Unnatural Acts

by Kevin J. Anderson

  I’d been to Harvey Jekyll’s mansion during JLPN’s heyday, back when he was still human. (That’s merely a biological designation, with no editorial comment on the quality of his soul, or whether he even had one.) As the CEO of Jekyll Lifestyle Products and Necroceuticals, he had owned a large estate with guard dogs and an entire security team.

  Then he’d lost everything.

  Harvey Jekyll now lived in a small apartment in a run-down 1970s-era complex, the sort of place rented by starving students who saved their pennies so they could move away from there as soon as possible. Now Jekyll had gotten back on his feet enough that he longed for a home in the suburbs, and he had hired us to help him get it. On the bright side, if we succeeded, at least Jekyll would be out of the Quarter.

  Robin and I stood before the apartment complex; it wasn’t hard to identify Jekyll’s mailbox and front door, since they were the only ones covered with globs of hurled mud, excrement, rotten tomatoes, and other fluid stains that I couldn’t identify. Larry stood at the front door with a bucket of soapy water and a hard-bristled scrub brush, rubbing away at the stains. The pungent pine scent of the cleaning solution only made the foul goop smell worse.

  He looked at us, curled his black lips back to reveal long canine fangs. “Come to harass Mr. Jekyll like everyone else does?”

  “Maybe a little bit, if it comes up in conversation,” I said.

  “That’s not why we’re here,” Robin said. “I wanted to discuss his case.”

  Larry let the scrub brush drop into the bucket of gray soapy water. I asked, “Do you get hazard pay for that?”

  “Mr. Jekyll says it’s part of my job.” The bodyguard let out a low growl. “The employment agreement defines my job as private security and lists all the tasks I have to perform in detail. But at the end, another clause says ‘and other duties as assigned. ’ The boss insists that includes scrubbing shit off the front door.”

  “You should have had a lawyer look over the agreement,” Robin said.

  “I thought lawyers were scary, until I started working for Mr. Jekyll,” the werewolf answered. He let us inside. “Hey, boss—Chambeaux and Deyer are here to see you.”

  The apartment was austere, and the drapes—blankets tacked above the windows—blocked most of the light. Cinder blocks and plywood served as makeshift bookshelves. The end tables were orange crates that held mismatched lamps. The coffee table was a large cable spool. The only artwork on the wall was a kitschy print of big-eyed zombie puppies painted by the famed ghost pop-culture artist Alvin Ricketts.

  Other pieces of salvaged furniture were strewn with electrical components, gadgets, and countless spare parts dismantled from old motors, stereos, and television sets.

  Jekyll looked up from his work and regarded us with owlish eyes. His lips drew back in a sneer, as if he expected some sort of provocation from us, but then he smiled. “Ah, I knew you’d come around, Ms. Deyer. Honorable people are so predictable. That’s what makes villains much more interesting.”

  Robin screwed up her courage. “You caused me to do a lot of thinking, and I’ve decided I will indeed file your antidiscrimination complaint, just as I did for the Pattersons. Provided you have a sufficient down payment and meet the other standard loan qualifications, there is no legal reason why you should be denied the right to own a home in any part of the city you choose.”

  “My feelings exactly,” Jekyll said.

  I looked at all the junk strewn on the work table, wondering if any of it had come from the Timeworn Treasures pawnshop. Maybe he’d stolen it from the pack-rat gremlin? How I would have loved to pin Snazz’s murder on Jekyll, get him convicted and executed all over again—permanently this time! But that wasn’t likely. I didn’t see any connection.

  “Our services aren’t free,” I said. “How do you plan to pay our retainer? I thought Miranda took everything in the divorce, and that was after the company collapsed because of the scandal. How can you afford to buy even a modest house?”

  “And pay the bills,” Larry growled, “including my salary.”

  “I’ve had to reinvent myself.” Jekyll rummaged among the electronic debris on the table. “I took a self-help seminar, learned how to meet my inner potential. I looked at everything I have to offer and figured out how I could use it to make a living. Follow a new dream.”

