Ashes To Ashes: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective

by Don Pendleton

  I hit every major data bank in the state in that pursuit.

  Know what? I found nothing. Nothing.

  The mechanism that sticks together the people of California had no knowledge of the lady; she did not exist in that system. No driver's license, no work record, not even a record of birth, no medical records, no police records. Apparently she had never been insured, had never gone to school, never married or divorced, never applied for credit, never bought real estate, never paid taxes.

  Along about three a.m., I began to get the feeling that I was falling toward chaos.

  I have a distinct distaste for chaos. So I shut down the computer, took off my shoes, and stretched out on the couch to give my right brain a shot at the logic.

  Instead, I guess I fell asleep because the next thing I knew, sunlight was streaming through the windows and my home had been invaded by a number of energetic men with nasty faces, two of whom were peering down at me over gun snouts.

  I moved eyes and mouth only in a cautious query as to the nature of their business there.

  One snapped, "Shut up."

  Another, outside my area of vision, announced, "She's in here!"—and I was aware of energetic movements in the general direction of my bedroom.

  It happened faster than I can describe the action. One moment they were there, the next they were gone—and Karen Highland too. I heard several vehicles pull away before I ventured to my feet. It could have been a dream for all the evidence left behind.

  Even Karen could have been a dream.

  But I knew that she was not.

  For some strange reason, maybe only to validate the reality, the first thing I did was to call my friend at the coroner's office. It was a Saturday, but I knew that she normally worked the weekends. But she was not there, would not be there at all today, something about a family emergency out of town somewhere, no idea when she would be returning to duty.

  The people at the county hospital kept me on hold for upwards of ten minutes before firmly assuring me that there was "no record" of my DOA.

  Falling, yeah. Chaos loomed.

  The 911 supervisor could find no record of a dispatch to my address on the previous day, and a telephone canvass of ambulance companies serving the area produced a solid ditto.

  Then and only then I tried the telephone number that Karen Highland had given me just three days earlier. What I reached was a telephone company recording advising me that the number was no longer in service.

  How I hate chaos.

  So I called my drinking buddy, the doctor who had come over to check out Karen the evening before.

  I bullied my way through two "services" to finally acquire a female voice that sorrowfully informed me that my friend, the doctor, had died of an apparent heart attack "late last night."

  Someone or something was manipulating my little corner of reality, I was sure of that.

  Or else the system, the social mechanism, had reached the edge of chaos and was about to engulf me in its collapse.

  I could not buy that.

  So I did something that could get me a few years in Leavenworth. I went back to my TRS-80 and accessed a government mainframe in Washington to invade confidential files in search of a "Highland" with a promising profile.

  It took me up past the noon hour, and I was glad it was a weekend, with most of Washington away from the office, to afford me that kind of time on the access.

  But, yeah, I found the "right" Highland.

  And a hell of a lot more.

  I found my validation. And a new respect for the mechanism.

  Chapter Four: Kingdom Come

  You hear a lot about Bel Air, but few people ever actually see the place. It is perhaps the most exclusive residential neighborhood in greater Los Angeles, occupies a walled area directly across Sunset from UCLA, home to the very rich. Not that every home in there is an out-and-out mansion, but even the most modest would be valued into seven figures.

  The particular estate I was contemplating that Saturday afternoon more likely ran into eight figures. The confines of this minikingdom were set off behind a high stone wall. The palace, itself, appeared to consist of two stories of stone and ivy with stately rooflines, occupying probably an acre of its own. I could spot the roofs of several smaller structures buried in the trees and I could imagine the rest: luxury pool, maybe a tennis court or two, several acres of lawn and flowers, lots of exotic shrubbery.

  In a neighborhood of the very rich, the Highland estate quietly proclaimed its status among the superrich.

  I was impressed.

  But I would have been surprised to find less after my morning foray into confidential government files.

  Joseph Highland, at his death, had been one of the richest men in the world. The full extent of his personal fortune could only be estimated, even by his own accountants. The estate had been in probate for more than ten years and still all the numbers were not in.

  The founder of this kingdom seemed to have had fingers into just about every big pie in the world, and a fist or two into some of the hottest ones—transportation, motion pictures, petroleum, commodities of every sort, electronics, aviation, international banking on a grand scale, stocks and bonds to dazzle the mind, insurance, on and on; the list seemed endless.

  Apparently he had been a very private man, almost secretive, running his worldwide business empire from behind those very walls, seldom venturing physically into the world beyond—a shadowy figure who never publicly attached his name to his holdings—that name actually concealed at great lengths beneath layer upon layer of corporate identities, never appearing on social registers or listed in connection with the various philanthropic foundations in which he was heavily involved.

  Heavily, yeah—old Joe Highland had given away more than a billion bucks just during the final ten years of his life. That much, at least, was documented.

  The official record—what I could find of it— revealed but one marriage and one child, a son—Thomas James Highland—who seemed to have been as reclusive as his father and who had, himself, expired within a year of the death of the father.

  Karen, it seemed, was Thomas's only child, Joseph's granddaughter and sole heir to all that mentioned above.

