by Atkins, Dawn
He considered how much to say. “There’s some screwy stuff with money, that’s for sure. You hear anything specifically foul?”
The guy studied him, then looked out. “Not really.” Another lie, but Gage didn’t dare push him. He’d already revealed a lot. “Why are you after L.E., anyway?”
“I just want to know she’s okay.”
He considered that. “She needs to cut Murphy loose.”
“Murphy?”
“Smurf. Mike Murphy’s his real name.” He ran his hand across the top of his pale scalp. “No idea what went wrong. He used to be real into the Life. He was Lifer of the Month a while back. Hell, his picture’s still in the break room.” He shook his head.
Gage could snap a phone shot of the guy to show around, at least. If Beth loved him, she’d be with him. They’d been gone a week. They could be anywhere. He gritted his teeth to keep from swearing. He’d missed her again.
Ruben shook his head sadly. “Let her go, man. Chicks are like bad drugs. You don’t realize until it’s too late to throw it all up.”
Gage said nothing.
“Focus on the Life. You’re better off.” He stood, dropped his cigarette, ground it out, and turned to go back into the Lounge.
Gage followed him, aching inside, wanting to pound the unforgiving brick until his fist was bloody. Beth would never stay in a shelter, even if they’d dumped her boyfriend there. She’d more likely camp.
Ruben turned to look at him. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“I can’t.”
“Hell. Check hospitals first. Smurf was sick. She’d get him treated just to shut him up.” Ruben gave him directions to the nearest ones and he thanked the guy.
“Don’t thank me, pal. This can’t come out good.”
Gage was afraid he was right. Dread seeped into him, dank as the scent of rotten fruit from the alley. Something was very wrong.
For now, he had a shift to pretend to cover.
Slipping into the break room, he snapped a photo of the blue-haired doofus Beth had fallen for, then managed three quiet calls to hospitals pretending to be Michael Murphy’s brother. No patient by that name at any of them, though the guy could have come in as an emergency patient, never getting a room.
Gage had some hours tomorrow, since his shift didn’t start until three, so he’d visit homeless shelters, hit the police about a missing-persons search. For the time being, he’d remain a Lifer, since NiGo was after Beth. At some point, he’d ditch Lounge Life and search full-time.
Closing out his shift, Gage headed to the barracks, where he spent some time working over Beth’s code. He’d tried twelve different arrangements of alphabet letters, testing them with the directional pictures, ending up with nothing. Unless he got lucky, it would take another week to eliminate all but the correct combination of letters. He dropped onto his bunk to try to sleep, except the snoring crowd and his reeling thoughts made that impossible. For a flick of time he considered driving to Rena’s motel and curling up with her. Ruby’s Rooms was close by, after all.
She would completely freak. The “time-out” was over. She’d declared them “back to normal.” He didn’t think that was possible now. She stayed in his head. He got flashes of the sex, the way she’d trembled in his arms, the stubborn courage she wore like an avatar skin, the look in her eye when he’d pissed her off. She was easy and hard at the same time. He didn’t mind. He’d never had anyone stay in his head before.
Thinking about her, he was surprised to find himself drifting to sleep.
…
The conference room was jammed when Rena entered for the meeting. Attending were managers from the six Lounges in the western U.S. Chairs were three deep around the huge, battered conference table. At the head of the room was a pull-down screen showing a PowerPoint: NiGo Interactive, Our Present Glory, Our Future Dream.
The crowded room was warm and smelled of coffee and doughnuts and men’s cologne. The talk was a roar until a flurry of movement near the door brought an abrupt silence.
The crowd parted and Nigel entered in his familiar jade tunic. He bowed and shook hands with the people he passed, but when he spotted Rena, he went straight to her and squeezed her hand in both of his. “So glad to see you, Genevieve.” He held her gaze. “Welcome, welcome.” When he moved on, people around the room shot her looks. Why had Nigel singled her out? Was she golden like Lionel had said? God, she hoped not. She slipped into a chair beside Baker, looking straight ahead, her cheeks flaming.
