by J. R. Rain
Men’s voices murmur on the other side of an interior door next to a large frosted glass panel. Shadows suggest two people inside, one standing, one seated behind a bigger, nicer desk. Their conversation is low and measured, little emotion involved.
“I’m sorry… can I help you?” asks the woman.
“Not really. I need a moment of Mr. Robertson’s attention.”
She stands as I continue across the antechamber. “You can’t―”
I fix her with a hard stare, forcing my will over her. It’s similar to how Barnaby taught me to control marine life, only humans are much higher on the evolutionary ladder… and harder to influence. For example, I can’t make people dance like puppets or steer them around like remote control fish, but I can toss them into a fugue for a while.
Leaving the woman with a vacant stare, I stroll up to Troy’s door and barge in.
An enormous, muscular man with thick, grey-speckled black hair in an expensive suit stands near the front of the desk with his back to me. His wild mane, in defiance of the copious amount of gel he’s used, lends him a ruggedness that feels far out of place in a corporate office, as if someone captured an Alaskan lumberjack, ran him naked through a carwash, and wrapped a suit around him. My head barely makes it to his shoulder. This guy ought to be running around on the set of Braveheart or maybe Lord of the Rings, waving around a huge two-handed in the air.
Troy, seated at his desk with one hand supporting his chin, stares at me. His dark blue polo shirt is rumpled, white casual pants frumpy. He looks like he’s had an easy life to the tune of about thirty extra pounds. I doubt he’s been sleeping much, either excited about payday or terrified the police are closing in on him. The initial indignation in his expression at someone barging into his office gives way to anger when he recognizes me. He might be frightening if he didn’t have such an awful haircut. It all sweeps to his right side like he’s standing next to a fan, probably exactly how it looked when he washed up face down on Marrowstone Island. I can’t call it long, but it’s not short either.
A step closer, and my nose picks up the scent of the big man. Instant recognition.
“Patrick?” I breathe, while staring wide-eyed up at my first non-human ‘husband.’ We didn’t marry in any religious or legal sense, but it may as well have been. “What are you doing here?”
Troy blinks. “You know this bi―person?”
I flash a ‘screw you too’ smile at Troy.
“I can’t say I’ve ever seen her before.” Patrick shrugs. “I guess I have one of those faces.” He pivots to face me. Yeah, he’s bigger. “I’m sorry, Miss, you must have mistaken me for someone else.”
Mistaking visually, okay, but you can’t look and smell like Patrick without being Patrick. I’m a damn bloodhound-of-the-sea. I open my mouth to challenge him, but his voice fills my head.
Alexis… It’s been a long time. 1943 if I remember correctly. Please forgive my outward charade. ‘Patrick Foster’ is dead. I’m Kingsley Fulcrum now.
His voice sends a shiver of memory down my spine into my groin. Phantom hands caress every inch of my body in a split second of recollection. Those ‘size don’t matter’ ladies have never seen a real one. I start to slide off into a wonderful collage of random, happy moments.
Are you all right? he asks. Again, I am that rare species of supernatural who can communicate telepathically with other immortals. And for that, I am pleased to no end.
He’s much better at the whole telepathy thing than I am, then again, I mostly use it on fish. Mermaid ‘speech’ is similar, but it’s radiant. Everyone near me can hear unless I concentrate hard on one person. Fulcrum? I giggle mentally. Isn’t that a Soviet fighter plane?
Patrick―err Kingsley―smirks. What are you doing here?
I live around here.
No, I mean right here. In my client’s office.
My eyebrow climbs. Your client?
“Why are you two staring at each other like a pair of old gunslingers about to throw down?” Troy makes two finger-guns in a sad pantomime of the Wild West.
My former husband offers me a hand, and business card. “Kingsley Fulcrum, attorney-at-law.”
“A pleasure. Alexis Silver, private investigator. I’m sure you’ve already met Troy Robertson, murderer and attempted child killer.”
Troy coughs and almost falls out of his chair.
“Now, now, Miss Silver. Please mind your words. You don’t want to cross the line into slander.” Kingsley gives me Patrick’s old ‘scolding’ smile.
