Dark Perception: The Corde Noire Series

by Alexandrea Weis

  * * *

  When Bob parked the Mercedes in front of a renovated, five-story, red-bricked warehouse, Melinda was a little disappointed. The way Nathan had described the apartment building he owned, it sounded like a four-star hotel. But the exterior resembled the rest of the refurbished warehouses on the short block. It had an unassuming façade of plain windows climbing up to the top floor, a single entrance with a decorative leaded-glass door, and cast-iron streetlights lining the front sidewalk.

  “This is it?”

  Bob cut the engine. “Yes, Miss Melinda. This is The Shallows.”

  “It’s smaller than I expected.”

  Bob peered up at the building. “There are only a few apartments on each floor, with your apartment and Mr. Cole’s penthouse on the fifth floor. Not a large apartment building, but too many people would probably annoy Mr. Cole.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Bob stretched for his car door. “He’s a very private man.”

  When Melinda stepped onto the sidewalk, she glanced over at Bob. “Thanks for the ride. I’m sure we will see each other again.” She slung her backpack over her shoulder.

  “We will, miss. I’m to be your driver.”

  Melinda’s mouth dropped open. “My driver?”

  “I’m to take you wherever you need to go, as per Mr. Cole’s instructions.”

  She bit down on her lower lip, fighting against the urge to ask Bob a million and one questions about Nathan Cole’s integrity.

  “Mr. Cole said you don’t have a car,” Bob added, eyeing her perplexed face.

  Melinda tugged at the backpack on her shoulder. “No, I don’t.”

  “Then you’ll need a car to get around to meetings with Mr. Cole’s clients, and to run any errands since you don’t know the area. Things are a little more spread out here than the French Quarter.”

  Melinda was appeased by his explanation. She would need a car to run errands, and until she got to know the neighborhood, she might feel more comfortable being driven instead of walking the streets in the Warehouse District.

  “Thank you, Bob. I never thought of that.”

  “Mr. Cole thinks of everything.” He nodded to the building entrance. “You can check in at the security desk. They’ll have your apartment keys.”

  Inside, Melinda found a tastefully decorated lobby with cozy furniture done in hues of deep forest green and beige set against richly-paneled mahogany walls. A brass chandelier hung from a plaster medallion in the center of a ceiling supported by rough-hewn cypress beams. At the end of the lobby, next to a single pair of silver elevator doors, was a Queen Anne desk with a brass lamp and a rugged security guard sitting behind it. As she took a few steps deeper into the lobby, a sudden rush of cool air blew past her. She got a quick impression of a man in chains, running for his life.

  “Yep,” she muttered. “It’s haunted.”

  While pondering the added complication of ghosts, Melinda approached the security desk.

  “I’m Melinda Harris. Mr. Cole’s new … assistant,” Melinda told the guard, trying not to sound as nervous as she felt.

  “Welcome to The Shallows, Miss Harris,” the thick guard said as he stood from the desk.

  Melinda gawked as the man rose to his full height. Towering above her, she guessed he must have been well over six-foot-five. His swarthy complexion, beady black eyes, and jet-black curly hair made him appear even more intimidating than his bulging biceps and tree-trunk-sized neck.

  “Mr. Cole told me to help get you settled in, Miss Harris,” the security guard said in an unusually deep voice. “He wanted to be here to greet you, but got called away on business.” He removed an envelope from a side drawer of the desk and handed it to her. “Here are two sets of keys. One set opens the front door to the building, and the other opens your apartment. We have a security guard on duty twenty-four hours a day here at the front desk, so if you ever need us there is an intercom system in your apartment to call for assistance. I’m Phil, and I cover mornings and afternoons during the week. Les handles the night shift. On the weekends, Mel and Harry cover the desk.” He paused and waved a massive hand at the large window overlooking the street. “Parking for tenants is contracted with a garage across the street.”

  Melinda felt the weight of the envelope in her hand. “Thanks, Phil, but I don’t have a car.”

