Death & Stilettos

by Jason Krumbine

  “I feel like that device takes a lot of the wonder out of our jobs,” Brooke says.

  “Weren’t you the one who was saying she felt stupid using the tapping sticks?”

  “Yeah, but going from tapping ticks to weird little boxes with red and green lights,” Brooke makes a wishy-washy motion with her hand. “It’s a bit of jump. Also, I really don’t trust Suity-McSuit.” She twists the computer monitor around so Avery can get a look at it. “Look what Hollway’s got on his desktop.”

  It’s a picture of a cabin in the woods. Hollway and his wife are standing in the foreground looking happy.

  “A vacation?” Avery suggests.

  “Something memorable enough to pull his soul away?” Brooke says.

  Avery looks at the picture again. She shakes her head. “No. His wife would have said something.” Avery looks around the office, “What’s missing?”

  “Other than our dead souls?”

  “Somebody came here looking for something,” Avery says. “So they either found it or didn’t. Either way, it’s not here now. So what’s missing? Burton’s computer wasn’t in his office.”

  Brooke frowns. “Sorry, you’ve lost me.”

  “Dad used to do these sort of things all the time,” Avery says.

  “Yeah and I thought he was crazy when he was doing it, too,” Brooke says. “Easily the worse part about going with Dad on jobs. That and the talking to himself.”

  “He had a system that worked for him,” Avery says.

  “It could be improved on,” Brooke turns the computer monitor back around and starts typing on the keyboard.

  “What are you doing?” Avery asks.

  “Looking up Larry Faraco on the Internet.”

  “Really?” Avery shakes her head.

  “What? I said we needed a computer.”

  “Why don’t we just leave little business cards saying we were here,” Avery says. “Maybe we can take a photo of us out in the front.”

  “Stop being such a sissy,” Brooke says. “You never heard Dad complain about stuff like that.”

  “That’s because Dad didn’t have to worry about crime scene investigators who could pick up your DNA off of keyboards,” Avery says. “You’re the one who didn’t want to spend the day answering Jackson’s questions.”

  “There’s a difference between being efficiently rebellious and just plain paranoid,” She stops typing and starts using the mouse, scrolling through the search results. She frowns.

  “You find anything?”

  “I found a listing for a construction worker in Florida and bunch of stuff for a Larry Robbins, a Carmon Faraco and a Larry Henderson,” she slouches back in the seat.

  The sisters are silent for a few minutes.

  “So,” Avery finally says. “What’s not here?”

  Brooke points to the file cabinet behind her sister. “Somebody also took the first two drawers from here.”

  Avery looks at it, pulling out the lower drawers. They’re client files and they’re all in alphabetical order.

  “Hey, look at this,” Brooke says.

  Avery gets back up. Brooke’s pointing to the monitor. She walks around to the desk and reads over her sister’s shoulder.

  “Burton and Hollway got bought out recently,” Brooke says. She’s has an email on the screen. It’s addressed to Burton and Hollway’s entire client list. “Last week somebody named Raymond Stevens bought the entire practice and then had them dump all of their other clients.”

  They look over at the empty client drawers.

  “It’s a place to start,” Avery says.

  fourteen

  Ricky Morrison’s a weedy-looking fellow with blonde hair and a sharp widow’s peak. He wears thick glasses and never looks anyone in the eyes. He works in a tiny cubicle, no larger than a lunchbox, really, located in a nondescript building.

  Ricky almost falls out of his chair when Brooke pops her head over the wall of Ricky’s cubicle.

  “Ricky,” Brooke says, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  Ricky gives a nervous squeal and fumbles with his glasses. “Ms. Graves, I would appreciate it if you stopped doing that. I’ve told you this repeatedly.”

  “Listening isn’t my strong suit,” Brooke walks around and drops herself down in the spare chair in Ricky’s cubicle. She makes a face, waving a hand in front of her nose. “What is that smell?”

  Ricky looks away, focusing on a dirty spot on his cubicle wall. “I was recently diagnosed with a nervous gas disorder.”

