Heart to Heart: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective

by Don Pendleton

  The cop was thunderstruck. He cried, “Good God, where'd she go?”

  I said, "Home I guess," and put a hand to my face to conceal the tears.

  But she'd gone farther than that I think.

  I believe that my soul mate had just returned to the One.

  Alvarez was walking the outside wall in a daze, probing it with both hands and tossing me an occasional quick look as though to maintain touch with something real. The paintings were gone, the heads were gone, all was gone as though it had never existed—and maybe it had not in this particular corner of reality.

  Hai Tsu appeared before me then with her handmaidens, and all were naked bodies of light.

  I noted poor Alvarez as he clapped a hand to his head and slid down the wall to seat himself on the floor, peering fearfully at the apparitions that stood between him and me.

  Hai Tsu spoke within my head to tell me, 'Time is come, Ash Shen, to say good-bye. Please remember this servant with love."

  I answered the same way, telling her, "Thank you Hai Tsu. In truth you are not the servant but the mistress of the court. I regret that I have caused you distress. I could never forget you, and all my memories will touch you with love. Bon voyage, my sister."

  That electric body was pulsing with unrestrained joy as it dimmed and faded and disappeared. The other two remained behind for one electric second, darted to either end of the great room as though taking a last look around, then they too winked out.

  Poor Alvarez wailed "Jesus Christ!" from his side of the room and began crawling toward me.

  I went to help him—though Lord knows I needed some help myself—and I told him, "You may not be too far off at that, my son."

  "Don't you start it!" he growled, then he flopped onto his back and laughed his way back to sanity.

  I recommend laughter as a good antidote for terror, but terror was not my problem and I did not feel like laughing.

  I sat down on the floor beside my friend, the cop, and wept as he laughed.

  I recommend tears as a good antidote for sorrow.

  And I guess I was about the sorriest bastard you would ever care to meet.

  It is I think entirely possible to die of a broken heart.

  Chapter Thirty: Casefile Wrap-Up

  Everything was gone—the booze, the food, even the dirty dishes were gone. I left Alvarez recovering on the floor from his laughing fit and went to check the rest of the house. And, yeah, all that was gone too—all the stuff from my suite except the stuff I'd brought in the overnight kit and the freshly cleaned clothing I'd worn down from Malibu. The other suites had been cleaned out too; there was nothing left, not even lint to mark the scene with evidence of human habitation.

  Francesca's studio was clean as a whistle—not a canvas or brush or dab of paint, no modeling clay or framing or tools of any kind to mark her sojourn there.

  I ran outside to check the cottages and, yeah—deserted, abandoned—the entire habitation had vanished like the last rays of light from a dead bulb; there was not even an odor of life left behind.

  I paused at the carport as I came back to the house, wondering what was disturbing me there—then realized that Francesca's VW was missing.

  I went on inside and up to the lounge. Alvarez was just hanging up the phone. He seemed to have himself in hand again. He told me, "I called the hospital. They say Miss Amalie died a few minutes ago."

  I was not that much in hand myself yet.

  I snarled at him, "What the hell are you talking about?"

  He said, "Give me one of your damned coffin nails, will you?"

  I gave him a cigarette and took one for myself, lit them both, glared at him, said, "What's this about a hospital?"

  He said, "Okay, I haven't been entirely up-front with you."

  I said, "Sorry, I can't really believe that coming from an officer of the law."

  He said, "Okay, I deserve that. Just remember that I've been investigating a very weird situation. Knew it was weird soon as I saw her car. It—"

  "It's missing," I told him. "Everything is missing, gone, kaput. Nothing is here, pal, but you and me. And I'm not sure about me."

  He brushed that aside to say, "I assisted a traffic investigation last year. Little VW bug lost it on a bad curve in the canyon. It's sitting right now in the storage yard of a body shop, waiting disposition. Torn to shit. I mean totaled in any sense of the word. The driver got pretty nearly totaled too. Never regained consciousness, been in a coma ail this part year. Well she lost her coma a few minutes ago. Francesca Amalie was just declared officially dead by the resident on duty at Irvine."

