Books 1–4

by Nancy A. Collins

  Palmer craned his head so he could catch a glimpse of the sky through the heavily secured window over his bed. It was still dark out. He remembered his mother insisting, during the periodic hard times the family roller-coasted through, how “it’s always darkest before the dawn.” His mother was a good woman, bless her, but incapable of making a statement that wasn’t cobbled together from clichés.

  His father had been a great one for clichés as well. His only attempt at handing paternal wisdom had been a nose-to-nose yelling match, where he’d told the fifteen-year-old Palmer: “Boy, if you don’t get your head outta your ass, you’re gonna find yourself up shit creek without a paddle!”

  Thanks, Dad.

  “Somebody here to see you, Palmer,” the orderly said.

  Word had come through that morning that the doctors had okayed his transference from the medical ward of the jail. He was to be placed in the general population the next day. This had not come as welcome news.

  “Is it my lawyer?”

  “Beats me. The guy says he wants to talk to you.” The orderly jerked his head toward the single door that lead in and out of the recovery ward. A man Palmer had never seen before was standing at the check-in desk, an expensive attaché case in one hand. “You wanna see him?”

  There was no privacy in the infirmary, but the patient-inmates had the freedom to turn away visitors if they chose.

  “Yeah, send him over.”

  Moments later the stranger stood at the foot of Palmer’s bed. He was a middle-aged man dressed in an expensive silk suit. His skin was pallid, even by today’s melanoma-conscious standards. He looked like a man who spent a lot of time indoors.

  “Mr. Palmer? Mr. William Palmer?”

  “Yeah, that’s me. Who wants to know?”

  The stranger’s mouth smiled, but his eyes did not join in. “My name is Renfield. And I believe I can be of some service to you, Mr. Palmer.”

  “That so? You a lawyer?” Palmer motioned him to take a seat in the metal folding chair next to the bed.

  Renfield lowered himself into the seat. His movements were so rigid and stylized that he reminded Palmer of an animated mannequin. His mouth curled into another simulated smile. “Not exactly. I am a representative for a third party who has an interest in your case.”

  “Look, Mac, I don’t know what it is you’re getting at. Say what you have to say and get it over with, okay?’

  “You are innocent, are you not? Of the crime they accuse you of, I mean. You did not murder, nor did you conspire to murder, Samuel Quine. Is that right?”

  “You got it.” Palmer wished he had a smoke. This pasty- faced suit was making him nervous.

  “Would you care for a cigarette, Mr. Palmer?” Renfield asked, pulling a pack from his breast pocket. Palmer was surprised to see a flat, red-and-white case of Sherman’s in his pale hand.

  “Yeah, don’t mind if I do.” Palmer said as he eagerly accepted one of the thin, unfiltered cigarillos. Smoking was, theoretically, forbidden, not only inside the infirmary, but the jail itself. Then again, so were gangs and rape.

  “Go ahead, take the pack.”

  “Uh, thanks.” He stared at the pack of Shermans, and then back at Renfield’s blandly smiling face. “How did you know I smoke this brand?”

  “There is a lot we know about you, Mr. Palmer.”

  Palmer looked up from his cupped palms as he lit his cigarette. “ ‘We’?”

  “I refer, of course, to my employer.”

  “Exactly who is this guy, and why is he interested in my well being?”

  “That is not important, for now. What is important is that he can—and will, providing you agree to work for him—clear you of all charges. He can also get your Private Investigator’s license reinstated.”

  “What is this, some kind of joke?” he frowned. “If so, it’s not a real knee-slapper.”

  “Joke?” Renfield’s brow creased. “I never joke, Mr. Palmer.”

  “Of course you don’t. Okay, let me rephrase myself: Who sent you, and what am I to him that he’s willing to pull those kind of strings? You’re not with the Mafia, are you?”

  “I assure you, Mr. Palmer, my employer has no need of such petty power brokers. All I need to know is whether you are amenable to certain terms of employment in exchange for your freedom.” Again the smile-that-wasn’t-a-smile.

  Palmer shrugged. “If your boss can spring me like you said, I’ll walk on my hands all the way to Timbuktu, if that’s what he wants.”

