by Noel Cash
She stood and collected her purse, a tiny thing from which she’d pulled much larger items. I suspected magic.
“You’re ever optimistic, Rory.”
Ha. If she only knew.
I rose and watched as she left to find Brady or the sketch artist, Anderson. Bruno and Mars followed like two watchdogs. An unaccountable jealousy welled in me, that she’d monopolized their time.
Patience, Harper. Your time is coming.
If only I could believe it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Nothing had changed with Da except he lived in a much nicer facility. Hill Valley had a sterling reputation, and I didn’t mind paying for the best for the man who’d taken us under his wing.
After watching him sleep for an hour, I made sure Ma had everything she needed, not settling on the “I’m fine, Rory,” she used to please me. I promised to bring her takeout for dinner and follow her home because she didn’t like to drive in the dark.
Myth’s security measures waved me through, and I arrived back at M.I.C.U. at ten on the dot. With a city on high alert, I expected someone to stop me, ask for ID, or at least look up when I walked through the office. For all anyone knew, the killer was myth and walking among us.
Maybe I’ll drop a line to Hugh. Maybe not.
I tamped down my anger at Myth and M.I.C.U. and concentrated on seeing Kix again.
She sat on a chair in M.I.C.U.’s reception area, scrolling through her phone messages. At my discrete cough, she smiled and jumped up.
“Rory! You’re right on time. How did you get in? Do you still have your key card?” She gathered a thick manila folder and stuffed it in her tiny purse. I ignored the magic trick.
“Celso Coriander was leaving and let me in. Are you ready for lunch or do you want to go to my office first?”
“Its early, but lunch first. I’m starving, and I have so much to tell you.” She looped her arm through mine and all but dragged me from the office.
Her exaggeration amused me. “Are you feeling better?”
Her nose wrinkled. “My headache comes and goes, so ignore me if I space out from medication. Hughie and the Captain cautioned me for the millionth time about being careful, and I told them to shove it. I can’t stand being strangled.”
I pushed the elevator button and stood aside as the doors opened. “Strangled? Poor choice of words, Burrowes.”
“Oh, pooh, the killer used a gun.” The doors closed. She reached into her purse and pulled out an impressive handgun. “Mine shoots bigger bullets.”
I jumped back. “Gods, Kix, put that away. Where did you get it?” No one rode with us, but we could stop at any floor and scare the bejeezus out anyone.
She tucked it back into her purse. “The stupid killer has mine, so Hughie gave me his.”
“He conceals and carries?” I’m sure my eyes bugged out of my head.
“Oh, Rory, you’re so cute. All the Burrowes carry weapons. You’d be surprised what we do at reunions.”
“Shoot each other?” We’d reached the first floor, and I held the door as she exited.
“Skeet shooting, paintball games, big game hunting. We’re very loud, but it doesn’t matter because we meet at Vaughn’s in Montana. We’re miles from the nearest neighbor.”
Vaughn. One of her other brothers. The Burrowes clan had started to intimidate me.
I led the way to my Cherokee. Kix skipped ahead of me like a kid on the first day of school vacation. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was happy about my company. “Where are we going?”
“Beckford Terrace.” I unlocked the car door. “I’ve heard it has a great lunch. Or would you rather go to the country club?” We’d had lunch at Harbor View once.
She opened her door and peered over the snow-capped roof. “No one goes there in the winter. Beckford is nice. I know the head chef, Leon McCaffrey.”
Of course you do. “Then you’ll know what to order.”
“You’re in good hands.” She glanced behind us. A dark sedan with Bruno and Mars seated in it hovered nearby. “I hope you don’t mind being tailed? I feel safe with you and the Glock, but I’m not going to take chances.”
I waved to the bodyguards, which they did not return. “You gotta do what you gotta do.” How could I protect her? Smell someone to death?
