Darkside Blues: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 3)

by Ambrose Ibsen

  Darkside Blues

  An Occult Thriller

  Ambrose Ibsen

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Thank You For Reading!

  Copyright © 2017 by Ambrose Ibsen

  Cover by Beetiful Book Covers

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, locations, events and incidents come from the author's imagination, or are otherwise used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  1

  Harlan Ulrich wasn't quite certain what it was he was looking at, however he felt reasonably sure that one could only very tenuously term it “art.”

  Having joined Harrison for an afternoon tour of the Toledo Museum of Art, they'd taken in the work of Renaissance masters, of Greek and Egyptian artisans, of realists and surrealists. Now they'd reached the end of the line, were walking through the last collection at the very end of the main hall. It was an exhibit dedicated to the works of a modern artist, who used dirty shoes as his canvas. Tattered sneakers covered in unremarkable doodles had been elevated on small white cubes, left to sit where the lighting was good.

  The museum was soon to close, and except for Harrison and the investigator, only a few patrons remained. Watching as other visitors shuffled by, remarking on the alleged profundity of the dirty shoes on display, Ulrich couldn't help but snicker. “If this is art, then I've got a closetful of it at home.”

  Harrison smirked, combing a hand through his thinning mop. “No, you don't. Unless something's changed, you own, what, two pairs of shoes? I know you're doing pretty well right now, Mr. Front-Page Detective, but surely you haven't started buying up a new wardrobe?”

  Harrison was right on all counts. Since completing his investigation of Exeter House downtown and gaining a degree of local fame for his well-publicized reward from the police, Ulrich had seen more frequent work and had taken on more prestigious clients. Toledoans with more money and influence had begun visiting him with new cases, and he'd completed no less than three in the weeks since Exeter House. And with this new work had come, for the first time in his years as a PI, a steady, even respectable, income.

  With the reward money he'd earned Ulrich had been able to move into a new place, and he found himself a spacious apartment in a small community called Charing Cross. With the remainder of his funds, he'd purchased a few sturdy furniture items second-hand to replace those that he'd lost in his eviction. Gone were the days of couch surfing, of living hand-to-mouth.

  “I'm surprised you agreed to come out here with me today,” said Harrison. They were leaving the sneaker exhibit and walking back through the rows of Romantic-period works. He paused before John Martin's The Destruction of Tyre, and admired it for a second time. “Museums aren't usually your thing, are they?”

  Hands in the pockets of his heavy woolen coat, the investigator shrugged. “A better way to pass the time than sitting at home,” he replied. “And anyway, I've been known to enjoy a bit of culture now and then.”

  Harrison grinned toothily. “When was the last time you were here?”

  Ulrich thought about it a moment. “It was probably for a middle school field trip.”

  Overhead, a digitized voice announced the museum was closing. “The museum will be closing in twenty minutes. Please begin making your way to the nearest exit. Thank you for visiting the Toledo Museum of Art.” The announcement sounded twice, crackled in the dusty old speakers. The other patrons in view suddenly perked up, as if the announcement had broken the spell of thoughtful appreciation that'd hitherto held them, and they started in a chattering mass in the direction of the museum gift shop.

  With a yawn, Harrison stretched his green sweater over his paunch and started putting on his coat. “Anything else you wanted to see? We've got twenty minutes, and I want to milk the admission fee as much as I can.”

  Adjusting his scarf, Ulrich buttoned up his coat and slipped his hands into the spacious pockets. “The only thing I want to see is the inside of a coffee cup. Does the gift shop serve refreshments? I wouldn't mind picking up a coffee to go.”

  Harrison frowned, giving his head a shake. “Maybe, but I doubt it's very good.”

  “Doesn't matter. I'd take a cup of plain, hot water at this point. Anything to keep my hands warm on the way home.” Outside, the weather was miserable. Winter's grasp on the city was firm, and temperatures had been hovering in the mid-teens for days. A week-old snowfall of some eight inches survived all over town in the form of jagged white drifts that refused to melt. Ulrich had been forced to conduct his investigative work regardless of such conditions, and found himself frequently pining for Spring.

  As they passed into the next room, a large, well-lit gallery featuring several bronze sculptures of exquisite workmanship, Ulrich's eyes settled upon one patron in particular who wasn't speeding for the exit like the rest. He was standing at the base of a large statue, a reproduction of Donatello's famous David, and appraising it thoughtfully. He was clean-shaven, and his greying hair was swept back in a neat, traditional cut that looked almost as glossy as his black leather shoes. Dressed sharply in a tailored overcoat and wearing a cologne whose soapy, leathery character was projected even from across the room, the man turned just in time to catch Ulrich glancing his way.

  Their eyes met for an instant. The investigator looked away and studied a nearby bust, but not before he thought he picked up a hint of recognition in the sharply-dressed stranger's eyes.

  “These sculptures are excellent,” said Harrison. “You know, people can say whatever they want about Toledo, but our museum is truly world-class. The collection of sculpture here alone is tremendous.”

