by Noel Cash
I stared at the endless, bleak, winter cityscape. “Is it safe to use your computer?” Was the killer tech savvy?
“As long as I don’t sign into any of my accounts. I have to remain anonymous.” She delivered her resentment loud and clear.
“If you’re sure you smelled tobacco before the assault—”
“I am. Positive.”
“That’s the clue we have to follow. I’ll ask Captain Brady to get the samples to you as soon as possible, and we’ll see what happens.”
“I’ll never have your talent. I doubt I can tell them apart.”
“You have talents of your own.” I’d already compartmentalized the tobaccos I’d smelled at Leaf to Ash. Even humans could differentiate them.
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “Take notes. Let your nose rest then go back and retest. Memory is a tricky thing, but I have faith in you.” I tracked people as they entered and exited the pharmacy, curious why they chose it. What ills did they suffer? What chased them from their warm homes?
“You’re the only one who believes in me.”
Had Hugh picked on her again? Or ignored her situation? As the youngest, Kix fought for recognition in the overachieving Burrowes clan.
“The case is temporary, Kix,” I said to reassure her. “We’ll find him. You and I. As soon as I have access to M.I.C.U.’s files again, I’ll text you. Do you remember my old login and password?”
“Of course I do,” she said, a prideful sniff in her voice.
“No one will snoop on what old Rory Harper searches. We’ll tag team like we did when we investigated the murders and kidnapping last August. Remember? The killer doesn’t stand a chance.”
“You always know how to make me feel better, Rory.”
I hope I always do.
A flash of kelly green caught my attention, and, guided by instinct, I turned my head.
Eddie Renart, wearing a leprechaun green bowler hat, angled past a cluster of shoppers and unlocked a pale yellow, 1965 Pontiac LeMans.
Chapter Nineteen
“I have to go.” My heart raced at the unexpected break in the case.
“What happened?” Kix asked.
“A suspect just walked by. I’m sorry. I’ll call you later.”
“Go. Don’t worry about me.”
I disconnected, the thrill of the hunt coursing through me.
The old man didn’t wait to defrost his windows as any sane Michigander would. The LeMans lurched across the parking lot and jumped a snowy curb before he turned onto Maple Street.
A woman and a gaggle of hyperactive, bundled children meandered down the center of the lane where I’d parked. I clenched the steering wheel and swore under my breath as I waited for them to move over. Every second wasted the time I could follow one of my suspects.
They finally shuffled to one side enough that I could swerve around them. I clipped a shopping cart and ran through a yellow light as I sped up to pursue Renart.
I needed not have bothered with the James Bond tactics. The LeMans, as big as a boat and looking like it had taken on water, lumbered down Maple Street at a sedate twenty-miles an hour. Renart hugged the center stripe and swayed toward oncoming traffic.
A chill not associated with the weather skated down my spine. Visions of another impaired driver crowded my memory of a rainy August morning. Penny Trades had turned toward me, and I stood, rooted, as a texting driver struck and killed her.
I gripped the steering wheel and pushed aside the memory.
Later, Harper. You can’t do anything about it now.
My nerves jumping from the unexpected assault, and adrenaline pumping through me, I forced myself to breathe. Renart didn’t seem to be in a hurry. From thin air, I’d assumed a nefarious mission for him. In my mind, I’d expose the killer and emerge the hero. Parades and adoration would follow.
The right turn signal blinked on but the monolith did not slow. One block passed. Two. A half mile. I despaired of old men and wild goose chases. Finally, eight blocks from where he first signaled, Renart turned in a wide arc into an apartment building parking lot.
I drove past, turned at the first opportunity and doubled back to park on the street. Had I missed him? No, he stood next to the car and smoked a cigarette. One more before he went inside? Or did he wait for someone?
The main door of the apartment building opened, and a woman stepped out.
Interesting.
I sat lower so neither could spot me.
