Poltergeist g-2

by Kat Richardson

  Brian eyed the leash and pursed his tiny mouth. "Not doggie. Rhinerosserous."

  Ben knelt down in front of Brian. "Hören, mein kleiner rhino—you need to hold Papa's hand till we get to the park or you'll have to wear the leash. I don't want you running into traffic again. OK?"

  Brian looked grave. "OK."

  "So, holding my hand all the way to the park, right?"

  "Yes."

  "OK." Ben stood back up and took Brian's hand; then he looked back at me as Brian tugged him toward the door. "What was it…? Oh, yeah. Glass acts as a filter… There's a lot of folklore about the effects of mirrors and silver on spirits and monsters, but I don't know how that would relate—folklore's not a reliable source."

  "Science hasn't been batting a thousand for me," I reminded him.

  "True… I'll have to look into it. Brian, hang on. I need my coat first." He struggled into a jacket while trying to hold on to Brian's hand and talk to me. "Is this a general question or is it germane to the case at hand?"

  "Both. Tuckman's observation room is separated from the experiment space by two layers of glass and I could barely see the Grey effects on the other side, most of the time. The energy concentrations had to be very large or very close to the window for me to see anything distinct. But it's happened before—I can see less Grey in my truck than out of it."

  "The truck might be a special case, but I'll see what I can find out, in general. What else? Quick, before the rhino charges."

  "I need to know how fake phenomena could be manufactured so it would fool the participants in Tuckman's séances."

  "Do you mean that Tuckman is faking his results?" Ben was aghast.

  "No. But I need to know how the effects could be faked so I can show him they aren't—I think."

  "OK, you need to know the mechanics of fakery and how to spot them. I'm sure I've got some information about it, somewhere. I'll have to do some research."

  "You don't mind?"

  "Not if you don't mind waiting for me to find the time. And it's something to think about aside from playdates and chores."

  Brian tugged harder and made his rhino roar—I wondered why he thought rhinos made that noise and wished he would stop. I shouted over it as we walked toward the porch. "Thanks. I'll give you a call another time, unless you call me first."

  Ben frowned. "Sorry we were interrupted."

  I waved him off and opened the door for us. "It's OK. You answered the most important questions I had." I held up the book. "I'll get this back to you as soon as I can."

  "No rush." He was yanked out the doorway by the charging rhino-boy. The door clicked closed on its own and I heard the latch turn, though no one touched it. I assumed it was Albert, playing security guard.

  As I followed the rhino and his dad down the front steps, Albert whispered along beside me.

  I peered at him. "What?"

  He just stopped and looked at me, blinked, and gave me a thin-lipped smile before fading away.

  Carrying the book, I went to my truck to begin looking into the project members.

  I'd left the files on my desk. I berated myself for it and headed back to Pioneer Square to get my paperwork.

  In my office, the answering machine light was blinking. I poked its button.

  "Harper," Phoebe's voice shouted, "you are so in trouble, girl! Is that why you're not answering my calls? I been calling you since yesterday. You don't call me back, I'm gonna find me an old obeah-woman and have her put a curse on your scrawny behind!"

  Scowling, I pulled my pager off my belt and stared at it. The display was dark.

  Rey Solis's voice curled out of the speaker. "I would like to discuss your interview list with you. Call me before three. Oh, yes—Phoebe Mason threatened to skin you. I assume she's not serious, but do I need to change my mind?"

  Terrific. Phoebe was mad enough to threaten violence in front of a police officer. Hell hath no fury like a pissed-off Phoebe. I scrounged in the desk drawers and found spare batteries for the pager and swapped them in. The pager remained blank. Even the little green power indicator wouldn't light.

  "Damn it." I knocked it on the tabletop. The case popped open and spilled bits onto the desk. I spat dirty words. How long had it been nonfunctional? It should have vibrated when I opened the office door, but I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt it buzz and I hadn't noticed when it had stopped.