  I thought I had already bottomed out, but I suddenly found a new bottom of despair. I said to Alvarez, "Let me get this straight..."

  "Knew something was weird when I saw that VW parked out there this morning. Exact duplicate, except this one wasn't torn up. I checked my notes from the accident investigation. Even the license tags checked out. I went down to the body shop after I left here this morning to see if the wreck was still there. It was. But, see, I figured some kind of game, especially when she gave me her name and background this morning. I thought, shit, what scam is this? I thought I'd seen 'em all. I hadn't seen the victim since right after the accident, and she was all in bandages then. So I went to Irvine again this morning and I saw her, and shit it was the same face except maybe a little wasted from a year in coma."

  I found strength somewhere to feel sympathy for the guy. I told him, "You've had a rough day."

  "Say that again, friend. Then when I found the guy at Newport wearing the same death mask as the guy on the beach here, well then I figured...shit, I didn't know what to figure. So when you called and invited me to dinner, I ran all the way here."

  I said, "And then it really started getting rough."

  "Amen to that, amen and amen. You say the VW is not down there now?"

  "That's where it's not," I replied. "It was another part of the set, and it's been broken down and packed up and taken away in the same bag as the rest of the set. None of this stuff was real, not any of it."

  He said, "Now wait a minute..."

  I said, "You may as well just buy it and save yourself a lot of mental strain. The staff never existed, at least not in this domain. Where was Francesca living at the time of the accident?"

  He withdrew a notebook, flipped through it, found the entry he sought, told me, "She shared a loft with three other girls down in town, near the pottery shack."

  I said, "Okay, that checks. She told me—somebody told me that she was living there when Valentinius approached her and brought her here. Come to think of it though, she was a bit vague about that."

  "Wait a minute. You said none of it existed. Now you're talking like it did."

  I said, "She existed, Bob. All of the people existed. Still do somewhere, but, shit, don't ask me where. That bit about Valentinius commissioning her to do a portrait though—that sounds like dream stuff. He came for her while she was in coma after the accident."

  Alvarez said, "Stop that."

  I said, "Bullshit; look at it, man. It's what this whole thing has been about. Francesca must have been something pretty terrific to rate that kind of attention from Valentinius. That guy is not just an angel; he's an archangel. He—"

  "Yeah, but I thought the angels come after you're already dead. Shit, it looks to me like he was helping her die or something; what the hell kind of wings is that? That's interference, that's... it should be against the rules; I could get an indictment on that guy from a grand jury. That's incitement to suicide, it's... it's..."

  I said, "Argue with an archangel if you want to, pal, but leave me out of it."

  "Well, goddammnit, you didn't do much better for yourself. I swear you told her to go ahead and die."

  God damn but that hit me hard, true though it was. I guess Alvarez saw it on my face because he quickly tried to take it back. "I mean how could you have known?—it's my fault for holding out on you."

  I said very
wearily, "It's nobody's fault, Bob. How could you have seen what you saw and still want to indict someone for it?"

  He was silent for a moment, then replied, "Guess you're right. It was something terrific, wasn't it. I think I want to go that way. With the ancient man showing me the way."

  I growled, "Better clean up your act then. And don't really bank on Valentinius, even then. This was quite a bit more than a mere death escort you know. This was a total reintegration within the flesh. Before death of the body occurred, I mean. Maybe that is what many comas really are. Takes a while to work it all out sometimes. Especially with a very old soul. You saw all those paintings. Forty or more. Each one was a piece of Francesca."

  Alvarez shivered. He said, "You mean, like reincarnations?"

  I shrugged and replied, "However you prefer to look at it. The point is the total personality was reintegrated within the flesh. They have a name for that in most of the mystery religions, even in Christianity, though each call it something different."

