by S. G. Wong
“Down south. Vice says this case is rare, though. It’s usually the illegals who play mule. It takes a certain amount of desperation,” Locke concluded.
“Then someone tossed him into the drink,” said Lola.
“Perhaps he fell. Perhaps he was in a boat and they tossed the dead weight.” Locke glared. “It’s not your concern anymore. This is our job now. If you want to help, tell us how to reach the lover.”
“Sorry, can’t help you there.” At Locke’s narrowed eyes, she repeated the truth, “I don’t know.”
“Don’t make me regret believing you,” growled the Detective Superintendent of Crescent City Homicide. He leaned forward suddenly. “How much longer, Steven?”
“Fifteen minutes, give or take, sir” came the soft reply.
Locke sat back. “Good. I’ve got some papers to go over.”
Lola rode in silence until they stopped in front of her building. Locke held her arm for an instant before she disembarked.
“Your case is over. You’ve found Josephson. Solving his death isn’t part of the job description. Find your client. Be the smart girl your father raised—convince Arbogast to come down to Central. And when he does, make sure you come with him.”
Chapter Eighteen
Lola entered her apartment to find her mother pacing in front of her windows, her cigarette a smouldering metaphor.
“Dammit, Lola.” Anger highlighted the lines around Grace McCall’s smoke-blue eyes. Her black hair was a beautiful sleek bob. A pale blue jacket with flared hems and a pencil skirt to the knees highlighted her slender figure.
“I hope you’re not alone,” sighed Lola. She tossed her crumpled jacket onto the sofa and collapsed down onto the cushions.
Grace wrenched the cigarette out of her mouth and pointed with it accusingly. “Whatever the hells you’ve got yourself into, get out of it. Now.”
Lola laughed, a bitter sound even to her own ears. “You can say that again.” She rubbed at her temples. “If you’ve come to rake me over the coals, save it. Locke’s boys did the dirty work for you.”
Grace sat down immediately. She stubbed out her cigarette and took Lola’s hand. Lola shook it off. Grace’s expression was complex. “Lola. Darling. Can’t we stop bickering? I’m worried for you.”
“You can stop anytime. Causes wrinkles, don’t you know.”
Aubrey hissed at Lola. “Stop it.”
“Time for you to go,” Lola said to her mother. She searched out a cigarette and spoke coldly. “Get on a steamer for Europe. Your favorite getaway. You can forget all your cares there. Isn’t that right, Mother?”
Tears glistened in the older woman’s eyes. “That was cruel.” Her voice was steady, quiet. Lola looked away from her mother’s shaky fingers as Grace pulled out another cigarette from its case.
“Life is cruel, Mother. You taught me that when I was four.”
Grace grimaced then set her jaw. “I’m sorry I left you. I’m sorry. Do you hear that? Do you know I mean it? I never wanted to hurt you. Gods be damned, Lola, it was never about you.” She grabbed Lola’s hand again. “Twenty years, you’ve been punishing me. Can you even hear what I’m saying now? It was never about you,” Grace repeated.
Lola roughly flexed her hand, throwing off Grace’s hold. She turned her gaze out the windows. Water sparkled in the distance.
Grace looked away from Lola. She took a long, trembling breath and held it. When she finally let it out, she looked at her unlit cigarette as if for the first time. She lit it and stood up. “I’m not changing my plans,” she announced. Her face was shuttered. “I have an engagement I can neither cancel nor reschedule. I’m leaving for Europe the day after tomorrow. You know how to reach me, if you wish.”
Lola kept narrowed eyes on her mother, then played a hunch: “Let me guess—our illustrious Mayor.”
Grace remained silent.
“Is that your ‘engagement’? Is he why you won’t take my advice?”
Grace sighed. “This isn’t a competition. It never was. Mayor needs my help at a special ceremony, a private, very personal event. Please, try to understand. I made a solemn promise to him when he first...changed,” she said. “It’s not something I can renege on. Nor would I.”
