Storm Demon

by Gregory Lamberson

  He clicked on Kane’s image and it filled the screen: black hair, blue eyes, and a sensuous mouth. She fit the bill for a romance queen. She radiated glamour and could have passed for a movie star. The photo must have been old, because Kane appeared to be thirty-five, forty at the oldest, and Jake was sure she had been around for thirty years. Or maybe she had spent some of her millions on the best plastic surgeons.

  He moved the cursor over the Upcoming Appearances tab and clicked on it. A full calendar of events for the rest of the year appeared, and Jake zeroed in on the one at the top:

  Lilian Kane, the Queen of Romance, will sign copies of her latest novel, Love Knows No Lust, at the Eternity Books booth at World Book Expo in the Javits Center, Wednesday through Sunday from 1:00 to 4:00 p.m.

  Jake double-checked his calendar: the convention had

  already been running for two days, not that it mattered to him.

  Next, he located a quote from Kane on Erika’s disappearance in the New York Times.

  “Erika is a true talent,” Ms. Kane said. “She knows how to write, she knows how to entertain, and she knows to give the public what it wants. Please note that I’m using present tense; that’s because I refuse to believe she’s dead. She’s alive, and I vow to use Eternity’s resources to find her.”

  Jake clicked the Back button and returned to the Eternity Books website, where he clicked on the About Us tab and stared at the company’s address.

  His eye widened and his heart beat faster. He leapt out of his chair and ran through his office.

  In the corridor outside, he allowed his office door to close and he charged up the stairs to the fifth floor, then sprinted up a final stairway to the roof. He opened the door and staggered into the warm night air, compounded by heat radiating from the rooftop. Moving to the safety wall at the roof’s edge, he gazed one block and a half west, where a twenty-two-story building blocked his view of the city behind it: 175 Fifth Avenue: the Flatiron Building, home to St. Martin’s Press, Tor/Forge—and Eternity Books.

  Staring at the famous triangular building, Jake drew in a deep breath. Why the hell had Laurel—Erika Long—chosen to hide just one block away from the headquarters of her publisher? He shifted his gaze to the Tower, glowing in the night.

  For the same reason I chose an office so close to the Tower.

  Edgar knocked on his son’s door, then opened it.

  Martin looked up from his bed, where he had spread schoolbooks before him.

  “It’s getting late,” Edgar said. “I’m going to bed. Shouldn’t you do the same?”

  “I just want to finish this chapter.”

  Entering the room, Edgar saw no dirty laundry on the floor, a surprise. “What are you reading?”

  Martin frowned. “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “It’s hard to read. Nobody talks like this.”

  “They did back then.”

  “Then I’m glad I’m alive now.”

  Edgar moved over to a wall shelf and picked up a gleaming gold-plated athlete clutching a basketball. He turned the trophy so it reflected light. “Congratulations.”

  “Those games with you and Jake really helped.”

  Setting the trophy down, Edgar recognized the object next to it: a replica of the black falcon prop from The Maltese Falcon he had given Jake when Jake became a private eye. He picked up the heavy falcon and stared at its features. “What’s this doing here?”

  “Jake gave it to me. He told me to hang on to it and never give up faith that he’d find you.”

  Edgar put the falcon down. Jake had used the statue to brain a scarecrow, a former snitch who had stabbed his eye. Edgar had disposed of the body. “Then you can give it back to him.”

  “You’ll probably see him before I will, right?”

  Edgar took the falcon again.

  “Tell him I said thanks.”

  Smart kid. He sat on the edge of the bed. “Your mother told me about the Dreamers.”

  Martin stared at him.

  “I’m not going to tell you what you should have done. I’m only going to tell you what to do if they ever reach out to you again or if you’re tempted to contact them: talk to me. Understand?”

  Martin gave a slow nod.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Edgar took the boy into his arms and held him. The falcon felt heavy in his hand.

