A Perjury of Owls

by Michael Angel

  Galen crossed his arms and gave me a serious look. “When you said she was ‘acting strangely’, might I venture that this included mental and emotional instability?”

  “That’s right. It’s got me thinking about Destry’s spell, the one she used on McClatchy.”

  The wizard’s dark brows beetled into a frown. “That pooka wields his power clumsily. Even if we could locate and retrieve him from ‘Tristan Da Cunha’, I’m not sure that the effects of his spell could be undone.”

  I put my face in my hands. It took effort, real effort not to let my eyes brim up.

  “Dayna,” Galen said softly. “It was not my intention to diminish hope for your friend’s well-being. Rather, I meant to say that healing a psychic wound might be difficult and complex to–”

  “It’s not that,” I said, in a broken voice. “It’s just…Andeluvia could fall because of events that I’ve set in motion. The chalkboard…all it does is list my failures. Shelly’s missing or dead because I’ve been so busy nursing my own wounds that I haven’t helped her with hers. And my great idea to beat the owls at their own game? It’s out the window now. This is all my fault.”

  It went quiet in the room. Very, very quiet. Then I felt a nudge at my elbow. The cool wetness of a Fayleene nose.

  I looked up. My little homemade family had gathered round me in support. I didn’t know why I’d been so blessed, but I clung to the feeling like a life preserver in a choppy sea.

  “It took me a long while to understand you,” Liam began. “I don’t think I really grasped the way your mind works until I became the Protector. You place too much of the world on your shoulders. That’s not the way it works, in your world or mine.”

  “Aye,” Shaw said. “Thou might feel responsible for all things from the wee to the mighty. ‘Tis ever the way of the hero. But I say nay. A griffin knows that, at times, there is naught to do but to fly thy own course against the world’s headwinds. And thou art better at it than all I have seen.”

  “They speak for me,” Galen said. “And with more eloquence than I can muster.”

  I put my hands out to rub the side of Liam’s muzzle in one hand, while scratching Shaw atop his massive eagle head. “You have no idea what this means to me, guys.”

  “Thou didst help each of us,” Shaw pointed out. “How could we do less for thee?”

  I took a breath and steadied myself. “Then I need to ask some favors of you all. Galen, are you still bound to the palace until Fitzwilliam’s project is done?”

  The wizard nodded. “I regret to say, yes.”

  “Then I’d like you to keep your ear to the ground here at court. Liam, the Albess once told me that she had a sleeping spot within the Grove of the Willows. Can you return there and locate it? I’m not sure if we’ll find anything that ties in, but it’s worth a shot.”

  “I shall,” Liam said. “And I have something else to prepare with my people. Something that might assist us.”

  “Good,” I acknowledged, as I turned to Shaw. “Finally, I’m thinking that Belladonna corresponded with Thea. The High Elder even complained once how difficult it was to understand the owls. I’d like you to ask her about any details of their communications. Again, it’s a long shot, but it can’t hurt.”

  “I shall ensure thy wishes are met,” Shaw replied.

  Galen’s hooves clopped as he stepped up to the table. “Fitzwilliam’s court assembles on the morning after next. I think it prudent for us to meet here again at that assembly’s close. What do you plan to do in the meantime, Dayna?”

  “Me?” I stood up and tried to look a shade less anxious. “I’ve got the worst job of all. I have to leave all of you behind.”

  “You need to find Shelly.” The wizard did not phrase what he said as a question.

  “That’s right,” I said grimly. “I have to find out what’s happened to her, for good or ill.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The bright red plastic of my chair let out a pathetic creak as I leaned back in it. To pass the time until my host’s phone call was completed, I looked up and around the LAPD’s newest office wing. At least, it’s what passed for an ‘office’ in my world nowadays.

  I sat in a cubicle made up of shoulder high laminate panels covered in ratty blue fabric. The fluorescent lightning didn’t exactly flatter anything, either. To top it off, the only real décor was a token picture of family members and a poster of an orange tabby cat dangling from a branch, exhorting the viewer to ‘Hang in there!’

