Fire In The Mind: Leonard Wise Book 1

by Arjay Lewis

  “I have a date,” I said aloud, surprised by the sound of my own voice.

  six

  At six-thirty, the three of us sat down to a meal that Jenny threw together as if by magic: Fresh bread, salad, and pasta primavera. It all tasted wonderful.

  “So, how did it go with your old friend?” Jon asked. “And how is it you have a friend I don’t know?”

  “I actually have a few you haven’t met, Jon.”

  “I’m more interested in your date,” Jenny said.

  I told her when she got home that I was going out that night. She offered herself and Jon to come with me, and I finally admitted it was a date.

  “I can’t tell you much. She used to work at a jewelry store until it burned down.”

  “Burned down?” Jon said. “Oh, yeah, I read about that! Mishan Jewelers, only about twelve blocks from here.”

  “You don’t have to tell me about it,” Jenny said as she swallowed a forkful of pasta and cheese. “I’m on the case.”

  “Case?” I said.

  “Yes, the insurance on the place. Part of my job is finding out if arson was involved.”

  “But I thought Mishan had no heirs. Who would put in the claim?”

  “His business partners, and there are several of them,” Jenny said, as she pushed a small leaf of romaine lettuce into her mouth and then spoke while chewing. “Hey, how did you know he had no heirs?”

  “I heard about the—uh—whole thing, from Wendy.”

  “Is that the girl you’re going out with? Wendy Wallace?” Jenny said, still chewing.

  “You know her?”

  “Know her? She’s one of the claimants on the insurance.”

  “I thought she just worked there.”

  “She was one of the investors,” Jenny said and sat back while she sipped a glass of the red wine Jon had poured with dinner. “Through a corporation called Nova, of all things.”

  I stopped chewing and looked at her as a chill went up my spine. The exact name that had elicited a response when I’d read it!

  Jenny went on. “She’s been calling me every day about when the policy is going to pay out. Can you believe it? The guy isn’t even cold, and she’s wondering why she can’t get her money.”

  “What kind of policy did this corporation have on Mishan?” I asked.

  “The partners had key man insurance on Mishan. It makes sense, if anything happened to him, there goes the business. Then there is an overall policy on the business for fire, theft, and all that. It pays out to each partner depending upon their original investment.”

  “Sounds intense,” Jon said.

  “Nova invested pretty heavily in that little store, and if she gets a portion of the money, she could come out of it pretty well off.”

  Jon smiled at me. “Wow! Available and soon to be rich. You know how to pick them, Len.”

  “She isn’t too hard on the eyes, either,” I said as a flippant answer. But I was troubled by the connection between this corporation and the mysterious Miss Wallace.

  . . .

  As I waited in the cool spring air, I had a new point of view on the girl about to be my date.

  At eight oh five, the little car pulled up and stopped. I opened the door and held out a single red rose I had bought at a florist within walking distance of the Baines’s.

  “Ooh!” she said, taking it and bringing it to her nose as I juggled my body into the passenger seat. “It’s lovely.”

  “Not as lovely as you.”

  “That’s sweet,” she said and smiled broadly.

  “So where are we off to?”

  “An eclectic mix of sights and sounds that can be enjoyed cheaply. First on our agenda is a place in the center of town.”

  We drove for about ten minutes, making small talk, until she pulled into a lot and parked.

  “Watching you get in and out of my car is entertainment in itself,” she said without scorn as we walked to Bloomdale Avenue—the main drag in town.

  “It’s good training for the limbo championships,” I replied.

  “Glad I could help you practice,” she said. “Here’s our first stop.”

  I looked where she pointed. In the middle of the block was a small place with an open door. It had a hand-painted sign over the door that read the Halfway House. We walked into the dimly lit room crowded with overstuffed chairs and sofas in various stages of decay. The room was about half-full as people talked, drank coffee, and ate desserts. A glass case on our left displayed cakes and pies. From behind the counter came the whoosh of cappuccino machines as milk was frothed to make lattes and other coffee drinks.

  “Starbuck’s it ain’t,” I remarked.

  “Starbuck’s doesn’t have live music,” Wendy said as we found a place to sit. There was a woman behind the counter who walked over with a notepad. She was tall and well groomed, her hair short, and her manner brusque. She gave a smile of recognition to Wendy and flashed knives at me.

  “You want a latte, Len?” Wendy said, oblivious to the waitress’s attitude toward me.

  “I’d love one,” I said, and tried to read the waitress’s energy. She was very unhappy that I was here with Wendy, and I didn’t have to be psychic to know it.

  “Two lattes,” Wendy said with a teasing smile to the waitress, who wrote it down and wandered off.

  An African-American guy was standing next to a stool holding a guitar and sipping coffee out of a porcelain mug with a crack on one side. His hair was long with lines of gray in the kinky mass, and he wore a thick moustache. Dressed in a denim vest and no shirt, showing off his good physique, his face lit up with recognition and he rose and walked over.

  “Wendy,” he said, and bent to give her cheek a peck. “It’s been a while. I thought you’d given up on us.”

