This Case Is Gonna Kill Me

by Phillipa Bornikova

  As we made our way through Roanoke, I spotted Hot Lips, the strip club where Abercrombie had met Chastity. The sign consisted of lots of different-sized and -shaped lips that seemed to be flying in space. All the lips were very red and very lush.

  I pointed it out to John, who gave me a grin and said, “Strip joints usually have good value on food. We could have lunch there.”

  “You speak from experience?” I asked.

  “I’ve been in a few.”

  “Mostly in the line of duty, I’m sure,” I said.

  He cast me an impish look out of the corner of his eye. “You can think that if you want to.”

  I waved a hand in front of his face. “Hello, irony. But if we do, I insist on equal time, and lunch at Hunk-O-Mania when we’re back in New York,” I said, referring to the club that featured hard-bodied young men dressed in tight pants and long duster-style jackets with bare chests.

  “Oh, goody, us and the gay guys.”

  “Hey, I went to a bachelorette party at the Chippendales in Boston.”

  “Thus proving my point. Women go to strip joints for special occasions. Men would happily live in one.”

  The GPS soon had us out of town driving through a countryside that was multiple shades of green. We passed a lot of white-fenced pastures with horses grazing on the lush grass. I couldn’t help it: my eyes kept going to those sleek bodies, tails swishing at flies, and pricked ears as they occasionally looked up to scan for danger.

  I looked back down at the printout. There were a depressingly large number of storage places. “How long is this going to take?”

  “Not long.” He paused then added, “If we get lucky.” He shot me a grin. “Welcome to the thrilling world of the PI. Legwork and stakeouts. That’s my life.”

  “We couldn’t have just called?” I asked plaintively.

  “Most people won’t give out that kind of information over the phone. But in person…” John flashed me that amazing Álfar smile.

  “That’s not going to work on a guy unless he’s gay,” I said dryly.

  “That’s why I have you along.”

  Our navigator robot guided us into Red Oak Hollow and began issuing ever more stringent commands. “In four hundred yards, go left and prepare to make a turn. Turn left.”

  John chuckled. “She’s got that whole dominatrix vibe going, doesn’t she? I think I like her.”

  I looked over the instructions. “You can change languages and voices. How about this one?” The next command was uttered by a male voice with a strong Australian accent.

  We made a few more turns while John and I switched the voices between Barbara the Dominatrix and Wally the Aussie, and we pulled through the gates of U-Store-It. Inside we found a middle-aged woman with brassy bleached-blonde hair, deeply tanned skin, and a net of wrinkles that made her look like an aged turtle head had been transplanted onto a human body. She was slumped behind the counter, smoking. At her feet was a very fat Labrador retriever. As we entered, the dog’s tail beat out a slow cadence on the linoleum floor.

  The manager looked up, and perked right up at the sight of John. “Help you?” she drawled in that soft Virginia accent.

  I opened my mouth, but John was there before me. “Yes, this young lady’s grandfather recently died under tragic circumstances.” He leaned across the counter and lowered his voice. “Home invasion. Murdered.”

  I have an absolutely useless talent—I can cry on cue. I thought about my first horse dying, and the tears filled my eyes and spilled over to run down my cheeks. John gaped at me but recovered quickly.

  “We’re trying to locate his assets, because Sarah is his sole heir.”

  “What’s the name?” the dyed blonde asked, turning to her computer.

  “Thomas Gillford.”

  The dog rose ponderously to her feet, waddled over to me, and pressed her body against my legs. It seemed like the dog was trying to comfort me. I patted her and felt like a shit. It was one thing to fool a human, but taking advantage of a dog … The woman typed and clicked on the computer, then finally shook her head. Gillford hadn’t stored with U-Store-It even though this location was less than a mile from the former site of his office.

  We thanked the woman and left. John slipped an arm around my waist and guided me to the passenger door. “Are you okay?” His tone was warm and solicitous.

  “Oh yeah. I can cry when I want to. I just think about something sad.”

