by Peg Herring
They stopped at PLK to ask about Daryl Talbert. Madison chose to avoid Ms. Bowdlin and instead spoke to Yvonne, the chatty receptionist. She was more than happy to be of assistance, particularly once she laid eyes on Jaime. Wryly, Madison noticed the onset of grooming gestures on both sides, Jaime smoothing his tie into place with casual grace and Yvonne unconsciously touching her hair, lips, and breasts.
“Can you recall a former employee named Daryl? Might he have dated Tori, or at least known her well?”
“I’d guess not,” Yvonne answered, her eyes on Jaime although he hadn’t yet spoken. “Tori took over a lot of Daryl’s jobs when he left.”
“Oh. Was he transferred?”
Yvonne hesitated for a moment, her bright red lips an “O” of indecision, and then told the truth. “Daryl was fired, Detective Madison. You’d have to talk to someone else about why, but I can tell you that much.”
James Falk was busy, and his first reaction to Yvonne’s interruption was an irritated tattoo with his ink pen on the blotter. Seeing Madison behind her, he stoically accepted the need to answer further questions. Jaime stayed behind to speak with Yvonne, whether about the case or on a more personal basis, Madison couldn’t say.
“Daryl Talbert was decidedly cavalier in his attitude toward investment law,” Falk said when Madison explained the purpose of his visit. “He was an intern, came to us on a program from the local community college. They gave us a story about this kid who was trying to pull himself up from a sad past, and Mr. Pollard decided to give him a chance. I interviewed Daryl, watched him closely for the first few weeks, and found him to be very good at the job. He was anxious to try everything, learn whatever there was to learn. In the end I trusted him too much, let him handle things I shouldn’t have.” He shifted papers around on his desk, making sure the edges of each pile lined up evenly. “It probably cost me a partnership.”
“How so?”
Falk sat back in his chair, but his hands gripped the arms as if he refrained from continuing his work only with effort. “Investment brokering is complicated, as one might guess. If people give us large amounts of their money to manage, it’s only right that we adhere to strict rules. I’ve always been careful to abide by the law, but as I said, I misjudged Daryl. He was shoddy in observance of the rules, took some shortcuts, and as a result, I saw to it he was fired. Still, it reflected badly on me, and I’ve had to work hard to redeem myself.”
“Was Talbert resentful at being fired?”
Falk’s prim face furrowed. “Daryl took his failure quite seriously, as well he might. He will never work for a reputable investments firm again.”
“His record here will follow him?”
“Yes.” Falk fingered the expensive, fat-barreled ink pen again, and his eye wandered to the computer screen on his right, impatient to get back to making money for somebody else. His tone was polite but condescending. “Any misbehavior on an employee’s part is permanently recorded. The best firms won’t hire someone who broke the rules. Daryl has no future in this business, when he could have done very well for himself.”
“That might make a man resentful of his replacement.”
Falk raised an ironic eyebrow. “At Tori? That’s a stretch, Detective. First, Daryl didn’t know her. Second, Tori was a secretary, not an intern, so she didn’t really replace him. Since being burned by Daryl, I make do with simple clerical help and perform the work myself.” He let out a breath through his nose, dismissively. “That internship discouraged me from ever again trying to train someone to the business.”
“But isn’t Abe Gougeon an intern?”
“Well, he was, but he wasn’t mine. The partners still insist we participate in the program because it allows them to test out an employee before actually hiring him. Gougeon has earned his degree, and it’s likely he’ll take over my position.”
Considering Falk’s reputation, Madison wondered if Gougeon was daunted by the prospect of working for him, even for a few weeks.
“But to return to your point, Detective, Tori was nothing to Daryl Talbert. If he wanted someone from this firm dead, it would be me, since I uncovered his misdeeds.” Falk twisted his chin slightly. “Who mentioned his name, anyway?”
“The bartender at Martin’s says Daryl hung out with Judd Simms, who probably shot Tori. Since Simms had no reason to kill her, we’re looking at who might have had one. It’s possible Talbert bought drugs from Simms.”
“Daryl used drugs?” Falk’s thin lips curled in distaste. “Then we were well rid of him!” He looked sourly at his hands for a moment, and then tapped the pen on the blotter again tensely. “I thought he was sorry for what he’d done. I suppose that was naive.”
“Maybe.” Madison considered the probable background of the employees at PLK: nice families, good schools, and comfortable lifestyles. What would they know about a hustler like Judd Simms? Or a guy like Daryl Talbert, someone Madison resolved to locate as soon as possible.
Chapter Fifteen
I Believe in Angels
The next morning Tori visited Mr. Li and absent-mindedly chose an outfit. Her attention wasn’t focused on clothes, though, and as he selected for her jeans and a soft rose T-shirt with leather flats, she asked, “Mr. Li, do you think I could go back?”