  “I doubt that will be necessary. Then you accept my employer’s offer?”

  “That’s what I said, didn’t I?”

  Renfield nodded and closed his eyes. “It is done,” he said aloud in an odd voice. It sounded like a verbal signal. Palmer suddenly wondered if the creep was wired for sound. He felt the urge to grab the pasty little bastard and shake him by his lapels, but restrained himself.

  Renfield stood up, carefully straightening the creases in his suit. “You will be hearing from us shortly. Good day, Mr. Palmer.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Hang loose, dude.”

  Palmer lay back in the bed, arms folded behind his head, puffing thoughtfully on his cigarette. Who the hell was this Renfield geek? He didn’t like the whey-faced bastard, but if he was telling the truth... Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he had shaken hands with the Devil.

  Twenty-four hours after his initial meeting with Renfield, Palmer was standing on the street outside the Criminal Justice Building, blinking at the late afternoon sun. It had been months since he’d last been outside. He was still a bit weak from the gunshot wound that had creased his heart, but, all in all, he felt pretty damn good. Freedom was an amazing tonic.

  I’ll be damned. The little wonk said he could do it, and whatever else he might be, he sure as hell isn’t a liar.

  Palmer hefted the plain canvas tote bag the prison quartermaster had given him before jettisoning him back onto the streets. Inside were what few possessions he could call his own, salvaged from his apartment by his erstwhile public defender before the landlord changed the lock. It was hardly the most auspicious of new beginnings. Palmer glanced at his wristwatch. He’d received a note from Renfield just prior to his release telling him to wait on the corner. But for what?

  A Mercedes, black and shiny as a scarab, pulled up to the curb, its windows polarized against prying eyes. The rear passenger door opened and Renfield leaned halfway out, motioning for him to climb in.”You seem surprised, Mr. Palmer.”

  “Dazed is more like it. How did you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Pull that trick with the DA’s office? They said something about Lola’s diary turning up?”

  Renfield shrugged. “My employer is not without... connections, Mr. Palmer. Besides, what does it matter, so long as you are cleared?”

  Palmer wanted to press the issue, but there was something in the way the other man smiled that made him keep silent. Renfield may have saved him from a life in prison, but that didn’t mean he had to like the guy. In fact, he felt uncomfortable simply sitting next to him. He couldn’t help himself; there was something inherently loathsome about the guy that he couldn’t quite peg.

  “Where are we going?”

  “We are going to meet my employer. He is as interested in seeing you face-to-face as you are in meeting him. You should relax, Mr. Palmer. It will be some time before we reach our destination.” Renfield leaned forward and opened the liquor cabinet built into the back of the front seat. “Help yourself.”

  An hour later the limo coasted to a halt. The entire ride had been silent, save for the occasional rattle of ice as Palmer replenished his bourbon and coke. Meanwhile, Renfield had consumed nothing but bottled mineral water, and that sparingly. The driver moved from behind the wheel of the car and opened the passenger door. Palmer slid out after Renfield, feeling a bit tipsier than he’d realized.

  He looked around and saw they were at the end of a long, crushed gravel drive, standing outsi
de a spacious ranch-style house with handsomely manicured lawns and artfully concealed exterior lights. No doubt there was a nice big and a hot tub out back. Palmer followed Renfield up the front walk. Before they reached the porch, one of the shadows detached itself from the shrubbery and blocked their path.

  The shadow was a big son of a bitch armed with an automatic weapon that looked like a child’s toy in his massive hands. He towered over Renfield and Palmer, his shoulders wide enough to block out the sky. Palmer guessed him to be close to seven feet tall, if not an inch or two over. And the bastard was ugly, too. The giant’s long, horse-like face was made even more unattractive by a complete lack of facial hair, including eyebrows and eyelashes. The guard said something to Renfield in a register so low it was close to sub-vocal.

  “It’s all right, Kief. He’s been cleared.”

  The guard didn’t take his eyes off Palmer as he made a strangely delicate motion with his free hand that was either sign language or his pantomiming breaking a twig.