Mason called everyone’s attention by tapping a pen to a water glass. So the money guy would run the show. Rena’s heart sank. He would slice and dice her feel-good scheme for the benefit of the other Lounges’ managers. She would have to talk fast and pray that Nigel’s presence might slow him down.
Mason’s gaze took in each manager in turn, intimidating everyone, since each head dipped and all eyes slid away. Maybe his mismatched eyes made people uneasy. Or maybe no one trusted him any more than she did.
First thing, GMs reported one by one on their Lounge’s finances and news. The Seattle manager went last and his report was grim. “We need a rebuild,” he said. “There’s a neighborhood revitalization project, but it’s all talk, no grants, so we need an infusion of—”
“Sorry,” Mason interrupted with a raised hand. “Until the new Lounges are online, that discussion is tabled.”
The GM’s face dropped. “Seattle is the first Lounge. It can’t go under. What about the buyout?”
“D&G’s profile does not meet our standards,” Mason snapped. “Moving on…”
“All due respect,” the guy insisted, “why not grab the cash? I lose revenue daily.” Gazes shot around the room. Arguing with Mason had to be a bad idea.
“Patience, please,” Nigel said, silencing the room with his soft voice. “We are seeking business partners. Things are unfolding as they should.”
“Moving on again,” Mason said, clearly irritated, not the least intimidated by Nigel’s presence.
Nigel caught Rena’s eye, pressed his palms to his temples, then smiled at her, as if his financial migraines were their little secret. He’d told her he was depending on her to help with her donations, which made her stomach churn. If all went well, after lunch she would return from Bingham’s lawyer’s office with her first check for NiGo.
When the meeting broke at noon, Rena signed out a van to go to Harris, Little, and Lawton in a downtown high-rise. She’d made e-mail contact with Geoffrey Harris, but he’d insisted she come to his office to sign a form and accept payment.
Getting off the elevator at the eighteenth floor, she tucked the folder with the investment information under her arm and pushed through gold-trimmed glass doors into an office that screamed money—thick carpet, dark shiny wood, giant flower arrangements, huge paintings and sculptures. The reception counter was high, a barrier against unworthy visitors.
“May I help you?” The receptionist, as polished as the office, smiled up at her from behind the counter.
“I’m here to see Geoffrey Harris. Rena Novo?”
The girl checked a list and frowned. “Is he expecting you?”
She realized the problem. “It might be under Genevieve Wingate.”
“Yes! Here you are.” She called into an office and soon a guy in a suit stood at the desk, holding out his hand. “Genevieve. So nice to see you.”
“It’s Rena, not Genevieve.” She shook his hand. “Rena Novo.”
“That’s correct. I forgot the change.”
“I just need to sign something, right?”
“Absolutely. Come this way.” He led her down the hall and waved her into a big office. “Can we get you coffee or a soda?”
“No thanks. I don’t have much time.”
Ignoring her obvious rush, he motioned her to a black leather chair in front of his massive wood desk. “Please have a seat.”
“I need to get back to my meeting soon, so…”
“We won
’t keep you long.” He braced against his desk, then leaned back to push a button on his phone. “Beverly? Could you bring in those papers I had you prepare?” He smiled at Rena. “I have to say your father was disappointed he couldn’t be here, but he’s unavoidably in Tokyo. With more notice, he’d have rearranged his schedule to accommodate your arrival.”
Yeah, right. He’d be as mortified to see her as she would be to see him. “I didn’t want to bother him.”
“Will you be in Seattle long?”
“A few days.” Sitting down, she felt weaker. She wished the room had a black light so her tattoo would show and she could be Astra, strong and proud, immune to nerves or uncertainty or awkwardness.
“Bingham is very glad you reached out to him and hopes you’ll stay in better contact from here on out.”
“Sure.” She fought a smirk. Put me on his Christmas card list.
