by D. L. EVANS
Mr. Richard Stanford’s suite occupied three large rooms, with a total floor area the size of a small house and was resplendent with priceless furniture and collectibles. His own private nurse, Alma Thompson, introduced herself at the door with thinly veiled disapproval at the intrusion, and ushered us to his bedside with strict instructions that he was not to get excited or upset. It was clear that this was her domain and we were there under protest. Mack had discovered that she had worked for him at his home for years until he had checked in here and she had considerable clout, considering she was not, strictly speaking, on staff. I could not help staring at the frail man in the large, exquisitely carved bed. Nothing could mask the aroma of impending death hanging over him.
This was supposedly a man in his early sixties but he looked like he had passed ninety. The baldhead and vacant eyes look past us until nurse Alma whispered something in his ear. Immediately, his senses sharpened and focussed like a surgical instrument. His half closed eyes held Mack in their grip. "You wrote The Stalking Murders?" His throaty voice retained a cutting edge, and I was reminded that this was still a very wealthy man used to being listened to and obeyed.
"No sir,” Mack answered politely, “my name is Mack Mackenzie. As I explained on the phone to Miss Thompson, I am Mr Stone’s agent. Allow me to introduce you to Adam Stone, the author."
The old man shifted his attention to me. "Good book, good book. I enjoyed it." His thin lips twisted into a rictus of a smile but his blue eyes remained void of any expression. Nurse Thompson checked his monitors and leaned over to adjust his pillow. “Go away, Alma. Go read a book or something for Christ’s sake. Give me some privacy for once.” She left with her head lowered. He probably paid a fortune to keep her. "You made a lot of jumps that you didn't explain,” he rasped, glaring at me. “Annoying as hell.” I didn’t comment. I found myself wondering what it must have been like for two little girls under his control. Bet he never tucked anyone in at night or read any fairy tails and he never owned a teddy bear. He took a dry breath, “I could not figure out who the murderer was with the limited clues that you provided... and you didn't explain where you got some of the critical pieces of information. Extremely frustrating.” His ancient eyes narrowed. “Hope you won't do that again. I like to figure things out myself." He coughed, sounding like something rattling underwater. Was I supposed to apologize? I knew Mack wanted me to keep the conversation going. I glanced at him and he gave me an eye signal to continue.
Christ, now I had to explain myself to this gargoyle just because Mack wanted answers to some questions. "I know." I sighed, settling into the well-rehearsed patter usually reserved for the book circuit fans. "I was simply divulging to the reader what I thought was important. Police procedure is relatively boring to write about and some of our sources are... I mean were... confidential. I never assumed that my readers wanted to know all the details and crap we sift through. A writer has to move the action along and not get bogged down in the shit we have to eliminate before we can get to the hows and whys of the crime. Sometimes, there aren't any reasons anyway. At least, nothing that makes any sense on paper."
"Like what?" he demanded. I wondered what kind of Christmas presents he’d given. Had there ever been a birthday party?
"Total insanity defies description.” I patiently explained. ‘Just look in a mirror you old creep,’ but I just took a deep breath and continued. “One has to guess what a madman thinks. He doesn't have to have a reason to act. Not a rational reason we could understand anyway. Lots of human emotions are hard to explain.” If you had any, you’d know what the fuck I’m talking about, I thought. “Like intuition... " He nodded in agreement. “These "jumps" in logic as you say. It’s something that doesn’t lend itself to paper. It’s just a feeling in your gut that tells you someone is lying or when facts just don't add up satisfactorily. You learn just to go with what you feel instead of following procedures."
"Bullshit. It's talent. You’ve just described talent...” This was going nowhere and I did not want to get into semantics with a despot. “The difference between a good driver and a formula one driver? A good violinist and a great one?... Talent! Plain and simple. That and experience. The rest is bullshit."
Mack had waited in silence for an opening and leapt at the sudden opportunity. "There's often more to life than can be easily explained, Mr. Stanford. Don't you agree?” Small mean eyes turned to him glittering like marbles. “For instance, your niece Annie knows when a painting is a fake. How can that be explained? It's a talent certainly, but it’s not a result of experience. I've heard that she was able to see things even as a child." He was pushing for a reaction and judging from the look on the old man’s face he was certainly causing one. "It's an ability or power," Mack continued, "that seems to be unique. Don't you think?" Mack was fearless.
At the mention of Annie's name, the blood drained from the old man’s face and his open mouth closed with a snap. The thin lips compressed into a tight line as he drifted, lost in some memory. "She always wanted the Gallery. Always." His voice smouldered in anger. "Thought she knew more about the art world than me, you see. Never was satisfied that daddy left it to me and not to her."
What was he talking about? His father? "What do you mean, Mr. Stanford?" I asked.
".... thought her little tricks would impress him but he knew better. I earned my inheritance. It’s a talent for business that makes the world go 'round. Money, not tricks. I knew how to make a deal. She would have lost it all."
Mack leaned forward and whispered, "Mr. Stanford... how did Alison and Annie get you to sell your share of the Gallery?"
