Whispers of the Dead (Tom Gabriel #2)

by Tim Ellis

  Back in the office, he gave Mary Lou the five thousand dollars with two caveats: ‘First, I want a large whiteboard on the wall in my office, so that I can brainstorm the cases I’ll be working on; and second, I need a ready supply of Ground Blue Mountain coffee to enable my brain to function.’

  ‘That much coffee is bad for you.’

  His lip curled up. ‘Living is bad for me.’

  Mary Lou said she needed half an hour to make a list of what was required in the office, so he handed her the keys.

  ‘While I’m in New York I’d like you to find out what you can about a woman called Blanche Rainey who died just over a month ago and lived at 52 Pizarro Road. Also, I need to know where Police Sergeant Neville van Dalen is now.’

  ‘Is it a test?’

  ‘If you want it to be.’

  Chapter Twelve

  He’d done some food shopping on the way home, and had just put the bags on the breakfast bar when his phone rang.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘It’s Sara, dad.’

  ‘Are you leaving him again?’

  ‘No. I just called to tell you me and Rochelle are back home, and that Brad says he’ll never cheat on me again.’

  Tom made a noise with his lips. ‘You know my thoughts on that.’

  ‘I have to give our marriage another chance for Rochelle’s sake.’

  ‘It’s your life.’

  ‘Yes it is, but I’ve told him that things are going to be different from now on.’

  ‘You can also tell lover boy that I have a bullet with his name on it in my gun.’

  ‘I don’t think so, dad.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid to come back home if his promises turn to dust.’

  ‘This is my home now.’

  ‘You’ll come and see me again though?’

  ‘Or you could come and see us.’

  ‘And stay in the same house or sit at the same table as what’s-his-name? I don’t think I could do that.’

  ‘We’ll work something out.’

  He knew they wouldn’t. He would never go to Grand Junction, Colorado; and she would never come back to St Augustine again. ‘Goodbye, Sara.’

  ‘Goodbye, dad.’

  ‘Give Rochelle a kiss for me.’

  ‘I will.’

  The call ended.

  Tears welled in his eyes as he stood there for a handful of minutes staring at the useless telephone in his hand.

  ‘I tried, Cassie.’

  ‘I know you did, Thomas.’

  He turned to find his dead wife sitting on a stool looking at him.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t creep up on me.’

  ‘Sara’s living her own life, Thomas. That’s what children do.’

  ‘I know. I had my chance to be a father and I failed miserably.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say you failed. You did the best you could, and that’s all anybody could have ever asked of you.’

  ‘Misty’s in trouble again.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Under no circumstances are you to interfere in Misty’s life.’

  ‘I don’t have any plans to . . .’

  ‘You forget I know you, Thomas Gabriel.’

  ‘I know you know me, Cassie, but . . .’

  She had gone.

  ‘. . . I can’t stand idly by and watch somebody beat the crap out of my daughter. You know that’s not the man I am, Cassie.’

  After putting the shopping away, he began his security rounds and stopped off at Allegre’s rooms.

  ‘Well, if it ain’t Mister-on-site-security-Gabriel.’

  ‘Hello, Allegre,’ he said, sitting in the spare chair.

  She gave Rattlesnake a kick for him to shut up and lie down. ‘I see your daughter and her ankle-biter have gone.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For good?’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  ‘Had two myself, I did.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ In truth, he knew very little about Allegre Gabbamonde. He knew that she had originated from Jamaica, but nothing more.

  ‘Pneumonic plague. Took my husband and two children it did.’ She took a long drag on her corncob pipe and let the smoke drift out slowly.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Allegre.’

  ‘Long time ago. I was nineteen at the time. Came here then and started all over.’

  ‘You never got married again?’

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Are you investigating me Mister-private-investigator-nosey-Gabriel?’

  ‘What would I find if I did, Allegre?’

  ‘You’d find yourself without anywhere to live, that’s for sure. Anyways, what you sitting here wasting time with me for?’

  ‘I came to tell you I’m flying up to New York tomorrow morning, and won’t be back until Saturday.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes, that’s so.’

  ‘It to do with your private investigatings?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Make sure you come back when you says you will. Otherwise, I might have to throw your shit out on the street and get me a proper on-site security man.’

  He stood up to go. ‘I’ll be back on Saturday.’

  Rae was sitting on the floor next to his front door with her back against the wall when he got back to his suite.

  ‘I was beginning to get worried that I hadn’t heard from you,’ he said.

  She pushed herself up. ‘Yeah, I was beginning to get worried that you hadn’t phoned me for all of five minutes and asked me if I was all right.’

  ‘Sometimes I get warnings from the dead.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’ve had two warnings today telling me to be careful. One from Mabel, and she hardly ever communicates with me; and another one from a dead woman in a house.’

  ‘You – not me.’

  ‘It doesn’t hurt to err on the side of caution.’

  ‘I’m always erring.’

  ‘You’re young. You think you’re invincible, but you’re not.’

