remained in his car, but Tori insisted softly, “Look!” She tried to make her presence as small as possible so her host felt only slightly sluggish. Luckily, he seemed the type who looks upon illness as something to be overcome with action. He parked the car and got out, surveying the area uncertainly.
Yesterday’s rain had departed, but the pavement was still damp, the sidewalk under water in one low spot. Remembering Seamus’ description, Tori looked through her host’s eyes, anxious for any sign of Madison’s passage. Jaime walked a few steps down the street, saw nothing. Unaware he was looking for anything in particular, he peered down an uninviting alley crammed with abandoned junk. Nothing moved. He turned to go, but Tori caught a glimpse of a sign at the other end. “Here,” she whispered urgently.
Reluctantly Jaime traversed the alley, muttering to himself all the while of the damage he was doing to his shoes and the ribbing Madison would give him if he had already been here and found nothing useful. As they emerged at the other end, Tori saw across the alley an old garage, just as Seamus had described it, the red Pegasus emblem not quite faded to obscurity.
“Here!” she said again, willing her host to persevere.
Jaime approached the building, but the ancient bays were criss-crossed with iron bars and the entrance door boarded up, obviously unused for years. Windblown dirt had embedded itself in the thick glass brick, making it opaque and gritty to the touch. Jaime pounded on the door and listened, his ear to the crack. He pounded again. Nothing.
Once again he considered leaving, but Tori insisted, “Look!” Jaime went around to the side of the building, down a grassy pathway between one structure and the next. Here was another door, padlocked shut. He turned away. Tori whispered, “Back!”
This time Jaime didn’t obey, did not trust the inner voice any farther. With a final glance at the padlocked door, he made his way back through the dank alley toward his car, cursing softly as mud sucked at his stylish loafers. Tori could not believe she was so close to helping Madison and yet so helpless. In frustration she abandoned subtlety, shouting, “Look!”
Jaime reeled in surprise, steadying himself against the cool block wall momentarily and shaking his head to stop the noise. “Man!” he muttered, “Get a grip!”
Realizing her outburst had backfired, Tori lapsed into silence. It wouldn’t do to have Jaime conclude he was indeed sick and head to urgent care rather than trying to locate Madison. As Seamus had warned, people weren’t as prone to suggestion as the dead might wish.
DeMestrie returned to his car and with practiced ease turned around mid-block and headed back to the station. “I’ll review Chuck’s notes, see what I can find there.” Tori couldn’t disagree with his logic, but she was frustrated. Madison needed DeMestrie’s help, and Seamus needed hers. Despite her best attempts, she’d failed them both.
Madison dozed and woke several times, half exhausted from pain and shock. Once he roused, thinking he heard a noise, but the room above was silent when his wits came together. He shouted again but heard only the echo of his own voice against the metal roof overhead. He slumped back, must have slept again, for he woke to dirt sifting down on him. Brushing it away from his eyes, he looked up to see a face suspended high above him. The man who squatted there looked vaguely familiar, with an oval face and round, light blue eyes that looked innocent. Madison doubted it.
“Daryl Talbert, I assume?”
“Good guess, Detective. You weren’t fooled by the corpse at my apartment?” Talbert’s voice was smooth, his manner satirical.
Madison’s mother would have termed him a smart aleck. Does everybody think of his mother when he is about to die? At least she’d never know how badly her only son had screwed up, ending his life at the bottom of a hole, in pain and with no way to oppose his killer.
“The look-alike corpse? It fooled me for a while, but no face? Guys like you are too arrogant to destroy themselves that way.”
Talbert rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I suppose police work brings wisdom about people, but your acquired acumen didn’t help you this time.” He gave a mock salute. “It was good of you to bring me the car. I put it to good use then left it where it won’t be so noticeable.”
So no one from the station will find me, even if they check the last spot Jaime and I talked about. Madison glared upward. “Not happy to assist you.”
“No, I imagine not.” Talbert gazed critically into the pit. “But what do I do with you now?”
Madison shrugged. There were a dozen ways for Talbert to finish him, and no way to avoid it. “You could come down here and we could settle this like men.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
“I wouldn’t do a thing to make it easy for you, pal.”
Talbert sat, stretching his legs along the rim of the pit, probably to relieve cramps from squatting. “I could leave you here. In all probability you’d die of thirst, but there’s that ever-so-slight chance of rescue.”
“One can only hope.” Madison shifted his weight and grimaced as pain shot up his leg.
“Or I could kill you.”
“A guy who eliminates friends as coldly as you do wouldn’t hesitate over a middle-aged cop he just met.”
Daryl’s brows furrowed briefly and he rose to his own defense. “I never started out to kill anyone.”
Madison’s leg throbbed, and he felt the sheen of sweat on his face though he was chilled to the bone. Am I going into shock? He forced a sarcastic tone. “Yeah, you’re a victim, Daryl, and all those people deserved to die because they stood in the way of your getting rich on somebody else’s money.”
Talbert shifted his position, raining more dirt down on Madison. “Cartwright’s death was an accident.”
“And Jimmy Hoffa fell into a cement mixer.”
“The old guy started shouting about going to the authorities. I only meant to stop him—” Talbert ran a hand across his forehead, banishing the image. “But it did solve the problem.”
“Not completely. Someone at PLK knew something.”
“True. When we got a blackmail note, my partner thought it was from Tori.”
“But after you had her killed, you found out you were wrong.”
“A failure of deductive reasoning. Cartwright was vague, said ‘the woman’ told him his account had been closed. Tori took Falk’s calls, so we thought it was Tori he spoke to.”
“But it was Jennise who figured out the scheme. That meant she had to die.”
“She demanded a cut. What did she expect?”
Madison shook his head. In Talbert’s mind, nothing was his fault. Nothing he had done could have been avoided. A man like him could slide quickly downward, from white-collar crime to manslaughter to hired murder and finally to himself remov
ing those in his way. Because he had to. Because people kept getting in his way. “You’re quite a guy, Talbert.”
“I plan to keep living the way I like, Detective. You might want to plan on a different path.”
As he drove through the light weekend traffic, Jaime DeMestrie muttered at his partner’s lack of consideration. “Even if he is home sick, he could answer the phone!” He pulled over, punched Redial and listened once more as the mechanical voice began. “Chuck, give me a call!” He pressed End, his actions betraying disgust, and pulled the car back onto the street.