  Phil smiled and the darkness in his black eyes lifted. “Mr. Cole told me, but in case you have friends come over to visit, they can park in the garage instead of on the street.” He winked. “The meter maids patrol this part of town like hungry pit bulls.”

  Melinda grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “The cable guy just left your apartment, so you’re good to go with the Internet and television. The building also has free Wi-Fi service for the tenants. The phones for your apartment were hooked up yesterday. The phone number is on a slip of paper in your envelope.”

  “Wow, Mr. Cole sure doesn’t waste any time.”

  Phil came around the side of the desk. “No, ma’am. He likes his tenants to feel at home as quickly as possible. Plus, you’re an employee. He always goes all out for his employees.”

  “Do you like working for Mr. Cole?” she asked as a vision of Phil holding doors for tenants and answering complaints flashed across her mind.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he firmly replied. “You’ll like it here. Mr. Cole is a good man to work for.”

  Oddly, that was not the impression that suddenly filled her depths. Snapshots of Nathan Cole coming and going at all hours floated across her mind’s eye. In some of the flashes he was alone, in others he was with a variety of attractive women.

  “A good man to work for, but is he a good man, Phil?” Melinda questioned, studying the security guard.

  The color drained from Phil’s face. His eyes darted back and forth. “Ah, yes, he’s good to all of us—”

  “Never mind, Phil,” Melinda interrupted, already knowing the answer.

  The moving van arrived in front of the building, and Phil looked almost relieved to see the big truck.

  “I’ll get the movers started with the unloading.” He glanced down at Melinda. “Why don’t you go up and check out your apartment? You can be deciding what you want to keep and what you want to put into storage.”

  “Storage? I don’t understand.”

  “Your apartment is already furnished, Miss Harris. Mr. Cole said you might want to keep a few of your things, but if there is anything you want to put into storage, I’m to make the arrangements.”

  “Furniture someone else picked out,” Melinda mumbled as she remembered her previous impression of her apartment.

  “Ma’am?” Phil implored with a confused grimace.

  Melinda clutched the envelope in her hand. “I’ll just go up and check out my new place.”

  “Take the elevator to the fifth floor. Your apartment is just down the hall from Mr. Cole’s penthouse. You have a nice view of the river. I hope you will be happy here, Miss Harris.”

  Phil rushed out to the street and began barking orders at the three moving men, and then the same odd chill overtook her. She glanced about the lobby, and for a moment she could have sworn she was being watched. Then she felt a presence in the area around her. She caught a glimpse of a young man in chains, reaching out his arms to her. Melinda thought of something warm and cheerful, like toasting marshmallows over a bonfire or opening Christmas presents. It was the best defense she knew against spirits who wanted to be heard.

  “It’ll get better,” she assured herself as she turned for the elevator. “Once I get settled in and start my job, I can get on with my life.”

  By the time she pressed the call button for the elevator, Melinda had convinced herself she would come to love The Shallows. Soon, the dark energies enveloping her would fade and her mind would once again be peaceful. But then her grandmother’s warning came to her.

  “Ignoring the gift is as bad as abusing it,” Grandma Teresa had once
told her. “When you ignore a sore it gets infected and becomes painful. The gift is the same way. Never ignore the signs, my girl. You might live to regret it.”

  The elevator doors whooshed open and Melinda jumped. “Enough already,” she complained.

  Inside the elevator, she hit the number five button on the console and waited for the doors to close. Within seconds, she was being lifted up as a bad rendition of a Barry Manilow tune played over the speaker. Remembering the envelope in her hand, Melinda ripped it open and pulled out the keys. A label attached to one set of keys had 5A written on it. When the elevator doors opened on the fifth floor, she cautiously stuck her head out and took a look around.

  The corridor was brightly lit, and directly in front of her were darkly stained double doors. She walked up to the doors, and then she glanced down the corridor. At the end of a short hall covered with burgundy carpet was another dark door with 5A painted on it in gold.

  “I guess this is me.” She peered back at the double doors. “When Nathan said he wanted me close by, he wasn’t kidding.”