  ‘Well, did you buy a copy?’

  ‘A copy of what?’

  ‘You forgot.’

  The late edition of the Record – Rae’s first serialisation. He hung his head. ‘I forgot.’

  ‘You old aged pensioners are pathetic, You’re lucky – I bought two copies.’ She pulled one copy out of her bag and passed it to him. ‘Read! Enjoy!’

  He stood on the veranda reading the piece that she’d written on the dead man entitled: WHO IS JOHN DOE? She’d started at the beginning by describing how the paperboy Ronnie Paterson had discovered the man on the beach and called the police, and how the authorities had come to the end of their investigation and still had no idea who John Doe was. In the next section she described how she and Tom Gabriel had taken over the investigation and what they’d found so far: The left luggage locker key, the suitcase, the two words hidden in a secret pocket in the trousers, the dry-cleaning tags and the antique magnifying glass. She ended the piece with: To be continued . . .

  ‘Well?’ she asked, trying to act nonchalant.

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Not bad? It’s brilliant.’

  He gave her a knowing smile. ‘Yes, that’s exactly the word I was searching for.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘It’s the best thing I’ve read all day.’

  ‘It’s the only thing you’ve read all day.’

  ‘That doesn’t detract from its brilliance. I can’t wait to read tomorrow’s instalment.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes – really. Franchetti will be getting worried round about now.’

  Her forehead wrinkled up. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the nationals will pick up on this. They’ll want to know who this new investigative journalist Butterfly Raeburn is at the Record, and they’ll flock here from all over the country with six-figure contracts gripped in their sweaty hands.’

  Her lip curled up
. ‘You know, I think you’re right. And when I accept one of those six-figure contracts you’ll wish you had treated me better.’

  He put his arm round her shoulders and squeezed. ‘I meant every word – it’s really good. You’re making a name for yourself already.’

  Changing the subject she said, ‘So, how’s your day been?’

  He opened the door and walked inside. ‘I have news,’ he said over his shoulder.

  ‘You’ve found out who John Doe is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ve found out what he used the magnifying glass for?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You found out who killed him and why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you cooking?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was thinking of chicken fajitas.’

  Her brow furrowed. ‘You can cook them?’

  ‘Of course I can. I bought a ready-made mix on the way home. It says to pour the contents into a pan, heat them up, stir and eat piping hot. Sounds simple enough to me.’

  ‘You’re a philistine.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So, what’s your news?’

  ‘I’ve employed an office manager.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘You’re an investigative reporter.’

  She grinned like the Cheshire Cat. ‘I am, aren’t I?’

  ‘Her name’s Mary Lou. She’s the daughter of Fanny Fleming who owns Myrtle’s Diner across the street, and she has an MBA from Harvard.’

  Rae laughed.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’

  ‘And she’s agreed to come and work for a backstreet PI?’

  ‘She says she wants a life not a career.’

  ‘And you believed her?’

  ‘Yes, but she’s working a three-month probationary period.’

  ‘That’s something at least. We don’t have to wait too long to get rid of her.’

  ‘Or, we’ll quickly discover that she’s the ideal person for the job and take her on permanently.’

  ‘What’s she going to do?’

  ‘I’ve given her five thousand . . .’

  ‘You’re kidding me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s the last you’ll see of her. She’s probably crossed the border into Mexico already.’

  He began emptying the contents of the bag of fajitas mix into a pan. ‘You have a very distrustful nature.’

  She barged him out of the way and took over the cooking. ‘I like to think of it as an enquiring mind.’

  ‘Well anyway,’ he said, sitting at the breakfast bar in the seat that Cassie had sat in earlier. ‘We’ll soon see if she’s any good. While I’m away she’s going to equip the office, and I’ve asked her to find out about two people . . .’

  ‘Away! Away where?’

  ‘I have to fly up to New York tomorrow . . .’

  ‘Fly up to New York?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Do you want to come with me?’

  ‘I can’t drop everything and fly to New York.’

  ‘There we are then.’

  ‘Why are you going to New York?’

  ‘I have something to take care of.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as something that doesn’t concern you.’

  ‘Is it related to the Harrison case?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The John Doe case?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Another case?’

  He relented. ‘The missing children.’

  ‘I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought.’

  ‘It’s not finished, Rae.’

  ‘I just thought . . .’ She was stirring the fajitas mix furiously.

  ‘You’ll take the non-stick coating off my pan if you keep on stirring it like that.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘We thought that the missing children began and ended with your father. I now know that he was simply a link in the chain. He and Ben Ratchett were killed to stop them talking, and Sally Stackhouse has given me another name.’

  ‘And you’re investigating this without me?’

  ‘It’s not for publication.’

  ‘It could be.’

  ‘When it is I’ll let you have the story.’

  ‘I thought we were partners.’

  ‘We’re helping each other out – that’s all. You’ve got your job, and I’ve got mine.’

  ‘And now you’ve got this MBA Lou . . .’