  That understanding had jarred me, bringing forth a dozen or more fanciful scenarios to explain the unsettling events of the previous twenty-four hours. And I was glad that I had not overreacted to that latest event starring Karen Highland, heiress to an international financial empire. I would have had a sweet time trying to establish a "kidnapping" from my beach cottage of a lady who apparently did not exist in the official system, and an even sweeter time after a supposed police trail led to this palace in Bel Air.

  That kind of money also spells power of a very special kind—a power that ordinary citizens seldom get a sniff of—the kind of which you and I, pal, do not wish to run afoul.

  Not that I was running scared. It just seemed logical, to me, that a Karen Highland—any Karen Highland, by any other name—would enjoy (or suffer) a rather elaborate security system that could not tolerate aimless wanderings about the countryside and/or casual overnight flops here and there.

  It seemed obvious to me, in that hindsight, that Bruno Valensa had been Karen's personal bodyguard, that he'd probably accompanied her everywhere outside the palace—and I could picture the consternation at home when the princess failed to arrive at a reasonable time and the bodyguard turned up dead at the county morgue.

  I was considering myself fortunate that those guys had not marched me into the surf and ordered me to swim to Catalina with my hands bound behind me.

  But there are scenarios and scenarios.

  I had to at least see the lady in her natural habitat and satisfy myself that she was in good hands. Then I would run, not walk, to the nearest exit and leave the entire experience happily behind me.

  Didn't work out that way.

  The guy at the gatehouse gave me no trouble whatever. I identified myself, told him I was
calling on Miss Highland. He relayed my name by intercom to the house or somewhere and I was passed right on through with maybe a ten-second delay, all told.

  Which gave me a funny feeling. Had I been expected to show up here? Who was behind the cadre of bodyguards or whatever that had invaded my home that morning with such damned arrogance—waving guns, yet—and what the hell was I walking into here.

  Hey—I've seen the same movies you've seen about the poor dear heiress dominated and manipulated by greedy scoundrels trying to do her out of her megabucks. Stuff like that, fiction or not, sticks in the mind—maybe because we all at least subconsciously recognize the fact that art imitates life, that there is some basis in reality for fictional drama.

  So I was a bit uneasy, sure, I don't mind saying so, but that feeling was very quickly overpowered by another. My initial, outside impression of that palace could not match the inside reality. My Maserati felt right at home amid all that splendor as it tooled along the wide, curving drive toward the house, past seas of flowers and immaculate flagstone pathways, over tumbling brooks with waterfalls and living swans, exotic flowering trees dotting acres of rolling lawn—but that Maserati had always seemed smugly superior to me, as though she knew I really could not afford her, and frankly I felt a bit out of place, definitely uncomfortable, perhaps smarting just a bit from the memory of my protective instincts toward the mistress of such a joint. In short, the reality of Highlandville put me in my place, reminding me that, after all, a movie is just a movie, but life is a bowl of cherries.

  I almost turned around and went right back out, but I resisted the impulse, set my jaw, and sallied on.

  Glad I did.

  Something was going on there. Twenty or so cars were parked beyond the portico and a uniformed attendant was standing ready to receive mine. I told the guy, no, thanks, nobody drives the Maserati but me, and I took her on through and placed her carefully beside a Rolls.

  A guy in a waiter's uniform looked me over as I quit the Maserati, apparently deciding that my tennis shorts and polo shirt qualified me as a guest, in contrast to a service person, because he gave me a friendly smile as I approached and directed me toward an area behind the house.

  A party was in progress back there—several couples of the beautiful set lounging beside the pool in skimpy swimwear and chatting amiably, several others hoisting drinks at an island bar, two couples playing cards at a poolside table—all in swimsuits or otherwise scantily clad. The only guy there wearing long pants and shoes was bare from the waist up; this one saw me coming and trotted over to intercept me at the edge of the lawn.

  "You're Ford?" he asked casually, with a smile. Before I could confirm that, he went on to say, "Toby told me he was sending you on up. Glad you could make it. We all want to thank you for taking such good care of Karen last night. Kid had us worried to death."

  He stuck out a hand and I shook it courteously as he kept right on talking without a pause, but I would have liked to tell him that the guys with the guns had already conveyed the gratitude of the kingdom. This guy looked about forty-five or maybe a young fifty, it would be hard to say, very smooth veneer covering a tough-as-nails personality, kind of guy you'd expect to see at the head of the table at a board meeting of some megabuck corporation—all self-assured, a touch superior and more than a touch condescending behind that facade of chatty amiability.

  "I'm Terry Kalinsky," as though I should immediately know what that meant. "That's my wife, Marcia—" He was indicating a tall, blond woman of roughly his own age, still very pretty and sexy in a one-half-ounce bikini, seated on the diving board with a cocktail. "—and I'll let you make your own introductions to the others, we don't stand on formalities here. Karen should be along in a few minutes, I sent word that you were here, meanwhile why don't you try the bar and just sort of mellow in. Uh, you want to try the tennis court later—" He was noticing my shorts. "—I'm sure you could scare up a partner, maybe even some mixed doubles. I'd go for that, keep me in mind."