A woman tapped at the door, then came in, handing Harris what he’d asked for. “Thanks, Beverly,” he said. After she left, he looked over the papers inside. “This confirms that you’ll again be receiving your annuity checks, the amount to vary with interest rates and the market, on or before the third of each month. The checks are to be made out to the NiGo Interactive Foundation. Is that correct?”
“Yes. It’s a place I support with all my heart.” She held out the NiGo folder, exchanging it for Harris’s file. “This will tell you more about us. I urge you to consider investing further.”
Rena signed all the marked spots and handed over the folder, keeping the check. Two thousand, two hundred dollars. Wow. Just like that. She could hardly contain her relief.
She stood, slid the check into her pocket and said, “Thanks,” trying to stay cool and relaxed when she wanted to grin like an idiot.
“Are you well?” Harris leaned forward, wanting to keep her here, she could tell. “Enjoying Phoenix?”
“I’m fine. Phoenix is fine.” She took a step backward toward the door.
“Can I maybe take you to dinner?”
“I’ll be busy, but thanks.”
“Then a phone number?” He shot her a smile. “For your father?”
“Sure.” She gave him a made-up cell number.
“Is there more we can do?” He seemed at a loss for what to say.
“This is a start.” She patted the check, then had a thought. “There is one thing. What about the money from the past? Can I get that? Two grand over five years…?” A hell of a lot of money when she added it up.
He looked taken aback. “I assume that money has been reallocated, but if you’d like to chat with Bingham about your needs, he’d welcome the talk.”
Oh, you bet. “Maybe down the road.” She was disappointed, but she wasn’t about to beg.
“Let me give you his private number. That way you can keep him informed about what’s going on in your life.” He wrote it on the back of a card. “That’s my business card, so you can reach me if you need to.”
“Thanks.” She turned and left as fast as she could get out of there. She’d done it, scored the money, locked down regular deposits, though she couldn’t help thinking about the more than 100K that was owed her, that could have gone to NiGo. She pictured Nigel with his migraine, so small and racked with pain. If she met with Bingham, if she asked for that reallocated money…
No. Two grand had been Bingham’s original guilt money. He’d never give more and she would have humiliated herself for nothing. She patted her back pocket where the envelope crackled. That was plenty. She couldn’t wait to see the look in Mason’s blue-brown eyes when she thrust it at him.
…
“Yeah, I remember him.” The gray-haired guy at the front desk of the second homeless shelter Gage visited nodded at the cell-phone shot of Mike Murphy. “He was here a couple nights early in the week. He got kicked out for a liquor violation, I believe. I was on duty at the time.” The man leaned on the counter. “I felt sorry for him. He sat in the lobby, head in his hands, drug-sick as heck. His girlfriend brought him a can of soda and he drank it down like he thought it would help, poor thing.”
Probably a can of E. “The girl who was with him, how did she seem?”
“Nervous…anxious to leave. The young ones kill me, you know? Smart, good-looking people with their futures ahead of them. How do they end up so lost? I guess the families are worse. Mothers and babies…”
“You have any idea where they went? Murphy and the girl?”
“I told them there’s a free clinic north of here in Spencer and the church hall takes in folks some nights.” He shrugged. “The girl had a big duffel and bedroll, so they might be outdoors. Some of ’em can’t stand being closed in.”
“Where is Spencer?”
“It’s a little town about twenty miles north.” He gave Gage directions. “The clinic’s on Main, between the Laundromat and the bowling alley. We used to bowl there when I was a kid. We’d get root beer floats at the A&W. The town’s pretty dead these days, I’m sorry to say.”
A half hour later, Gage found the storefront clinic in the faded town. It was closed, opening at nine in the morning, according to the sign, which made him want to bust a window in frustration. He decided to check the church just in case.
The pastor was in his office and happy to help until Gage showed him Murphy’s picture. Then his face seemed to cave. “Is this someone close to you?”
“My brother.” Family status would get him more information.
The pastor drooped further. “I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr. Murphy has passed away.”