  I called the pager service, picked up messages, and told them to forward all calls to the office until further notice. Phoebe had called three times, among other business calls I hadn't gotten. While Phoebe might skin me, I needed to pay my bills long enough to survive to be skinned, so I put the business calls ahead of hers. One of my steady clients was a litigator with the heart of a demon from the inner rings, so it was in my best interest to pour oil on the permafrost as the first priority. It would be a positive joy to take the heat from Phoebe after that.

  Phoebe didn't answer the phone at the shop. I got the answering machine that told me Old Possum's was closed due to a death in the family. As far as I knew, the shop had never been closed before—not even when Dyslexia, the ancient and addlepated queen of the cats, had died and Phoebe had cried for three days. I tried her apartment and her parents' restaurant with no result. Then I called the store's office number.

  "Old Possum's," Phoebe snapped. "We're closed. Go away."

  "It's Harper."

  Phoebe growled. "Oh, you! You!" she sputtered.

  I sighed. "I'm coming up there. I'll explain everything and you can yell at me all you want."

  She was still trying to get a good harangue started when I hung up.

  One more quick call to Solis to say I'd drop by at three, then I was back out the door with the Tuckman files under my arm and on my way to Fremont.

  CHAPTER 10

  Phoebe had reacquired articulate fury by the time I arrived at the back door to Old Possum's. I knocked and was greeted with a storm of words as the door opened. "Harper! You are mean and sneaky! You askin' me all those questions and already knowin' Mark was dead! You better have some good damn reason why you didn't tell me. You bring your sneaky-ass self in here and start talkin'." Phoebe waved into the dim interior of the back office with an emphatic gesture.

  I held position on the stoop. Bright sparks of red and white fury leapt from her, stabbing the air and leaving a sour tang of grief. She glared at me until the sparks died down and her lower lip began to tremble.

  "Aren't you comin' in?"

  I leaned left and right, making a big show of looking around her. The big overhead fluorescent light was off and only a pair of green-shaded clerks lamps threw pools of light onto the big messy desk in the room.

  "OK," I said.

  "What are you looking for?"

  "I'm looking for Phoebe Mason."

  "What d'you—"

  "She said she was going to have an obeah-woman curse me and you don't seem to be doing a very good job, so I thought I'd have to tell her to get her money back."

  She reached up and clouted me on the shoulder—Phoebe's not very tall and though her temper is just as short, so are her grudges. "Girl! Listen to the mouth on you. You get in here, now. But I'm not making you coffee this time. I'm still mad at you."

  I blew out a sigh of relief. "OK. I can take my punishment without caffeine." Which was technically true, since I'd managed to miss both sleep and my morning coffee and it looked like I wouldn't get any lunch, but I'd have to carry on without my favorite crutch. At least until Phoebe relented.

  I entered the dim office and went to tuck myself into a chair too ratty to be allowed on the shop floor. "I'm sorry, Phoebe," I started. "When did you find out about Mark?"

  Phoebe sat behind the desk and squirmed the chair back so her face was hidden in shadow. I could still see the wavering colors of her distress casting her into Grey silhouette. "Yesterday afternoon. Some detective from the police came round."

  "Hispanic?"

  "Uh-huh." The chair creaked as s
he nodded and I could hear her sniffle in the dark. I couldn't see her expression, but I could imagine it well enough. "Why didn't you say anything Wednesday? Why'd you just let me find out from some stone-faced stranger?"

  "Detective Solis asked me not to. And I didn't want you to feel you shouldn't say anything bad about Mark because he was dead. We both need to know what he was really like and what he was doing. And if anyone already knew what had happened."

  "Well, we didn't."

  "Who was here when Solis came in?"

  "Jules and Amanda—poor thing—and me. I had to send Manda home in a taxi. She started crying so hard her eyes all swelled up and I couldn't let her go home on a bus like that."

  "What sort of questions did Solis ask you?"

  "Pretty much the same as you—how long had he worked here, what was he like, was he upset or in trouble recently, who were his friends, and like that. I even told him about the poltergeist, but he didn't seem very interested, so I didn't tell him about the accident."

  "What accident? You didn't tell me about any accident, either."