  Kalinsky walked away and left me standing there with my mouth poised for speech and nary a word uttered. He'd not even heard the sound of my voice, and the impression was clear that he felt no loss from that.

  I wandered to the bar and was trying to massage the guy through my mind with a whiskey and soda, also trying to get the drift of what the hell was going on here in the very shadow of the recent intrigue.

  The "kid" may have had them "worried to death" last night, but the recovery from that seemed complete—so on with the games, eh?

  Or, I thought, maybe I was overplaying the thing in my own mind. But then there was Bruno and his missing corpse, the flying squad at my house, all that damned ruckus—for what?

  And who the hell was Kalinsky?

  Maybe I was about to find out. His wife was approaching, eyes fixed on me in an openly curious stare, swaying along in the exaggerated movements of a cultured woman who has been taught to walk properly, even barefoot in a bikini, but with the motor nerves influenced by too many pulls at the cocktail shaker.

  I smiled and made room for her at the bar, but she kept on moving, until one bare hip was nestled against mine. The voice was quietly pleasant, well modulated despite the same type of motor-nerve interference, just a touch of humor or maybe tease. "So. And just who are you, my lovely?"

  I did not take it badly. Some people just come on that way—some people like these, especially. I'd traveled these crowds before. Not quite this rare, but close enough that I was not intimidated by Marcia Kalinsky.

  I gave her my name and nothing else, figuring that should suffice since they-all had been so wanting to thank me for taking care of the kid last night.

  But apparently the name meant nothing whatever to this one, right away placing her outside the circle of "we all."

  "I'm Ashton Ford, Mrs. Kalinsky."

  "What is an Ashton Ford—something like a Model-T?"

  I laughed politely. What the hell—why not? "Not exactly. Nice party." That gave me an excuse to break the stare-down and glance about at the others.

  "It's a rotten party. Same bunch every Saturday. I'm sick of them." That bare hip was pressing closer in a reminder that it was there. "I'm ready for a real party, skinny-dipping in the pool, all that good stuff—you know?"

  I knew. And I had to get away from that inviting hip. Besides which, it appeared that an ample bosom was in imminent danger of defeating the few threads restraining it, and I have never really learned to act cool in such an emergency.

  But there was a diversion, of sorts, at the edge of things; another group of guests was arriving, moving noisily in from the parking area.

  Also, and at the same moment, the princess herself—Karen Highland—presented herself at poolside.

  She was stark, staring naked and walking directly toward me.

  About halfway there, she lofted ahead a greeting in clear, sweet tones. "Ashton! How wonderful!"

  By this time she is at my side, the other side opposite bare hip, clasping my hand warmly and raising it overhead in some sort of triumphant gesture.

  "Look, everyone! This is Ashton! My sex surrogate! He has kindly consented to give me an orgasm!"

  Everyone, it seemed, was just staring at us rather stupidly. The silence, for a moment there, was thunderous.

  Then Marcia Kalinsky blurted, "God's sake, Karen! You've lost your suit!"

  Whereupon "the kid" seemed to rouse from some weird form of waking trance, looked down at her naked self in absolute horror, dropped my hand as though it were a firebrand, and bolted back into the sanctuary of her palace.

  It was at about that moment, I believe, that I began thinking about Karen Highland in terms of double habitation.

  Chapter Five: Body and Soul

  If you have never heard the term "double habitation," and I would suppose that many well-informed people have not, it refers to a peculiar and really quite rare human situation in which a single body seems to be host to two separate personalities. There are cases record
ed involving multiple habitation. The shrinks talk about it in terms of a schizophrenic manifestation—split-personality, dissociation, etc.—but other learned people with equally valid credentials prefer to see it as something else.

  The opposing poles of thought are best exemplified in the public mind by a couple of motion picture dramas—with the psychiatric view presented in The Three Faces of Eve, the story of a woman whose personality was split into three distinct and disparate identities; the other view given the widest public exposure by The Exorcist, the supernatural story of a young girl possessed by a demonic spirit.

  Not being credentialed either way, I had always felt free to make my own conclusions, though I had never done so because I had never really been faced with the need to do so.

  I did have the opportunity a couple of years ago to study some video footage of a young man in the San Francisco area who appeared to exhibit five different personalities, only two, of which were male—and I ran into a guy at Big Sur last year who slipped over into an identity as Alexander the Great when faced with a difficult problem beyond his immediate abilities. This guy, when in one of these "spells," held one-sided conversations with none other than Aristotle, in a strange tongue that I am told is Classical Greek.

  I did not have any clear idea as to what any of this might have to do with Karen Highland or her strange behavior, but I was rather impressed by the way Kalinsky reacted to that stunning stunt. His wife had run on behind Karen and followed her inside the house, pausing at the doorway to snatch up a terry cloth robe that apparently had been abandoned there.

  Some of the ladies present were shooting me guardedly measuring looks. Mainly, though, everyone was just standing about in giggly-embarrassed clusters, wondering maybe if this meant that the party was over.

  Enter Kalinsky, then, moving casually from group to group, grinning and talking a mile a minute, putting the guests at ease. By the time he got to me, everything seemed just about back to where it had been before.