Kix chatted as we drove to the restaurant, next to the Haegar Bank building downtown and overlooking Lake Odawa, frozen at this time of the year. The staff knew her, of course, and led us to a table near the fireplace. Bruno and Mars took up their positions nearby. I felt sorry that they couldn’t sit and enjoy the ambience and food.
The waiter, a stooped old man named Grecko, recommended the spinach ricotta agnolotti, a stuffed pasta dish. I passed because dairy interferes with my olfactory senses. Kix couldn’t make up her mind and finally settled on a smoked mushroom soup.
“It’s so nice not to eat room service. I’m so sick of the warm sawdust the hotel serves.”
I looked around the casually elegant room. “I doubt if they know what that is here.”
She laughed. “It’s nice to talk to a regular person again, too.”
“That’s me. Regular old Rory Harper.” I unfolded my napkin and made a show of not caring what she thought of me.
“I’m happy you’re back in my life.” She grinned. “How is your step-father? I wanted to see him and your mother but it didn’t blend with keeping a low profile.”
We talked about his condition and her mother’s recent health scare until the waiter brought our meals. Kix steered the conversation to safe topics while we ate, and I didn’t press her. For someone who had so much to tell me, she held back talking about it.
When the table cleared and we sat with our coffees, I leaned forward. “It’s time to swap stories, Burrowes. Who goes first?”
She stirred in her usual gallon of cream and sugar, the spoon a soft tinkle-tinkle, adding to the ambience of luxury, calm, and wellbeing.
“You first. I’m dying to know what you’ve found out. I feel like I’ve been living in a cave for months.”
I nodded to the snow-covered topiaries outside the window. “It’s a good time to hibernate.”
I told her of my suspicions of the Mythic Path Trio, as I’d dubbed them. Of Delanna’s mysterious meeting with Renart at an address not hers. Of Beryl Tussett handing him a package the previous evening, and my diagnosis of the tobacco in his cigarettes matching that found at the crime scene. She listened, silent for once, her eyes growing rounder with each revelation.
“I can’t believe he did it,” she said, her gaze swiping over the early lunch crowd as if expecting Renart to jump from behind a pillar and wield a knife. “He’s not who I remember from that night. Not at all. The elf was taller, older, and spoke with an accent, but not from Liverpool.” She shuddered. “How could anyone do something so vile as to take a life?”
I didn’t have answers. “Myth and humans have a long history of violence. Who knows what the killer’s motive was?”
She placed her cup in its saucer. “So what happens now?”
“I don’t know. Your memory negates Renart’s involvement, but Brady can’t ignore the cigarettes found at Becky Two’s murder matching Renart’s exclusive blend. Are there two killers working together?
“Brady is betting on DNA evidence when it gets back, but he’ll need more than that to build a case. Right now, there’s too many holes in the story for him to act.” I reflected again on the torturous route M.I.C.U. used in their investigations.
Kix sipped her coffee. “Holes are meant to be filled, Rory. I might have learned something that can throw a shovelful of dirt into one.”
She leaned forward.
“The second Becky Turner doesn’t exist.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
I stared at Kix, not comprehending her words.
“What do you mean, she doesn’t exist? She’s dead, ergo, she lived.”
Kix shook her head. “I didn’t make myself clear.
A woman lived and died, but not anyone named Becky, or Rebecca, Turner. She used that name, but any records associated with don’t run deep.”
She raised a finger. “For example, she has no social media presence.”
I sat back. “Believe it or not, some people don’t think it’s necessary.”
“She was twenty-three, Rory. Who, at that age, isn’t on multiple platforms? Here’s another example. She moved to West Haven six months ago from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. From the scant news I can dig up on ‘Becky Turner’, she graduated from the community college there, but the admissions office doesn’t have any record of her. Neither do any of the local high schools. On top of that, Harrisburg has a minority witch population. Not that many live there, so checking the validity of her claim didn’t take long. She never lived in Harrisburg.”
I frowned. “Maybe there’s a city by the same name in a different state?”
She held out her hand, fingers spread. “Five. And two more spelled with an ‘H’ on the end. I checked them all. No Becky Turner.”