  "I did! I told you things fell on people." She shrugged. "It wasn't such a big thing. Couple of days ago Mark was shelving books in the back near the espresso machine and there's a customer talking to him. Then one of the gargoyles come right up off the mantel and smacks into the shelf by Mark's head and the big book he's putting up falls and hits Mark in the chest. Mark fell down and the book fell down and hit the gargoyle and broke the base and the customer goes yelling out the front door."

  "Who was the customer?"

  "I don't know. I wasn't in on Monday—yeah, it was Monday. Manda saw it all in the mirror."

  I bit my lip. "Amanda saw it. Was the customer male or female?"

  Phoebe flipped her hands upward in impatient annoyance. "I don't know! Ask Manda!"

  "Did anyone else see the accident?"

  "Mark."

  "Besides Mark and Amanda and the customer?"

  "I don't think so. Monday's pretty slow. Why is this so important? That stupid gargoyle didn't kill Mark and the customer didn't throw it at him, anyhow. Manda said it just come after him all of its own."

  I looked through the dimness toward Phoebe. A sad kind of gray green funk wrapped around her. The minions were as much family to Phoebe as her own huge clan of actual relatives, and angry as she was at me for not telling her about Mark, the sadness was worse. It would be awful of me to tell her Amanda was now the prime suspect— ex-girlfriend and the only witness to some kind of attack that couldn't be proved would move her to the top of Solis's list. The chances of finding the mysterious customer weren't good—if there had been one at all—and Solis would think the same thing. It looked as if I was stuck between deceiving Phoebe some more or hurting her worse.

  I sighed.

  "Phoebe, you do know Solis is investigating this as a homicide?"

  She flapped a hand at me. "Of course I do. Didn't he say so? Someone broke into the apartment and killed poor Mark."

  "Is that what he told you?"

  "Of course it is! That's what happened! Poor, poor Mark. Poor Mark…" She began crying, her round, dark face dipping into the light as she lowered it into her hands.

  "Oh, Phoebe, I'm so sorry," I said, getting up to put my arm over her shoulder. "So very, very sorry."

  She shuddered and gulped air, heaving in a huge breath, then howled a bellow of deep red agony. I clenched my eyes shut and shook with it.

  Phoebe cried like a hurricane for over an hour. I finally got her into my Land Rover and took her to her parents' place. Most of the clan was down in the restaurant, already prepping for Friday night rush, but her brother Hugh was at the house, behind it. He took Phoebe inside, asking me to stay a moment, until he got her settled.

  He came back down a few minutes later and I told him what had happened. He nodded, looking grave. "We'll look after her, don't worry." Hugh had a soft voice for a man with a chest as broad as a Buick. "She's got a big heart, my sister. It's got a little hole in it right now, but we've got the love to patch it up with. She's gonna be OK. Shop, too. Poppy and Mamma'll scare some of those no-account cousins into helpin' out till Phoebe can't stand it. She'll be running back to the shop in no time to save it from Germaine and his sisters, and once she's back to bustling about and bossing people, she'll be fine."

  I gave him a smile. "You certainly know your sister's soft spots."

  He laughed in warm billows. "I should—she was bossing me from way back. I had to learn to defend myself." He put a hand on my shoulder. "Now, you take care of yourself, Harper—and you know what I mean."

  "Yes, Hugh," I replied with mock exasperation, grinning. "I'll go out and tie some steaks on my body so you can tell Poppy I put some meat on my bones, OK?"

  He laughed again and waved me off and I smiled and laughed as I left.

  Once I was back in the Rover, the grim feeling of trouble returned. It was a good thing I was already heading to Solis's office. The business of the accident couldn't wait.

  The police department offices in the glass-and-granite tower of the new justice center were much nicer than the aging lino and fifty-year-old paint of the old public safety building, but Solis still did not have an office. Like most of the crime investigators, he had a large cubicle with walls high enough and thick enough to cut the noise down to an acceptable degree for phone conversations but not private enough to encourage isolation. As a result, he preferred to have meetings almost anywhere else. He met me in the lobby with a folder in his hand and we walked down the steep pitch of Cherry Street to the SBC coffeehouse above the Seattle Mystery Bookshop.

  SBC was only a block from my office, and I wished he'd thought to tell me to meet him there in the first place. At least I'd be able to have a decent cup of coffee, at last. Solis chose a small table in the corner farthest from the door.

