Ulrich believed in coincidences, but this was far and above any normal coincidence. This was fate. Even if he couldn't be sure whether the inhaler belonged to Veronica, or whether her spirit was really the one he'd seen at Exeter House, it was a reasonable guess. Where Tobias Perez was concerned, however, he hadn't the slightest doubt.
Even as he waited in the crowded station lobby to speak with a police detective by the name of Richardson, Ulrich was polishing his hypothesis. Tobias Perez, and possibly Veronica Price, had both been staying in Exeter House, perhaps as squatters. Tobias had escaped there and hid from the authorities. Veronica had run away from home and sought shelter there, along with numerous others. Then, in a cruel twist of fate, someone had murdered them both. Gang members, who used the abandoned building as their headquarters, killed and dumped the squatters, only being forced out permanently when Jamieson bought the building and changed the locks.
He didn't have a lot of proof to back up this theory of his. Nothing but an inhaler with the name “Price” on it and a few unbelievable encounters with ghosts. Probably he'd leave the ghost talk out of it. The police weren't going to take kindly to such theories and would just throw him out for wasting their time.
The lobby was packed with cops, people filing reports and a few young people in raggedy clothes and handcuffs, all of them looking like they'd just spent rough nights. The scents of strong coffee, liquor-laced vomit and cigarette smoke all drifted into one noxious cloud, and when the stern-faced detective Richardson stormed through the door and called out Ulrich's name, another smell, that of incredibly powerful aftershave, entered the mix. “Harlan Ulrich?” he called, hands on his hips.
Richardson was a solidly-built man cresting the latter half of middle age, with a sharp jaw and a grey suit. His eyebrows were black and bushy and his broad shoulders looked made of granite. He looked around the room and tapped one of his polished leather boots, nodding to Ulrich as he stood up. He looked not unlike a gargoyle, with an air of professionally-restrained savagery.
“Good morning,” said Ulrich, extending a hand. Richardson's grip proved every bit as stony as Ulrich had expected. “I, uh, came by because I wished to talk to you about the bodies found in the river?”
“Yes, of course,” said Richardson, eyeing Ulrich curiously and throwing open the door. “Let's head into my office. We can talk there.” He led the way through the cluster of desks and computers where officers talked and worked and ate, and stopped before a door bearing his name. Yanking open the stubborn thing, he stepped aside and let Ulrich in first, offering him one of two grey chairs. When Ulrich was seated, Richardson closed the door behind him, sat down behind his desk and folded his two thick hands like a pair of knotted stones. “What do you have for me?” he asked, his voice dropping into something more gruff and less inviting than he'd opened with.
Gritting his teeth, Ulrich took a sharp breath through his nose and rifled around in his jacket pocket, drawing out the red inhaler.
I'm going to have a hell of a time convincing him, he thought, but I've got to try.
“I'm staying at Exeter House,” Ulrich began. “Looking after the newly-renovated sections of the building for a friend of mine, the new owner. I've been following these recent murders in the news, and while walking through Exeter House I recently found something that gave me pause... something that I think might link one of the victims to the building.” He reached out and set the inhaler on the desk between the two of them.
“What's this?” asked Richardson.
“It's an inhaler,” began Ulrich, “and though the name on the label is faded, you can see here that it bears the last name 'Price'. I think that it may have belonged to Veronica Price, the victim.”
Richardson picked the thing up and toyed with it, but the look on his face made it clear he wasn't buying it. “Ehh... what makes you think that?” he asked, clearing his throat.
Short of admitting that he'd seen the ghosts of Veronica and Tobias in Exeter House, Ulrich was at a loss. “W-well, I have a theory,” he stammered. “A local gang is said to have frequented Exeter House in the days before it was bought and renovated. If that inhaler belongs to Veronica, then it's possible she stayed at Exeter House after running away from home. The gang members might've rounded up squatters like her and this Tobias Perez and killed them for encroaching on their turf. It seems possible--”
Ulrich was cut off by a roaring laugh from Richardson. The police detective combed a hand through his hair and shook his head. “Whew, look, I appreciate what you're trying to do here, but that's way, way too little evidence, my friend. You've got nothing here that'd stick in a court of law. Know what I mean? It's just an inhaler. Even if it was hers, you've still gotta implicate the gangs somehow, and your theory here... it leaves a lot to be desired.”