  Sipping home-brewed coffee, Jake checked his security log. According to the data the electricity in the building went out at 10:45 a.m. due to a thunderstorm. The system restored forty-five seconds later when the emergency generator had come on.

  Accessing his e-mail, he located the ticket confirmation for his flight to Pavot Island. It was the same day Laurel disappeared. In fact, he and Maria had been airborne when the power on East Twenty-third Street went out. Jake might have been looking at Erika Long’s author photo in Maria’s copy of Stormy Sands when Laurel’s alarm had failed.

  Jake focused on Lilian Kane, the owner of Eternity Books. She was fifty-nine, even older than Jake had thought. She had made her mark as the author of trashy soap operas and over time moved into the arena of sensational novels about empowered women. Studying the photos, headlines, and articles about her, Jake thought she portrayed herself as a commonsense feminist and sex symbol at the same time.

  Lilian’s name was so synonymous with her genre that she had turned it into a brand. Her high book sales attracted Hollywood, and the movies based on the books increased sales further. Ten years earlier she had turned down a small fortune to re-sign with her publisher and had instead founded Eternity Books. In the intervening decade she had become the wealthiest private owner of a publishing company in the world. During the same period Erika Kane disappeared, she made headlines for donating ninety million dollars to assorted charities.

  Jake brought up images of her Eastchester mansion, thirty minutes outside Manhattan. Surrounded by floral gardens and statuary, it resembled a palace from the Roman Empire. The mansion had been featured in magazine spreads, and Lilian had conducted a televised tour for a syndicated entertainment news show. Jake studied satellite photos of the estate, nestled in a wooded area and overlooking a valley. He guessed a long building parallel to the driveway was a garage and a smaller square structure located near the property’s gate was a security station.

  The buzzer to his office sounded.

  Unaccustomed to late night visitors, he clicked a button on his intercom. He looked at the security monitors above his safe, opposite the front of his desk. One showed an overhead view of the vestibule, where Maria stood. He pressed the buzzer button, unlocking the downstairs door, and released it when she entered.

  Jake bookmarked the web page and shut down his computer, then went to the safe, unlocked it, and returned the Glock to its resting place. There was no need for Maria to know he had already gotten himself into another situation.

  He crossed the office and unlocked the front door as Maria exited the elevator, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Apparently she intended to spend the night.

  “This is a surprise,” Jake said.

  “I have to keep you on your toes,” she said as if she hadn’t tried to blow him off just hours earlier.

  Maria gave Jake a light kiss on the lips.

  He closed and locked the door. “That’s a big purse,” he said.

  “I carry a big toothbrush.” She looked around the office. “I feel strange—antsy. Like part of me is still back in Miami or on Pavot Island. Do you know what I mean? It’s like I can’t readjust to a normal environment.”

  “I do know what you mean.” But he felt antsy for a different reason, and he pushed Black Magic out of his mind again.

  “You haven’t changed your clothes yet. That means you haven’t showered, either.”

  “Excellent police work.”

  She walked down the hall and entered his office. When Jake joined her, she stood staring
at the giant cage he had installed for Edgar.

  “I don’t know how you do it. Everything here is a reminder of the trouble you get into.”

  He shrugged. “We are what life makes us.”

  “The wisdom of Jake Helman. Here’s some wisdom from Maria Vasquez: get rid of that cage before someone thinks you’re keeping people in there.”

  “I don’t get many visitors.”

  “The first time I came here we were enemies.”

  “We were never enemies. You were just confused about your feelings for me.” Sort of like now.

  Maria snorted, then moved to the sofa and pointed at the long package on top of it. “What’s this?”

  “A thank-you card from Jorge.”

  “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  “I don’t have to. I already know what’s in it: an ATAC 3000, courtesy of our friends the freedom fighters. Libération de I’île Pavot.” The ATAC 3000 was a high-tech machine gun developed by one of the military subsidiaries of the Order of Avademe. An entire shipment of the weapons had made its way into the hands of the Pavot Island criminal underground before providing the freedom fighters with an advantage over their oppressors.