  I closed my eyes and envisioned the high gray walls of Fitzwilliam’s palace. The cathedral-like greenery of the Fayleene’s old forest. And the glittering mountain of the griffins.

  It was so very strange.

  When did Andeluvia start to feel more like the ‘real’ world? I asked myself. Why does this one feel like a dream world made out of tissue paper and cellophane?

  I shook the feeling off. Fantasies were all nice and good, but if the world I’d been born into was a dream, it could also be nightmarish. Because Shelly was still out there, and getting into a hundred different kinds of trouble, for all I knew.

  The OME office had still been dark when I’d shown up at work this morning. I decided to come in early to plow through my ever growing mountain of paperwork, swearing for the thousandth time that I’d just have a rubber stamp made with my name on it. That way I’d at least cut down on the hand cramps.

  Next, I’d packaged up Thea’s feather and set it via overnight mail to the private genetics lab that I’d used for the griffin’s buccal swabs. I was pretty sure they wouldn’t be complaining about contaminated samples this time. As far as I knew, the uniqueness of Andeluvian owls came from their brain size and odd mode of speaking, not from a chimerical mix of genes.

  Once the lunch hour had come and gone, I walked over to the LAPD’s cheese grater shaped annex. The group of detectives assigned to Missing Persons was located next to the Homicide Division, so it was easy to find. I’d been to Homicide multiple times, and I knew most everyone by face, if not name.

  Detective Maxwell Cohen finished up his call and placed the solid gray receiver of his office phone back in its cradle. The phone matched the man’s steel-colored bowl cut and Fuller brush mustache. Cohen was what cops like Esteban called ‘short-timers’, as they had less than five years to go before retirement. The unspoken implication was that a short-timer wouldn’t go out of their way to take any risks, or even work that hard to solve a case. Max never struck me as that sort, though. I’d met him in passing on a couple of cases and he still put the same hours in as anyone else.

  Certainly more than a one-third timer like me.

  “I take it that you got my voicemail from earlier this morning.” Cohen let out a resigned sigh. “I’ve notified Ms. Richardson’s family, and I’ve still got people doing sweeps of the usual places. And while the note left behind didn’t point explicitly towards suicide, I’ve asked the morgues to report their admitting anyone that matches the description.”

  “I did get your message,” I said tightly. Cohen’s recording had tersely informed me that there had been no change in status. “And given my line of work, I think I’ll find out about Shelly being admitted to my department before you do.”

  Max’s mustache twitched. “I didn’t mean to offend. Maybe I should’ve been more specific: I asked Orange and Ventura County’s morgues to report back to us, in case your friend traveled beyond the city boundaries.”

  I made a motion to brush the issue away. “You didn’t offend me, Max. Sorry. There’s been a lot going on in my life lately. I just came by to ask if you’d plugged Shelly’s name into the national database yet.”

  Again with the mustache twitch. Cohen knew that I meant the National Crime Information Center database, or NCIC. And I got the feeling I wasn’t going to like the answer.

  “No, I didn’t. I’m kind of hoping that you can help me out there.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What do you need from me?”

  �
�The LAPD’s official policy is that we don’t enter a missing person into NCIC unless we’ve got evidence for one of a couple things. First, if there’s evidence of violence or a planned kidnapping. Second, if there’s a physical handicap involved. Or third, a mental disability.”

  “Okay, I follow you so far.”

  Cohen gave me a conspiratorial look. “I read the statement you filed, and I didn’t see anything that fit. Unless…maybe there’s something that didn’t find its way into the official report?”

  I appreciated Cohen’s effort. These kinds of cases were all too often left unresolved, and this department didn’t get half the resources allocated to Vice or Homicide. Still, I needed to tap dance my way around what happened to Shelly. The last thing I wanted on top of everything else right now were yet more people poking their noses into things.

  “The last time I saw her, Shelly mentioned that she wasn’t getting enough sleep,” I said truthfully. “At least, enough restful sleep.”