  He poked at his hand and forearm, pinched his cheek. “Short-term, I just want to afford a better embalming job. It was never done properly after my visit to the electric chair.” His skin did have a greenish sheen, the color and consistency of spoiling meat.

  I’ve heard that a second embalming after the fact is quite an unpleasant process, like going through an adult circumcision. “I highly recommend you try it,” I said.

  “My main priority is to leave the Quarter and all those bad memories behind. You saw the vandalism to my door and mailbox. It happens every day, no matter which security systems I put out, no matter how often Larry patrols.”

  “A couple of poltergeist hooligans,” Larry explained. “They’re hard to catch.”

  “Ever since my demise, I’ve tried to keep a low profile, become a recluse,” Jekyll continued. “But they won’t leave me alone. You can understand why I just want to have a fresh start, go to a normal neighborhood, live like a normal person.”

  I had to point out, “You’re dead, Jekyll, and a wannabe mass murderer. You left normal in the rearview mirror a long time ago.”

  Robin inspected the inventions strewn all over the table. “And what is all this?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” Jekyll smiled. “I may have lost everything else in the scandal, conviction, and execution, but I didn’t lose my intellectual genius. I commercialized one of my inventions. You may remember the ectoplasmic defibrillator that I developed at JLPN? A way to defend against criminal ghosts and spectral practitioners of corporate espionage?”

  I remembered it all too well. Sheyenne had nearly gotten fratzed by his dangerous device.

  “We intend to market it for security purposes among naturals, people who are afraid of home invasions or hauntings, spectral harassment. The defibrillator is a sure way to take care of the problem.”

  “Why not use it to get rid of the poltergeists harassing you?” Larry growled. “It sure would make my job easier.”

  “That can’t be legal,” Robin said. “Your device has no other purpose than to murder ghosts.”

  Jekyll chuckled. “Murder ghosts? Are you listening to yourself? Naturals want to feel safe. It’s just like owning a handgun. And if the ghost doesn’t bother people, then the ghost has nothing to worry about.” He justified himself with more enthusiasm than our question warranted.

  “There are laws against setting up automatic lethal devices for home protection,” Robin said. “You cannot use lethal force unless you are in fear for your life from an intruder.”

  “I guarantee you, most of my customers would be in fear for their lives. And if a ghost is, by definition, dead, then this device cannot be considered lethal. It harms no living being.”

  “Splitting hairs,” I muttered.

  “With the best of them!” Jekyll said. “I look forward to any legal challenges. I have good backing.” He patted one of the devices, a large speaker-type grid hooked up to two car batteries, and I was very glad Sheyenne had stayed back in the office. “This baby is going to make my fortune back. My main investor is a powerful man who very much wants the ectoplasmic defibrillator on the market. Any roadblocks will be cleared away quite tidily.”

  “And who is your main investor?” I asked, though I had a strong suspicion. Normally I wouldn’t expect a businessman to reveal such information, but Harvey Jekyll loved to gloat over his success.

  “I may be back from the dead, but I’m still well connected, Chambeaux. It’s Senator Rupert Balfour—perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

  CHAPTER 30

  When the sole heir of the gremlin pawnbroker came to tidy up the estate, she engaged Robin’
s services as a lawyer. “My name is Alice, and I’m here to discuss the liquidation of all unclaimed materials in Timeworn Treasures and the dissolution of the estate of my late brother Snazz.”

  Alice was only about three feet tall, no taller than her brother. She was older than Snazz, the tufts of fur going gray and permed in a no-nonsense wave with the bluish tint that beauty parlors apply to old-lady hair. She wore too much inexpertly applied mascara around her large eyes, and the frumpy housedress made her look matronly even for such a diminutive creature. She came into our offices carrying a practical black snap purse with a chain strap, and she wore unremarkable, sensible shoes. Preceded by a strong waft of a common drugstore perfume, she stepped up to Sheyenne’s desk like a schoolteacher demanding attention from the class.

  Robin came out and introduced herself with a concerned expression on her face. “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Alice.”