  Renfield shook his head. “No, that won’t be necessary. Like I said, it’s been arranged. Now, get on with your job. We must not keep the Doctor waiting.”

  The guard nodded and returned to his post, but Palmer could feel the giant’s eyes on his back as they entered the house.

  The living room was right out of prime-time soap, with a high ceiling, tastefully arranged Danish furniture and a handful of modern paintings scattered along the walls. It was obvious no one spent any time truly living there.

  “This way.” Renfield led Palmer down a narrow hallway to the back of the house.

  He stopped outside a door at the end of the corridor and rapped lightly.

  “Bring him in.”

  The room behind the door was lined with books and smelled of old leather and moldering paper. Seated behind an antique roll-top desk was a handsome middle-aged man, his dark hair touched with silver at the temples. Despite the dim wattage cast by the Tiffany lamp atop the desk, he wore a pair of green-tinted aviator shades.

  “Ah, Mr. Palmer! Pleased to make your acquaintance at last!” The older man rose from his chair and extended his hand to the detective. He was dressed in crisp, white cotton pants, a white cotton shirt, loosened at the collar with the sleeves rolled up past the elbows, and a pair of old-fashioned red leather suspenders. Palmer winced at the strength behind the cool, dry grip.

  “I have been told I have you to thank for arranging my freedom, Mister...?”

  “It’s Doctor; Dr. Pangloss. Pleased to be of some service,” the older man grinned, revealing pristine bridgework that made Palmer’s nicotine-stained teeth look like a demilitarized zone. He motioned for his guest to take a seat, and then nodded to Renfield, who was still standing at the door. “That will be all for now. Have the cook prepare a tray for Mr. Palmer.”

  Renfield nodded and retreated, leaving them alone.

  “You must forgive me for not dining with you.” Pangloss smiled. “I’ve already eaten. May I offer you a drink?” He pulled a bottle of bourbon, its seal intact, from one of the desk’s pigeonholes. Palmer recognized it as his favorite brand, when he could afford it. “Oh, and help yourself to the cigarettes,” Pangloss added, nodding to a Chinese lacquer box resting on the table next to Palmer’s chair. The cigarette case was, like practically everything else in the room, an antique. Inside was his brand.

  Palmer lit his smoke with a Fabergé cigarette lighter, pausing to admire how the light from the Tiffany lamp played across its enameled case. “Look, Dr. Pangloss… it’s not that I’m ungrateful for what you’ve done, but what the hell is going on? What’s so important about me that you would go so far as to spring me from jail?”

  Pangloss flashed his teeth as he handed the detective a highball glass, but it was impossible to tell if the smile extended to his eyes. “I respect your forthrightness, Mr. Palmer. I really do. I appreciate men willing to speak their minds. The fact of the matter is, I am in dire need of your services.”

  “That’s flattering, Doc, but there are hundreds of perfectly good private investigators in this country. Some I’ll even admit are better than me. I’m hardly Sam Spade, especially in light of what you know I’ve recently been through.”

  “You underestimate yourself, Mr. Palmer. Or may I call you Bill?”

  “I’d rather you call me Palmer. Same as everyone else does.”

  “Very well, Palmer. You have tracked down missing people before, have you not?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ve traced a couple of skips and runaways. Most PIs have, sometime or another—it’s part of the job. Why?”

  “Because there is someone I want you to find for me. A girl. It’s very important that she be located. I’m willing to pay you top dollar.”

  Palmer sipped at the bourbon. It had been a long time since he’d been able to afford liquor this good. “Keep on talking, Doc. I’m listening.”

  “It won’t be easy, I’m afraid. She doesn’t want to be found and has been highly successful at avoiding my previous field operatives. She recognizes them on sight and does her best to... avoid them.” Pangloss’s handsome face grew dark. “She’s a wild child, Palmer. She’s crafty, shrewd, fiercely independent, and more than a little crazy. She is also very dangerous. I’ll tell you that right now, just to make sure you know what you’re dealing with.”

  “This ‘wild child’ you want me to find—what is her relationship to you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “She’s my granddaughter.”