  The investigator nodded, half-listening as his friend continued for the gift shop and railed on about the overpriced baubles they sold there. Ulrich was focused chiefly on the sound of the quick footfalls that now trailed them, however. The well-dressed gentleman was coming up behind them, and Ulrich could hear the clean-sounding pitter-patter of his leather shoes as they glided over the marble floors.

  They weren't a few feet from the staircase leading down to the main lobby when the man cleared his throat and called out, in a quiet tone of voice, “Excuse me?”

  Ulrich and Harrison turned.

  The man, appearing older up-close than he had from a distance, proffered a nervous smile and leaned forward a bit as if to examine Ulrich's face. “Sorry to be a bother, but... aren't you that PI... the one from the paper? I read your story in The Blade a while back, I think.”

  Taken off-guard, Ulrich chuckled. That little piece in the paper had gotten a lot of attention locally, and this man wasn't the first to recognize him in public. He nodded. “Yes, the name'
s Harlan Ulrich.” He gave the warmest smile he could muster, and then glanced over at Harrison, unsure of this stranger's intent. What, does he want my autograph or something?

  Snapping his gloved fingers, the man grinned widely. “I thought so! I knew it was you. Man, what are the odds?” He narrowed his eyes. “You've just got that detective look about you. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  Actually, people seldom told Ulrich that he looked the part. More often than not he was derided as a slob. Eager to end this encounter, the investigator bobbed his head. “Nice meeting you,” he said, turning back to the staircase.

  The man wasn't through with him yet, however. “Listen,” he continued, reaching out and laying a hand on his shoulder, “I'm sorry to bother you like this, while you're out at the museum, but I was wondering if you might have time for a more involved chat.” The soapy edge of his cologne reached out and jabbed Ulrich in the nose, calling to mind old-fashioned barbershops. It reminded him of the sort of cologne his father had once worn. “I'd like to hire you. Name's Michael. Michael Poole.”

  Taken off guard, Ulrich glanced at his feet, at the marble steps below. This was the first time he'd ever been put on the spot in this way, and being pitched a new case while at the museum didn't exactly seem professional. Usually people came to see him in his little office, would call ahead of time. Where ordinarily Ulrich would have politely refused under such circumstances, the man possessed an air of wealth; an impression only further reinforced by the emergence of a gaudy, silver Citizen watch from under the sleeve of his overcoat. “Um... What sort of case is it?”

  Starting past Ulrich and Harrison, Michael descended the stairs slowly. “I think it's definitely in your wheelhouse. Should be a breeze for an investigator of your caliber.”

  Ulrich scolded himself for falling prey to flattery, and even caught Harrison stifling a laugh.

  Michael continued. “There's this lovely little spot across the street, a bar called The Attic. Ever been? We can discuss the particulars there if you're free.” As he stepped onto the landing, he looked back at Harrison with evident discomfort.

  “I get it, I get it,” mumbled Harrison. “I'm the third wheel here, am I right?” Nodding to Ulrich, Harrison trudged to the foot of the stairs. “Take care, man. And give me a call later on, will you?” Harrison zipped his coat and started across the lobby, leaving Ulrich and Michael alone on the staircase. The museum had grown awfully quiet as the two of them stood there, with only the occasional voice or closing door sounding from far-off and disrupting the silence.

  “That'll be fine,” replied Ulrich after a moment's pause. “I just so happen to be free this evening. Lead the way.” This seemed to please Michael, whose cloudy eyes came to showcase something like relief. Marching across the lobby towards the ice-encrusted exit doors, the investigator lowered his chin against his chest and began steeling himself against the impending wave of cold. “What sort of case is this?” he asked again.

  Pulling open the door and holding it for Ulrich, Michael seemed in such a good mood that he didn't even notice the burst of wintery air that rushed inside. “It involves a missing person. Sort of,” he replied. “A very simple case, at any rate.”

  Stepping out into the chill evening, the soles of his shoes crunching against the rock salt on the walkway, Ulrich felt a twinge of relief. A missing person's case? That was easy enough. He felt very much at home, dealing strictly with human subjects.

  The last few cases he'd done had been simple and pedestrian enough. In the past month, he'd helped to locate a cache of stolen goods and had spied on what was likely his hundredth cheating spouse. Those cases had been free of any supernatural element, had been ordinary enough to help him put the horrors of the Moonville Sick House and the tragedy at Exeter House behind him.

  And if he had his way, Ulrich was going to keep his work on the “normal” side of things. He rather preferred working with the living over the dead.

  2

  Ulrich was thankful that The Attic was only a short walk away. Keeping his head down in order to prevent the frigid wind from carving into his cheeks and eyes, the investigator said little as they walked. Michael, too, except for some token comment about the bar they were headed to, barely spoke until they arrived at the front entrance.