  ‘Mary Lou,’ he corrected her.

  ‘And now you’ve got this MBA Lou, you won’t want me anymore.’

  ‘We can still help each other out. Or, you could give up being an investigative journalist and come and work for me as a trainee private investigator.’

  ‘A trainee investigator? I’d want to be in charge.’

  He screwed his face up. ‘I’ve let Mary Lou be in charge.’

  ‘You’ve done what? I already don’t like her.’

  ‘I’m sure you will when you get to know her.’

  ‘There’s more chance of me becoming the next President.’

  ‘I’d vote for you.’

  ‘That’s not the point. Are you ready for these fajitas?’

  ‘Am I? My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.’

  She shared the fajitas mix between two plates; stacked the corn tortilla wraps on another plate; put the salsa and sour cream dips in small dishes with teaspoons; and passed him a fork.

  They were quiet as they loaded up the wraps and began eating.

  ‘What will I do without you?’ she said.

  ‘I’ll be back on Saturday.’

  ‘You know that’s not what I mean. I like working with you.’

  ‘And I like working with you, but as I said – we both have our own jobs.’

  ‘Life sucks.’

  ‘So, tell me what you did this afternoon at the Yellow Cab Company.’

  She told him about the poster she’d made with the photograph, the promise of a reward and her business card.

  ‘A reward?’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty bucks.’

  ‘Very generous. You’ll probably get . . .’

  ‘I’m not a complete amateur. I’ve made it clear that they need to provide new and relevant information.’

  ‘So, all you can do is wait?’

  ‘Yes. What about you?’

  He couldn’t remember what he’d told her and what he hadn’t, so he simply said what he’d been doing.

  ‘A key to a safe-deposit box in Switzerland! You never said anything about that before.’

  ‘I’m telling you now.’ He told her where he’d found it, and about Johnny Betcher. ‘And then I went to see Rosalind Winter, but she wouldn’t see me . . .’

  ‘Who’s Rosalind Winter?’

  ‘I’m sure I mentioned the old crash report I found in Harrison’s safe deposit box.’

  ‘You never said anything about a crash report.’

  ‘It must have slipped my mind.’

  ‘You’ve been keeping things from me.’

  ‘That’s a slanderous accusation.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘I employed Mary Lou. Oh, and I got a phone call from Rosalind Winter saying that she’d destroy me if I bothered her again.’

  ‘Interesting. So, you’ve got the Swiss safe deposit box key, Rosalind Winter’s mysterious crash report . . .’

  ‘The notebook full of airport codes.’

  ‘The unlisted telephone number.’

  ‘Which belongs to Rosalind Winter.’

  ‘You never told me that.’

  ‘I’m telling you now. Also, there’s the telephone number I found in one of Harrison’s books, which belonged to Blanche Rainey who died a month ago. And I found out from Mona that the Chrysler 300 in the Riverside Shopping Center car park is registered to Greiner, Tibbs & Myrick – attorneys at law – who have their offices on Old Mission
Avenue.’

  ‘He was meeting his attorney?’

  Tom’s face creased up. ‘An attorney who handed over an envelope in a shopping center car park on the edge of town.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘So, you still have no idea how any of the pieces fit together?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘And you’re no closer to finding Roger Harrison than you were when you started?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Things are going well then?’

  ‘You’ve noticed.’

  ‘So, what’s next?’

  ‘I’m waiting for you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘The book of airport codes.’

  She found her tablet in her bag. ‘I’ll see if Lillian Taylor has sent anything yet.’ She tip-tapped her way to her email account and scrolled down the emails. ‘Here’s one. Mmmm!’

  ‘Don’t keep it to yourself.’

  ‘She says that “Tamám Shud” is Persian and means “finished”.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘That’s what she says, and . . .’

  ‘That’s what he said as well.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘John Doe.’

  ‘You never said you’d been speaking to my corpse.’

  ‘It wasn’t relevant at the time, and all he mouthed was, “It’s finished”.’

  ‘What’s finished?’

  ‘If we knew that we’d be finished.’

  Rae pretended to laugh. ‘She also said that the piece of paper with the two-word phrase on it had been torn from the last page of a very rare first edition copy of Edward Fitzgerald’s translation of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, published by Whitcombe and Tombs in New Zealand.’

  ‘It’s a book of poems, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think so, but I’ve never read it.’

  ‘You’ll have to get a copy of it tomorrow to see if it helps us.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes. She says she’s still working on the dry-cleaning tags and the three-letter codes.’

  ‘Okay.’ He passed his phone to her across the breakfast bar. ‘Can you change the tune on my cell?’

  ‘Get MBA Lou to do it.’

  He shook his head. ‘Jealousy is a terrible affliction, you know.’

  After Rae had gone, he phoned Barbara Harrison. He didn’t want to put ideas in her head, but he needed to know what she knew – if anything.

  ‘Any news, Mr Gabriel?’

  ‘I have a few questions.’

  ‘All right.’