Velvet Dogma About 3300 wds

by Ochse, Weston

  “Damn it,” Greg muttered under his breath. Louder, he said, “What else?”

  The older of the two took a deep breath. “Female, middle twenties. We can’t tell from the position of the body, but the amount of blood makes it look like her throat was cut. Her clothes are intact and her purse is still inside.” He jerked his head toward Tony, still standing and smoking calmly at the foot of the porch. “Rutland already snapped a couple of Polaroids, but nobody’s moved anything.”

  “The woman upstairs—she found her?”

  The policeman nodded. “The victim’s name is Eloise Addison. The neighbor was a friend of hers, so she’s pretty freaked. Couple of the guys are up there with her now. Rutland said you’d do the interview.”

  Greg nodded. Yeah, Tony would have left it to his softie partner to question the crying witness—which was fine with Greg. If there was ever a classic good cop/bad cop twosome, they sure filled it; too bad they didn’t actually get along and make it a perfect match. “I’ll get to her in a minute,” he said, and toed open the door.

  As places to off someone went, this had been a good choice—very little visible from the outside and plenty of space to work with inside. He watched where he was stepping, but the killer had made a clean exit and there were no footprints to worry about. On the floor beneath the mailboxes was a set of keys, and it didn’t take much brainpower to guess the victim had been about to open her mailbox when she’d been grabbed from behind. He could see a line of envelopes behind the slots of the box marked ADDISON. She hadn’t made it that far and had probably been grabbed and pulled to the other side so she couldn’t ring any of the bells.

  Greg ground his teeth, then turned to look at the other end of the foyer.

  At first he didn’t register what he was looking at, then Greg realized what the murderer had done. Mindful of the pool of blood around the small, wooden table over which the corpse was bent, the detective stepped closer. There wasn’t much he could see until the body was moved, and they wouldn’t do that until the techs got here and bagged the victim’s hands, dusted the keys and the other surfaces in the foyer. Lying on its side in the blood beneath the table was a black leather handbag, its zipper closed and clotted with blood—no robbery motive here. Eloise Addison’s skin was a dull, bled out gray and her eyes were slightly open; she’d had her hair, long and dark, twisted into some kind of a chignon and part of it had come loose and was now covering most of her face. From what Greg could tell, the dead woman was wearing an expensive navy blue business suit under a lightweight London Fog trench coat; the coat had gotten tangled to the right when her head and upper body had been forced between the table and the wall. Her skirt and stockings were still intact and tear free, so there’d been no rape. The atrocity that had been committed here had gone down fast and, for what it was, neat.

  The inside door on the right was slightly open and beyond it Greg could see a stairway leading up. He nudged the door with his shoulder so he could get inside, though he knew the neighbor had probably turned the doorknob when she’d run to her apartment to call the police. The detective climbed the stairs slowly, his mind turning over what he’d seen so far. No robbery, no rape, no break in. What was the motive here?

  When he got to the third floor landing, that door was also open so Greg walked inside without knocking. It was a nice place and probably had the same layout as the victim’s directly below, but they’d have to contact the landlord to let them in before they could look around down there—that was standard procedure, and no doubt one of the uniforms had already called. He was standing in a living room that had been painted a cheerful yellow to complement a feminine looking living room set. Vases with silk flowers were set here and there amid lots of floral paintings and china and crystal knickknacks, Victorian lace curtains and embroidered pillows. Nice place but it made him nervous; he wasn’t a big man, but he felt like he could move the wrong way in here and break something without even trying.

  He heard voices down the hall and turned that way, followed an oak-floored hallway to a kitchen that could have come right out of a Martha Stewart magazine. More yellow—lots of it—trimmed with a generous motif of tiny pink and white roses. A border of the stuff encircled the room at the juncture of the wall and ceiling and on one wall hung a four foot square cabinet with an exhibit of collectible miniature teapots and matching plates. The counters showed off an assortment of carefully placed cookie jars and serving dishes in colors that matched the kitchen and the ruffled, painfully floral curtains at the windows. By the time Greg’s brain had taken in all this, he’d resigned himself to dealing with someone his grandmother’s age.