He rather did have a habit of treating women like delicate creatures in need of protection. I wonder if he’s grown out of that.
I don’t back down. In fact, I lean toward him. “Slander implies stating something that’s not true.”
What are you trying to do here, Alex? Kingsley folds his arms across his enormous chest.
Okay, I admit the depth of his telepathic voice plus his scent is making it difficult to concentrate. We’ve been separated for half a century, but, if he asked, I’d probably consider a one nighter. Or not. That’s what got us in trouble before… his little monster was hungry and I wasn’t on the menu. No. Bad Alex. He cheated. Don’t fall for that puppy-dog look.
Easy there, Alex. I’m attached to someone, and she’s very possessive, says Kingsley in my head.
So, you’re a criminal defense attorney now? I grin, which only makes Troy’s bizarre red-faced squirming worse. You went from a sailor working above the sea to a bottom feeder.
Ha. Ha. Kingsley rolls his eyes.
I face Troy. “So, who did you hire to murder that eight-year-old girl in her hospital bed?”
Troy does a spot-on impersonation of a grouper washed up on the beach.
Kingsley raises a hand at Troy. “Don’t say anything.”
“He doesn’t have to. I already know the man’s name. Vernon Baker. I’m just not sure how these two particular turds floated together in the pool.”
Troy blanches. He’s thinking about the guy with grey-brown curls, offering him another twenty-five grand to get rid of me. Exactly as I thought, because I showed up at his door.
I examine my fingernails. “He doesn’t have to say anything. It’s too late. The girl’s already given her statement. She watched you murder her parents. I am curious about one thing. Did you have enough humanity left to spare her if she’d stayed asleep and not witnessed you hack up her parents, or would you have killed her in her sleep too?”
“You’re delusional,” shouts Troy, sweaty and shaking. He lunges to his feet and points at the door. “Get out of my office.”
“Alex.” Kingsley flashes a wry grin. “The child was half-dead, dehydrated, and delusional. The police aren’t going to build an entire case on her testimony. I wouldn’t be surprised if that kid came up with a wild story… like a mermaid saving her.”
An honest laugh belts out of me. “Oh, come on, Pa―Kingsley. This guy’s so guilty, the prosecutor is going to let him have it doggy style.” My mirth fades to a dagger-point stare. I know you’ve been inside his head. If Troy sends any more of his ‘friends’ after that child, no one will ever find his bones. Even you can’t go where I’d bury him.
Kingsley leans back, perhaps caught off guard at the ‘mama bear’ vibes I’m throwing off.
Time to make him do something stupid. I whirl on Troy with a sinister grin. “Murder cases are quite difficult to prove without bodies, but there’s a good chance the divers will find them. The boat didn’t go down very far off the coast of Marrowstone Island. Oh, and I’m sure Mr. Baker is going to sing like a canary.”
Kingsley covers his mouth to hold in a laugh. Babe, you’re stuck in the twenties.
The look I’m getting from Troy matches his thoughts―fantasizing about strangling me right here in his office. My warning hum doesn’t go off, so he’s only daydreaming. But, I’ve shaken him up.
“Your attorney will surely advise you of the risks associated with any further attempts to harm Dav
id’s daughter once I’m gone,” I say. “She’s already given video testimony, so it’s in your best interest to leave her alone. You’ll only make more trouble for yourself if anything happens to her. Deep trouble.”
Troy glares at me, barely holding back his rage at being talked down to by a woman. Gee whiz, I’m the one who’s supposed to be stuck in the 1920s. I’m so tempted to give him a glimpse of my shark teeth. My face shifting in the blink of an eye from beautiful to something out of H. R. Geiger’s nightmares would probably fill his pants with shit. As worth it as that would be, I’d have to kill him afterward, and I’d rather not deal with that mess.
With a final pointed scowl at Troy, I pivot on my heel and walk out. The secretary is still staring into the ninth dimension. Kingsley mutters “a moment” to Troy and fast-walks after me, grasping my arm above the elbow. Not hard, only enough to request I stop.
“What was that?” he asks.
I look up at him, surprised at how much bigger he is. “Did you get taller? Wider too.”