  Palmer knew that was bullshit the moment he heard it. Pangloss didn’t look old enough to have a grandchild capable of helling around. Then again, maybe he was older than he older. You never can tell, what with plastic surgery nowadays. And while Pangloss hadn’t exactly told the truth, Palmer had the feeling he wasn’t lying, either.

  “I’ll pay you a thousand dollars a day, plus expenses. I trust that is satisfactory?”

  Palmer nearly choked on the bourbon in his hurry to reply. “It’ll do.”

  “There will also be a twenty-thousand-dollar bonus should you find her and successfully deliver this letter to her.” Pangloss pulled a legal-sized envelope from one of the desk’s pigeonholes. It was expensive cream stationery, stiff and heavy, and bore an old-fashioned wax seal on the back depicting a dragon looped around itself, eating its own tail.

  “Can I ask a question? A purely hypothetical one, that is.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “What would you do if I decided not to take the case?”

  “That assumes you have a choice in the matter, Mr. Palmer,” Pangloss replied. “I prefer keeping the fiction of free will intact, don’t you? I find my employees work much better when they believe they have some say in what they can and cannot do.”

  Palmer stared at his benefactor’s pleasantly smiling face, the expensive liquor suddenly bitter in his mouth. For the first time Palmer noticed how long the other man’s fingernails were.

  “I have confidence in you, Palmer. I’m sure you’ll be a great asset to our team. Now that you’re here, why don’t you make yourself at home? I’ve had the guest room especially prepared for your arrival, and I’ll see to it that cook gets your dinner to you. If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “There’s just one thing: what’s the name of this girl you’re looking for?”

  “Her name is Sonja. Sonja Blue,” Pangloss replied as he opened the door to his study, revealing Renfield standing on the threshold. “Have a good evening, Mr. Palmer. And pleasant dreams.”

  Chapter Two

  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  Palmer stared blankly at the bellhop for a double heartbeat before answering. “No, I don’t think so.” He stuffed a couple of dollars into an outstretched white glove. The bellboy grimaced as if he’d just hacked a gob into his hand. Well, he wasn’t going to let some college student’s wounded sense of self-worth sour the pleasure of having his very own suite at the Ritz-Carlton. Palmer shrugged out of his jack
et and plopped down on the couch in the sitting room. He rang up room service, courtesy of the good Dr. Pangloss. He wasn’t sure what his employer was a doctor of, but it sure paid well.

  While he waited on his food to arrive, Palmer thumbed through notes scribbled during his time as Pangloss’s ‘houseguest.’ Is Sonja Blue really Pangloss’s grand-d? Is S.B. into illicit drugs? prostitution? Is Pangloss? What the hell am I doing here?

  So far he’d failed to turn up answers to any of those questions, although putting a jet flight between himself and his mysterious benefactor made the last question seem far less pressing than when he first wrote it down.

  He glanced at the stiff, cream-colored envelope jutting out of the breast pocket of his jacket. No doubt the letter would give him some answers, but that wasn’t how the game was played when he was on the field. Still, for a man supposedly desperate to locate his grandchild, Pangloss had been stingy with information about the girl. After some questioning, Palmer had finally learned that she might be traced through a boyfriend, if that was the proper word to use, of the name Geoffrey Chastain, but better known as Chaz. From what little Palmer had pieced together, Chaz was an expatriate Brit with a taste for hard drugs and unsavory sex partners. In short, your basic lowlife hustler.

  Palmer scrounged a pencil from his hip pocket and added to his notes: Is Chaz S.B.’s lover? Connection/pimp?

  He looked at the photograph of the elusive Chaz that Pangloss had given him before leaving. Odd that Pangloss should have a picture of the crappy boyfriend but not a single snapshot of his own granddaughter.

  The picture looked like a passport photo, or maybe a mug shot. The man glowering at him from the other side of the camera was in his early thirties, his hair combed in a rebellious rooster tail. There was still a hint of masculine beauty in the shape of his cheekbones and the tilt of his eyes, but what attractiveness Geoffrey Chastain had once possessed had long been eaten away by his addictions. The drug hunger was obvious, even in a photo. Still, it was easy to see how a young, impressionable girl might fall under the spell of such a sleaze ball.