“Unlike your marriage vows,” Lola said. She compressed her lips, but it was too late to take back the words.
Grace’s face crumpled with weariness. “I never stopped thinking of you, loving you with all my heart. Your father and I, we simply weren’t meant to be together.” She paused. “He understood that. He let me go,” she finished gently.
“He didn’t.” Lola shook her head fiercely. “I saw it. He loved you the rest of his life. But you were gone and it broke his heart and none of it mattered to you.” Lola raised her chin and looked down at Grace. “You were gone and it was the best career move you ever made.”
Grace stood, open-mouthed for a second. Then she scowled. “Don’t you dare imply I’m a whore, Lola Evangeline Starke. You of all people.”
Lola rubbed at her face. “I think it’s time to call it a show, Mother.”
She leaned back, then pushed up from the sofa abruptly. Lola refused to meet her mother’s eyes. She stepped to the windows and stared blindly at the distant ocean. Her heartbeat was too fast, her cheeks too hot. She fiercely fought the urge to continue airing her injuries.
Silence grew until it gathered weight. Finally, Grace gathered her purse and hat. The kitchen door opened. Elaine came through, then stood aside as a man walked into the room. He wore a beautifully cut blue wool suit, with pearly grey tie and checked shirt. He was placing a blue trilby on his head of thick brown hair. He threw Lola a hard glare as he strode to her front door ahead of Grace. Lola remained mute. She stood, rooted to the spot, until her mother and St. John were gone. Then she turned and stalked to her bedroom, ignoring Elaine’s stare, swiping furiously at her eyes.
Aubrey waited until she was at the doorway. He spoke in subdued tones. “You forget that Butch forgave her.”
“You don’t know anything about it,” Lola said. She stopped, took a deep breath, slowly released her clenched fists.
“You don’t corner the market on this story. Grace has a side to tell, too,” he said with surprising gentleness.
“Fine. I hope it keeps you warm at night. It doesn’t do a damn thing for me.” Lola kicked off her shoes and watched with satisfaction as they slammed into the wall and fell onto the floor. “I need a bath. Go feel sorry for her somewhere else, haunt.”
“She’s not the one I feel sorry for,” came the faint reply.
* * *
Betta sounded distracted but cheerful enough: “Lola, hello.”
Lola cradled the telephone so she could reach her pen and a pad. “What’s the story with the Temple? Whom am I meeting with today?”
Betta chuckled softly. “You really do expect miracles.”
“You’re the only miracle worker I know, Betta.”
“Gee thanks, but flattery won’t get you anywhere. Not with this bunch anyway.”
“No go?”
“Technically, that’s true. However, all’s not lost.” Betta’s smile was evident in her tone. “The Temple records are sealed to all outsiders but I made some calls to other alumni, and I do have some information for you.”
“Shoot, O Worker of Miracles.” The cheerfulness rang false even to Lola’s ears but she pushed on with it nonetheless.
“Well, like you told me, your friend was accepted at the Temple but didn’t complete her training. She spent four of the five years at the top of her class, then abruptly withdrew her candidacy for full honours.”
“What does that mean? How much training did she receive?”
“Wait. Let me finish. Your friend was apprenticed to a very impressive Conjurer for her four
th year. That would have been the first of two years, if she’d completed the training. As it was, her mentor died before your friend’s fifth year.”
“Her mentor? I just spoke with her yesterday. Dr. Felicity Yuen.”
Betta explained, “Dr. Yuen was her thesis advisor at the College, nothing more. Your friend’s Temple mentor was a well-known Conjurer.”
“Was it murder?” Lola asked.
“No, nothing like that,” replied Betta. “He was old, well over ninety. No one was surprised.”
Lola sat, thinking. Betta waited patiently.
“How much would she know, with only four years training?” Lola finally asked.
“Enough to sense Ghosts, perhaps see them even. The most gifted ones attain that ability more quickly.”
“And Warding? Spells?”
