Once upon a time my barbarian ancestors roamed large portions of east central Europe—sort of like the bison's dominance of the North American prairie before the coming of the white man. My forebears probably would have liked that analogy. In fact, it worked on more than one level. But, rather than run down the list for an appalling side-by-side comparison between those lumbering smelly beasts and a herd of buffalo, just trust me: there are worse things to be compared to.
Like my great-to-the-something-power, great-grandmother for instance . . .
As if to punctuate my ancestral musings, the wind suddenly shifted as I limped toward home. An odor even worse than a hoard of unwashed Hun settled over the area as the local paper mill cranked up an olfactory distraction from the aches and pains wrought by my evening's dance with the dead.
If you've never experienced the airy fragrance of a paper mill when the smokestacks go online then I invite you to picture a cute little baby.
With an overfull bladder.
Now imagine the wettest, soggiest baby diaper it's ever been your misfortune to change—no baby putty, strictly "number one." But a lot of "number one." And in an old-fashioned cloth diaper, none of those sissy, disposable, paper and plastic jobs. Next, take that sopping, dribbling diaper and, without wringing or rinsing, deposit it into a large plastic bag. Seal the bag so that it's airtight. Place the bag outside in the hot sun for three or four hours. At the end of that time remove the diaper from the bag.
Finally, place the empty bag over your head.
That's a vague approximation of what it's like when the industrial venting process and the local wind patterns collaborate: this was turning into such a special night for me.
My driveway was a long winding tunnel through a half-mile of trees and shrubbery to my property. Actually, the half-mile of trees and shrubbery was my property too but my philosophy is if you don't have to mow it, weed it, or water it, you can call it God's property and cross another set of worries off your maintenance list.
As I staggered closer to the roadside entrance, I found the way well lit by a column of flame.
Fires in the night. More reminders of my ancient relatives, the Hun. Now there was a group who knew how to keep the darkness at bay with the application of large quantities of combustibles. Of course the people they overran would say they brought a lot of the darkness with them. Jenny claimed that my "doesn't play well with others" attitude came from the sap that flowed through my family tree from the roots up. Hey, at least I didn't go around raping and looting and pillaging and burning down entire villages.
At least not yet, anyways.
I limped over and looked down the incline where the ground fell away from the road and slid into the tree line—which is what someone's automobile had tried to do. The Lexus had left the pavement and the steepness of the hillside had just carried it along until it met unmovable objects in the form of a five-pine cluster. The crumpled car must have ignited on impact and now the flames licked at the overhanging branches some thirty feet in the air.
In the distance I could hear approaching sirens: a good thing as a half-hour from now we would likely have a birthday effect spreading to the rest of the woods. Think mint cake with flaming candles for a five-hundred-year-old giant.
I thought about how much the Hun would have liked that. My own blood was too diluted by the intervening generations: I hoped the fire would be out very soon. Maybe somewhere back along the line I had an ancestor who was adopted. Preferably after great-times-something grandmamma.
She descended from one of the largest and most powerful clans, the Gutkeleds, who occupied territories that would eventually become Poland, Hungary, Slovakia, Romania, and a couple of quaint fiefdoms named Wallachia and Transylvania.
Cataloging my family registry kept my mind off the pain that jarred through my leg, back, and ribs as I hobbled along home. I turned and gimped back across the road and oriented on my property line.
Where was I? Oh yeah . . . by the thirteenth century the Gutkeleds had given up the nomadic, tribal lifestyle and become landowners. They also went for a name change, adopting the moniker of one of their "estates." The word Bátor meant "valiant"—had a nice ring to it—and, somewhere along the way, it became Báthory.
Maybe, I pondered, there was something in a name since the Báthorys grew in power and influence, producing a number of notable personages. There was Stephen Báthory, a loyal adherent of John I of Hungary. In 1529, he became voivode of Transylvania—more governor than warlord by that time. His youngest son, also named Stephan but with an "a," became king of Poland in 1575—which allowed his brother, Christopher, to succeed him as prince of Transylvania.
I turned off the main road and started up my long and winding drive as the first fire truck flickered around a curve in the distance.
Alas, in-breeding produced a flip side to all this royal success, surfacing when Christopher married Elizabeth, sister of Stephen Bocskay.
