Onyx Webb 8

by Diandra Archer

Onyx had never considered herself to be a prude, but Noah’s comment about sex caught her off guard—mostly due to the casual way in which it was said.

  “I seem to remember Ulrich ordering a record album of Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s first inauguration, delivered in March of 1933,” Onyx said. “He played it again and again on the old Victrola over in the caretaker’s house. We’d heard the speech broadcast live on the console radio in the living room of our apartment on West Forty-Sixth Street. I loved it there. We were just around the corner from the gallery Ulrich’s brother owned in Times Square. They wanted $125 per month for that apartment, but I got them to agree to ninety-five dollars with the electricity and water included.”

  “That’s crazy,” Noah said. “Ninety-five dollars to rent a place near Times Square? Parking spaces in Manhattan rent for like $1,500 a month.”

  “Inflation again, I imagine,” Onyx said. “My father tried explaining it to me when he was here. I still find it a mystery how the same item can fetch more money in the future simply because it is older.”

  “Come here, sit,” Noah said, lowering himself on the piano bench and grabbing a stack of albums.

  Onyx crossed the foyer and took a seat next to Noah and watched as he flipped through the albums on his lap. “My grandfather’s fingerprints are all over these records. There’s something about knowing he was young and in his thirties—like I’m about to be—when he bought these from Tower Records in downtown Portland.”

  “I’m sure it’s a wonderful place,” Onyx said.

  “Tower’s closed. Another victim of digital technology combined with public apathy. But it was a great place—a real record store where you could go and talk with people who knew and loved music. The store’s still there, but it’s empty. Just an empty shell of what it once was.”

  An empty shell of what it once was, Onyx thought. Noah could just as easily have been talking about her.

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  DECEMBER 9, 2010

  Stan Lee woke with a splitting headache. The kKetamine did that to him sometimes. The drug had moved from being periodic recreational fun to an addiction.

  He sat up on the edge of the bed, thinking he might throw up, and reached toward the nightstand for the glass of water he put there every night when he went to sleep. Stan Lee knew how important it was to stay hydrated when taking the drug, not to mention it helped with his constipation problem.

  There was no water.

  It wasn’t that the glass was empty. The glass was gone. “Damn it, Kara,” Stan Lee muttered under his breath. He was in no mood for games. With any luck, Kara hadn’t decided to play hide and seek with his prosthetics again.

  From time to time, Stan Lee would cut back on the quantity of the drug he consumed, but getting off it completely was out of the question. He simply didn’t want to. The K took him to places he could never get to otherwise—places of clarity and insight. Operating without it would be like the Beatles trying to write “Come Together” or “Blue Jay Way” without being stoned.

  Unimaginable.

  Stan Lee peered at the clock on the nightstand and tried to focus his eyes. Was it ten after ten? Or ten to two? Regardless, he had to get to work. He’d missed too many days already. If he missed any more, Leo would have his ass.

  IN SAVANNAH, GEORGIA...

  Stan Lee parked the van in the far end of the parking lot as usual, turned off the engine, and took a quick glance in the rearview mirror. He didn’t like what he saw.

  Christ, he looked twenty years older than he was.

  Thank God for makeup.

  Stan Lee reached over and opened the glove box, where he kept a jar of concealer. It was gone. Kara wasn’t behind it—he’d simply forgotten to get more. He was slipping.

  Slipping bothered him.

  Stan Lee opened the rear doors of the van, removed the wheelchair, and closed the doors, being careful to make sure no one saw him standing. The entire point of using the wheelchair when he went to work was to perpetuate the ruse that he was a crippled war veteran.

  Now, where was his photographer’s vest?

  Stan Lee searched through mounds of junk in the back of the van until he found it. It looked old and dusty.

  Whatever.

  It would have to do.

  Sergeant Abernathy sat in his position behind the gray metal desk along the back wall of the station’s lower level, just as he’d done every afternoon for the past six years.