  But the woman who sat clutching a cup of tea at the table was only a few years older than the victim, in her mid-thirties at the most. Built a little round at the edges, her attractive face was pale and streaked with tears below a messy head of reddish curls that fell to her jaw line and she’d thrown a dainty crocheted sweater over a ribbon-trimmed dress that Greg wasn’t surprised to see was in another heavily flowered pattern.

  When he saw Greg, one of the officers in the kitchen stepped forward. “This is Mary Kidman,” he said. “She found the victim.”

  “Eloise,” Mary Kidman said. Her voice was a little loud and brittle, like little pieces of wood being shaken in a bag. “Her name was Eloise. She was my best friend.”

  Ow, thought Greg, but Mary didn’t lose it. “I’m sorry,” he said simply, then squatted in front of her. “I’m Detective Jedrek. Can you tell me what happened here?”

  Mary shook her head. “I don’t know.” Her eyes, strikingly gray beneath reddened lids, filled up and a double line of tears joined the moisture already on her cheeks. “I just…found her like that, in the hallway, when I came home. I didn’t see anyone and I could tell that she was—” She gulped air and dropped her hands to the twisted Kleenex in her lap, then managed to keep going. “She was already dead.”

  Greg nodded and gave her a second or two before asking his next question. “Do you know if there was anyone who would do this to her? Was she married, or did she have a boyfriend?”

  The woman worked her fingers together. “She wasn’t married, and she didn’t have a steady boyfriend.” She bit at her bottom lip for a second. “There was this one guy she had a little trouble with, but I don’t think he knew where she lived—she said she’d never told him and her phone number was unlisted. And she hadn’t heard from him in almost two weeks, since she told him off.”

  Greg’s eyes narrowed and he pulled a small notebook from his breast pocket, flipped it open and readied his pen. “What kind of trouble? Did you meet him?”

  “No. And I just know what she told me.” She dabbed at her eyes with the tissue.

  “And what was that?”

  Mary frowned as she tried to remember. “Eloise was an account executive at Leo Burnett Advertising,” she told him. “They’re downtown and she met this guy, Blake, in line at one of those fast food places everybody goes to for lunch. They had lunch a couple of times—nothing more serious than that—then she couldn’t go the next time he called her at work and asked her out. She was busy and wanted to call him back, but he wouldn’t give her a number, said he wasn’t reachable because he was out in the field or something.”

  Greg scribbled a few notes on his pad. “Where did he work?”

  “I don’t know. I remember it was some kind of security company, but when she called there, they told Eloise they’d never heard of him. So she put it all together and decided he must be married, and when he called her back, she told him not to call her again.” Mary looked vaguely embarrassed. “Eloise was rather…outspoken sometimes, and I’m afraid she was rather crude when she did it.”

  Greg resisted the urge to smile. There wasn’t anything about this that was funny, but he found it amazing that the fragile Mary Kidman could be best friends with someone like Eloise Addison, whom he suspected had been a polar opposite. “Then what happened?”

  Mary blinked. “He kept
calling her, at work, at home, at least twice a day. Finally she told him that she was going to call the police on him if he didn’t stop.”

  “And did he?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Eloise was on edge for a couple of days, but her threat must’ve worked. She never heard from him again.”

  Oh, yes she did, Greg thought without looking up. One last time. “Did she mention what he looked like?”

  “She said he was tall, with dark hair and blue eyes. Handsome.”

  Just like a million other guys in Chicago. “All right, Ms. Kidman. Thanks for your help.”

  She looked up at him, her wide, gray eyes penetrating. “I wasn’t really much help at all, was I?” Her voice trembled.

