by Susan Laine
“Can you give me any possible names for these… weeds?”
Lovell frowned, and his eyes glazed over. “I suppose we all were weeds in his garden of innocence.” That was the first straightforward thing he had said to me. “I wanted an investor for this enterprise, Cecil wanted to manage all of Mo’s finances, and Giulia wanted to manage all of Mo’s life. We all had reasons to be near him.”
I considered what he had told me. If true, both Lovell and Cecil had greed as possible motives, while Giulia’s reasons had several potential interpretations. As far as Lovell went…. “I’m afraid I’m a PI, not father confessor. If you feel you have wronged Mo, you must find absolution by some other means. I cannot forgive you.”
Suddenly Lovell smiled, a pleased, contented gesture. His black eyes stayed locked to mine. “You could have lied, Mr. Garrett. A surefire way to get your answers from me. All you had to do was offer me forgiveness and wash me clean of my sins.”
“I cannot profess to being a seeker of truth if I play dirty.”
He bowed his head to me a bit. “Nonetheless….”
I glanced around. “You don’t strike me as a Catholic.”
Lovell shook his head, smiling. “Zen Buddhist.”
“Then why all this talk of sin?”
“Company is as company does.”
“Should I be mildly offended?” I grinned at his remark. “That didn’t sound like a Zen proverb, either.”
Lovell laughed then, a deep bubbly sound, profound and genuine. “How about this, Mr. Garrett? Do not seek the truth, only let go of your opinions.”
“I haven’t formed any opinions yet.”
“Instincts and emotions, not intellect or reason, formulate most of our first—and last—impressions of other people.”
“All right. I’ll bite. What’s your impression of Cecil?”
“He is Mo’s uncle.”
“And your accountant.”
“Former, sadly.” I waited for him to go on, and he did. “I found Cecil to be most gifted with numbers, a veritable prodigy of investment portfolios and stock markets and quarterly balances and tax forms and so on, into dreary infinity.”
“Why did you let him go?”
“He was confused as to what was my money and what was his.”
My eyebrows rose in surprise. That was awfully plainly spoken. “You mean to say he embezzled money from you?”
“Yes, I mean to say.” He waved a dismissive hand about. “It meant nothing. Money is a necessity in business, but not in life.” I had to disagree with him on that, but I held my tongue. “I forgave him, he replaced the missing funds, and I dropped the matter. Of course I ended our work relationship, but that was that.”
“Why didn’t you involve the police?”
“What good could that have served? It would have been publicly disastrous for both Cecil and Mo. And Mo held his uncle in such high esteem. I could not do that to Mo. Not in good conscience.”
I suspected there was more to this than that. Forgiveness was a skill like any other, requiring a long commitment of practice in order to master it. I would have to consult Cecil on this issue. At this point I had to assume either one or both of them was lying about this for whatever reasons, so I needed more and accurate information on both of their financials. Their banks might be helpful in this matter. That would shed some light on this web of secrecy.
But that would be a task for later. For now…. “Did Mo have any enemies?”
“He was the golden boy of the world. Everyone loved him.”
“No professional animosity from a rival, perhaps?”
“No. There were those who envied his talent, but no one that would harm him.”
I studied him, as he surveyed me. “Do you believe Mo killed himself?”
Lovell frowned, searching for words. “He was troubled by the past. But no, I do not believe it.”
“And if I told you the car in which he died was found crashed on Lincoln Boulevard?”
His head cocked to the side, and the furrows on his brow deepened. The candles on the table flickered, as if caught in a breeze. “Really?” I didn’t reply. He blinked hard. “I….” He paused, as if lost in thought. His gaze seemed to turn inward. Then he shook his head steadfastly. “No, I still would not believe it. Mo was a force of nature, a vibrant being despite his many sorrows. If he died… there, it was an accident. A horrible coincidence, yes, but most definitely an accident.”
“Or murder.” Lovell acquiesced to my hypothesis with a minor nod. “When did you see Mo last?”
“The day he died, before lunch. I drove him back to the mansion.”
“Where had he been?”