“Then she lied. She had something in her past she wanted to hide.”
Kix nodded. “I think she had a lot to hide, so much that she fabricated a new identity when she moved to Michigan.”
She had my complete attention. “I’m intrigued. You learned all this since Saturday afternoon and with a raging headache? I’m impressed, but not surprised. Well done, Kix. Well done.”
She brushed away the compliment. “I can’t sit still and let him get away with murder.”
“He won’t, I promise. We’ll solve both murders.” I rapped my knuckles on the table. “I want to hear more. Let’s take this to my office, and we can dig deeper.”
I signaled for the check, and a few minutes later, we walked into the February weather.
“Brr,” Kix said, hugging herself. “Isn’t winter ever going to end?”
I glanced at her, wrapped in a navy blue wool coat, leather gloves, and a cashmere scarf. “The only advantage is no one will recognize you.”
She smiled. “There is that.”
We drove the scant mile to my office. Bruno and Mars followed at a discrete distance in a black sedan. We parked in the lot that separated my building from a bank. The Nose Knows had a storefront office on the first floor with an artist studio above. It consisted of an outer receptionist area, two offices, a loo, kitchenette, and a vast storage area that I had no idea how to use.
“The heartbeat of the private investigative industry,” Kix said as I held the door open.
Lucille looked up at the sudden rush of cold air, and her left eyebrow rose. She either knew Kix or had determined she wasn’t a client and someone of importance in my life. Or maybe the presence of the two bodyguards frightened her. In an uncharacteristic move, she stood.
“Mr. Harper, sir.”
I made the introductions, watching everyone’s reactions. Lucille’s usual aloofness thawed under Kix’s charm and admiration of the troll’s display of family photos. They spent several minutes trading stories before I stepped in, confident no fireworks would erupt.
“Kix.”
She looked up from a photo of Lucille and her youngest on a Vail ski trip. “Oh, I’m sorry. We’re not getting anything done, are we?”
“No.” I liked that the two women got along, but a gnawing eagerness urged me on. “Let me take your things, and we can work in my office.”
The bodyguards positioned themselves at the front and back doors. I hung up Kix’s coat and winter paraphernalia in our only closet. She kept her boots on, Italian leather and impractical for ice and salt. Then I led the way into a room filled with light. Soothing white noise that sounded like water burbling over pebbles played in the background.
“Very nice,” Kix said as she slung her purse in one guest chair and sat in another. “This place should keep your clients calm.”
“Well, yes.” I didn’t mention the scarcity of my clients and that none had called on my sense of smell. “What’s your next step?”
“I’ve exhausted researching Becky Two. Now I have to find out who she was in the past.”
I sat behind the desk. “If you don’t know who she was, how will you accomplish that?”
“Facial recognition.” She tapped her cheek. “Software programs exist to search for images with matching features. I’m betting Becky Two had an active social media presence in her previous life.”
“Impressive. Is M.I.C.U. this far in their investigation?” I’d tried to drill through their reports, but Da’s fall and stroke hadn’t given me enough time.
“Not that I’ve seen. I’ll bet they haven’t run fingerprints or DNA on her, either. Why would they? Her roommate positively identified her, ruling out standard procedures they’d use if she was a Jane Doe.”
“She is a Jane Doe according to you.”
She stared at me, one eyebrow quirked. “Do I hear doubt?”
I held out my hands in a defensive gesture. “Not for a moment. I’m amazed at the leaps and jumps you’ve made. You should run this investigation, not me or the clowns at M.I.C.U..”
She smiled. “You’ve guessed my secret plan.”
“Don’t let me stand in your way.” I reached for a notebook and pen. “What do you want me to work on?”
“I haven’t had time to dig deep into the peripheral people in her life—the roommate, co-workers, and the Mythic Path bunch. See what M.I.C.U. has on file and take it a step further.”
“I’ve done some preliminary work on the Mythic trio, but time and other things have stopped me from going past that.”