  Brooke raises an eyebrow, angling her body away from Ricky. “Is that a real thing?”

  Ricky pushes his glasses back up his nose. “It would seem so.”

  The cubicle gets a little smellier.

  “Wow, that is bad,” Brooke makes a vague gagging motion.

  “Sorry,” Ricky whispers.

  “Is there some medication or something you can take because that is not natural,” Brooke tries to breathe through her mouth. “Alright. Maybe we shouldn’t talk about it.”

  “I think that would certainly help, ma’am.”

  Brooke waves her hand around again, trying to air out the cubicle. “Okay, well, Ricky, how’s things with you?”

  “I have a nervous gas disorder,” he says.

  “Yeah,” Brooke nods. “So, that covers the small talk. Ricky, I need your computer skills.”

  Ricky looks around nervously. The office is fairly quiet though; everybody’s busy with a birthday party in the lunchroom.

  “I told you, I really can’t help you while I’m at work,” Ricky whispers, though it sounds more like a hoarse yelling.

  Brooke sighs and places her hands on his cheeks, smooshing his face together. “Ricky, Ricky, Ricky, how many times do I have to tell you? This isn’t illegal.”

  Ricky swallows and Brooke watches as he tries to look everywhere except at her. “Ms. Graves-”

  Brooke cuts him off. “And stop calling me Ms. Graves.” She lets go of him.

  Ricky looks down at the floor. “You’re very intimidating and, therefore, sometimes, your requests come across as slightly illegal,” he whispers the last two words.

  “Right,” Brooke drags out the word a bit. She glances at her watch, but it still shows a quarter past three. She really should do something about that. “Okay, look, I just need you to find some people for me.” She points to the computer. “That’s all. Really.” She smiles at him. “Not only will I pay your normal rate, but I’ll give you a kiss on the cheek. That’s got to be worth something, right?”

  Ricky adjusts the collar of his orange shirt. All of a sudden it’s very hot in his tiny cubicle. “O-O-kay,” he stutters and turns back to his computer. His hands hover, poised over the keyboard.

  “Raymond Stevens and Larry Faraco,” Brooke says.

  “Any points of reference?”

  “One of them might be dead or missing.”

  Ricky waits, but nothing follows. Finally, he looks over his shoulder. “Which one?”

  “Oh,” Brooke nods her head. “Larry.”

  Ricky turns back to his computer and starts typing.

  Brooke tries to watch over Ricky’s shoulder, but she can’t make heads or tails of whatever Ricky’s doing. She leans back in her chair.

  “Say, Ricky, how much do you make here?” she asks.

  “Forty-three thousand a year,” Ricky replies.

  “Forty-three thousand,” Brooke repeats. “Not bad,” she peeks out of the cubicle. There’s little to no traffic between the rest of the cubicles. “And what is it you guys do here again?”

  “Data mining, network programming and we run genealogy dot net out of here, too,” Ricky replies. He looks over his shoulder at Brooke. “No offense, Ms. Graves, but you ask me that every time.”

  “Yeah, that’s because every time I don’t understand what you’re actually saying,” she points to the screen. “Something’s come up.”

  Ricky turns back to the computer. “I’ve got a bank account
for a Lawrence Faraco and an expired driver’s license.”

  “What’s the address on the license?” Brooke asks.

  “Thirty-three eighty-four Standard Drive,” Ricky pulls up a second browser window and types in the address. “It was an apartment three years ago.”

  “What is it now?”

  “A supermarket,” Ricky replies. “And an overpriced one at that.”

  “What about his bank account?” Brooke asks.

  Ricky involuntarily shudders, a nervous tic. “Ms. Graves, you say this isn’t illegal, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to know the personal details of an individual’s bank accounts.”

  Brooke rests a hand on Ricky’s shoulder. “Ricky, don’t think too hard about it, okay?”

  Ricky swallows loudly.

  “Bank account is registered to a PO box,” he squeaks.