  "What do you call it?" Alvarez said wonderingly.

  "I call it going home whole," I replied. "Are you Catholic?"

  He said, "Born one. But I haven't...you know how it is. I think I would've made a good medicine man."

  He chuckled and I chuckled.

  It was good, being able to talk it out.

  I recommend talk as an antidote for a broken heart. Bob Alvarez and I talked the night away. But I still went back to Malibu with my heart in pieces.

  I had, after all, sent my love home without me.

  Alvarez wrote the draft of his official report closing the Sloane case at Pointe House that night. There was no sense asking for trouble, and certainly he would have been in a lot of trouble trying to document his experiences in that house, so he merely omitted all references to anyone but me. Actually there was no need for anything else. The sergeant had been withholding quite a bit of info from me. The Newport Beach police were holding a file of audio tapes from Hank Gibson's office—telephone records—it seems the guy recorded every call going across his desk. Those tapes revealed a conspiracy between Gibson and the younger Sloane going back for more than two years, even while the elder Sloane was still functional and controlling the Medici account—minor pilfering and manipulation of funds—apparently initially designed to allow young Sloane to have his cake and eat it too; that is, a way around the restrictive covenant: Jim Sloane. and Hank Gibson were secretly in partnership and using the Medici money to fund their holding company.

  Thieves often fall out though, and these two were no exception. While Jim Sloane was content to idle back and steal small, Gibson saw a way to walk away with the whole pie. He'd developed connections both in Sacramento and Santa Ana, and evidently he had managed to manipulate official records in both places, deleting crucial filings that established the Pointe property as an estate-in-trust and setting it up for takeover.

  There remains much to be learned about all that, supposing someone were interested, but the whole question became moot for me when Valentinius walked away from it. It was my clear understanding that he desired no official fight over the property, and that is perfectly understandable under the circumstances; one official question always leads to ten or twelve more; I am sure he preferred to simply cut his losses and walk away.

  There was no one left to quarrel with anyway.

  Alvarez and I put it together that Jim Sloane must have looted the Medici file to back up Gibson's manipulations of the official records. Old Tom Sloane discovered the attempted fraud and couldn't handle it, if we are to take Valentinius at his murky truth. The knowledge drove old Tom up the wall, and his way of handling it was a total breakdown.

  The death grimace I'll have to leave for your own understanding. I have told you what was told to me in that regard. Both Jim Sloane and Hank Gibson died officially of a heart attack. You can guess as well as I about the circumstances that produced those attacks in two healthy

  young men. The police do know that Jim Sloane visited Hank Gibson in Newport Beach early during the evening of both deaths. They think that Gibson was the first to die, but time of death is not usually as precise a matter for coroners as the public is led to believe.

  Alvarez theorized that Gibson died while Sloane was with him. Sloane then drove to Laguna, left his car on Pacific Coast Highway and walked into the estate to avoid notice, and went to search my suite for information. He died in that search. Alvarez conveniently placed the heart attack on the little balcony just outside my bedroom; the body toppled over the low railing and plunged to the beach.

  So much for neat police reports.

  I tend to believe the murky truth from Valentinius. Angels do not kill I'm sure, but they can reveal truth—and sometimes, as Val suggested, the truth can kill. That is good enough for me.

  I don't know what to tell you about Hai Tsu or her particular kingdom of heaven other than what you already know. Her collaboration with Valentinius could have been—and I suggest you consider this seriously—could have been a sort of joint effort. Like, you know, the U.S. and Soviets linking up in space as evidence of goodwill and international cooperation, etc. Clearly Hai Tsu was not under Val's direct authority; she served by some other charter, and please don't ask me to speculate on that—except to note that Jesus himself declared that in his father's house there are many mansions. I do not know which mansion Hai Tsu came from, but I daresay it is a very nice one.