“At the toy factory. Where else? Mo spent most of his mornings there. He absolutely loved watching how the wild, theoretical designs from his imagination morphed into something real and tangible. Alive, you understand.” Lovell smiled then, his stony face transforming into a picture of happiness. “He was so animated then, like his hands couldn’t stay still. Once he even sloshed his morning tea on one of his workers, drenching his coat. By the gods, he was apologetic that day. But the lady in question was all right and even amused by the incident.”
“Morning tea?”
“Yes. Mo had tea every morning, noon, and night. He was fond of his teas.” Lovell chuckled softly then. “He experimented with various flavors, textures, colors, anything he could think of. Tea was one of his passions.”
Mo seemed like a wonderful kid, I thought with a sympathetic smile. Too bad I never got the chance to meet him in person. “Parkinson didn’t mention Mo’s tea drinking habit.”
“That’s because Parkinson only made Mo’s noon tea, after lunch. Mo prepared his own morning tea, and Cecil his evening tea. It was the one activity the two of them shared.”
“You don’t think much of Cecil, do you?”
Lovell took a deep breath and then nodded firmly. “He seemed like a gold-digger to me, family or no. But I can hardly claim pure motives regarding Mo myself. He offered to invest in my company, and I didn’t refuse. I should have, though, not just because he was my employer and my charge, but because he was my friend.”
“How’s business now?”
“Booming.” Yet he didn’t sound particularly thrilled about it. In fact, he sounded kind of forlorn, the way Parkinson had sounded. Mo may have felt alone, but he had made an impact in the lives of these people. I really wished then he had not taken his own life. Not that murder was a happy outcome, but the idea that Mo hadn’t seen he’d had friends around him, that was a damn sad prospect.
“So, when you dropped him off for lunch, that was the last time you saw Mo?”
“Yes.” Lovell nodded. “He said whatever errands he had to run, he would take care of them himself.”
“Do you have any idea what those plans entailed?” There was a huge gap between his meager lunch with Parkinson and the time when his car drove off the road. What had Mo been up to then? Who had he met? His poor condition suggested he might have been poisoned before lunch, so that ruled out Parkinson. Or perhaps not, if the butler had made Mo’s breakfast, just not the tea. Great, more conjecture.
“I cannot be sure, but Mo did mention Giulia. It’s possible he met with her. Those two had a tempestuous relationship. By the gods, sometimes it felt like she was his mother and other times as though she were his mistress. They had the craziest connection I had ever seen, especially for a nanny and her ward.”
Mo had been eighteen when he died. Why would he still see his nanny? Giulia Capello was a family friend, so that could have been the reason, I suppose. I needed more information on her. “Is it possible there was some kind of love affair? Mo was a teenager, yes, but… you know, raging hormones and/or adults who lust after the young to feel young themselves. As a teenager I felt like a walking erection, unfortunately. We’ve all been there.”
Lovell cocked his head, studying me with a smile. “I haven’t. I’ve lived an austere life, not quite cloistered, bu
t pure.”
“Sex doesn’t have to be dirty.”
He actually chuckled at that, and the candle flames whirled about for a moment. “No. But with Giulia? I would think Mo had more sense than that. And class.”
“I’ve heard Giulia Capello is all about class.”
“Mmm, is that so?” Lovell shrugged noncommittally. “Well, I’ll let you be the judge of that. I assume you are going to meet up with her?”
No point in lying. “Tomorrow. Her PA told me she was otherwise engaged tonight.”
Lovell laughed wholeheartedly, deep from his belly, a real sound of amusement. “It must be another fundraiser at some posh address then. She is high-class, to be sure, and classy. But sex with her? I would fear getting eaten alive—during.” His look was mischievous, but there was an underlying sense of seriousness there that made me worry a bit. Ms. Capello was apparently quite a woman. Mo seemed to have collected unique characters around. Yet, in their own way, they were all flawed.
But had their weaknesses led or contributed to Mo’s death? I had no answer for that.
I gave Lovell my farewell and asked him if he was planning on leaving town anytime soon. He said no, I thanked him, and then left the security company.