Delanna Storm, wearing a bright red shawl over an abundance of multi-colored scarves gathered into a skirt, floated toward Renart. They met and talked for a few moments, then she reached into a pocket. I leaned forward, my mouth dry in anticipation. Would she pull out the proverbial smoking gun that would expose him as the killer?
I groaned. Wrong again.
She held out a kitten.
Killer kittens. My life had boiled down to witnessing someone gift a three-month-old kitten to her friend. Or she’d returned it after cat-sitting.
I bashed my forehead on the steering wheel. Was I so desperate to solve the case I followed random old men because they happened to use tobacco?
I need another line of work. Kix, you don’t know how lucky you are to not be on the street with me.
I never should have left Myth. I could be sitting in Frank’s old office, rubber-stamping forms and worrying about budgets.
I waited until Renart left the parking lot, the kitten with its paws on the driver’s side window, before I headed in the opposite direction. I wouldn’t make a fool of myself twice.
I drove to my office. Safe, mundane P.I. work always begged for my attention. I could fill the hours if and until Brady’s people bothered to remember to turn on my access to M.I.C.U.’s files.
Hell, why should I wait? I had to report my meeting with Dimitri Romanoff. Why not kill two birds with one stone and bump my needs up on Brady’s list of priorities?
I flipped on the lights and started a pot of coffee before a last minute check of my messages. He might have texted while I’d investigated murderous felines.
Fate kicked my anger in the gut when my phone rang.
Brady.
“Captain, sir.” My frustration did not erode my respect.
“Harper, where are you?” He filleted his words with the precision of a master chef.
“In my office, just got here. What’s happened?” He’d only call me to give me bad news.
“I’ll tell you when I get there. Be there in five minutes.”
He disconnected.
I eyed the coffee pot and remembered the uneaten doughnuts I’d left at my parent’s house.
What am I, Susie Homemaker?
He barreled in a few minutes later, bringing an Arctic blast of air and dropping chunks of snow on the carpet.
“Coffee,” he said like a man in a desert who’d spotted an oasis.
I handed him the cup I’d just filled and waved him to the guest chair.
He swallowed the scalding liquid in one gulp.
“Been out since we got the call,” he said, his eyes apologetic.
He didn’t want to talk about the weather. I refilled the mug and handed it back.
I sat across from him at my desk, giving me the slight advantage of power and waited for him to speak.
“We got a break.” He raised an eyebrow at me.
I didn’t know how to interpret the gesture. “Oh?”
“We think the killer staked out the second Becky Turner’s house, waiting for her to return home from her bartending job. He left behind two cigarette butts.”
Goosebumps rose. “I have a lead on that,” I offered.
“Grass doesn’t grow under your feet, does it?”
“No sir.” I’d take any word of praise I could get. “Were they hand-rolled cigarettes? If so, I want to smell them. I might be able to tie them to where he bought the tobacco.”
Damn, why hadn’t I nicked out to the Mythic Path’s alley and picked up one of R
enart’s butts?
Brady stared at me then nodded. “You’ll have to come into the M.I.C.U.’s lab. I can’t break the chain of evidence.”
There is no joy in Mudville.
I didn’t relish returning to Myth, Inc., but the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.
“I can do that.”
“What are you working on?”
I relayed my suspicions, leaving out the part about the cat. Brady listened while he drank a third cup of coffee. He must have kidneys made of iron.
“Good work, Harper. Do you have the tobacco samples with you?”
I handed him the paper bag that Dimitri Romanoff had used. “I promised them to Kix to compare to what she remembers.”
He nodded. “We’ll check them against the evidence. We’re pushing for fingerprint and DNA matches. The human police are cooperating. They don’t want wide-spread killings or rumors of a serial killer. The media’s having a field day as it is.”
Brady checked his watch and stood with a grunt. “Two o’clock. Damn, where’s the time gone? Anne said she’d have you up and running by two.”
“Anne?”