  Brooke frowns. “And how about Raymond Stevens?”

  Ricky takes a few deep breaths. “That one’s a little easier,” there’s a couple of mouse clicks and the screen fills up with a wealth of information.

  “Wow,” Brooke says.

  Brooke finds her sister down in the car.

  “You know, it’s not as much fun when I do these things without you,” she says, getting in.

  “He didn’t even notice I wasn’t there,” Avery has a salad on her lap and bottled water in the cup holder next to her.

  “That’s true,” Brooke admits. “But that’s not the point. Aren’t we supposed to be a team?”

  “The guy is weird,” Avery says.

  “He grows on you after while.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet he does,” Avery says. “I have enough weird people in my life. What did he find out?”

  “Larry Faraco continues to be a dead end,” Brooke explains. “His driver’s license is outdated and expired. He’s got a bank account that leads to a PO box. But you are not going to believe what he found out about Raymond Stevens.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “You know that building with the archways downtown?” Brooke says.

  “And the naked-looking statue?”

  Brooke nods. “Yeah. Raymond Stevens owns that and several other buildings in town.”

  Avery takes a swig from her water. “Interesting.”

  “He’s what you might call a ‘rich bastard,’” Brooke holds up a pile of printouts Ricky made. “He’s worth several hundred million dollars. Very big in real estate,” she flips through the printouts and then holds one up. “Remember this place?”

  Avery studies the picture for a minute. She nods. “Yeah, it’s the place where that thing happened.”

  Brooke nods excitedly. “Stevens owns it.”

  “So, what you’re saying is, this Raymond Stevens guy is something of a rich bastard,” Avery says.

  “Very rich.”

  “I wonder how much of a bastard he is?” Avery raises an eyebrow.

  “We’ve got two dead souls who aren’t at any of the usual places,” Brooke says.

  “Yep,” her sister nods.

  Brooke holds up another paper. “I have an address.”

  fifteen

  The address belongs to a skyscraper downtown. Raymond Steven’s offices were located on the twenty-eighth floor.

  Brooke and Avery stand outside in the courtyard, looking up at the building.

  Avery looks around discreetly. Plenty of people coming and going.

  “Is there a way we can do this without looking like weirdos?” Brooke asks, sucking on a lime-colored lollipop.

  “Probably not.”

  “Good.”

  Avery looks back at her sister.

  “I’m trying to perpetuate a reputation for us,” Brooke explains.

  “That’s a big word for you,” Avery says, walking up to the building.

  “It’s that word of the day calendar you got for me,” Brooke replies. “It’s doing wonders for my vocabulary.”

  “I’m glad I could finally make a positive influence on your life,” Avery says.

  They enter the lobby of the building. The security guard gives them an odd look, but doesn’t stop them. They reach the elevators and Avery hits the UP button.

  Brooke looks around as they wait for the elevator.

  “Does it smell funny in here?” she asks.

  “Like disinfectant?” Avery suggests.

  Brooke nods. “Yeah.”

  The elevator arrives. They’re the only occupants.

  Brooke hits the button for the twenty-eighth floor.

  As the elevator begins to rise Avery pulls out her tapping stick.

  “You know they’re going to see that on the security cameras,” Brooke says.

  “You have a better idea?”

  Brooke doesn’t reply and Avery keeps the stick behind her back. She gently taps it against the wall of the elevator.

  There’s a slight rippling noise.

  The Graves sisters look at each other.

  “Interesting.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  The elevator continues to rise.

  Avery puts the stick away and pulls out the spectral device. She flips the switch. The green light comes on for a second and then the red light flashes.

  “I don’t know about you,” Brooke says, “but I’m getting goosebumps.”

  “It would seem we’re on to something,” Avery agrees, replacing the device.

  “Should we have asked for your boyfriend for help?” Brooke asks.

  Avery’s watching the digital readout over the elevator doors. “How’s Jack supposed to help us?”

  “Not Jack,” Brooke says. “Your other boyfriend.”