In the elevator, I went over what I had learned. The first step in a murder inquiry is to get to know the victim. Often enough for statistics the reason to kill is there, in the deceased’s personality. But Mo had been a child genius, part extrovert, part introvert, and his thought processes were beyond my capabilities to decipher.
Or were they? I would have to try nonetheless. With his last words, though written instead of spoken, Mo had asked me to find the truth. I wasn’t going to give up now.
I came out of the building and started walking along the curb toward my car.
Suddenly, two pairs of hands grabbed my arms, and a fierce slap across my forehead and eyes disoriented me. I was carried away from the street to somewhere shadier, and the smell of rotten trash and human waste filled my nostrils.
My attackers stopped, and a man whose face I was only able to glimpse punched me in the gut harshly. It was a love tap, I knew from experience. Though all the air inside my lungs was pushed out, I felt no serious damage done to me. Still, I fell on one knee, struggling to stay upright.
I was yanked up roughly by the two men behind me, and then a sharp hit connected with my cheekbone, sending my brain scrambling for cover inside my skull.
My mouth still worked, though. “What do you want?” I croaked.
“Leave the Chance case alone, you dumb, flatfooted gumshoe.” Great, two clichés for the price of one, I thought sardonically, and found myself smiling at that. The least they could have done was pick one and stick with that. “What the hell are you grinning at, fool?”
Another hit me across the jaw. My teeth rattled in my mouth, and the taste of blood was all over my tongue. I think I felt one of my teeth loosen, but I couldn’t be sure. I was too hazy on the details at that point. I fell back down on the ground, this time all the way. My palms and knees scraped the asphalt, and my head banged against something metallic, making me see stars.
“Stay away from Mo’s death, you hear?” the man spat at me, thankfully not with real spit. The vehemence in his tone sounded rehearsed, so I guessed they were mere hired goons, not emotionally invested cohorts. “Trust me, boyo, you don’t want a repeat visit.”
They kicked some puddle water my way, the drops hitting my face like raindrops, and then they were off. I heard their boots hammering the street, receding fast. I should have followed them, but I couldn’t even get up.
God, I’m too old for this shit.
There was a cold, gray fog wrapping itself around my mind, and I was falling.
Where to? I wondered.
Tickets, please.
Journal Entry 8, the Chance Case: Dreams and Fantasies
I’VE read a person cannot dream when unconscious. It’s not like sleep.
But I dream when I’m unconscious. A doctor told me once it might be due to the stress of what happened to Ford because it was around that time I had my first unconscious dream. I had been boxing with a friend from the station, to relieve the stress of what was going on, and I had accidentally run into his fist with my head. Result: five minutes of unconsciousness.
And I had dreamt the entire time. I can recall the images vividly even to this day.
I dreamt of Ford. That was when he’d been shot, on the very day, after I had to leave his bedside at the hospital or go mad. In the knockout dream, Ford beckoned me with his hands, his body obscured by a mist. Then he came into focus when, like a veil lifting, the fog parted, and I saw him with his arms wide open, waiting for me to come to him.
And I did. I ran into his arms and stayed there in his embrace for the duration of the dream. Faintly, I felt his lips touch mine.
When I awoke, I could no longer deny I had feelings for my partner.
And when he awoke, his brush with death gave rise to a whole new person, someone better—good and loving. And he loved me the same way I loved him, as deeply and profoundly.
It was a mad time back in those days, revelations about the two of us every single day.
Today, however, the only revelation I had was that in my dream I heard Ford calling out for me, his voice panicked and thin. I tried to reply, but I had no voice.
Finally, the mist evaporated, and there was my Ford again. He ran to me, crouching down. That’s when I realized I was lying on the ground, only it was made up of clouds. There I was, floating on a cloud, and Ford was there. He took me in his arms, swaying and rocking me gently, like a baby. I felt his love as though it were a tangible touch.
He crooned sweet nothings into my ear, and I felt at peace.
But then pain shot through me. All of a sudden I was blinking hard. Ford wasn’t there.