  “If you ever decide to stop being a lawyer, you can come to work for me,” John said as he opened the door for me.

  We hit five more self-storage companies before deciding at one o’clock to take a break and find lunch. We had been slowly circling outward in search of Gillford’s elusive storage unit, and there weren’t a lot of restaurant choices out on these country roads. Finally we spotted a small diner on the outskirts of another small town.

  As we walked through the door into the icily air-conditioned dining room, the smell of frying food and baking bread folded around us. The walls were hung with photos and plates that had been autographed. I didn’t recognize most of the names, but then I spotted a few jazz and blues greats.

  “Somehow I think ordering a salad would get me tossed out,” I whispered.

  “Live a little. Just don’t think about your arteries,” John whispered back.

  We settled into a booth. The Muzak was blues and bluegrass. Our waitress, a pretty young woman with cocoa-colored skin, a cloud of jet-black hair, and a name tag that read Julie, delivered our menus. John quizzed her for a few moments about what was good. She said everything. John went for the chicken-fried steak. I went with fried chicken.

  The food arrived. I appeared to have half a chicken served with garlic mashed potatoes and cream gravy, a mound of hush puppies, and a side of greens that looked but didn’t taste like spinach. There was also a plate of cornbread and biscuits to share. The iced tea was heavily sweetened, which surprised me. The waitress correctly interpreted my expression.

  “Are you from up North? I bet you want unsweetened tea,” she said with a smile.

  “Because that’s going to make so much difference in the calorie count,” I said as I stared at my overflowing plate.

  The girl laughed, went away, and soon returned with my unsweetened tea. I began to eat. John had already made inroads in a breaded steak that seemed to cover his entire plate and was swimming in cream gravy.

  The food was wonderful, but I only managed to eat a thigh, a leg, and a wing. The girl packed up the leftovers, saying, “It’s really fine when it’s cold. It’ll make a nice snack for you folks. Anything else I can get for you? We’ve got peach cobbler and blackberry pie.”

  I shook my head, but John ordered peach cobbler à la mode. When Julie came back with the dessert and my packed chicken, I regretted my self-control. The crust was perfectly browned and dusted with sugar, and the rich syrup, bubbling at the edges of the bowl, made the ice cream melt like a late snowfall on a hot spring day.

  John pulled out the sheaf of papers and asked, “Is Chipmunk Storage near here?”

  “Yeah, it’s not far,” Julie replied.

  She gave us quick and concise directions and handed John the bill, which I promptly took away from him. I went up front to pay so I would be removed from the temptation of the cobbler.

  Back in the car, with the smell of chicken filling the space, John gave a gusting sigh. “I feel like a python that just swallowed a goat. Can I go hibernate now?”

  “No. You’re the one who ordered the dessert.”

  “And it was reeeally good.”

  He put the car in gear, and since Julie’s directions had been so clear we dispensed with Barbara/Wally. It was kind of a relief not to have them nagging us.

  Ten minutes later, we spotted a large billboard sporting a giant chipmunk, the tail rising even higher than the top of the sign. It was holding a nut between its paws and had a faintly crazed expression. Next to the squirrel the sign read CHIPMUNK STORAGE.

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nbsp; We pulled in and went to the office, housed in a double-wide trailer. A young redheaded man with an impressive paunch and suspenders to keep his pants from falling below his belly stood up as we entered. John dropped back behind me, my cue to take the lead.

  “Hi, my name is Sarah Hall.” I almost began our usual patter, but something made me change it to say, “An elderly relative of mine was recently murdered, Thomas Gillford—”

  “Wow, that’s strange.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve been dealing with that account. The rental checks stopped coming three months ago. I’d send letters to Gillford, but there was no response. Guess this is why. And somebody broke into his unit.”

  My spirits dropped like a stone at these words. We were too late.

  “Lucky for you, we had already moved his stuff out. But Mrs. Dannforth is gonna be pissed.” He grinned. “Oh Wow, that’s kinda funny.”