Ulrich blushed, feeling like an idiot. There were details he could've shared that would have strengthened his argument, but Richardson would've waved them off as fantasy. Explanations featuring ghosts wouldn't exactly stand up to legal scrutiny either. He kneaded his hands together, looking to Richardson and trying to mask the annoyance in his voice. He just had to make the man see. If they could prove that the inhaler belonged to the deceased, then it would be the first link in a long chain that Ulrich could follow to the answer. “Was Veronica Price an asthmatic, perchance?”
Richardson donned an unconvincing smile and sighed. “As a matter of fact, she was.” Before Ulrich could launch into a fresh tirade however, he waved his palms before him. “But it's not enough evidence.” Like a father talking down to his son, Richardson reached over and patted Ulrich's upper arm condescendingly. “Your heart's in the right place, and I appreciate it when citizens come by to assist in these matters, but I'm afraid your tip here isn't substantial enough. Detective work doesn't go that way.”
Ulrich was thoroughly insulted. Balling a fist, he fought back an urge to punch the desk. In his years as a PI, Ulrich had never had to deal with this detective Richardson, but apparently the guy didn't even know that Ulrich was himself a detective with years of experience. Ulrich thought he'd made mention of his being a detective earlier, when speaking to Richardson's secretary, but apparently that message hadn't gotten through. “Sir,” said Ulrich with a chuckle, “I'll have you know I'm a private investigator. I'm not a green-behind-the-ears rookie; I've been working in this city for years, so I know a thing or two about detective work.”
The smile that crept across Richardson's lips this time was not only genuine, but sharp. He laughed to himself and nodded slowly. “Oh, you're one of those... private investigators, eh? We've got a lot of those in town. Sorry I didn't realize it sooner. What... what's the process for becoming one of those nowadays? You have to go to school for that? Last I checked, they'll allow just about anyone to call themselves a PI as long as they file the right paperwork. I tell you, when their work gets sloppy, people like me have to clean it up, so I'm not altogether fond of the profession.” He chortled. “If you can forgive me for saying so.”
Ulrich pursed his lips and stood up. It wasn't the first time in his career that a cop had talked down to him for being a private investigator. More than once he'd been berated for being a “make-believe cop”, someone who dabbled in investigations without having the training or authority of a proper officer of the law. “Thank you for your time,” mumbled Ulrich, making his way to the door.
Chuckling harder, Richardson leaned back in his seat. “I know you mean well, but I've got guys all over the city looking into this. The police are hard at work, so don't fret. You go back to doing whatever it is you guys do. Tracking down unfaithful spouses, whatever.”
Ulrich left Richardson's office and stormed back through the bustling lobby.
The cops weren't going to be of any use here.
Veronica Price had been an asthmatic. That was enough for him to go off of. The inhaler was hers, he felt sure of it.
The dead woman had been in Exeter House before.
But what had
happened to her? What had occurred between her time in Exeter House and the discovery of her body in the river?
Ulrich had a lot of unanswered questions and was working mainly off of assumptions, but he'd do whatever he had to to get to the bottom of this one, if only to show Richardson how wrong he was. He'd learn the truth about what had happened to Veronica and Tobias, and maybe, when he went public with his findings and solved the case, it would help his career. There was nothing like solving a high-profile case to get a little attention.
“All right, Veronica,” he said under his breath as he left the police station. “I'm going to find out what happened to you. And when I've done it, you'll be able to rest in peace and I'll be drowning in new job offers. Quid pro quo.”