  “Me, too,” I added. “He didn’t deserve—”

  “Moving on,” Alice said. “My brother and I chose different life paths. We were never close, although his death now brings me back into his life. I assume, Ms. Deyer, that you can take care of all of the necessary paperwork?”

  “A clear Last Will and Testament will simplify the process, although if you are the only heir and the estate is uncontested, we should be able to transfer ownership without complications. Will you be taking over Timeworn Treasures? All of the assets and collateral-secured loans are your responsibility. The business may have clear title—”

  “Oh, heavens, no!” Alice said. “I spent an hour in the place this morning, but had to leave. I just couldn’t stand all that dust and mildew. I sneezed for five minutes even after I came back out to the fresh air of the alley. No, I wish to sell the business, liquidate the assets, and use the money to enjoy my own life.”

  I remembered the wonderful, exotic, and occasionally frightening objects on the shelves inside Timeworn Treasures. Snazz could have had a lucrative business if he’d been more willing to part with some of those treasures.

  “He had a thriving shop, Miss Alice,” I said. “You could make a go of it.”

  “No, thank you, sir. I don’t need all that clutter. I want to simplify my life. I have a pension, some conservative investments, and a frugal lifestyle, but I want to travel and see the world. Anything I can’t fit into a suitcase is merely a bother.” She paused with a wistful smile.

  “I do have two cute poodles as pets, but they’re very low-maintenance. I acquired them from a taxidermist.” She opened her purse, rummaged around in the neatly organized contents, and plucked out a photograph of two dogs mounted on stands in perfect poses, heads turned up, tails frozen in mid-wag.

  “Very cute,” I said.

  Alice retrieved the photo of the poodles after we had adored them sufficiently, inserted it into her purse in its proper place, then snapped the clasp shut. “I want to wash my hands of Timeworn Treasures. Simplify . . . simplify. Minimize hassles, reduce overhead.” She clucked her tongue against her pointed teeth. “My brother used to collect the most inane things. A psychological problem, I believe. When he was a boy, he used to have a collection of lint.”

  “Lint?” Robin asked. “Why would anyone collect lint?”

  “Heaven only knows. By the time we were teenagers, he had gathered three large boxes of lint, until one day our parents threw them out. Snazz wallowed in despair for weeks. The last time I talked with him, he was still moaning about the collector’s market and how much money he could have gotten for that lint.”

  I didn’t want to ask, so I didn’t.

  I was, however, surprised Alice had come to us, considering that I had found her brother’s body, but she brushed the worries aside. “I looked in the business listings, and there aren’t many certified and wide-ranging legal offices in the Quarter. The Better Business Bureau had no complaints on record against Chambeaux and Deyer, and that’s good enough for me.” She raised her mascara-caked eyelids in a question. “And I understand from the police department that you’ve just been cleared of all suspicion in the murder?”

  “Yes,” I said. “The autopsy confirmed—”

  “Good, that’s settled, then. Moving on. I’d like to take care of matters as quickly and efficiently as possible. I expect the evidence technicians will finish their work soon, so that I can retrieve my property and liquidate the assets.”

  “We can get you a release from the police department, ma’am,” Robin said. “And once I take care of the appropriate transfers and paperwork, you should be free to dispose of your brother’s possessions.”

  “Oh, I won’t merely dispose of them, even though the items are mostly junk. No, I intend to have a large auction as soon as possible. Anyone who wants the items can purchase them for the highest bid.”

  I realized this might be my best chance. “Your brother kept a detailed sales ledger. I went to the pawnshop on the evening of his tragic death because I was trying to learn who had purchased a few particular items. I would be grateful if you’d let me have a look at those records.”

  Alice held her purse in front of her and regarded me, all business. “Certainly, Mr. Chambeaux. The ledger will be for sale, along with all the other items. You are perfectly welcome to bid on it, and should you make the highest offer, I’d be delighted to help you out.”

  Even Sheyenne was surprised and disappointed by her hard-line stance, but gremlins are not known for their compassion. “It’s for a good cause, Miss Alice. You could really help—”

  “Moving on,” the gremlin said. “My brother may have had the business, but he wasn’t much of a businessman. I, on the other hand, believe favors are a sloppy and inefficient way of getting things done. We will do this properly, everything in order. You can help me with this, Ms. Deyer?”