  “What is?” John asked, stepping in.

  “Whoever broke in just ripped the door off, but when they got inside they didn’t take anything. They just peed all over her furniture.” John and I looked at each other.

  “So, you still have Mr. Gillford’s possessions?” I asked.

  The young man eased his bulk out from behind the counter and picked up a large set of keys. “Good thing you got here when you did. The file cabinets, bookcases, and that big old desk and chair were going to be put up for auction on Saturday.”

  “And the papers?” I asked anxiously.

  “I called to have them hauled away to a recycling place, but they haven’t shown up yet.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “Come on.”

  The manager led us out of the trailer and over to a Quonset hut. The steel had been painted white, but it was still an eyesore. He unlocked the door and waved us in. It was breathlessly hot inside the metal building. A fat fly buzzed lazily in a shaft of sunlight pouring in through the high, narrow windows. John’s hand shot out, so fast it was almost a blur, and knocked the fly out of the air.

  “Wow,” said the manager. It seemed to be his general catch-all word for surprise and wonderment. “There are the files.” He pointed at several rows of mixed metal-and-wood filing cabinets.

  “And the contents?” John asked.

  The manager pointed at a pile of large and bulging black plastic garbage bags. John and I exchanged another look. So much for going right to the year when Syd had said the will was drafted. “Oh, yippee,” I said.

  We moved toward the pile but suddenly the kid got a crimp in his conscience. “I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t be letting you go through this stuff.”

  John reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a leather wallet, and flipped it open. It showed a flash of gold before he quickly flipped it shut again. “You’re helping us with a criminal investigation.”

  I wondered if he had just kept his badge from when he’d been a policeman or if it was a prop. Either way, it made me uncomfortable. I would clearly suck as a private eye. I waited hopefully, but the kid didn’t seem impressed.

  “You’re not a cop in this jurisdiction.”

  Damn Law & Order, I thought. John and the manager measured each other’s gazes, and it seemed a nonverbal conversation was taking place. John stepped in close and laid a hand on the manager’s shoulder. I drew in a breath, expecting John to sucker punch him or something equally macho. Instead I saw a fifty slide from John’s free hand into the kid’s. I realized I’d watched too many movies too.

  “Now that’s the kind of badge I can get behind,” the redhead said. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  He left, closing the door behind him. “Is this your world?” I asked.

  “Pretty much.”

  “Does it depress you?”

  “No, it’s just left me with few illusions about human nature. Open that door, or we’re going to die from heatstroke,” John said as he loosened his tie and took off his sports jacket. When the jacket came off, I realized he was wearing a gun in a shoulder rig. I spent a moment admiring the way his Italian-cut shirt hugged his body, and I had a sudden, sharp memory of those abs and running my fingers down his side. It got a few degrees hotter in the hut.

  I propped open the door with a small rolling filing cabinet. John grabbed the first bag and untied the plastic drawstring.

  I sat down on the concrete and started sifting through the mess. I reflected that, for me, the Abercrombie case had begun in a welter of paper, and it seemed it was going to end in one too.

  21

  Gillford had practiced law for a looong time. There were fifty years of files all jumbled together. I tried very hard not to absorb anything from the non-Abercrombie files. I tried to just look for key words, like—oh, Abercrombie. I also knew that a lot of clients, or heirs of the clients, were about to have their documents consigned to the shredder. This wasn’t really my problem, but I found myself wondering if I should inform the State Bar of Virginia.

  Judging by the letterhead, the watermarked paper, and the silk ribbons that tied shut some of the folders, Gillford had been a pretty old-fashioned kind of guy. So I told John to look for large folders of thick parchment-colored paper with ribbons and Gothic type that read Last Will and Testament.

  With fifty years of active practice, there were lots of Last Wills. A couple of times we heard the whine of the electric gate opening, and cars pulling in. Each time John would tense, go to the door, and peer out. Every time it turned out to be a tenant and not the Securitech goons returning.