Luther Lovell was. He was gripping my shoulder hard and shaking me.
“Mr. Garrett? Mr. Garrett! You must wake up.”
Had I been asleep? Guess so.
It was then that my surroundings began to bleed into my awareness.
I sure as hell wasn’t floating on any clouds like an angel.
I was in the side alley, next to Lovell’s business building. I was lying in a puddle of what I prayed was filthy water instead of something more disgusting. Lovell picked me up with his massively strong arms and placed me to lean on a foul-smelling dumpster. I was sitting, and I felt moisture in my pants, but I was pretty sure it was from the condensation from the pool on the asphalt, not my bladder.
“Lovell?” My voice was nothing but a croak.
“Garrett.” Lovell sounded relieved to hear me speak. “Don’t move. You’ve been hit on the head. You could have a concussion. I need to get you to a hospital.”
If I shouldn’t move, why had he moved me? But I didn’t care about the answer. This wasn’t my first ambush and/or knockout. “I’m fine. I don’t need to see a doctor.”
“Oh, this human manliness nonsense just drives me up the wall sometimes,” Lovell huffed under his breath, clearly not expecting me to hear him. “I will send for my driver. He will take you home if—”
“No, thanks.” I started to get up, but my rubbery knees gave out on me, and back down I plopped. “I have a car.”
“How nice for you, Mr. Garrett,” Lovell said sarcastically, obviously quite miffed still. “But it would be completely irresponsible and reprehensible for me to let you leave unchecked by a doctor.”
“I’ve been banged up before, on and off the force. No biggie.” I was downplaying more than a bit, and my head hurt like a son of a bitch.
But then I recalled my vision of Ford while I was unconscious, and the same sense of peace overwhelmed me, dulling the pain and refocusing my senses. Was this more a psychological placebo effect than actual restoration? I had to conclude so, because surely no images of loved ones could spontaneously and magically heal real wounds, right?
Yet the sharp pain behind my
eyes was gone, and the throbbing ache at the back of my head had faded into a buzz. I had recovered fast, and was able to get up with ease. I saw Lovell clear as day, too, and his expression was startlingly shocked.
“You have amazing recuperative powers, Mr. Garrett.” His tone suggested it was less something to compliment, and more something to be suspicious of.
“Good genes,” I deflected, thanked him wholeheartedly for his assistance, and made my way toward my car. Since he had helped me and been truly worried for me, I doubted it was his goons that had taken a crack at my poor skull.
“What about contacting the police?” Lovell called out behind me, his voice distressed.
“I am the police,” I shouted back, and then added with a whisper, “Or I used to be one, anyway.”
Back in the car, I texted Ford, asking him where he was and if we could see each other right away. He texted back immediately, telling me he was at the mall, and that of course we could hook up. I started the car and drove off, away from Lovell’s establishment.
At first I was alone with my thoughts in midafternoon traffic. I had been attacked on purpose, and the message still rang between my ears loud and clear.
Stay away from Mo’s death.
Duh! I got the warning, but there was no chance that was going to happen.
The thing was, no one had known where I was headed because I had told no one. That meant I had been followed from either Mo’s mansion or the police station. I dismissed the idea of Parkinson telling someone; I was confident any and all secrets were safe with him.
Someone knew I was investigating Mo’s death and was willing to resort to violence to get me off the case. But would that elusive someone be willing to resort to extreme measures? That remained to be seen.
To turn my brain off, I turned the radio on.
“… two-seated plane crashed in the Pacific Ocean after a failed attempt to gain entry into the Sky Tree Aetharium. We’ve just been informed that the owners, two teenage boys from Arkansas, were found in an empty field in Hawaii with acute memory loss. The representative of the Aetharium, Senator Cavadell, had this to say: ‘Aetharium air space is sovereign territory of the Elven peoples, and as such is inviolate. Any and all intrusions will be met with superior force. We wish to uphold peace between our two species, naturally, but we will suffer no human invasions on our sacred lands, be they down on the ground or up in the clouds.’ As the senator verified, the two young men were returned with acute memory loss, yet safe and….”