  “Don’t be so certain of that,” he said, but it was an automatic response. He’d run the Addison woman’s phone records, but the wannabe boyfriend had likely called from pay or untraceable cell phones, especially if he had murderous tendencies. Greg glanced at the two uniforms. “Is there someone you can call to…?”

  She sniffed. “I already did. My fiancé will be over as soon as he gets off work.” She looked at the two officers. “You can go ahead and leave— I’ll be all right. I think I’ll just stay in here until…” Her words faded and she stared at the floor.

  Greg knew exactly what she was talking about. “That would probably be best. If you think of anything else, you can call me at this number.”

  He handed her one of his cards, then headed back downstairs, stopping at the second landing when he saw the door to Eloise Addison’s apartment was open. There was a heavyset middle aged man standing just inside, shock still etched into the lines of his face. Greg could hear noises from deeper in the apartment. “Who are you?” he demanded. “And who else is in here?”

  “I’m the landlord,” the man said, stepping back at Greg’s sharp tone. “The detective downstairs said to let him in—that’s all.”

  Greg relaxed a bit as he registered the crowded ring of keys in the man’s hand. “It’s fine,” he said, not bothering with any more of an explanation. He hurried down the hall—a matched layout to the Kidman apartment upstairs—and found his partner in the bedroom, methodically looking through the dresser drawers. “Find anything?”

  Tony shrugged. “Bunch of frilly underwear, socks, sweaters, the usual. Nothing kinky. The super says as far as he knows, she never gave anyone else a key, not even that woman upstairs. Seemed to like her privacy.”

  Greg looked around the room thoughtfully and left Tony to his search, though he had a hunch the other man wouldn’t get much out of this place. No number for this Blake guy, no last name, no employer; he’d do a follow up with her coworkers and a canvas of the neighborhood, but he was betting no one but the late Eloise had actually seen him. When he passed the techs on the way outside, they looked at him and shook their heads—that meant no fingerprints or, at least at first glance, anything else usable. Guy had probably been wearing gloves.

  He sighed and went down by the car to wait for Tony. Too bad they didn’t have anything to go on, but at least they weren’t dealing with a serial killer.

  Excerpt from The Second Veil: A Tale of the Scattered Earth

  By David Niall Wilson

  Chapter One

  The main chamber of the meeting hall of The High Council of Urv was a stately edifice with towering columns and a decorated, vaulted ceiling. It was centered by a huge oval table of polished stone and ringed with ornate chairs covered in plush upholstery. It was, in fact, a statement, and as Euphrankes Holmynn entered, all he could do was shake his head.

  Seated around that table, watching his entrance in solemn silence, an array of gray-haired councilmen waited in frowning silence. Euphrankes had been in the chamber before, and he'd known, more or less, what to expect, but the sheer pomposity of it still made him cringe.

  The walls were hung with portraits of still more elders. They dated back to the beginning of The Council. When Euphrankes, as a boy, had asked what there had been before the earliest portrait, he'd been cuffed on the ear and told to keep his silence. He had since come to understand that he'd gotten his answer…they didn't know.

  The rule for all those summoned to The High Council Chamber was silence. There were words to be spoken, but though they called it a court, there were no deliberations to be made. There were lines on old parchment that spoke with the voice of the law, and policy never deviated. That is why, stepping into the center of the room, where a slightly raised circular stage stood facing the base end of The Council table, seemed like such a waste of time and a display of idiocy. Euphrankes already knew what they would say.

  It didn't matter. He'd made his request because it was his nature to make such requests. He'd stood his ground because he knew that he was not the only man on the planet who wished that things might change – that it was possible to prove the limitations and proclamations of law were not inviolate. It didn't even really matter that they would say no, because he knew that – in the end – there would come a time when it didn't matter what they thought, or what they said. If he died in the attempt, he would die knowing in his heart what was, and was not, the truth.