  “No, I’m still around. I just can’t be everywhere,” she said, then she turned to me. “This is Doctor Leonard Wise. Len, this is Char.”

  “Char?” I repeated.

  “It’s a nickname,” Char said. “Short for something, but I’ve forgotten what.”

  “Char plays here most nights,” Wendy said. “He’s really good.”

  “That’s what I tell her, anyway,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I guess I’d better start the next set.”

  “We’ll talk during your break,” Wendy said.

  Char went back to his guitar and leaned against the stool. He set a microphone to his mouth and started to play.

  He sang in a mellow baritone and had a slight rasp that came from too many nights in too many bars. His fingers slipped up and down the guitar as he sang his way through “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel.

  Wendy was right. He was good, really good.

  Our lattes arrived in large mugs—like the one Char drank from—except ours possessed no cracks. We sat and listened, enjoying the ambience.

  “This is nice,” I commented.

  “Yeah, I’ve always liked this place.”

  “Sorry about bringing you in about Mishan,” I said. I felt a need to try to pump her a little for information, to see if she would tell me anything about her true business relationship with the deceased. I didn’t want to go so far as to invade her mind—after all, it was a date. But I wanted to be aware of anything she might be withholding.

  I felt a momentary flash of guilt. Here this attractive young lady was going out with me, and a part of me wanted to grill her as if she was a suspect. But if she was an investor, wasn’t she a suspect? Could she have been an accomplice to murder?

  “Yeah, well, I was lucky I ran when I did, or I’d be dead right now.”

  Lucky or good planning? I thought. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt,” I said and gave my best disarming smile.

  We sat and chatted quietly while Char played. I tried as artfully as I could to ask her quest
ions to open the door as to her level of involvement, but she didn’t bite. In fact, she started to ask me about forensic procedures. With my medical background, I handled it as well as I could. I began to realize that perhaps her interest in me might be based on a desire to learn more about the evidence the police found. I almost started to laugh at an inopportune moment when it hit me that while I was trying to probe her for information, she was doing the same to me.

  Finally, I changed the subject, just in time for Char to sit down with us.

  “So, how y’all doing?” Char said as he sat.

  “Good, Char,” Wendy said. “That was a great set.”

  He shrugged. “Wish we had more people. Business has been a bit slow.”

  “It’ll pick up,” she said.

  “You being here would bring ’em in,” Char replied. “You always had a magic touch with this place.”

  “So how do you know each other?” I asked. Char looked older, certainly not a high school chum of Wendy’s.

  “She used to manage this place,” Char answered.

  “I did not,” Wendy said, momentarily flustered. “I just played hostess and sat people on busy nights. There was no money in it.”

  “I don’t know,” Char said. “Looked to me like you were telling people what to do.”

  “Oh, come on, Char,” she said and turned on her charming-but-brainless blonde routine like she’d hit a switch. “I was just trying to keep this place open in my small way. I didn’t do much.”

  “Heard that jewelry store you worked at burned down,” Char said.

  “Yeah, I’m lucky I didn’t get hurt,” Wendy replied.

  “You could come back here,” Char said. “We’d love to have you. Besides, you could watch out for your investment.”

  My ears perked up. “Investment? Wendy, you have money in this place?”

  “Now stop!” she said, a little too cheery. “I just helped out. You guys don’t need me. But, it’s nice to hear you say that, Char. I’ve been feeling low since the fire. I’m glad there are people who want me.”

  Char glanced at both of us, suddenly aware he’d said too much. “Yeah, we do, kid. Hey, I gotta grab a smoke and hit the head. Nice meetin’ you, Doc.”

  “Likewise. I love your playing.”

  He nodded to us both and walked toward the back of the room and out of sight.

  Wendy sat and watched him, and I could sense an anger inside that she was being very careful not to let show.

  “You’re pretty popular,” I said.

  “I always have been.” She gave me another dazzling smile. She regained her composure, the lapse had been fleeting. “But, I have other places to show you.”

  “Do tell?”

  “This is show, not tell. Come on,” she said, getting up and heading for the door. I followed.

  “Shouldn’t we leave money for the—”

  “Don’t worry, I’m an old friend,” she said, as she gave a wave to the tall waitress, who waved back, her expression still stern.

  “Well,” I said, as we stepped out into the warm night. “You certainly kept your word about going out cheaply.”

  “I know what it’s like to not have money,” she replied, her mouth a tight line. “My parents didn’t have a lot, and what they did have, they didn’t share. I grew up with very little.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “But you’re a doctor and all. I figure your current financial condition is just temporary.”

  “I am about to get paid for a lecture I gave. I would be delighted to take you out to a good restaurant,” I said.

  “See,” she said, putting her arm through mine. “It’s just temporary.”

  “Wendy, I’m a researcher,” I said, measuring my words so they would be true. “I don’t know that I’ll ever be the kind of man who can buy you a sports car.”

  She let my arm go. “Is that what you think? That I’m just interested in money?”