“Back?” He was confused for a moment, but the stunted chin rose as he caught on. “Back to life, you mean.”
“Yes.”
Li shook his head as if unwilling to entertain the thought. “I suppose it’s possible, but it can’t be easy.”
“I just need to go back for a few days.”
“But Victoria Van Camp is dead. Can you imagine what a mess you would make showing up among your family and friends?” He touched her arm sympathetically. “And how much pain you would cause them all over again when you returned here?”
“You’re right.” She hadn’t thought of that. Her reappearance would cause panic, confusion, and distress for Carmon and her sister Elizabeth. Then she’d be gone again, leaving them to deal with the loss a second time.
Tori left with vague thanks to Mr. Li, no longer sure of her plan. She’d decided in the night that the best thing was to return, find the man who shot her, get him to tell why he did it, and somehow report to the authorities so they could solve the case. Now she saw the drawbacks of appearing in any place she might be recognized. It was unlikely that a ghost could calmly tell the police the reason for her own murder. Where did that leave things?
Promptly at ten, Tori entered Nancy’s mauve-toned office for a second time and sat in the comfortable chair that faced her perfectly calm caseworker.
“Have you been exploring the ship, Tori?” Nancy asked as an opener to their conversation.
Tori was at that moment reminding herself that the woman before her wasn’t a woman, didn’t really look like this, and possibly didn’t even look human. Who knew? She felt a wave of resentment despite the benevolent intent of the ship’s crew. They were fakes, manipulating her, lulling her into peaceful acceptance of her death. Her murder! Conflicting emotions: grief, anger, loneliness, confusion, even fear, churned through her mind.
It struck Tori that what was different about Nancy was her lack of nervous gestures, a stillness that came from not being human, having no human idiosyncrasies. Mike, a little more worldly, had a genuine grin and a more relaxed manner, but even he didn’t move unnecessarily and never fidgeted. They were more serene than any beings she’d known until now. Was that the next step? If she moved on, would she become like them? Probably not, she decided. Nancy was no Portalist. By the same token, they probably lacked true empathy with her situation. How could Nancy know what she was missing, having never known life herself?
Tori tried to remember the types of angels. Was Nancy an archangel, as Mike must be? Or was she a seraph? How many wings did they have, anyway?
Nancy apparently read her mood. “You’re having trouble with it.”
Trying to remain calm, Tori began to state her case. “I h
ate the fact that a murderer is roaming the earth unpunished, free to hurt someone else. I hate that he took my life before I was ready to give it up, before I’d really done anything!”
Thoughts of things missed bubbled through her mind. She had looked forward to love, to children, to new experiences, to a trip to England someday. Three score and ten, wasn’t that the promise? She hadn’t made it to a score and a half! “I don’t think I can leave it.”
Accepting that a decision had been made, Nancy nodded. “All right, let’s talk about what you want to do.”
“I thought about going back, but I realize that would cause problems.” Tori raised her eyes to Nancy’s. “There aren’t people on Earth who speak to the dead, are there?”
“There are some who think they do,” Nancy said with a small smile. “But no, that’s not the way.”
“But some murders are never solved. How can I make sure mine is?” Tori didn’t know she was crying until she felt a tear roll down the side of her nose.
Nancy focused on the question. “Some of our Portalists miss the excitement of life on earth and want more than a pleasant journey on the ship. They want to actually go back to Earth. They volunteer to search for answers so people like you can reach a sense of peace about earthly life.”
“Like detectives.”
Nancy nodded. “I think some of them imagine they are cheating death somehow. But they fill a need, since they actually go back and report what happens. They call themselves Portal Detectives, but we sometimes refer to them as Cross-backs.”
“Sounds like a football position,” Tori observed. “And I can hire, um, engage one of these people?
“If that’s what you want, yes. You have the right to consult a Portal Detective. It’s a formal offering I am required to make to each person whose reason for death is unknown.”
Suddenly Tori was full of purpose. “So when do I meet my dead detective?”
“That’s up to the individual Cross-back. They’re an odd lot, and they meet clients in their own way. Your case was given to a detective when you arrived so he could do the preliminary work. He will take it if he believes you and he can work well together.”
“I see.” The sticky note Tori had noticed the day before must have contained the name of her assigned detective, her Cross-back. Tori’s fingers itched to open her file and learn who held her fate in his hands. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap, telling herself to be patient.
“You and he will discuss the details, since he’s more knowledgeable than I am on The Process. If either of you finds the other unsuitable, the next available Portal Detective will be asked to contact you.” Nancy paused before asking formally, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
To Tori it sounded like, Is that your final answer?
“Yes.”
“Very well. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
Tori rose to go. “Thanks for understanding.”