“He’s dead?”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“What happened?” To cover for his lack of emotion, he added, “We weren’t close.”
“I’m not certain what took him, but he was ill when they came in, Mr. Murphy and Ms. Pearl. It was, what, four days ago? Yes. They stayed the night to wait for the clinic in the morning, but it was too late. Ms. Pearl was very angry. She kept saying, ‘They’ll pay for this. They’ll pay.’ Grief hits us in different ways, I suppose.”
“Where did she go after that? Do you know?”
“To Bartlett’s, I imagine. That’s our mortuary. Dave Bartlett’s also the coroner. After that, I have no idea. She didn’t come back here.”
“Where’s the funeral home?” he asked wearily. Maybe Beth had said something to the funeral people about her plans. He hoped to hell she hadn’t headed back to Seattle for vengeance on NiGo. That would be far too dangerous.
“On Elm—south a half mile, turn left. It’s the brick house on the hill.”
“Thanks. And if you see the girl again, please call me.” He gave his number to the pastor, then headed to the funeral home.
Margaret, the receptionist, told Gage that Bartlett was out on a pickup, but she was delighted that he was here to “finalize the arrangements,” which he assumed was code for cutting a check. “We had no contact information whatsoever.”
“Wasn’t his girlfriend with him? L.E.? L.E. Pearl? About this tall?” He gestured.
“Not as far as I know, though I was at the bank when Mr. Murphy was brought in. If she had been here, I’m sure Mr. Bartlett would have taken down contact information. Actually, if you could give us a definite identification, as Mr. Murphy’s family, that would be very valuable.”
“Sure,” he said, though he’d never met the man. He let the woman lead him downstairs and along a tiled hall with a cloying floral scent that masked acrid chemicals and chlorine.
“Wait here, please.” Margaret left him in the hall. Through a window, he saw her speak with a young woman in a lab coat.
Joining him again, Margaret said, “Our mortuary technician—Bernice—will bring him in for you.”
A few seconds later, the woman rolled a sheet-covered body to the window and, without ceremony, turned down the cloth to reveal the waxy, bloated face of Mike Murphy, blue-tipped hair and all.
“That’s him,” Gage said to Margaret.
“I�
�m sorry for your loss,” Margaret said, so rote it might as well have been a God-bless-you after a sneeze. “At least you got here before Mr. Bartlett did the autopsy.”
“An autopsy? He was murdered?”
“Death in a young person is unnatural, so the law requires it. It could be an accident, of course. Mr. Bartlett will send tissue samples to the state lab for the official pathology report, so if you’ll—” Margaret’s cell phone played organ music. “Excuse me,” she said to Gage, turning to talk on the phone, her candy tone replaced by a terse one. “You tell him we need it taken care of today…today. We have two funerals coming up—” She covered her phone, then whispered sweetly to Gage, “Take all the time you need, then nod to Bernice when you’re finished. See me upstairs to sign the papers.” She scurried away.
What had killed Murphy anyway? Had he been poisoned like he claimed? What level in the Life was the guy anyway? If he could see the status tattoo… Gage eased into the room.
“You can’t be here.” Bernice lifted a hand in a stop sign, her eyes wide.
“I swear I won’t faint. I need to see his shoulder.”
She hesitated. She was early twenties, pretty, with a diamond in her nose, a choppy, short haircut, and a tattoo of vines up her neck.
“It will be okay, I promise.” He smiled reassuringly. “Did he have a tattoo? It would be very pale on his shoulder. Like dried glue?”
“Is that what it is?” She lowered the sheet to his collarbone and pointed to the pale shimmer on his shoulder.
“If you had a black light you’d see that it’s fluorescent.” He could pick out three pale colors, maybe four. So he was at least his sister’s level.
“Must be a new thing,” Bernice said. “We got another one yesterday. Same mark. No ID either.”
“Yeah?” Another dead Lifer? His heart sped up. “Could you show me? Maybe I know him.” Unlikely, but he might as well see what could be seen.