He chuckles. “It happens. Look, what are you trying to accomplish?”
“You know damn well what I’m trying to accomplish. That man killed David and Christina, and almost murdered their daughter. She’s only eight, Pa―” Dammit. “Kingsley, eight!” He tried again in the hospital. Sent a torpedo with a syringe. If I hadn’t been there by chance…
“What happened to innocent until proven guilty?” he asks before switching to telepathy. I’ll make sure he leaves the child be. Or I’ll eat him myself.
Bottom feeder with a conscience?
He smiles. No. Sam would kill me if she found out.
My eyebrows go up at the mental image of two werewolves Patrick’s size getting intimate. Oh. My. God. That has to happen. I must watch that. You’ve switched sides?
Kingsley cringes away from the images swirling in my mind, looking close to nauseous. No, Alex. He leans on my name so it sounds like a guy’s. Sam as in Samantha.
You used to be a good guy. I put my hands on my hips, staring up at him while forcing my memory of that man so close to injecting death into Hannah’s IV to the forefront as I whisper-shout, “What are you doing helping thugs like him get away with murder?”
“It’s interesting work,” he says. “And I’m good at it. Besides, I did think the guy was innocent.”
“Innocent people don’t hire criminal defense attorneys.”
“They do in the modern world, Alex.” He sighs. “It’s complicated.”
I lean toward him. “So am I. I’m very complicated.” Troy better hope he gets convicted. It will be far more pleasant for him.
As I walk out, he runs his hand over his hair, gripping the back of his neck while shaking his head.
You miss him? asks Licinia.
Patrick, or Kingsley, or whatever he’s calling himself now, is going to play legal games in an effort to let Troy walk away. He knows what the guy did, and he’s still going to try and get him off. Do I miss him? No. No, I don’t. Kingsley is right.
Patrick Foster is dead.
riday afternoon, I’m at Starbucks working on my second mocha latte while exploiting their free WiFi. I’ve got so many windows open I have to be making things slow on everyone else here. Two tables to my right, an old couple reminisces about the sixties. In the corner, a longhaired guy with round, black sunglasses hammers away at his laptop while sipping chai.
Since I left NexArc, I’ve been hunting down as much information as I can about Vernon Baker. The guy’s been arrested numerous times, but only for minor infractions. It feels like they can’t get him for anything major, so they’re on him constantly for every little tiny thing they can make stick. Can’t say I feel sorry for a guy like that. Anyone who’d broker a contract killing on a child isn’t even human. Him, I’d have let slide off into the murky depths, even before I became a mermaid.
If I didn’t want to use him to get Troy, I’d show Vernon the Titanic, and help him move in.
An explosion of high-pitched voices floods the Starbucks. Two women and over a dozen tween girls in yoga pants or leotards, plus ballet slippers crowd in. About half the kids have their noses in smartphones, the rest chatter about random things. Their chaperones have ‘Toni’s Dance Academy’ t-shirts. The studio must be right around the corner. Is this their revenge against helicopter moms, jacking a bunch of ten-to-twelve year olds up on caffeine right before sending them home? Who gives kids that young coffee? Geez.
The dancers and their teachers clog the line. One girl keeps bouncing up en pointe, stuck in practice mode.
Oh well. I’ve got what I needed already, so I can escape the noise. I fold up my laptop and make my way outside. Nothing connected Troy to Vernon that I could find, so, I’m certain their arrangement is a purely ‘for hire’ situation. The man’s work address matches a marine yard off the Duwamish Waterway, a small transport company called Kerrie Logistics. Time to line up another nail I can pound into Troy’s metaphorical coffin.
One nice thing about driving a Jeep: unpaved industrial lots don’t bother it. Always bugs me whenever I find myself at a place like this, or a construction site, and someone’s got a sports car there, or a Mercedes. One bad bump and that sucker’s in the shop. Oh well, that’s what I’d call a stupidity tax. The universe used to charge higher rates, but technology and medical care have filed appeals.