“Some, yes. Not intricate ones. The fifth year involves a binding of sorts with the Ether. Without that binding, the training is mostly memorizing theory and technique. Practical applications require a binding. Without it, true Conjury is impossible.”
“And this binding is only possible with the Temple’s consent?”
“Not just consent, Lola. It can only happen on Temple grounds.”
“Which are powerfully Warded.”
“Of course. The Temple is very strict about its secrets.”
Lola considered for a moment. “Can I trust your source?”
“Absolutely. He’s a retired instructor with the Temple. He remembers your friend vividly. Called her the most brilliant natural talent in generations.”
“Your source gave you all that willingly?” pressed Lola.
“Yes,” Betta answered. “We’re friends.”
“What about binding away from the Temple then? Overseas somewhere?”
“Sure,” Betta answered slowly, “that’s possible. Unlikely, though. The Temple of Conjury here is the most highly regarded Spectral Institution in the world. Why would your friend leave for a minor school? She clearly had the talent, and my friend tells me she also had a true passion for it. Binding through the Temple would simply be more powerful than elsewhere.” Betta paused, then continued uncomfortably, “The gossip from back then was that your friend also had familial obligations to fulfill. My friend felt very sad for her. Losing one’s Temple mentor is terrible. Add to that an unsympathetic family and who knows how a young girl will react?”
Lola thanked Betta and rang off. She sat for some moments, lazily fanning herself as she gently swiveled in her chair. She considered this new information from different angles. Finally, she stood and left her office, making sure to lock the door behind her. Once on the street, she walked to the corner drugstore and bought herself lunch. Thirty-five minutes later, she returned to her aerie with a newspaper under her arm and her head full of swirling thoughts.
She opened the door into her waiting room and stopped, surprised to find it occupied.
Bodewell Arbogast stood, hat in hand, face calm. He inclined his head slightly. “Miss Starke.” Today’s outfit was dove grey. A white armband sat high on his left arm.
“You’ve heard then,” she said.
Arbogast nodded solemnly.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Arbogast. Truly I am.”
She led him within her inner office. He waited until she sat before he did as well.
“Murder is a sad business,” he said, lighting a cigarette.
“What did you hear?”
He shook his head. “Tell me what the police wanted with you.”
“For starters, they wanted to know where you were. They figured the hired help was a good start.”
“Miss Starke, you seem angry with me.”
“Mr. Arbogast, you seem surprisingly at ease.”
He barked out a laugh. “You’re not a very good judge of people, Miss Starke. I know Sunny was murdered and I know who did it. I’m as good as dead.”
“You’re not alone in this, man,” Lola said, exasperated. “There are people who can help you.”
“Like the ones who helped Sunny? I think not.” He stood. “I’m here to settle my bill. Obviously, my case is closed.”
“Doesn’t feel that way to me.”
“Oh but it is. We know where Sunny is now, don’t we? I’m handling the rest on my own.” He pulled out a billfold from an inside breast pocket and extracted a cheque, folded neatly in half. He placed it precisely on Lola’s desk.
Lola’s eyes never left Arbogast’s face. “Keep your money.”
“Buy yourself a few drinks and forget about this case, Miss Starke. That’s the best advice I can give you.”
“I’m interested in the truth,” said Lola.
Arbogast laughed that harsh bark of his again.
“The cops say he died while smuggling heroin in his stomach,” Lola pressed.
“Cute story. Sunny was too smart for some cooked-up idea like that. He would never have swallowed those balloons.”
“A nice shot of heroin might have helped him change his mind.”
“Exactly. And since he was clean, it seems glaringly clear that he was forced.”
Lola forced herself to relax her suddenly tight jaw. “What are you going to do now?”
“Justice, Miss Starke, is an elusive concept for our fair city’s police force. I, however, am unencumbered by politics and incompetence. There are people in this City who think the laws don’t apply to them. The saddest truth is that they’re absolutely right. Immunity is a commodity that the police sell to anyone with enough money. Don’t try to tell me different,” he said.