  “Hm. That’s probably unpleasant, but insomnia doesn’t count as a mental disability.”

  I thought fast. “However, she also told me that she’d taken seven or eight caffeine pills that day. I don’t think that someone who’s right in the head would do that if they’ve got insomnia.”

  Cohen puzzled that one out for a little bit. “That’s not hard evidence, but it’ll have to do. There’s nothing that says one way or another about the ‘suspicion’ of mental illness. I’ll put the report into the database.”

  “Thank you, Max. I appreciate it, really.”

  “I did want to ask you about the note that was left, if you have a minute,” he added. “If Ms. Richardson wasn’t putting thoughts together coherently, then maybe that explains her message. ‘I can’t take it anymore’ is sometimes found in suicide notes, both real and faked. But the ‘I need to help’ phrase is odd. Did she mean ‘I need help’? Or ‘I need to get help’?”

  I looked away for a moment. If there was one thing I knew about Shelly, it was that she liked to help. She’d helped me and others get our feet wet when we’d arrived at the OME, she’d helped out on cases, heck, she’d even helped Bob McClatchy years ago when the man needed advice on wooing a potential romantic interest.

  My mind did one of its little clicks and a hunch popped into my head.

  “If you ask anyone in my department, they’ll tell you that Shelly liked helping people,” I recalled. “Maybe the note is her way of telling us that she had an irresistible compulsion to ‘help’ someone.”

  The detective’s steel wool eyebrows knotted together in a mass. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “I think that she got the idea in her head that she’s got to go help someone else…in order to help herself.” The more I thought about it, the surer I became that I was on the right track. “She was part of several church groups that helped out the poor, I know that. I’d detail someone to find out which groups, and go check each one out. I’d ask your officers to keep an ear out for new people showing up to help out at the local rehab clinics, homeless shelters, that sort of thing.”

  “Right,” Cohen said, sounding skeptical. “Sounds like a long shot to me, but I’ll take it over what we have now, which is nothing.”

  At that very moment, Lieutenant Luis Ollivar waddled past the cubicle on the way to Homicide. The tubby man’s attention was split between the paper he held in one hand, and the cinnamon-dusted churro in the other. That was fine by me. I hadn’t spoken to Ollivar since he’d flunked me on my Firearms Certification exam. I had no idea what he thought about his boss overruling his (correct) scoring and passing me, and I wasn’t eager to find out.

  “I take it that you and the Lieutenant aren’t on the best of terms?” Cohen asked. “Not that it’s my business, but that wasn’t a smile I saw on your face as he went by.”

  I made an offhanded shrug. “It’s nothing. He and I have some differing opinions on certain things around here, that’s all.”

  “If it’s about his boss, you might be interested in the latest news. Robert McClatchy, the horse that Ollie’s put his money on, is deadlocked with his opponent for the top cop job.”

  That was a little disturbing. Becoming the Chief of the LAPD was an obsession for Bob, and it had only gotten more focused under Destry’s influence. I didn’t want to think about what kinds of pressure were being put on people now.

  “That reminds me,” I said. “While I’m here, I might as well ask for an update on a homicide case that got put on my desk.”

  “You know the way?” I nodded and got up. “Good luck, then. I’ll keep you posted on anything we find, especially with your suggestions.”

  I shook Max’s hand and thanked him for his work. Then I followed the same corridor Ollivar had taken down to Homicide. I’d made it maybe three-quarters of the way to Esteban’s desk when I heard his voice from the meeting room off to the right. He sounded pleased, as if he’d discovered something important.

  The door had been left open a crack. Through it, I saw him and Isabel Vega each hunched over a map that had been spread out on a table. Their heads were close together, not quite kissing close, but plenty close enough. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but then they shared a quiet laugh together.

  My stomach took a lurch.

  Without consciously thinking about it, I dove into the women’s bathroom across the hall and let the door slam shut behind me.

  Chapter Twenty

  I grabbed the sides of one of the bathroom’s porcelain sinks and held on to it like a drunkard clinging to a lamp post. My stomach settled, even if something deep inside was still going twang. I forced myself to look in the mirror.