  “What if we don’t find it before dark?” I squinted up toward the ceiling, but the Quonset hut didn’t seem to have been wired for electricity. “Have you got a flashlight?” I added.

  “Have I got a flashlight.” John stood up and took a penlight out of his pocket. “A good PI, like a good Boy Scout, is always prepared.”

  “So, what else have you got in your pockets?”

  John dropped down next to me. “You know, that sounds faintly suggestive.”

  I gave him a slap on the upper arm, but his nearness and the spicy scent of his sweat and aftershave had me once again very aware of my pelvic area. I could tell I was blushing, and I wanted to say to hell with this search and go find a hotel. But I didn’t think the kid would be as amenable to our search after he had a day to reflect. We had to finish today.

  As if my thoughts had summoned him, the kid wandered in, bringing with him the scent of pizza. My stomach gave a growl. It had been five hours since lunch. I thought about the chicken in the car. Then I thought of the heat and decided a dose of food poisoning would not improve the day.

  “Hey, the night manager’s going to be coming on at eleven. I don’t think he’s going to be too cool with you going through stuff, so you better finish up before then.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I said. He slouched out again, and I tackled the second-to-last trash bag.

  “You know it’s probably going to be in the last bag,” John said.

  “The way our luck has been, yes, that’s probably true.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, I think your luck has been pretty damn spectacular,” John said.

  “What?” It emerged as an outraged shriek. “I’ve been attacked and nearly killed by werewolves twice. I’ve come this close”—I held up two fingers a millimeter apart—“to getting fired—twice.”

  “Yes, and you’ve survived, both literally and metaphorically. And you’re leading a women’s revolt in the office.”

  “I am not.”

  “Are too. But be careful. Ryan has a nasty streak.”

  “Gee, I hadn’t noticed,” I answered, sarcasm dripping off each word.

  “Using you is one thing. He hasn’t actually gone after you.”

  “What can he do to me that he hasn’t already tried? He tried to get me fired and failed.”

  John was staring at me with an expression of bemusement. “For somebody who was raised by a vampire, you seem awfully naive. Or you must have been fostered with an exceptional v
ampire.”

  “Yes, I guess he was … is. He started me riding, supplied my horses, and gave me the horse I was riding when I turned eighteen and went off to college. He and Shade are close friends.”

  “Okay, that explains a lot. Shade Ishmael seems closer to human than most of them, and I suspect a friend of his would be the same. But let me assure you, that is not the norm. Most of them are distant loners with a narcissistic streak. They’d have to be because what other kind of person goes out looking to live forever, leaving behind all the people who were important to them in life?” His tone was harsh and ragged, and his gaze seemed to turn inward. I had a feeling this had less to do with vampires and more to do with him. It didn’t seem like the right time to point out the obvious, but this was me, so of course my mouth engaged before my brain.

  “You’re going to live forever too.”

  A flash of corrosive grief filled his eyes. He dropped his lashes, veiling those betraying eyes. “Not forever. The Álfar die too, but slowly, very slowly.” He paused, then added so quietly I almost missed what he said, “I just don’t know if I have the courage to deal with that.”

  “Courage? What does that mean?” Then understanding hit like a punch. “Oh no, don’t you tell me you’re thinking about suicide.” The papers I’d been inspecting lay forgotten in my lap.

  “What other solution do I have? I’ll watch my parents die—”

  “That’s a burden all children bear.”

  “My siblings. If I marry, I’ll bury her too, and our children, and their children.” John fell silent, and his face was so immobile that he reminded me of the effigies on tombs in Westminster Abbey.

  The future he was describing did sound horrible, but I was twenty-seven and dying seemed pretty horrible to me too. “John, how old are you?” I asked.

  “Forty-three.”

  It startled me. He looked like a man in his twenties. I picked up the papers and nervously shuffled them, shifting them front to back.

  “Then you’ve got a lot of time before—” John’s hand shot out and closed on my wrist.