  Maria picked up the box and weighed it in her hands. “This has to be illegal ordinance. How do you think they got it here?”

  “They could have smuggled it from the island, or they could have a supply somewhere in Florida waiting to be smuggled.”

  She set the box down on the sofa. “Don’t you think you should take it out of the box?”

  “After everything we went through on Pavot, I need a break from guns.”

  She wandered over to the bookcase and examined his small library. “Books on tape?”

  “For stakeouts.”

  “It’s hard to believe there is such a thing in your life.”

  “They’re few and far between.”

  Bending sideways, Maria examined the titles. “Legal thrillers? For shame, Jake.”

  “They’re no worse than your romances.”

  “Touché.” She stood before his safe. “Crown jewels?”

  “I’m a private investigator. I have sensitive files.”

  “I bet you do.” Maria gestured at his bag. “You haven’t even unpacked yet?”

  “Who unpacks on their first day home?”

  “Your suitcase is going to smell like dirty laundry.” She made a face, then set her bag down and took off her trench coat. She wore the same tight green dress she had worn to Sylvia’s restaurant in Harlem when she and Jake had gone on an abbreviated double date with Edgar and Dawn Du Pre. The dress matched her eyes and emphasized her figure. “Remember this?”

  “How could I forget?”

  Maria walked to the office door and closed it. Then she turned and walked to him, swinging her hips. “I need your help, Mr. Helman,” she said in a breathy voice. “You’re the only man who can save me.” She walked to the back door, opened it with exaggerated movements, stepped inside, and turned on the light.

  When Jake joined her in the windowless storeroom that served as his bedroom, it occurred to him that he hadn’t set foot in here since his return.

  “Oh, my,” Maria said. “I’ve seen bigger jail cells. Cleaner ones, too.” Turning from his cot, she flipped on the light in his shower stall. “Now this is interesting.”

  “The toilet and sink are by the kitchen.”

  “That’s convenient if you cook a lot.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I didn’t think so.” She moved closer to him, which did not take much effort. “You’re going to have to upgrade.”

  “I’m willing to consider it.”

  She draped her arms over his shoulders. “Are you going to show me how glad you are to see me?”

  Jake slid his hand over her waist and kissed her.

  5

  Edgar lay awake on his bed in Joyce’s basement, surrounded by his furnishings and belongings. Staring at the ceiling, he listened to every sound outside: music from passing cars, pedestrians chatting, birds lighting on tree branches. He finally fell asleep sometime after 2:00 a.m., only to awaken at 7:35 when he heard movement in the kitchen upstairs. He got dressed and joined Joyce, who wore a bathrobe. Bacon sizzled in one frying pan, scrambled eggs in another.

  “What are you doing up so early?” Joyce said. “You don’t have to go in at any special time.”

  “I couldn’t sleep last night, and I wanted to see Martin off.”

  “You’re too late. He just left.”

  “That must have been what woke me up.”

  “I reminded him not to say anything to anyone at school. Are you nervous about today?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I’m sure someone is going to want to speak to you both after they’re finished with me.”

  “I’m sure but we don’t know anything.” She fixed him with a knowing look. “That’s why you’re keeping us in the dark, right?”

  He felt the ends of his mustache turning up. “I plead the fifth.”

  “You do that.” Joyce served the food onto plates, then turned to him. “I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too.”

  “I couldn’t sleep last night, either. I wanted to go down into the basement, but it didn’t feel right with Martin in the house.”

  “I know what you mean.” But he wasn’t sure what to do about it, and uncertainty had never been part of his character.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay,” Joyce said. Then she kissed him and he pulled her closer.

  Maria climbed the stairs of Detective Bureau Manhattan on East Twenty-first Street. A uniformed PO passed her without saying anything. Familiar scents filled her nostrils: old wood, peeling paint, and musty rug mats. She had not felt at home in her own apartment, but she felt at home here.