  The desk sergeant job was not a highly sought-after position. Abernathy couldn’t understand why. To him, it was perfect. And it kept him off the street, which made his wife happy. Walking a beat could get him killed. Working the desk only hurt his back.

  Abernathy did wish the position came with more respect. The job involved a lot more than simply providing directions to the bathroom and answering the phone. A week earlier, he was asked to write a press release about the department’s annual Toys for Tots gift drive. The week before that, he’d been put in charge of finding out how much it would cost to get the elevator working again.

  It wasn’t dangerous work, but someone had to do it.

  Abernathy glanced up and saw a man in a wheelchair roll into the station. The man looked to be in his mid-fifties, a bit heavy in the middle. He was wearing a tan photographer’s vest and had a camera in his lap. The man looked familiar.

  “Good morning,” the man in the wheelchair said. “Horrible traffic out there today.”

  “Horrible traffic out there every day,” Abernathy said. “Can I help you?”

  “That’s funny,” the man snorted and turned the wheelchair to the right and rolled past.

  Who in the hell is that guy? Abernathy thought. And where in the hell did he think he was going?

  Abernathy stood and watched as the man rolled to the back corner of the station to the broken elevator, the door of which was covered in yellow “do not enter” police tape.

  Seconds later, the man spun the wheelchair around and rolled back to the desk. “How long has the elevator been out? How in the hell am I supposed to get upstairs?”

  “Upstairs? Why would you want to go upstairs?”

  “Why would I want to go upstairs?” the man asked. “Because I work upstairs, jackass.”

  “No one works upstairs,” Abernathy said.

  “What in the hell are you talking about? I work upstairs with the detectives, with—”

  Stan Lee stopped mid-sentence when he saw the large plaque on the wall directly behind the desk.

  The plaque had a picture of three men: Det. Leo Igler, the coroner, and himself—Sergent Elton Nahum. In the picture, Stan Lee looked twenty years younger—because when the photo was taken, he had been twenty years younger.

  Stan Lee took a deep breath, realizing what he’d done. He’d woken up high on kKetamine, thinking he still worked for the Savannah PD.

  Jesus.

  “Thank you,” Stan Lee said and quickly spun the wheelchair around and began rolling toward the door.

  “Mister, are you okay?” Abernathy called out.

  Stan Lee didn’t answer, pushing through the front door into the bright afternoon sunlight and down the ramp as quickly as he could go until—at the bottom of the ramp—he lost control of the wheelchair and was sent sprawling on the sidewalk.

  Stan Lee jumped to his feet and picked up the wheelchair, carrying it as fast as his prosthetics would carry him, to where the van was parked at the far end of the parking lot. He had to get out of there before someone got his license plate.

  It wasn’t until ten minutes later that someone came in carrying a camera, telling Abernathy they’d found it lying in the parking lot.

  And that’s when it hit him.

  Nahum.

  Abernathy spun around in his chair and looked at the plaque on the wall. Sergent Elton Nahum. Sitting there in his wheelchair—wearing the same tan photographers vest with a camera in his lap—the same camera Abernathy was holding in his hand at that very moment.
r />   “It does not matter that you reach out to the universe. What matters is that you reach inside yourself.”

  The 3127 Immutable Matters

  of Life & Death

  Episode 23

  Nathaniel Must Go

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  FEBRUARY 22, 2009

  Spilatro’s Place was far from the best restaurant Noah had ever eaten at, yet stopping there on the way to the lighthouse had become a ritual. The food was good—never outstanding yet never disappointing—comfort food that was indeed comforting, more for its consistency than its quality. Like McDonald’s in a way: not the best burger ever, but the same every time.

  So, Noah was taken aback when he went to open the door and found himself staring at a sign that read:

  Restaurant For Sale.

  Inquire Within.

  Interesting.

  Noah slid into his favorite booth along the window and moments later the waitress arrived with a menu—a menu he wouldn’t bother to open since he knew it by heart.

  “The usual?” the waitress asked.