“Prairie. You’ve met her. She used to be the receptionist. We slid her into investigations after Jack Trades left. She’s holding down the fort.”
I stood, guilt dragging at my movements. Trades would never forgive me for my part in his wife’s death. “I heard he’d returned from personal leave.”
“Not to us. He moved to D.C.D. – Damage Control Division. Squashing human rumors and such. Waste of a great talent.” Brady shook his head then grabbed the paper bag of samples. “We’ll get this back to you as soon as we can.”
A message binged as he let himself out.
The app wouldn’t allow me to ignore Anne Prairie’s notification. It would continue to chirp at one-minute intervals until I read it.
I unlocked my phone. Anne had texted me.
So had someone else.
I stared in shock at the sender’s name.
Caro Harper Boxer.
My sister.
Caro.
We didn’t talk, a gradual erosion rooted in the aftermath of our father and brother’s deaths. The rift widened when I’d moved to America with Millie and David. We communicated through Millie, if at all.
My hand shook as I brought up the message.
What’s happening with Ma and David? I’m worried.
She’d never transitioned to calling him Da as I had. “You’re not my father,” she’d said at their wedding. At least twice a year, she’d run away from home until 1948, when we’d emigrated. She’d stayed behind with an aunt, married at a young age, divorced, married again, and raised four children from two different men.
She’d never forgiven me.
My finger paused on the keypad. How could I give her the information she wanted and repair our relationship? A text couldn’t bridge our differences, and I was too much of a coward to phone. In the end, I sent her what she asked for and hoped a quick reply might open a gate.
Don’t worry. He’s in good spirits and tentatively walking. The doctors say it may take six months before he’s recovered. We made a room for him downstairs until then. He should be home in a few days, and I’m arranging for whatever physical therapy he needs. Take care.
I didn’t add I’d yet to pin down his doctors on his care or he’d shown signs of mental confusion. She couldn’t do anything from England, and I couldn’t add more worry to her life.
I poured the cup of coffee I’d missed earlier and texted Kix to follow through on the tobacco angle. Maybe something she read would jar her memory. It might be days before Brady gave her the samples I’d bought. Even then, nothing guaranteed she’d match them to a tenuous memory.
I accessed Myth’s interface and signed on to M.I.C.U.’s closed system. Familiar names popped onto my screen. Mike Mickelson, demoted to the number two position. Angel Melendez, who seemed to be the boots-on-the-ground guy. Under Brady’s directions, he’d filed most of the reports. Evan Walker and Henry Prince, the tech guys.
Six months later, and it’s just like home.
A Cinderella type home, with me the ugly stepsister, doing the dirty work and cast aside when no longer needed.
With Kix’s life on the line, I had no option but to throw myself into their company and steel myself for disappointment again.
I spent the next several hours reading their reports and taking notes. Becky One’s autopsy revealed the killer had shot her once in the head. Water in her lungs proved the bullet hadn’t done its job. She’d drowned in the icy waters of Lake Michigan.
Surveillance footage in the area showed no suspicious activity Monday night, but I hadn’t expected any. The killer could have dumped her anywhere. We’d caught a macabre break in that the tides had deposited her body where the Coast Guard had spotted it.
M.I.C.U.’s interviews of The Mythic Path’s class participants proved more interesting. Eddie Renart had a long string of misdemeanors and skirted the law as a hobby. Beryl Tussett considered herself an herbalist and gatekeeper to other realms. She made a living running a small herbal shop on Indiana Street and guiding the hopeful myth to other realms.
I paid the most attention to Delanna Storm’s file. A full-blooded gypsy, she’d owned the bakery for two years after selling a similar business in Romania. The Bucharest Myth office had few records to share, which raised my suspicions. We keep tabs on our own.
A mental alarm rang when I read her home address. Hammond Street, in the Mason neighborhood. Not Maple where I’d seen her hours earlier.