A translucent vein throbbed at his temple like a thin cord, the quickening beat obvious through the parchment skin.” I didn't sell it! She stole it, the fucking witch!"
"Who?" Mack contained his excitement, hoping the nurse would not interrupt and put an end to the conversation.
"Angel!" His eyes glazed over as he stared at a point somewhere beyond reason. "Sweet little Angel." He snarled. "Used to call her the wicked witch of North Street behind her back. We lived on North Street. Not to her face mind, in case she turned you into a snake." He laughed at his own joke but his eyes stared back from somewhere at the edge of hysteria. Nurse Thompson, responding to his raised voice, strode in to check the array of technical equipment, her stern demeanour flashing a warning to Mack who glanced at the ceiling with impatience.
I backed away from the bed and whispered to Nurse Thompson, "Do you know who he's talking about?” assuming she had been listening. “Who is Angel?"
"He’s referring to his half-sister Angelique, she was Alison and Annie’s mother. She's been dead... oh, more than twenty years now. She and her husband died in a terrible car crash, leaving the two little ones to their nannies to bring up. Mr. Stanford,” she said referring to her charge, “was their guardian." She smiled at the old man indulgently and wiped the drool from his chin. “It’s confusing isn’t it? “ she said. Turning back to Mack.
“Young Annie is also Angelique.”
"His niece? There are two Angels? Mother and daughter?” Mack asked the nurse.
"Yes. As I understand it,” Nurse Thomson answered. “His niece Annie is also christened Angelique, named after her mother and great-grandmother on her father’s side but she hated the nickname ‘Angel’ and insisted on being called Annie when she was just a little thing. With her mother dead, it didn’t seem to matter. It just gets confusing when you get into the family history. And of course in his mind, they run together.” She wiped his face. He tried to swat her hand away. “He's due for his medication now, you better go.
”One more thing dear lady," Mack was in his best form, smiling graciously at her. "Do his nieces ever visit him?"
Annie comes about twice a month. Alison, once a year, at Christmas. He gets upset when he sees her. Alison, I mean. Seems she looks just like her mother and if he isn't medicated and prepared for the visit, it sets him off, just like you saw. Babbling about magic and
spells. You never heard the like from an intelligent man."
"Anyone else visit?" I asked.
"Your time is up, Mr. Stone. Please, just sign his book and leave quietly. She walked us to the door of the suite in silence and then seemed to make up her mind about something. "Mr. Lucas visits every Saturday and stays for the afternoon, regular as clockwork."
"What do they talk about? I pressed.
"I'm sure I don't know Mr. Stanford's private business, Mr. Stone." she replied curtly. "It's only strangers that I supervise during a visit. I'm sure I don't need to explain any further. Please don't come again."
The drive back to the city proved to be uneventful. Mack was lost in thought. He pulled up in front of my building, thanked me for joining him and waited for me to get out. I sat quietly for a moment. "This was such a good idea." I smiled. "Yes, I can see how the old darling could be an interesting character in a book. Senile, mental patient drools and hates dead half sister. Think he could be the serial killer that you're looking for?"
No reply. Mack was occupied, intently gazing at the neighbourhood, so I continued; "Maybe he attacks beautiful women out of hate, since he's really involved with the enigmatic Mr. Lucas. Of course, the two of them might be in it together... Tell me, should I run with this?"
"OK, OK.” Mack finally relented. “I was hoping he would be a little more helpful. Still, he called his sister or half-sister a witch. Maybe Annie... I mean Angelique... Jesus what's with the ‘A’ names? Maybe Mother passed on some magical DNA to at least one of her daughters, eh?"
"And what's that got to do with the price of fish? So Annie's got some talent from her mother. I could have told you that. Grandmother too, apparently. It’s no secret... Do you see a coven?”
He ignored the sarcasm. "OK, OK.... You made your point. Maybe I am out to lunch. I just can't seem to get my stupid water foul to line up anymore. I don't know yet, Adam. There's just something going on and she's involved. Maybe not directly but I feel she knows something. This psychic shit is just clouding the scene. Or maybe I'm just fucked. Burned out. I don't know."
“Jesus, now you tell me,” I answered sarcastically. “And here I was just getting another idea for a novel. Maybe I should have a chat with Reese. After all Mack, It was your idea to use him and I do see your point. He is a character,” I mused. “I think we should talk. Oh, pardon me,” I said to Mack, “I was just thinking out loud. Maybe we should ask him what he thinks is going on so far.”
"What's this we business?” Mack challenged. “Yer out of it, remember? Or do you have an ulterior motive... like, research material for Stalking Murders, The Sequel? How about ‘Mason McGreen Does It Again’?"
"McGreen! Jesus, give me strength." We both laughed. "Let's just say that I would appreciate some of your notes on the missing women. I've been thinking about Morgan and her lifestyle and that maybe she would make an interesting character to build a story on."
"What actually triggered the interest? Her murder or the possible connection to the other women?"