She nodded and reached for her purse. “Good. Concentrate on that, and I’ll start on the facial recognition angle.” She pulled a macBook Pro out of her purse, the opening stretching to accommodate its width.
I didn’t say anything. The myth have few magic tricks available anymore, and I wouldn’t take away her small pleasures.
“I have a second office across the hall if you want to use it,” I offered.
She looked up from searching for an electrical outlet. “Your office is fine, unless I will bother you?”
“Nope. Here, let me.” I took the plug from her and shoved it into a wall outlet. “Can I get you anything?”
“Coffee later, but I’m eager to get started.”
She balanced the computer on her lap. “Server and password?”
I rattled off both and watched as she entered them without asking me to repeat either.
Satisfied she had all she needed, I turned to my own laptop and pulled up M.I.C.U.’s files.
All the while, I could not ignore Kix’s presence or her clean, outdoorsy personal scent.
“Found her,” Kix crowed in triumph a few minutes later. “Katie Leonard, age twenty-three, born and raised in Portland.”
I glanced up from reading a transcript of a second interview with Becky Two’s supervisor at the bar where she worked. “Maine or Oregon?”
“Oh, Rory, do you think any witches live in New England anymore?” She turned her laptop around so I could see it. I recognized Becky Two’s photo on an unfamiliar site. “She stopped posting everywhere six months ago.”
“When she moved to Michigan. Are there any clues in the last few posts she made?” I moved from behind the desk and peered over Kix’s shoulder.
“Photos are the key. Showing up in a picture means more than a few words in a post.” She scrolled through Becky’s photo album, zipping through them faster than I could comprehend. After about fifty pictures flew by, she stopped. Her quick intake of breath told me she’d found something.
“What is it?”
The cursor circled the head of a man in his mid-thirties with a wide smile and close-cropped dark hair.
“This is not good,” she mumbled. The man appeared in almost every shot then grew less frequently the further back in time she scrolled.
She stopped at a photo of Becky and the stranger embracing and standing on a bridge. Kix tapped the screen. “I know thi
s place. Tilikum Crossing over the Willamette River.”
“Why did you say this isn’t good?”
She turned her head, her eyes dark with worry. “Because I know the man. His name is Alex Reese. He stood trial for a murder-for-hire that ended in a mistrial. Katie Leonard, aka Becky Turner, was the star witness.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I moved her purse and dropped into the chair next to Kix. “How do you know all this?”
She leaned back. “Believe it or not, I’m not M.I.C.U.’s ace investigator. The new kid gets the grunt work, and part of my job is looking for and filing the ‘Notorious News’, as they call it. I keep track of what’s happening in the criminal myth world. The Reese mistrial made big news just before I started in the department. I remember because no one had done the job for a while, and I had to wade through a backlog.” She tapped the screen. “Alex Reese was an arrogant S.O.B. who bragged he wouldn’t have to stand for a second trial.”
“Because his witness had vanished.”
Kix nodded. “Katie Leonard vanishes, Becky Turner appears.”
“So the question is, how did he find her?”
“Facial recognition wouldn’t work if Becky stayed off social media. Someone must have made her.”
I held up a hand. “No, or Becky One would be alive. You said the killer asked her to confirm her identity before he shot her.”
“Unless he killed her to confuse everyone?”
I shook my head. “I don’t believe that old trope. Someone who didn’t know Katie heard she lived in West Haven as Becky and killed her.”
“Then Reese didn’t do it? Who would do that to protect him to that degree?”
“We’re speculating, throwing out wild theories.” I rose and moved to my computer. “As much as I hate cutting M.I.C.U. a break, I’m sending this information to Brady. He’s in touch with resources we don’t have.”
“Like establishing if Reese has an alibi for last Monday and Friday nights.” Kix set her laptop on my desk. “If he did kill her, he didn’t do it in person, at least not Becky One. The man in these photos doesn’t match the man who I saw kill her.”