  Melinda held her breath as she pushed her new apartment door open. Initially, a blaze of bright sunlight blinded her, but after a few seconds she was able to make out a wall of windows along the far end of the living room. The light reflected off gold flecks imbedded in a beige sofa and a comfy-looking armchair. Next to the chair was a walnut end table and a kidney-shaped glass coffee table. An entertainment center against the wall next to the kitchen even had a flat screen television on it. With shiny hardwood floors and framed posters of New Orleans landmarks covering the pale yellow walls, it was a palace compared to the apartment she had left behind.

  “Holy crap! This is for me?”

  The adjoining kitchen was also painted the same shade of yellow, with oak cabinets and beige-granite countertops. Plopping her backpack on the breakfast bar, she began inspecting the full-sized refrigerator, small stove, dishwasher, and wide sink.

  Melinda ran her hands along the stove. “No more hot plates!” she almost squealed.

  She began opening cabinet doors and inspecting all the room she had for dishes, pots, and utensils. There was even a wide pantry set behind a door in the corner of the kitchen.

  “Look at the size of this thing,” she said in a reverent tone, taking in the pantry.

  Bubbling with excitement, she went to the wide row of picture windows, and was awestruck by the grand view of the Mississippi River. Eager to see more, she ventured down a short hallway just off to her right. The first door she came to opened to a bathroom with his and her sinks, a shower stall, a Jacuzzi bathtub set into the corner, a linen closet, and a private room for the toilet.

  Grinning from ear to ear, Melinda left the bathroom and stepped across the hall to another door. She found a spacious bedroom with a recessed ceiling, walk-in closet, and a quaint sitting area off to the right, with two beige wingback chairs in front of another wide picture window. In the center of the room was a king-sized, black-iron canopy bed, with a headboard reminiscent of the romantic balconies of many a French Quarter home. Detailed with swirls and intricate floral designs, the bed was a work of art. On either side were two dark mahogany nightstands, with a matching mahogany dresser and chest of drawers completing the room.

  After exiting the bedroom, she noticed a white metal door at the end of the short hallway. When Melinda pulled the door open, she discovered a six-foot by eight-foot room painted white. The floors, unlike the rest of the apartment, were covered with white tile that was blemished with deep scratches and black scuff marks.

  While standing in the doorway, Melinda felt drawn to the corner of the room. There was a presence. She could feel someone calling to her, and then a vision came forward. A woman—a shadow really—with blurred features and hair around her shoulders was standing before her. The only detail Melinda could make out was something shiny binding her wrists. She was crying, and as the image faded, a white mist formed in the corner of the room.

  “No, don’t show yourself to me.” She threw her head back and groaned. “I don’t talk to the dead, I just see the future.”

  The mist hastily retreated and the heavy feeling in the room vanished. Melinda sighed with relief. It wasn’t the first time she had seen ghosts. Hell, she had lived in the French Quarter of New Orleans and seen stranger stuff than many paranormal writers could possibly imagine, but she had always tried to tune out the dead. She knew a few mediums who had warned her to never open the door to the afterlife. The dead were reputed to be pushy, obnoxious, and relentless when they needed to be heard, driving more than a few mediums out of their minds.

  Retreating from the room, she shut the metal door with a loud bang. Heading back down the hall, she wondered if there would be footsteps waking her in the night or doors opening and closing on their own.

  I should be more frightened of the man living next door to me than having a ghost in my apartment.

  Brushing off her concerns about unseen visitors, Melinda entered the living room and took one more look around.

  “I think I’ll tell the movers to take all my stuff and put it in storage. My crap is going to look so trashy next to these nice things.”

  A knock at her open front door startled Melinda. When she looked up, Phil was filling up her doorway with his massive physique.

  “What do you think?” He waved the clipboard in his hand around her living room.

  “I can’t believe this is all for me,” she gushed.