Chapter 22
Callum and Ulrich hadn't been on the greatest of terms in recent times, but the investigator, short on time and money, thought he might swing by Oliver's Bar for a quick dinner. The place was nearly empty; in a few hours the evening crowd would wander in in search of drink, but it was still early enough for him to enjoy a quiet meal before heading up to his room and coming up with a plan of action. He nodded to the barkeep as he walked in, and Callum's smile telegraphed a veiled annoyance.
“Was hoping to get something to eat,” said Ulrich, sitting at the bar stool nearest the door. “Just some mineral water and whatever you've got back there is fine.”
“Sure,” replied Callum. “We've got potato soup on special tonight. I'll bring you a round of bread to go with it.”
“Sounds good. How much?” asked Ulrich, taking out his wallet.
Shrugging weakly, Callum made his way to the kitchen. “Don't worry about it.”
Some minutes later Callum returned with a piping hot bowl of potato soup and a large hunk of crispy sourdough bread, slathered in butter. The portion was enormous, and Ulrich dug in without hesitation. “Thank you,” he said, blowing on a spoonful of soup. “This is delicious.”
Callum refilled a customer's glass with scotch and then began chipping away at a hunk of ice behind the counter with an ice pick. The movements were swift, measured; like a carpenter or sculptor, Callum shaved and shaped the ice with all the precision of a master craftsman. “You're looking better,” he said after a time, setting down the pick and helping himself to a bit of water.
Ulrich nodded. “Been out and about. Got some fresh air. Besides that, I've been working on something.” From his pocket, Ulrich pulled out the inhaler. Making sure that no one else was within earshot, he leaned forward and spoke in a hushed tone. “Between you and me, I think that there's a connection between this inhaler I found on the premises and one of the bodies that recently turned up in the river. Remember how I told you I saw something in the building? It sounds crazy, it's true, but I'm on the very edge of discovering its true nature here. When I last told you about it, I can't blame you for thinking me crazy, a drunk. But after the tidbit I learned today at the police station--”
Callum slammed a fist against the bar, drawing the glances of the other patrons. His face was red as a strawberry, and as he replied, a bit of spittle flew from his lips. “Now, you listen, and you listen well, mate. I won't stand for any talk about murders or supernatural bullshit. Not in this bar, and not with my customers nearby.” He put an elbow on the bar and leaned close to Ulrich's face. “Don't run your mouth like that unless you want to kill my business. I don't want to know what you're working on, don't care to know what fantasies you're filling your time with. Finish your food and get out of here.”
Ulrich had been a fool to think he could discuss this matter with Callum. He regretted having done so, but now that the topic was out in the open, he felt the need to press on, to see if the barkeep knew more than he was letting on. If he had to bet, Ulrich would have guessed that the Scotsman knew a good deal more. As the building's only other resident, he was bound to have seen or heard some of the peculiar things Ulrich had witnessed. The only trouble was, the slightest mention of such things always set him off. It was more than a little suspicious.
Trying to smooth things over a little, Ulrich's tone remained hushed. “Callum, listen to me. I know you don't like to talk about this sort of thing. I know that you're not fond of me, either. But I also know that you've seen things in this building-- the same sorts of things I've seen. What about The Captain, huh? You told me about seeing him before. Surely there's more than that. I know for a fact that there's a good deal more going on within these walls than that single apparition. You can deny it all you want, accuse me of being a drunkard, but you and I both know these things exist. Why won't you tell me what you know?”
Callum's eyes shot towards the ice pick on the counter. If Ulrich didn't know any better, the Scotsman was fantasizing about savaging him with it. “Eat your meal and leave. I don't want to see you down here again. Just wait till Mr. Reed gets wind of this. You'll be out on your ass.”
Ulrich watched him walk to the other side of the bar and then looked down into his bowl of soup.
Suddenly he wasn't hungry anymore.
Pushing the plate away, Ulrich stood up and left the bar. He wasn't willing to eat somewhere that he wasn't welcome, and Callum had made his position all too clear.