Nancy folded her hands on the desk. “Several of my clients have dealt with Portal Detectives. Your President Kennedy was one, and more recently, a Mrs. Simpson, whose husband, I believe, played the sport you mentioned earlier…football?” The word sounded alien, as if she had never said it aloud before. “Some want to know who killed them. Others know but want to learn if justice was served, like a young woman I met recently who died in the Caribbean on a vacation from school. It’s hard to leave something as important as life unfinished, no matter the reward.”
Tori nodded and turned to go. “One more thing,” she said at the door. “You said my life will fade and I’ll forget my time on earth.”
“That’s true.”
“So I should act quickly, before I lose important memories that could help solve the crime.”
Nancy stood, her back as straight as Hepburn’s ever was, her manner as queenly. “Once you’ve spoken with the detective, you may decide to simply enjoy Forever.”
“Mmm,” Tori murmured, sure that wouldn’t be the case. That evening she dressed carefully, trying to balance attractive femininity with an aura of efficiency. She had no idea if Portal Detectives were susceptible to charm, but she was determined to convince this guy to take her case, on her terms. If it took a little flirting, so be it. With a smile, she translated the last phrase into its more appropriate synonym: Amen.
Chapter Sixteen
Money Makes the World Go Around
Madison sifted through various printouts on his already messy desk, examining what they had dug up on the staff at PLK. Jaime had invited the vivacious Yvonne out to lunch, hoping to acquire more gossip, while Madison had gone the less exciting route, reviewing time sheets and employee files. By 1:30, they were back at Monroe Street, ready to compare and collate information. On Madison’s desk a Styrofoam cup of coffee cooled, its aroma slightly harsh due to hours on the warmer.
The day was hot for spring, the air humid, and both men removed their jackets and hung them on their chairs. Madison felt sticky wet spots under his arms and along his back. Jaime appeared not to sweat.
The two men tossed ideas back and forth. Which person at PLK might have wanted Tori dead? Loomis seemed clueless and Kellerman forthright. Did Donald Pardike’s long hours indicate dedication or a desperate need for large amounts of cash? James Falk was notoriously bad-tempered; did that figure in? Jennise Bowdlin, the office manager, might consider any attractive woman competition. Carmon Calley seemed unlikely but might have had a motive no one else knew about. Even senior partner Amos Pollard, despite his reputation for integrity, might have been caught in some compromising situation. They needed a starting point, a place to begin.
“One person at PLK whose income seems to exceed his means is Abe Gougeon,” Madison commented.
“Think he’s stealing from the company?”
“It’s hard to see how. An intern would be closely watched, particularly after the thing with Daryl Talbert.”
“What’s your take on Gougeon?”
Madison recited what he had learned from his interviews. “Our friend Abe had a scholastically successful, although on-again, off-again college career, interrupted by some illness his mother had and a knee giving out due to his exploits on the gridiron.”
“Football star, huh?”
“If a defensive lineman is ever a star, yeah. Lost a lot of classroom time, though. He’s apparently rebuilt now, although he will never play football again. With his new degree in financial management, he hopes to become Falk’s permanent replacement,” Madison sipped the coffee and grimaced. “He told me that hinges on passing a bunch tests for certifications and licenses, but he seemed confident.”
“He’s got an in from working there as an intern.”
“As long as he’s been a good boy and kept his nose clean, unlike Daryl Talbert.”
“Yvonne did say Abe asks lots of questions.”
“Not unusual for someone learning the ropes.”
“But she says some of them are about things that aren’t his business.”
“Like he’s prying.” Madison rubbed his chin with his fingertips.
“Looking for a way to beat the system?”
“Has to be considered.”
Jaime tapped a pencil on the desk. “You say he lives beyond his means?”
“Should a college student with a part-time job be able to afford a Ferrari?”
“You should have seen the piece of junk I drove in college,” Jaime said resentfully. “One fender was ninety percent duct tape!”
“Gougeon told the people at work the car was a graduation present. His place of residence is an expensive condo out in Kentwood. It belongs to his mother, who lives in some sort of long-term care facility. He only has to pay the maintenance fees.”
“Mom has money?”
“He says she’s comfortable, whatever that means.”
“More millionaires in this section of the state than anywhere else in Michigan.”
“Except the Gougeons are from Wisconsin. Moved here after Abe’s father died.”
Madison tossed the folder into a basket and stood to turn on a small fan on the file cabinet behind him. “Aside from the car and the condo, his life isn’t particularly flashy.”
The fan was unplugged, having been unnecessary for some months, and he had to contort his body into all sorts of strange positions to reach the outlet. Grunts, groans, and one mild curse did the job. When he returned to his chair, Jaime said, “Yvonne told me Jennise resented the fact she had no say in Abe’s hiring. Word came down from above that he had the job.”