  She entered the squad room of the Special Homicide Task Force just before the start of her shift. Seeing Bernie at the coffee station, she nodded to him and went into the women’s locker room. It didn’t surprise her to see graffiti on her locker door: Welcome back, zombie lady. Ignoring the taunt, she spun the combination dial on her lock, which she removed, and opened the locker door. At least the inside had not been vandalized. She set her duffel bag in the locker, closed the door, and snapped the lock shut.

  Then she returned to the squad room, where she gave Bernie’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

  “Hallelujah,” Bernie said.

  “That’s right. You can relax now. The cavalry has arrived.” Maria knocked on Lieutenant Mauceri’s glass door, and the short man looked up from his monitor and beckoned her forward. When Maria entered the office and closed the door Mauceri peered at her over bifocals. “New glasses, L.T.?”

  “Yes, Vasquez, life has gone on while you were gone.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, sir, but I’m back and ready to get busy.”

  “Is your personal situation resolved?”

  “Yes, sir.” She had taken a leave of absence after using up her vacation time shadowing Jake in New Orleans.

  “That’s a nice tan you’ve got.”

  “I always tan in the summer. You should know that.”

  L.T. reached into his desk and took out Maria’s holstered Glock, which he handed to her. “Reinhardt will be glad you’re back.”

  She slipped the holster onto her belt. “Yes, sir, I’m sure he will.”

  Maria went to her desk and sat opposite Bernie. Once upon a time, Jake had sat in the same seat, and Edgar had called Bernie’s desk his home away from home. Scanning her desk, she noticed several of her personal items were out of place, and she moved them back where they belonged.

  “The world kept turning,” Bernie said.

  “So I hear. Are you working on anything?”

  Bernie shook his head. “Just some paperwork for the ADA. Do you care to help me?”

  She booted her computer. “I’d love to, but I’ve got six weeks’ worth of memoranda to read.”

  Jake stood on the Third Avenue sidewalk, savoring a h
ot dog with the works for breakfast. How he had missed the Big Apple. A fountain gurgled foamy water outside the angular office building, and the sun shone in the clear blue sky. A man wearing a blue suit and an obvious toupee passed him.

  “Wilson.”

  Jeff Wilson turned around and Jake walked over to him. Wilson’s eyes showed recognition, but Jake doubted the man remembered his name.

  “Jake Helman. Your Twenty-third Street building.”

  Wilson relaxed. “Right, our security consultant.”

  The innocent comment stung Jake. Wilson didn’t know that Laurel had disappeared, but if Jake had been in the city instead of flying to Pavot Island, maybe she would be in her parlor now. But then Edgar would still have feathers.

  “I didn’t recognize you with that beard and . . .” He made a circular motion in front of his face. “What happened?”

  Jake slipped his stump into his pocket. “It comes with the territory. I need to ask you a few questions about Eden, Inc.”

  “You couldn’t call?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay, then, come on up to my office.”

  “Thanks but I’d rather speak out here.”

  “Why the cloak-and-dagger routine?”

  Jake finished his hot dog. “I like to work in the street, that’s all.”

  “I don’t want to be late, so make it fast, will you?”

  “Who’s your contact at Eden?”

  Wilson’s expression changed into one of mild concern. “Why do you ask?”

  “They’re a client. I need to know.”

  “No, Monde Building Management is your client. I hired you.”

  “I like to know where my money comes from.”

  “You’re not getting money. You’re getting a huge discount on your office rental. Plus, we’re looking the other way as far as your living arrangement goes.”

  “It’s all of value, and I’d like to know who’s making it possible.”

  Wilson moved closer. “Eden, Inc. is a dummy corporation. I know because I’ve checked. Eden, Inc. exists for tax purposes and licenses and permits, but it doesn’t really exist; there’s no office. Every paper trail leads to another dummy corporation and another one after that. The pattern gets more and more complicated, like a spiderweb, with different strands leading back to the starting point. You want to spend two years going nowhere with it, be my guest.”