  Phil leaned against the doorframe. “Mr. Cole will be pleased.” He gestured to an intercom system by the entrance. “Let me show you how to use this.” Phil strutted over to the intercom speaker with a row of colored buttons below it. “You press the blue button to call me or the other security guard on duty at the desk. The green button goes to Marv … in case you need something fixed. If he doesn’t answer, there’s a voice mail system that takes messages.” He pointed to a red button. “This is for emergencies. It rolls over to 911. You’ll find another panel just like this one in your bedroom. Mr. Cole likes his tenants to feel safe.”

  Melinda noticed another button on the panel. “What about that one? The yellow one?”

  Phil nonchalantly tossed his head to the side. “It isn’t hooked up to anything. It’s just an extra button. Came with the system.” He then nodded to the furniture in the living room. “You got any idea of what you want to keep?”

  “I’ll be keeping everything,” she gleefully proclaimed. “I just need a few boxes from the truck with my clothes, my keyboard, and some personal items. The rest they can put into storage.”

  Phil winced. “Keyboard? Are you a musician?”

  “I’ve only played in some of the local hotels, but I studied music in college and hope one day to make a career in the music industry here.”

  “Just don’t play that keyboard of yours too loud. Mr. Cole likes quiet.”

  Melinda gazed about the apartment. “Oh, I didn’t realize. Maybe I should—”

  “I’m sorry.” Phil uttered a heartfelt sigh. “I didn’t mean to jump on you, but you may want to remember who your neighbor is. When I moved in here, I used to play my stereo kind of loud until Mr. Cole mentioned it one day in passing. Now I use headphones, because I really like my job.”

  “How long have you worked for Mr. Cole?”

  “About a year. I used to be Mr. Cole’s trainer, and then he asked me if I was interested in taking over security for his building. His former head of security relocated to Florida.”

  Melinda noted the man’s enormous biceps. “So I guess that was a promotion for you.”

  Phil nodded and smiled. He had a warm smile that didn’t seem to fit his menacing features. “I was desperate to get away from the gym where I worked.” Phil took a step into the living room. “It was this exclusive exercise club in Place de St. Charles. You know the kind … all the women who went there were looking for rich husbands.”

  The mention of women aroused Melinda’s interest. “Is that why
Mr. Cole went there? For the women?”

  Phil shook his head. “Nah, he likes a certain kind of woman.”

  “What kind of woman?” she probed, anxious to know more.

  Phil cast his eyes to the living room floor, appearing tentative. “Ah, the kind who doesn’t …” He lowered his clipboard. “There are rumors around the building that Mr. Cole is into … a different lifestyle.” He dropped his voice. “You know, the kind where he’s in control. What do they call that?”

  “Bossy?” Melinda offered.

  Phil chuckled. “Bossy, I like that. Anyway, his kind of woman can’t be found at a fitness club.”

  His kind of woman? What does that mean?

  Melinda made a mental note to stay on Phil’s good side, in case she ever needed information about Nathan.

  “Sounds like you know Mr. Cole pretty well.”

  Phil shrugged. “I just see all the comings and goings in this building. Who people are with is something I have to know as part of my job. But Mr. Cole doesn’t like people knowing too much about his relationships. He’s always discreet. Always.” Phil glanced around her apartment. “Well, if you’re keeping everything in here, you’d better come and tell the movers what you need off the truck. Then they can take your stuff to Mr. Cole’s storage facility north of the lake.”

  “Why does he have a storage facility all the way over there?”

  “North of Lake Pontchartrain doesn’t flood. Mr. Cole stores a lot of things out of the city. It’s the only way to make sure everything isn’t destroyed in case another Katrina comes along.”

  To Melinda, it seemed like every resident of New Orleans lived in the shadow of Katrina. There were moments when she thought she couldn’t stand hearing another story about the storm and its horrible aftermath. But then she would unexpectedly find herself being moved, yet again, by another version of those god-awful events. Since relocating to the Big Easy, Melinda had learned recovery was not something that took a few years to achieve, but it evolved over the course of a lifetime; because sometimes it took a lifetime to forget about all the pain.