  “Yes,” Robin said, sounding less enthusiastic now. “I’d be happy to.”

  “Good. I have my eye on a Mediterranean cruise. If my brother hoarded enough to pay for a nice trip, then I will consider our sibling rivalry to be water under the bridge.” She snapped open her purse again, took out a card with her contact information, and gave it to Sheyenne for the new-client file. Alice filled out the formal paperwork, signed the contract, and paid a small retainer, then bustled off to get her fur done at the beauty shop.

  CHAPTER 31

  I had never been to a bank robbery before, but there’s a first time for everything. Sheyenne and I heard police sirens as we strolled down the street that afternoon. Squad cars roared by, followed by an overloaded van from the Special Response Unit. Sheyenne and I had gone out to lunch at the Ghoul’s Diner; I didn’t need to eat often and Sheyenne couldn’t, but we enjoyed having a moment of nostalgic normalcy nevertheless.

  She seemed more emotionally clingy lately. The traumatic experience with Travis had shaken her, I think, and she was also concerned (though she wouldn’t admit it) that I’d been spending so much time at the Full Moon. I couldn’t deny that I remained preoccupied by the plight of the forlorn succubus Ruth, but if I went out of my way to insist that Sheyenne had nothing to worry about, my very earnestness would only make her worry more. It was a no-win situation for me, so I left the issue alone.

  As the squad cars squealed up to the front of the Trove National Bank, the commotion drew us—and everyone else in the Quarter, it seemed—like a magnet. It’s not smart to rush toward what is obviously a dangerous situation, but it’s instinctive. Besides, since I was a private investigator, a bank robbery could well be business-related.

  The Trove National Bank is the primary financial institution in the Unnatural Quarter, locally owned and unnaturally operated. Many of the old-guard unnaturals had large stashes, as well as valuable antiques and gold-plated magical items that they kept in safe-deposit boxes.

  The name of the Trove National Bank sounded like a witty play on words, implying vaults filled with sparkling treasure, but in actuality the name came from the founder, Bernard Trove, a human businessman with long-out-of-style mutton-ch
op whiskers and very good investment sense.

  With guns drawn, cops had surrounded the building and blocked the exits. I could hear a loud schoolbell-type alarm that made the windows rattle. I saw McGoo standing there, his sidearm drawn and aimed at the bank’s main entrance. We worked our way toward him. “What’s going on?” I asked, the most obvious question I could think of.

  “Robbery in progress. Hostage situation, too. It’s Alphonse Wheeler, back to his old habits. He came into the bank wearing the same old jacket and hat—even brought the bouquet of flowers. At first the tellers thought the robbery was a joke, but then he fired a few shots into the ceiling. A couple of vampires had rented the floor above for a coupon-clipping service, and they weren’t thrilled about the gunfire. They phoned it in.”

  “There’s got to be some mistake,” Sheyenne said. “Mr. Wheeler’s a nice man—he wouldn’t rob a bank.” Then she caught herself. “Oh, of course he would.”

  “Bigger question is why,” I said. “He has no use for the money. He just gave his entire stash to the MLDW Society.”

  “We can ask him after we arrest him,” McGoo said.

  News vans arrived. Reporters turned their cameras toward the stymied police, the silent front door of the bank, the continually ringing alarm.

  The back doors of the Special Response Unit van flew open, and two hard-looking human cops worked their way out and unloaded boxy equipment that looked like stereo speakers, which they set up with the flat panels facing the entrance of the bank. The second man erected a tripod, then unfolded mesh butterfly petals of something akin to a satellite antenna.

  The police chief yelled, “All right, get everyone back, especially the ghosts. Let us do our work.”

  “You better leave, Sheyenne,” McGoo said with an expression of concern on his face. “There could be a ripple effect.”

  I didn’t recognize the equipment, was surprised the department had a budget to buy large high-tech gadgets. Sheyenne beat me to the question. “What is all that?”