  “Yep,” Noah said. “BLT on wheat, light mayo, fries, and—”

  “A chicken Caesar to go, dressing on the side, right?” the waitress said with a smile. She appeared to be in her late thirties or maybe early forties, with short brown hair, attractive in a Tomboy sort of way. The nametag pinned to her blouse read: Ellen.

  “No, Ellen,” Noah said. “No Caesar today. I was going to order a chocolate milkshake. Is it okay if I call you Ellen?”

  “Only if I can start calling you Noah instead of the cute guy in the booth by the window,” Ellen said.

  Noah smiled to be nice but dropped his eyes so she wouldn’t think he was interested. He wasn’t. “You know my name?”

  “You pay with a credit card sometimes,” Ellen said. “I noticed. And we met once, outside of here.”

  “We did?” Noah asked.

  “It was years agoago, at your grandfather’s funeral.”

  “You knew my grandfather?”

  Ellen shrugged. “A little. He came in every so often. He stopped in the night of the accident. I helped him get his car on the road. Kind of hard to forget. It was New Year’s Eve, and it was snowing. I heard about the crash the next morning.”

  “What do you mean you helped him get his car on the road?” Noah asked.

  “He broke down a few blocks away and came in to see if there were any repair shops open,” Ellen said. “There wasn’t, but I offered to help. It’s not every day a girl gets to work on a ‘64 Aston.”

  “You’re a mechanic?”

  “Jeez,” Ellen replied, exasperation clearly evident in her voice. “That’s exactly what your grandfather said. What is it with men that they never think a woman can fix a car?”

  Noah shrugged. “Probably for the same reason women think men aren’t capable of putting the toilet seat down.”

  “That’s because they aren’t,” Ellen said. “Anyway, he was a nice man, your grandfather. He gave me twenty bucks for tightening a clamp. I’m surprised no one told you. I explained it all to the FBI when they came in.”

  “The FBI?” Noah asked.

  “Yep. They came in later that same week during the film festival. A woman and younger guy, asking all sorts of questions. They took up a booth for an entire hour and only had coffee. Bad tippers. I always remember bad tippers. Speaking of which, you skipped out on a tab that same week.”

  “No way.”

  “Yep. Back during the Onyx Webb Film Festival,” Ellen said. “You came in with some creep in a wheelchair.”

  “Wow, I must have really gotten hammered,” Noah said. “I don’t remember that night at all.”

  “I’m not surprised, the way the two of you were pounding them down,” Ellen said. “Pitchers of beer, shots of Patron.”

  “Spilatro’s serves alcohol?”

  “Only at night,” Ellen said. “We have to keep the bottles out of sight beneath the counter until after five—some silly city ordinance going back to like the thirties or something. Let me get your order in.”

  Noah watched Ellen head off in the direction of the kitchen and then heard someone behind him. “I think you’ve got yourself an admirer.”

  Noah turned around to see the Crimson Cove sheriff in the booth behind him. “That’s your Harley, right?” the sheriff asked.

  “Yep, that’s my ride,” Noah said, holding up his left hand. “Cost me two fingertips and two years of my life to get it.”

  “Sounds like a good story,” Clay said. “Why don’t you come on over and tell me about it. Heck, I’ll even buy you lunch.”

  “So, you made friends with the sheriff,” Onyx said. “That’s nice.”

  “Actually, it was,” Noah said, not mentioning their conversation about the growing drug problem in the area—a problem he was pretty sure his grandmother, Kizzy, was involved in—though he still did not know how. “Did you know Spilatro’s Place is for sale?”

  “It is?”

  “Yep,Um hum,” Noah said. “I’m thinking of buying it.”

  “Oh, really?” Onyx said. “I didn’t realize you had an interest in going back into the restaurant business. Wouldn’t the cost of a restaurant be outside your financial means?”

  Noah remained silent.

  It took a few seconds for Onyx to realize what Noah was hinting at. “How much are they asking?”