  The same face I saw every morning stared back. The same hacker’s tan complexion, the same witch’s chin, the same long black hair done up in the fashionable ‘brink of a nervous breakdown’ look.

  I couldn’t believe it. Right when Andeluvia needed me. Right when my closest friend had gone missing. Here I was, feeling sick to my stomach…over a spot of jealousy?

  How the hell had Fitzwilliam ever thought that I could be Dame material?

  Maybe I was being foolish, chasing dreams in Andeluvia. Maybe I was re-evaluating how tenuous life really was after what had happened to Vazura and Hollyhock. Vazura had never gotten a chance to be with his lover, Lady Behnaz. Even if their taste and timing had been questionable, it seemed that they had really cared for each other.

  And Hollyhock?

  I was still working through that one. Even with her whole life ahead of her, Holly had been blinded and ultimately destroyed by her thirst for revenge. She’d done everything with me simply to hide the fact that she was working for the enemy.

  The mysterious him.

  Esteban had made it pretty clear that he’d wanted to make a go of things with me. And that finally brought me back to where I was. Here, in one of the LAPD women’s restrooms. It wasn’t jealousy so much as guilt and regret.

  Had I just missed the boat with Esteban? Just as I’d missed the boat with Thea? And with Shelly?

  The door opened and someone came in. Someone with a bun of tightly coiled coffee-colored hair and wearing black wire frame glasses. I jerked my chin down and stared resolutely at the sink. Then I swiped my hands over the sensors to dispense soap and water and began washing my hands.

  The water ran in the sink next to mine for a moment. Silence. The sound of the paper towel dispenser whirring away, followed by the tear, crumple, and toss of the used paper.

  “Dayna? I thought I saw you come in here,” Isabel said quietly.

  I didn’t look up. “Yeah, I just needed to wash up. I was on my way to see Esteban. And you. Over that tattooed body we found at the park.”

  “Uh-huh.” The back-and-forth clack of Vega’s heels on the tile floor echoed behind me. I looked up and saw her completing a quick survey of the stalls. “Looks like everyone’s still out to lunch. That’s good. I hate feeding the gossip machine around here.”

  “Me too,
” I said, as I waved my hands by the dispenser and got a towel of my own. “I suppose that I should–”

  “There’s nothing going on between me and Detective Esteban.”

  “I didn’t think there was,” I said, a bit too quickly. Vega waited until I’d thrown my paper away before she spoke again.

  “I figured as much. But no one ducks into a room the way you did unless you needed to hear it.”

  “I…” I gave Vega a hard look, which she accepted matter-of-factly. “I guess I did. Things have been difficult between Alanzo and me. What’s going on in my life is as much to blame as anything else.”

  “He’s mentioned it in passing. And before you ask, he hasn’t breathed a word about what has been keeping you two from doing more than grade school stuff. Besos y caricias.” She grinned as she saw my expression. “That means making out, necking. Or, to be romantic about it, ‘swapping spit’.”

  “Thanks, Isabel. I needed that, as well.”

  Her sunny expression dipped behind a cloud in an instant. “You need to know one more thing, then. Esteban’s really confused.”

  “He is? I mean, over me?”

  A nod. “Afraid so. And if I’ve learned one thing about men over the years, it’s that they don’t like to be confused. I guess I’m saying…I think he may be open, if someone else wants to make a move on him.”

  “Someone else?”

  “Someone. Anyone but me, Dayna.” Vega shook her head as she added, “I’ve been stuck doing street level cases for three years before getting my promotion, and right off the bat I get a crack at Homicide. I’m lucky to be working with Esteban, but I’m not going to jeopardize things for any papi, no matter how cute.”

  I nodded, taking a moment to digest all that I’d been told. Some of it was tough to hear, but at least it was honest. Grudgingly, I had to respect where Vega was coming from.

  “I appreciate that,” I said. “I mean, setting me straight about Esteban. And yes, I think you’re going to do fine in Homicide.”