Ulrich would have to do this alone. There was no one else he could count on in this investigation. The only other man who knew the building and had supposedly seen unnatural things in it was unwilling to give him the time of day. If Ulrich pressed the matter any further, he was bound to end up in an altercation with the towering Scotsman.
“So be it,” he uttered, heading up the stairs to his room.
Chapter 23
The sun went down, signaling the start of his fifth night.
He watched the sun disappear from his window, but was sure to close the blinds the minute night fell, lest he glimpse something awful outside.
Knowing that Callum would be in the building till at least one in the morning, and that he was mighty sore about the subject of his investigation, Ulrich decided he would start his rounds around two. That would give him enough time to make a few cups of coffee, to steel his nerves and come up with some sort of plan for gathering evidence. The hallway outside would need surveyed, as would the other rooms on the fifth floor. He'd found the inhaler up there the other night; he couldn't rule out the possibility that Veronica or one of the other spirits would leave other clues for him to find throughout the building. He'd have to be fastidious in his search, would have to leave no stone unturned. And though the prospect of wandering through the dark building put quite the chill down his spine, he had an objective. So long as he was working towards this goal, the fear would be easier to overcome.
Sparkles chased something unseeable through the living room. After a while he tired of this game and napped on the sofa. Ulrich reached down and pet him while listening to some light jazz, and the cat looked up at him narrowly, his voice rising subtly in a purr. He wasn't much for cats, but he was mighty glad for Sparkles' company this night.
He brewed up a few cups' worth of coffee in his Chemex, extra strong, and sipped it slowly over the course of an hour. When the first batch was through, he ate a few pieces of bread and tried to steady his nerves by reading a couple of chapters from the paperbacks he'd recently procured. The hours passed slowly, but no noticeable disturbances met his ears while he waited in the unit. Enjoying one last cup of coffee and hoping it'd grant him extra vigilance in his search, he looked to his phone to check the time.
It was minutes before two in the morning.
Standing up, Ulrich stretched. Then, with his phone in hand, he made his way to the door. He stood before it for several minutes before finding the nerve to open it, but when he did, a brief look around the hall yielded nothing out of sorts. Steeled by this, he called the cat over and stepped out of his room. See? he told himself. Not so bad. You have nothing to fear. You're helping the spirits out, finding out how they met their end. You're going to find justice for them. They have no reason to lash out at you. Clear
ing his throat, Ulrich called out quietly. “Veronica? Are you there? I'd like a word.” It felt strange, calling out to someone who wasn't there, someone who wasn't even alive. He winced as the words left his lips, but nothing came in reply. “All right. I guess that means I have to go looking for you.”
He decided it would be a good idea to venture downstairs first. Before embarking on his hunt for evidence, Ulrich wanted to make absolutely certain that Callum wasn't still in the building. The last thing he needed was the Scotsman's interference. With the flashlight app on his phone shining brightly, Ulrich started down the concrete steps. The mural along the wall met his eyes, the figures in it looming darkly around every turn. If he didn't know any better, he'd think that the daintily-painted figures were moving as he passed, and he hadn't even made it to the fourth level when he decided to avert his attention from the painting altogether. In the daylight there was an impressive quality to the work, but at night, like everything else in the building, it was warped into something sinister.
Arriving at the foot of the winding stairs, Ulrich peered through the door of the bar. He saw no movement within and all of the lights were off. Tugging on the door, he found it locked. Good. Callum's gone for the night. One less thing to worry about.
Sucking in a deep breath to quell a blossoming shiver, Ulrich brought his light up to the main exterior door, looking out into the night. The whole of the building seemed wrapped up in a pestilential quiet; the sound of his footsteps, of his breathing, were magnified to an uncomfortable volume in the absence of other sounds. Outside he detected nothing of sound or movement, the concrete walkway hung in shadows. It seemed one of the streetlamps had failed, allowing darkness to reign around the front side of the building. He didn't stop to consider what might lurk deeper in those shadows, but instead started down the nearest hallway, where he began circumnavigating the first floor.
Medicine For The Dead: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 2) Page 12