  I spoke first. "I haven't had much chance to meet with the project members yet. So far the only person I've talked to you'd have any interest in is Phoebe from Old Possum's, and I understand you've already talked to her."

  "Yes."

  "Have you talked to Amanda Leaman yet?"

  Solis cocked his head and raised an eyebrow a little. "For a short while, yes."

  "Did she mention an accident on Monday?"

  Solis said nothing.

  "I was talking to Phoebe a little while ago and she said that there had been an accident in the shop on Monday when Mark and Amanda were alone with a single customer. Phoebe didn't witness this. She only reported the story she got from either Amanda or Mark, so this is hearsay, but might be important."

  "Go on."

  "According to Phoebe, Mark was shelving books near the coffee equipment in the back of the shop and talking to a customer while Amanda was at the cash desk. Supposedly, one of those cat-gargoyles on the mantel was flung against the bookshelf Mark was stocking and dislodged a very heavy book, which hit Mark in the chest and knocked him to the floor. The customer left the shop immediately. I've seen the gargoyle and it has been chipped on the base recently."

  "So your conclusion is that the customer threw the gargoyle at Lupoldi?"

  "Phoebe claims that the gargoyle levitated by itself—that's what she was told—and that the customer left in fear."

  His mouth twitched with amusement. "Flying gargoyles? Not a very convincing story."

  "No, it's not, is it? Did the medical examiner find any bruising on Mark's chest that might be consistent with the falling book?"

  Solis tapped the folder in front of him thoughtfully. I stole a gulp of my coffee as he deliberated.

  "Yes, he did. At first we thought it might indicate something about whatever mechanism was used to kill him, but it was several days older than the fatal injuries. Now I shall have to ask Miss Leaman about that accident."

  "And go looking for the customer."

  He gave half a nod and looked into his coffee cup. "If there is such a person."

  "If there isn't, then you have two possibil
ities—Amanda threw the gargoyle at Mark, or the gargoyle threw itself."

  Solis shook his head. "Or the book simply fell."

  "Then why make up the story about the gargoyle?"

  Solis considered. "It is an interesting question. Would you consider Amanda Leaman capable of such a cold-blooded murder?"

  I squinted, trying to remember the exact conditions of Mark's apartment. My instinct agreed, but I wanted to know Solis's reasoning. "Why murder?" I asked. "Why not an accident? Mark was notorious for playing elaborate jokes on people. If it was Amanda, maybe she was paying him back."

  Solis was quiet for a while and I noticed that he had no bright corona around him this time, only a sort of cold blankness—an absence more than a presence—that constrained his emotions. Then he picked up the folder and looked into it. He closed it again and put it down on the table. He was very still as he spoke.

  "Mark Lupoldi was lifted and flung about five feet with enough force to crush the back of his skull and fracture his spine and most of his ribs. But there is no sign of a fight with an attacker. He was surprised and killed very quickly. He was in excellent health and condition and it would take a lot of force to pick up a young man of his size and throw him. It's what you expect in an explosion. But there was no explosion. Amanda Leaman could not have the strength to throw him like that—a single very large man perhaps could, but only perhaps. If she were responsible, she would have had to use some kind of machine. To assemble the machine and disassemble it afterward, leaving no discernible trace, would take nerve. If Amanda Leaman harbored such malice toward Lupoldi after their relationship was over, her facade of friendship for so many months while she plotted his murder would require very cold blood.

  "This is a thing that bothers me. A well-liked young man is found dead in his apartment. If it were an explosion in the steam pipes or an overdose, it would be an accident. Had it been a gang killing or a quarrel, it would be a tragedy, but quickly resolved. There is nothing to account for the force it would take to kill him like this, and yet he's dead. It's a mystery. I don't like mysteries. They belong in books and TV shows. We had thirty-four murders in Seattle last year—a bad year. Half of them were cleared within a few days by the simplest police work, the rest within months—perpetrators bragged, confessed, or were ratted on by friends. None of them were mysteries. Now I have this." He glared at the folder and tapped it with his fingertips.