  The chamber was only dimly lit by a ring of flickering lanterns. The only bright spot was where he stood, a trick of lenses and mirrors, and he knew this was to make it difficult for him to meet their gaze or study their expressions, while making it simple for them to do the same to him. Euphrankes' father had helped in the most recent redesign of the chamber, and he still had the books of notes explaining the structure, construction, and purpose of each architectural tidbit.

  It was, in fact, the influence of his father, Edwin, that allowed Euphrankes to be granted any audience at all. He knew that he was a disappointment to The Council. His father had done great things at their bidding. His inventions and his innovations, as well as many of the technologies behind the existing infrastructure of the city, had made their lives easier. Euphrankes, rather than proving helpful, had done little in his life but cause them a long string of headaches for which the only cure had proven a semi-banishment to a private dome outside the city. He wondered grimly where they might send him next if he angered them sufficiently.

  A phlegmy cough broke the silence, and Euphrankes stood as calmly as he could, facing the length of the table. It stretched interminably into the distance, and at the far end, in a dim pool of illumination, High Councilor Cumby sat and gazed back at him. At least, Euphrankes assumed the High Councilor was looking at him. At such a distance he might have been asleep, or facing the opposite way entirely.

  "Good morning, Euphrankes," Cumby said. Despite the distance, the acoustics of the chamber amplified the old man's voice so that it seemed the two were standing side by side.

  Euphrankes bowed very slightly and kept his expression as devoid of emotion as possible. He didn't believe there was any chance of his request being approved, but he didn’t want to give them new reason for their denial before they'd even spoken it.

  "It is an honor, as always," Euphrankes said.

  "Is it indeed?" Cumby asked. "Well, we shall see. I would like to extend my condolences on the loss of your father. He was a great man. He will be sorely missed in the city, and in these chambers. I pray that his passing was a gentle one."

  "It was," Euphrankes said. He was surprised at how close his voice came to breaking as he spoke those words. His father had been a great man in the city, but the man Euphrankes remembered – the brilliant mind that had shown him the magic of metal and gears, steam and pressure, mathematics and theory – had been the rock in his life. His father had kept him busy and sane when he'd wanted to rail against The Council and their rules.

  "One of the last things he said to me," Euphrankes added, trying to be as politic as possible, "was that I should send his regards to this council. I've chosen to carry them personally, and hope that you will forgive the indulgence."

  A soft murmur ran about the table at his words. Euphrankes figured they were nodding and patting
one another on the back. They'd always believed his father to be their tool – a man who would do as he was bid and give no argument. So unlike his son.

  In truth, for every project Edwin Holmynn had completed for The Council, he'd completed a dozen others in the streets, taking care of those in need, and studying ways and means to move beyond the stagnant, dying city he'd called home. When a small outlying branch of the veil-roads had become untenable, it was Edwin who, through judicious use of his influence and several daring trips by air, between veils, had salvaged the complex to which his son had been banished. It was as if he'd glanced into the future and prepared a safe haven against the inevitable.

  None of that mattered now. What mattered was that the city was dying, and these old fools didn't care. They would be perfectly content to sit back and watch, their laws fiercely clutched in liver-spotted, blue-veined hands, as the city shrank around them, becoming in the end a mass coffin. None of them had that many years of life left, and an equal number of them cared for the well-being of the inhabitants of Urv living beyond their immediate circle of acquaintance.

  "We welcome you," the High Councilor said at last. "We are informed that you have a request, and we are …eager …to hear what you have in mind. Your family has always served the needs of The Council, and of the city."

  Again, Euphrankes gave his small, half bow. Then he stood to his full six foot four inches and squared his shoulders. He was a big man with a slender, muscular frame tapering to powerful shoulders. His hair was long, and he wore it back over his shoulders in a braid, as his father had before him. He knew that they could hear him if he spoke softly, but he chose to project. He wanted to catch them sleeping and maybe, just maybe jostle them awake long enough to win their support.