"Between us,” I said, “It was what you said about a headless corpse saving a little boy. I couldn't get it out of my mind. It was so bizarre that I started writing notes on the computer and got the idea that I could weave a story out of it. It would be a hell of an opening chapter."
"So you haven’t tied her in yet. Now I've got to solve these bloody murders so you can finish your book? Is that it?"
"You want to star in the movie don't you McGreen??” I said emphatically. “It's the least you can do. If it's too much to ask, of course, I can dream up an ending myself and maybe make uh... someone else the hero." He gave me his mock speechless look. “Of course then you’d have to wear tweeds, speak with a proper accent and get a bad haircut. “I practically choked swallowing a laugh but he was only mildly amused. ”And did I mention a classy British car?”
“Hey, enough about the car. This piece of shit is invisible on stakeouts. But I do confess I’ve been thinking of upgrading. Some women might not want to be seen in this. But never mind me… maybe you should get yourself reinstated.” Mack said.
This was not a new topic. Mack was like a pit-bull when he had an idea and a simple ‘butt out’ never worked. “Just what have I been doing today,” Mack said “except make your life easier, getting you in and out of places you don’t belong?”
I stared at him without a reply.
“I’m just sayin’,” he continued, “that if you don’t pop a book out of your computer soon, you should consider doing some real work, back at the station, that’s all. By the way, should I be worried about Lauren and Smythe. I haven’t read anything about a ‘big announcement’ in the papers yet.”
It was only a matter of time ‘till he brought up the subject of my sister. “Let me worry about that,” I said. “Seems the announcement is postponed for now so maybe we've got some breathing space. She’s not wearing the ring, I noticed... And get this piece of shit washed, will you? Piers Brosnan would never be caught dead in this."
"Maybe I should get something sexy and black, like the Bat mobile. Whaddya think?"
Chapter Twenty-Nine
ADAM STONE:
Next to weddings and parties, I find funerals a real drag. Big sister told me that according to Morgan's will, she wanted to be 'incinerated and planted' in Mount Pleasant Cemetery where she owned a plot, with as little fuss as possible. Bless her heart. Someone else in the world that was ambivalent about religious formalities. My respect for Morgan grew daily. According to Lauren, Alison Stanford was a bit miffed about the private service, knowing that a publicity opportunity for the gallery was literally going up in smoke. I told her that in my humble opinion, if Alison truly cared for the late Morgan then I'm Fidel Castro. The service was to be held Friday morning, organized by Felicia Farr and the visiting cousins (still four, so far) from Poland. And Alison was not one to be thwarted out of a photo opportunity. I guessed the wake on Friday evening was plan B.
Mack was consumed with his caseload, that is, when he wasn't advising me on my novel or auditioning in some unsubtle way for the future 'movie' version. Considering I had just started the outline, he was supernaturally optimistic. I reminded myself that any verbal ‘abuse’ from him was balanced by access to his notes. Suspicion was always with him. The difference in our thought processes was evident on paper. I divided the information into two piles, his and mine. The story ideas were put aside for the moment. Mack was prone to make intuitive jumps, ignoring the obvious. It produced some ridiculous but interesting theories. I called it his ‘chaos’ theory. It didn’t make sense a lot of the time but god knows it produced results in the past. My notes are more systematic and methodical. I follow procedure, weigh and consider. I never jump, well, not without looking first. My pile was boring. The truth was somewhere in there but it occurred to me that the story would evolve out of Mack’s side. And I was finally sleeping without chemical help so Annie's head-shrinking friend could take a leap as far as I was concerned.
Lauren was up to her eyeballs with her talk show and preparing to host the official opening of the monster bank tower complex in about two weeks. Ringmaster at a media circus. The papers were full of rumours about the magnificent bronze that Vlad Roman was finishing, centrepiece to the main foyer of the complex. Not, as Lauren confided to me, that he actually does any of the rough work. Loyal minions file and polish into the wee hours. The word is that Vlad prefers to hover and direct like ‘Ivan the Terrible’ with a megaphone... or was that ‘Vlad the Impaler’? The secrecy around the work was reaching manic proportions. Cranes moved the piece into the foyer in semi-darkness shrouded in canvas but recorded nevertheless by the ever-watchful video camera ‘news at eleven’ team. Secrecy? Who are they kidding? Vlad was dressed for the occasion in his full vampire cape and his scowls were pure theatre.
Rumour upon rumour circulated about the masterpiece. One minute it was a futuristic landscape of the city; the next, a fountain with water sprouting from religious symbols; or an
art-deco table with interchangeable heads of the local politicians and of course my personal favourite, a giant hot air balloon holding up a gondola of nuclear missiles aimed at the Earth. Even the toughest 'rhino-hide' reporters had stopped asking him about the design, finding out the hard way that the famous Mr. Roman was as temperamental as Caligula. Everyone who was anyone would be there, including the international press and invitations to the private party afterwards were the most sought after bits of paper in town. Big sister had arrived in the big time. I hadn’t seen Mr. Smythe involved in any of the media hype, which seemed unusual. He loved the camera even more than the Romanian star.