  “I didn’t mean to make it sound that way. It’s just that I want you to know, right up front, that even though I’m a doctor, I’m really just a glorified investigator. Like an archaeologist; I dig up information. It’s not glamorous, and I could be the top of my field and still just get by.”

  We walked on in silence, her face getting a hard cast to it.

  “I’ve known men with money,” she said and pulled her jacket tight. “It doesn’t make them any better than anyone else. Sometimes, it makes them worse.”

  She turned to me. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I know how to take care of myself.”

  The evening did improve after my faux-pas, and we visited a bar where Wendy had a kamikaze, and I drank soda. There was a piano player—quite good—who also knew Wendy.

  After that, we walked over to what looked to be an old church, but upon entering, I discovered it was a dance club. The music was unbelievably loud, and no one looked older than nineteen. But it was fun in a Bohemian way.

  We danced as well as I could with my leg and cane. Wendy drank, and I enjoyed observing the people as they wandered, danced, and posed. The energy of the place was intense. I was aware of a negative current that ran through the room, but I stayed the observer. Fortunately, the loud music dulled my psychic senses enough so I didn’t get pulled into the thoughts of the patrons.

  At about midnight, we made our way back to the car.

  “Pretty wild place,” I said.

  “This is nothing. Some nights, people are all but doing it on the dance floor.”

  “I suddenly feel old.”

  “How old are you anyway?”

  “Twenty-nine. And you?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “Really? I thought you were maybe twenty-four.”

  “I’m in good shape.” She shrugged, then added with a smile, “And besides, how would you know? You’re really old.”

  I laughed. On the drive back, we told jokes, laughed, and enjoyed each other’s company. Once I stopped playing detective, I was aware that she really was charming, intelligent, and with a ready wit, despite the dumb blonde persona she slipped into when it suited her.

  She pulled in front of the Baines’s house, and we both paused. I was sitting practically in her seat because of my leg, and our faces were close.

  “Well,” I said.

  “Well,” she repeated.

  “I had a wonderful time.”

  “So did I.”

  “Could you give me your number? I’d like to go out again.”

  “You did promise to take me out to a good restaurant,” she said with a smile that could melt any man’s heart.

  “That I did. I try to live up to my promises.”

  “Give me your phone,” she said.

  I pulled out my mobile phone and unlocked it. She quickly typed in her name and number.

  “Here you go,” she said and handed it back as I pulled close, and our lips met. It was a soft, almost chaste kiss. She shifted, and we pulled closer and fell into a more passionate embrace, our mouths opening and our tongues touching.

  I saw fire—burning—a body bursting into flames with a howl of pain and fear. I shuddered.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Wha—”

  “You pulled away. Did I hurt you?” she asked, concerned. “Was it my tongue stud?”

  “No, no,” I said, as I tried to drive the blazing image from my thoughts. “It was…my leg, it fell asleep.”

  “Let me give you a hand,” she said, and got out of the car, holding out a hand to help me up.

  “Thanks,” I said, and moved close to kiss her again.

  She turned her face away. “Not out here on the street, Len.”

  “Sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Good night,” she said, as she got back in the drive
r’s seat with one last smile to me before driving off. I waved and touched my lips.

  The vision I saw when we kissed had seemed so real. Was it a memory or a prophecy? I wasn’t sure who was on fire. It might have been Mishan.

  Or it could have been me.

  seven

  I woke up Thursday morning a little past eight and stumbled into the kitchen for coffee in time to see Jenny, dressed and ready for work, as she finished her cup.

  “Well, well,” she said, as I grabbed a mug and wrapped my bathrobe tighter. “How did the date go?”

  “It was nice…puzzling. Miss Wallace appears to be a financial investor in more than just one business.”

  “Really? Did she diversify with you?” Jenny said with a naughty smile.

  “I don’t get pecuniary and tell,” I said.

  “Only if you get fiscal?”

  “Ouch!” I said and feigned an injury as I filled my mug with coffee. “I surrender.”

  “So, what was so puzzling about Miss Wallace?”

  “It’s not anything I can pin down. If the police wanted to check the insurance policy she has with your company, what would be required?”

  “They’d have to file a warrant. But how are the police involved with Ms. Wallace?”

  “Well, it’s a suspicious fire and a possible homicide.”

  “And how, Leonard Wise, are you involved?”

  Her body was in a pose I knew so well I could almost have drawn it from memory. It was the one Cathy would assume when she caught me in a bit of misinformation. I never really lied to her in our time together, but I would neglect to tell her about nights out with friends and the like. She caught me every time and made sure to make me squirm when she did. I soon stopped trying to wrangle and just told her the truth.

  Seeing Jenny in that pose, I suddenly wanted her far more intensely than Wendy Wallace, even when I’d been kissing the latter.

  “You’re turning beet red, Len,” she said. “Embarrassed that I asked?”

  Embarrassed that I felt a bad case of the hots for my best friend’s wife.

  “I-I was asked t-to keep it a secret,” I said, my mouth stumbling over the words. “The police—well one policeman—called me in on the case.”