“I can still help,” Lola said.
Arbogast shook his head. He crushed out his cigarette in the alabaster bowl atop the desk. “It was a gamble coming to you.” He shrugged. “I knew that.”
“Then you owe it to Josephson to come clean. Another death won’t bring him back.”
The man laughed. “Is that what you think?”
“This can’t end well.”
“Perhaps not, but it will end, Miss Starke.” He carefully put on his hat and touched the brim. “Good day.”
Lola listened to him exit her offices and walk down the hall. She grabbed a hat and whipped out the door. She almost ran over a startled man in spectacles, but grabbed him by the shoulders just in time to sidestep him. She then threw him a hurried “excuse me” and made for the stairwell. Lola hoofed it down three flights and opened the door to the main lobby just as the elevator bell rang. Through the narrow slit, she watched Arbogast exit briskly out the main doors and turn left on the sidewalk. Lola followed him out the lobby but turned right once outside, heading for her car.
Chapter Nineteen
Arbogast took a right at Delmetri then left onto Ada. Lola suddenly realized where he was headed.
Aubrey echoed her silent disbelief: “He’s going to work?”
Lola found an empty spot across from the building, just behind a delivery truck for an automobile parts shop. She watched Arbogast stroll inside the Gaming building. A glance at her watch. She’d give him ten minutes, then hop in to chat with Pfeiffer.
Eight minutes later, however, Arbogast returned to his car. He swung a black briefcase at his side. The tan Olds was in flight once more, a preening bird among lumbering oxen. Lola weaved between and behind the City’s ignorant masses—smoke-belching behemoths and purring town cars alike—keeping one eye steady on Arbogast’s little beauty.
Eventually, he entered East Town from its western borders. Lola’s sloppy old sedan stuck out like a black eye on a beauty queen. The cars here sparkled with wealth. There were more chauffeurs per capita in the City than anywhere else in the world. The west part of East Town was where their employers lived. On the outer edge, before the gates and tall walls began, sat the Fat Fat Mah-Jongg Emporium. It wasn’t a p
retty name in English, but Lola had learned from her aunties long ago that it was an auspicious name, as was its location. Across from it stood the largest Buddhist monastery in any non-Buddhist country in the world. Apparently, many gamblers stopped in at the public temple and prayed, offering alms before they crossed the street and read their fates on little ivory tiles.
Lola idled half a block away from the monastery entrance. She pulled out a map and pretended to study it. Not more than ten minutes later, Arbogast exited Fat Fat. He walked briskly to his car.
“He doesn’t look nearly anxious enough,” said Aubrey.
Silently, Lola agreed. Amateurs bent on revenge ought to be nervous, not self-assured. At the very least, he should have been looking for a tail. Lola sighed as she pulled a U-turn, lining up behind a silver sedan.
Arbogast headed straight downtown from there. Lola followed him as far as the employee parking lot and slid into a spot one row away from his. It was just past four-thirty. Lola figured another half hour before the lot began to empty in earnest. As it was, people started hightailing it out before twenty-five minutes were up. Lola was just starting to move her car when Arbogast came back to his Olds. She quickly pulled out of her spot and moved her old Buick behind his tan baby. She got out and walked to his window.
Whatever quip she’d had died on her lips without a sound. Arbogast sat, pale and trembling like a house of cards in a gentle breeze. He gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. His eyes were wide and glassy.
“Arbogast,” Lola exclaimed. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”
He started. A bead of sweat streaked down from his brow along the left side of his face and dripped onto his collar, blackening the grey fabric. “Miss Starke.” It came out as a whisper. He swallowed and tried to moisten his mouth.
“What’s happened?” she repeated.
Arbogast looked around his car and finally noticed her sedan in the rearview mirror. “What are you doing? I need to get out.”
“Tell me what’s going on. I can help you.”
“You don’t understand. I’m leaving the City. I don’t have much time.”