  “Including the liquor license, $85,000,” Noah said. “There’s not a lot of money to be made selling bacon and eggs, but beer and wine? The place could be a goldmine.”

  “A goldmine, you say? Sounds like something Ulrich would have said,” Onyx quippedsaid, immediately regretting her words.

  Neither of them said anything for several seconds. Finally, Onyx spoke up. “Were you to go ahead with such a plan, would you need all of the money at once?”

  “They want $20,000 down, with the rest due in a year.”

  “I see,” Onyx said.

  Onyx knew $20,000 was the exact amount she had in her tax fund—and she knew Noah knew it, too.

  But how could she say no? Without Noah finding the Levi’s and being aware of their value, the account would have nothing in it at all. Worse, the lighthouse would be in the hands of Bruce Mulvaney.

  “Take the money from the tax account,” Onyx said.

  “Are you sure?” Noah asked a bit too fast.

  “Yes, Noah. I’m sure,” Onyx said.

  “Don’t worry, Onyx,” Noah said. “There’s no way this is a bad deal. You’ll see. And just so you know, this is loan. Okay? I will pay every penny back.”

  Again, it was precisely what Ulrich would have said.

  LYNCHBURG, VIRGINIA

  DECEMBER 9, 2010

  Things had changed for Newt since the article about him ran in USA Today, and not for the better.

  Prior to the article, he was just another Lynchburg local. No one looked at him. No one noticed him at all. Other than the occasional “hello” and “have a nice day” no one tried to engage him.

  Now people stared at him as he walked down the street. Overnight he’d become that freak who’d been hiding out in their little hamlet.

  Which, of course, was true. Newt just wished they didn’t know it.

  Newt slid his key in the lock, opened the door to his room, and stepped inside, desperate to lie down and take a nap before dinner. It was the meds, he knew. There was no other reason for a twenty-seven-year-old to be as tired as he always seemed to be.

  Newt took off his jacket and hung it on the hook behind the door, then stepped toward the bed and saw the toy.

  A Rubik’s Cube.

  Each side of the cube was a solid color—blue, yellow, red, orange, white, and green—which meant it had just been purchased, or it had been mixed up and then solved.

  Newt turned his head and saw a man sitting in the chair. He was younger than Newt. Chiseled features and mesmerizing blue eyes. People Magazine handsome.

  It was Koda Mulvane
y.

  “Do you remember the day you solved that?” Koda asked, motioning to the Rubik’s Cube on the bed.

  Newt nodded. “Yeah. How did you get in here?”

  “Twenty bucks to the guy at the front desk,” Koda said.

  “Right,” Newt said. “Who needs keys when money can open any door?”

  “Something like that,” Koda said. “But waiting in here seemed like the best thing for both of us since we both share the same problem now.”

  “Being?”

  “Celebrity. A single front-page article can do that to a person. Steal your anonymity and rob you of your most valuable possession—your privacy—just like that,” Koda said, snapping his fingers for effect.

  Newt nodded and took a seat on the edge of the bed. “So, are you going to tell me why you’re here? I hope it’s not to solve another Rubik’s Cube”

  “No. I want to know how close you are to catching my mother’s killer,” Koda said. “I seem to remember you making me a promise that you were going to get whoever did it.”

  “I was ten years old at the time.”

  “Yeah, well I was six,” Koda said. “And I believed you.”

  “I’m not with the bureau anymore,” Newt said.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Koda asked. “I don’t know how things work in your family, but in mine we take our promises seriously.”

  “I don’t know what is happening with your mother’s case, okay?” Newt said. “I’ve been out of the loop for three years.”

  “Well, I haven’t,” Koda said, holding up a manila file folder.

  “I’m not interested,” Newt said.

  Koda stood and tossed the file on the bed next to the Rubik’s Cube. “We’re having a party at the mansion on the twentieth. There’s an invitation inside. Ignore the $10,000 price tag. It’s on me. Maybe you’ll have something to tell me by then.”