I roll to a stop by a chain link fence surrounding stacks of smaller modular cargo boxes, the type that can go on a ship or wind up on a trailer frame and turn into semi-trucks. The gate has a guard booth, but no one’s in it. I hop out of my Rubi, regretting my choice of basic flats as soon as I put my weight down on gravel. Oh well, beats heels or barefoot.
My phone rings. Argh! Timing. I rush it out of my bag and swipe to answer.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Ms. Silver? It’s Rachel.”
“Rachel? Oh… Moss.”
“Yes. Look. I wanted to let you know. I’m flying to London this afternoon for work, and I’m going to be gone for about a week. If he’s doing anything, he’ll be more brazen when I’m gone. I figured you’d want to know that.”
“Good information, thanks,” I say. “I’ll definitely follow up for you.”
“Great. Thank you.”
She hangs up. If Eric is cheating on her, she’s right. Like high school kids having a party when their parents go away on vacation, some cheaters even bring the mistress (or other guy) into their marital home. Anyway, that can wait a little while. I stuff the phone back in my bag. A random urge makes me think leaving the purse in the Jeep is a good idea. After spending this long as a ‘supernatural creature,’ I’ve learned to trust these spontaneous impulses, so I take only my car keys, and stash them in the undercarriage after locking the doors. No, I’m not clueless enough to lock my keys in the car.
Again.
I sigh at Licinia. Okay, fine. I did it once, but I learn from my mistakes. Unlike some werewolves.
Ouch.
No one confronts me as I walk past the gate into the yard and look around. Cargo boxes take up the entire right side of the property, along with a few semi cabs. The opposite end is warehouse with some offices. Straight ahead, three small piers extend into the Duwamish next to an enclosed boathouse painted a shade of orange-red that resembles canned ravioli vomit. Every breath tastes like dirt and saltwater.
A few men wander back and forth. For whatever reason, I decided to wear a dress today, a plain sky-blue shift with a mid-thigh hemline―short enough to let me run if need be, and long enough that a gust of wind won’t show off my preference for going commando. I get more than a few whistles, rude comments, and suggestive hand motions on my way to the office area on the left. It would bother me more if my nature didn’t exacerbate that. Even when I don’t try to radiate supernatural allure, the substance of my existence has a real effect on men. Though, these genetic throwbacks don’t need any magical encouragement to be boorish.
While I’m frowning at a pack of horny b
astards on my right, a guy with curly black hair and a badly maintained beard comes out of nowhere in front of me and blocks my path. I stop short and give him a raised eyebrow.
“Hey, girl.” The blue-flannel-and-jeans look would work better for him without such a beer belly. “You might not want to go wandering around here. It’s a dangerous place.” A different tone of voice could’ve made his statement a threat, but he’s being patronizing to the pretty woman.
“I’m all right,” I say, before my sarcastic smile comes out to play. “Congratulations by the way. When are you due?”
“Huh?” Dark eyebrows slide together.
I poke him in the belly. “Are you having a boy or a girl?”
He adjusts his belt, sucking in his gut while giving me a displeased glower. “This is a private yard, lady. You got business here or what?”
“Yeah. I’m looking for a Mr. Baker. Know where I can find him?”
Flannel points over his shoulder with a thumb. “You don’t look his type, but he’s in the office.”
“His type?”
“Oh, you’re one of those feminists…” He grumbles. “This is a man zone, honey. I can say whatever I want… and I meant type as in the kinda person what usually comes lookin’ for him.”
“Man zone?” I laugh. Really? That’s a thing? “Right. Thanks.”
I brush past the guy, and a few quick steps bring me to a single aluminum-and-glass door. It leads to a tiny room where a battered metal desk on the left holds a bunch of papers and a computer from 1983. The PC may have started off beige, but decades of cigarettes have turned it a dark, putrid yellow. Gah. Breathing in here is as bad as licking an ash tray. Various nautical kitsch adorns the walls around three Playboy calendars a few years out of date. The wall right behind the desk has a couple of plaques thanking ‘Kerrie Logistics’ for donating to the little league, and some pictures of innocent, grinning little boys. I wonder if the team moms realize their sons are sharing wall space with the tits of Penthouse’s Miss October 2011.