  “My other boyfriend?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “How many boyfriends do you think I have?”

  Brooke holds up the peace sign with her fingers. “Two. Your regular boyfriend, Jack, and your grim reaper boyfriend, Thane.”

  Avery shakes her head. “Thane is not my boyfriend.”

  “He makes goo-goo eyes at you,” Brooke says.

  “He makes goo-goo eyes at everyone.”

  Brooke shrugs. “It’s hard to argue that man’s not attractive.”

  “I’m not arguing that.”

  “What’s the saying?” Brooke asks. “Something about breaking the mold?”

  “Do you have a point to any of this?”

  “I’m just saying, maybe we should have called your other boyfriend,” Brooke says. “I mean, he did dump this on us.”

  “Okay, we can’t call my other boyfriend because I don’t have one,” Avery says. “And, two, Thane didn’t dump this on us, he offered it to us because we’re on Russell’s hit list.”

  “We are?”

  “Yeah, turns out he wasn’t too fond of you deflowering his nephew.”

  Brooke giggles. “I forgot about him.”

  “Russell didn’t.”

  “Can you deflower a man?” Brooke ponders. “I mean, like, there’s nothing you’re actually breaking through. So, does it still count as deflowering?”

  “You’re focusing on all the wrong points,” Avery says.

  “Strangely enough, that’s what I told Russell’s nephew,” Brooke replies with a straight face.

  “Oh, you think this is funny?”

  “I think we should have called your other boyfriend,” Brooke says.

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Well, then can I have him?” Brooke asks.

  “Help yourself,” Avery says.

  “You’re not going to get jealous and resentful?”

  “Why would be I jealous and resentful of something I didn’t have?”

  “You could at least take him out for a test drive,” Brook suggests.

  “Thane is not car,” Avery chastises her.

  “No, but if he was, he’d be a fine car,” Brooke replies. “Very fine.”

  “You remember Shirley Martinez?” Brooke asks her.

  “The reaper?”

  �
��The reaper, yes,” Brooke says. “Thane dated her for a little bit.”

  Avery looks at her, a look of disgust on her face. “He did not.”

  “He did to,” Brooke insists. “Not long. Maybe a month or two.”

  “She’s a total skank.”

  “One of the skankiest,” Brooke agrees.

  Avery shakes her head. “No, it’s an empty rumor.”

  “It’s not an empty rumor.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Vince saw them out together a couple of times,” Brooke says. “Plus, Shirley’s a total blabbermouth. Her personal motto is: Kiss and tell everyone.”

  Avery makes a face. “She’s a total skank.”

  “But you don’t care about Thane.”

  “I don’t,” Avery insists.

  “Which is why you’re all upset over the fact that Shirley had him every which way,” Brooke says.

  “I’m not upset.”

  Brooke points to Avery’s face. “You look like you just ate a piece of rotten cheese.”

  There’s a soft ding as they reach the twenty-eight floor. The elevator doors open.

  On the other side stood Roy Perkins and two smaller thugs.

  The big guy smiles. The loud noises they hear are knuckles cracking.

  In unison, the sisters say, “Oh, sh-”

  sixteen

  Avery groans loudly as she returns to consciousness. There’s something rotten in her mouth. She picks it out. It’s a banana peel. She sits up and looks around. She’s surround by piles of garbage.

  They’re in the city dump.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she mutters. The back of her head is pounding. “Brooke!”

  The garbage to her left moves and her younger sister pops up.

  “What the hell? It feels like somebody dropped an anvil through one ear canal and out the other,” she moans.

  Avery pushes to her feet. “Do you remember what happened?” she gives her sister a hand.

  “I remember saying we should have called your other boyfriend, the elevator doors opening,” Brooke says. “And then…”

  “We got pummeled,” Avery finishes, “by Mr. Roy Perkins and friends.”

  “It’s coming back to me now,” Brooke pinches the bridge of her nose. “I told you we should have called your other boyfriend.”