If she didn’t live at the apartment building, who did? And why was she there and not at the bakery on one of the busiest mornings of the week?
Could I afford to set up surveillance?
Damn, I wish Kix could help. She can pick a lock better than anyone I know.
Not that I knew many lock picks.
Face it Harper, until six months ago, you led a boring, predictable life.
A growling stomach removed the decision on whether to camp out on her street. I hadn’t eaten since I’d shoved a doughnut in my mouth when Brady called about Becky Two’s death. I’d have to stop somewhere on the way to the hospital as I promised Millie I’d check in on her and Da.
The computer shut down until I could have another go at M.I.C.U.’s files at home, I stood and pulled my keys from my pocket.
My cell rang.
Kix. She’d had enough time to research and report on the tobacco angle of the case. Brady might have taken parts of the samples to her.
The screen displayed my mother’s number. My heart jumped, a chill blanketing me.
“Ma?”
“Oh, Rory, I’m so glad I caught you. Your father’s had a stroke.”
Chapter Twenty
I spent the next two days in the hospital with my mother. Because Da was a patient at the time of his stroke, he received immediate treatment to break apart the blood clot. Nevertheless, he lost the use of his left arm and leg, and the left side of his mouth drooped. He slept most of the weekend, though he did recognize my mother when he woke.
I don’t know how she managed it, but she remained upbeat, reminding me of Kix’s attitude after her attack.
“We’ve survived worse. We’ll rise from this stronger than ever.”
I did not voice my doubts about his recovery from a broken hip and stroke, but I had to show a positive attitude.
Monday, the doctors moved him to a rehab center that specialized in stroke victims.
“Ma, stay with me, you’ll be closer to Hill Valley.” The solution killed two birds with one stone. I could keep an eye on her, and she wouldn’t feel so helpless.
She gave me the stink eye. “Your place is one mile closer. I don’t want to put you out. Besides, I want to be in my own house. It comforts me.” She rubbed her arm as if comforting someone else.
I didn’t see how returning to an empty house gave her solace. Looking at a room that we’d
made into a bedroom would remind her of the endless days until he could occupy it.
“At least let me drive you to Hill Valley.” What could I do to make her life easier? She had a strict code about what a son should do for his parents.
“No. We’ve kept you from your work long enough. I feel bad that you haven’t had the chance to catch the Becky Killer,” she said, using the nickname the media had bestowed on the murderer. I’m sure it terrorized every Rebecca and Becky in the Midwest.
“Are you sure?” I hated for her to shoulder the burden of Da’s relocation and rehab.
She patted my cheek, as if I hadn’t aged in the past eighty years. “Of course I’m sure. I’ll do what I have to, and you do what you have to.”
I nodded. The list of what I had to do had multiplied since Saturday.
I left her, but didn’t head to the office. I’d checked on Lucille, who told me the chorus of crickets from the lack of any business had deafened her. You have to love troll humor.
After hot takeout, a hotter shower, and clean clothes, I sat on my sofa and read the emails the hospital’s poor wi-fi had denied me.
Kix couldn’t identify any of the tobacco samples M.I.C.U. sent to her.
Hugh advised me that his wife had disappeared Friday night and walked in the next morning with a loaf of French brioche. He didn’t expect me to tail her again until I had time.
So, why the note in the first place, Hugh?
Myth and human databases had not matched the fingerprints on the cigarette butts left at the murder scene of Becky Two. Brady waited for DNA results. On a hunch, he’d asked the techs to run Dimitri Romanoff’s prints from the tobacco tins, but they’d failed to match anyone as well.
I suspected Romanoff had used magic to obscure them. He’d struck me as the type to avoid any run-ins with the law.
Kix sent her condolences about Da’s stroke and wanted to visit but knew she couldn’t be seen at an unsecured location.
Dimitri Romanoff had received a special blend of tobacco I should investigate. I suspected “blend of tobacco” substituted for a more active, playful endeavor.