  The Attic was a sparsely-populated little thing, which even at the busiest of times seemed able to accommodate only twenty or so customers. With a blue neon sign out front that buzzed noisily in the cold and a warm orange glow seeping out through the windows and casting shadows on the snow drifts, its entire space consisted of a single room, at the center of which was a bar of considerable length, captained by two bartenders. A young couple Ulrich thought he recognized from the museum were seated at one of the tables in the left-hand corner, conversing animatedly over cocktails. The rest of the place was up for grabs.

  Michael led the charge up to the bar, flagging down one of the bartenders with whom he appeared well-acquainted. “Megan, we'll have a bottle of the '09 Chateau Durfort Vivens. Two glasses.” Patting Ulrich's arm, Michael steered the investigator towards a table for two just off to the side, where a muted television flashed with the opening sequence of a local news program. “Just wait until you try this wine. Ever had it? The Durfort Vivens? It's a mouthy one, great aroma of blackcurrant. Very silky, especially the '09 vintage.”

  Ulrich forced a smile, combing a hand through his salt and pepper hair. “Can't say that I have.” Truth was that he'd never really tasted any wine outside of the odd church service. A teetotaler all his life, Ulrich had never developed a taste for alcohol. This was due in large part to his father's nasty drinking habit, which had been his undoing; though Ulrich's intense dislike of the smell of most alcoholic beverages also played a part in his abstinence. As the bartender brought over a bottle of red wine and masterfully popped out the cork with a waiter's corkscrew, Ulrich found he didn't even have enough time to politely decline. The minute the cork was out, Michael was filling the two glasses.

  Ulrich eyed the glass placed before him with an uneasy smile. He picked it up, sniffed at it and gave it a quick swirl like he'd seen people on television cooking shows do, but refrained from taking a sip. “I'm sure it's very lovely, but I probably shouldn't drink tonight. I need to hurry home after this to check on someone.”

  Michael gave the wine in his glass a spin till some of the red liquid sloshed over the rim and then took a deep sip. “Oh,” he replied, silver eyebrows arching, “do you have children?”

  “Er—not quite.” Ulrich pursed his lips. He was talking about his cat, Beardsley, who'd been living with him since the end of the Exeter House case. Having taken in the animal out of kindness, the investigator was fast learning that the feline couldn't be trusted to behave while he was away from the apartment. The little fellow made terrible messes of his food and litter box, and was particularly fond of tampering with Ulrich's coffee beans. Once, upon returning from a quick lunch, Ulrich had entered the apartment only to find an entire sack of high-altitude Sumatran beans scattered across the kitchen floor and Beardsley dashing through the mess, batting the individual beans across the linoleum and under the appliances. Some days he regretted ever letting the mongrel into his home, but hesitated to throw him out onto the streets on account of the terrible winter.

  Clearing his throat, Michael undid his overcoat and draped it over the back of his chair. He was wearing a crisp blue dress shirt beneath, a tie, and looked very much like he'd stepped off of the pages of a menswear catalog. Rubbing his hands together in an effort to exorcise the cold, he took another sip of wine and looked across the bar, through one of the windows. “Kids... my God, what a blessing they are. That's what this is about for me. It's about my daughter. I want you to find her.”

  Looking down into the wine glass and sniffing at the rich red liquid within, Ulrich lowered it back down onto the table. “Your daughter is missing? For how long? I take it you've reached out to the police about this already?”

 
For the first time since they'd met in the museum, Michael's mirth was rapidly worn away and an unmistakable pathos was etched across his aged features. “Well, not exactly. See... my daughter is a special case.” He gulped down more wine, nearly emptying his glass, and then hurriedly topped it off. “She ran away ten years ago, you see.”

  Ten years was a long time. Ulrich wondered why the man was only just now hiring a private investigator to look into her whereabouts. “What happened?” he asked.

  Michael tugged his tie out of place and started working on his fresh glass of wine. “I don't really know. She ran off ten years ago. She was young, in her early twenties. Living with me at the time and almost done with college. Left without a word and never told me why she was going.” He pursed his lips hard, like he was savoring the wine. At the same time, his eyes grew red, wet, and Ulrich was unsure whether it was a lingering effect of the cold or if this reminisce was dredging up painful memories. “But I saw her recently,” he said after a time, looking up at Ulrich with a strange firmness. “I did. I saw her not too long ago, and I want to know where she's been all this time. I want to know where she's staying, what she's been up to all these years... But I don't want to approach her myself. You understand? It would be... difficult. After all this time, I just don't know what I'd say.”

  “I understand,” replied the investigator, “though, before I agree, I need to verify that there were no, shall we say, serious problems between you and your daughter. No restraining orders or things of that kind, correct?”

  “No, no, of course not,” shot back Michael. “Nothing like that. I swear it.” Catching Ulrich glance down at his glass with a frown, Michael cocked his head to the side. “What's the matter? Not to your taste? What would you like instead?”

  Blushing, Ulrich pushed the glass towards his client carefully. “No, I'm sure it's very lovely. But I'm more of a coffee guy, myself.”