  I went back beneath that mountain a week later but had to go in via the tidal cave; there was no longer a door in the cellar or elevator pit, but I could detect a faint outline in the stone where maybe a door had been. The passageway between the tidal cave and the smaller chamber was still intact, but the chamber itself was in ruins, as though someone or some thing had pulled a pin or something and undermined the whole structure. I found, yeah, some concave sections of rock that were very smooth on the inner surface, almost glasslike, but I found no stainless steel or whatever that stuff was.

  I used that paper from Valentinius to tidy up behind him. Took all the money left in the Newport bank, nearly half a million, and divided it between the two ladies left behind without a job by the deaths of the Sloanes. I figured the long years of loyal service was deserving of that small reward; they could have a fling or two to brighten up their old age. I'm sure Valentinius approved. Old Ed James, the third partner in the firm, was apparently never involved in the Medici affair; he was Tom's brother-in-law and actually the only surviving relative. Technically anyway, the firm itself survived but James is living on borrowed time and will be going home one day soon.

  My contact in Switzerland ran into a stone wall regarding the dealings there. He could ascertain only that money was finding its way in by various routes—and on the very day that he accessed the principal account, a freeze order had been imposed to lock up all funds until further notice, but he could not ascertain the source of that order. You wouldn't think that heaven needed currency, would you, but I guess you have to play any game under the rules where the game is being played. I kept my ten grand as part of the deal and figured I'd earned it; though it was small consolation for what I'd lost.

  We can't count wins and losses in this kind of game though. As Val suggested, our infinity is large enough to contain them all, and all are headed inexorably toward the same point. "Error is perfection in process," yeah, I could buy that. Had to, 'cause I'd witnessed the process.

  Funny thing about processes though. I went back to Malibu that morning—after the grand slam at Pointe House—a total wreck, almost completely out of it, feeling used and abused and very sorry for myself—smarting too over the idea that maybe I'd been playing a bit at the game of God and who the hell was I to be tinkering with people's lives that way?

  As is my usual custom, I undressed en route from my back door to my bathroom, tossed the clothing in a pile, and stepped into the shower. I was in there I guess five minutes, just soaking up the hot water and ventilating suppressed rage and pain. First thing I noti
ced when I came out of that shower was the fact that the clothing I'd ejected en route to the bathroom was missing. It simply was not there. Remember, I had been wearing an outfit from the Pointe House wardrobe. I guess it was inviolate while it was on my person—but once I shucked it, it was off and running to wherever the other stuff went.

  Next thing I noticed was a new decorative effect in my living room. A new painting occupied the wall space above the fireplace. It was titled Soul Mates. That painting still hangs there. You can come and take a look at it any time you'd like. It may startle and bedazzle you though, the same as everyone else who has seen it. Obviously a master work and straight from someone's heart.

  That takes me back to where I started, doesn't it. It has been a difficult story to tell. I still do not fully understand all of it. And I still hurt a bit from it. But things got a lot better in that department during the week following the experience. I kept pretty busy, did a lot of shuttling between Malibu and Laguna tying up loose ends with Alvarez and seeing to several legal details concerning the property. The state has it now, by the way, and it looks like the developers won't get their hands on it after all. A move is underway to add the property to the parklands.

  Anyway, I was telling you about the funny way things sometimes can process. I'd been staying busy. On the third night after Francesca went home, I dreamed very vividly of her. It was not a long dream; I just saw her in this strange place, performing strange tasks having somehow to do with the origins of art; it was not all that clear what she was doing—I just knew that she was supremely happy. And that dream gave me a new insight into the truth behind Francesca. Remember the Francesca I and II problem? I had thought that II was trying to take over I. Wrong. Francesca I was trying to assimilate Francesca II—and II was the one lying in that hospital bed at Irvine. I checked it out with her former roommates. It's true. The Francesca they knew was overbearing and demanding, often haughty and rude, very much a problem personality. They did not even go to her funeral. I did and saw her parents there. Nice people. I did not approach them, feeling that I could add nothing but confusion to their loss.