Sigismund Báthory, his son and successor, seemed of the opinion that sanity was somewhat overrated. That attitude may have actually helped his political ambitions. In 1594, he crushed the pro-Turkish faction of nobles and was recognized by the Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf II, as a hereditary prince. Court intrigues proved a bit more challenging than kicking Turkish ass and taking names: Siggy abdicated in favor of the Hapsburg king of Hungary in 1597, then came back to assume power in 1598. He then abdicated again the following year in favor of his cousin, Andrew Cardinal Báthory, who died that same year so he had to be "coaxed" out of retirement a second time. With the help of Stephen Bocskay, he returned to power as a vassal of Sultan Muhammad III but abdicated (finally, this time) in 1602—once more in favor of Rudolf—and retired to Silesia. Maybe he wasn't crazy, just conflicted.
And maybe I wasn't tired to the point of hallucination: Maybe there was someone walking up the driveway, ahead of me.
The encompassing trees and encroaching shrubbery effectively blocked ninety percent of the moon and starlight. The flames from the wrecked car and the flashing red and blue lights from the emergency vehicles gave me just enough ambient illumination to see that the figure was man-sized. It didn't reveal whether it was man-shaped. But it appeared to be moving up the drive, away from me.
I thought about calling to him—not that I could be sure it was even a "him." I decided, instead, to close some of the distance while "he" was still unaware of my presence. I picked up my pace and, as I limped along, a detached portion of my mind continued to review the Báthory legacy.
Gabriel Báthory was a nephew of Andrew Cardinal Báthory, who became prince of Transylvania in 1608. His efforts to become the "Carpathian Caligula" eventually provoked a rebellion by the nobles. Since impeachment was a political concept whose time had not yet come, he was conveniently murdered. He did manage one notable accomplishment before the nobles served the ultimate recall petition: by marrying his niece Sophia to George Rákóczy II, he oversaw the union of these two noble families. Some say the Rákóczy line has never been the same.
Up ahead, my "quarry" seemed to be having as much difficulty walking as I was—perhaps he had lost his shoes, too. This was silly: stalking an unknown pedestrian in the dark. I decided to approach him but I was determined to do it carefully. In my experience, the Twilight Zone still lurks around certain corners. Too bad Rod Serling's dead and gone: more than once I would have benefited from his stentorian warning—Look, there's the signpost up ahead. . . .
In Erzsébet's case, the warning signs were in place before she was even born. Her mama, Anna Báthory, married Gáspár Dragfy and gave him two sons: János and Gyorgy. History is closemouthed about the details but Gáspár died in 1545. Then Anna moved on to hubby number two: Antal Drugeth. He died shortly thereafter. In 1553, she married her cousin, Baron Gyorgy Báthory, then gave birth to four more children before the Baron croaked in 1570. Again, no details were forthcoming in my reading but, given Anna's run on husbands, I would be more inclined to hire a cook than let that woman anywhere near the kitchen.
Thinking of kitchens, mine was near by and my stomach was starting to rumble in anticipation of some much-needed sustenance. I was also close enough to my target for him to know he was being stalked. He was either one cool customer or stone cold deaf.
Which brings me to "stone cold" Erzsébet, better known in the West as "Elizabeth" Báthory. She was born August 7, 1560, into one of the oldest and wealthiest families in Transylvania, the second of the four siblings fathered by the baron. Although their dominance would decline by 1658, at the time of her birth she had a very distinguished pedigree with a cardinal, several princes, members of the judiciary, clergy, civil posts, a prime minister of Hungary and a couple of kings sharing her lineage. There was even a connection—one for sure, the second only hinted at—to my dark Sire, Vlad Drakul Bassarab.
Nearly a century earlier, in 1476, Dracula rode into Wallachia to regain his throne. Accompanying him was Prince Stephen Báthory, leading a contingent of his own forces. Both families had a dragon design on their family crests and a Dracula fief, Castle Fagaras, became a Báthory possession during Erzsébet's time.
That association is a fact of history.
The other, a hundred years later, was a matter of gossip and speculation.
My own connection to the Báthory line was unclear. My great- great-grandparents were from Romania. We bore the name Cséjthe but records between the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries had largely disappeared. The oral traditions regarding the Witch of Cachtice or the Blood Countess of Cséjthe are rife with tales of blood and torture and death and degradation—but notoriously mum on any other aspect of the subsequent generations. It was as if the family went into hiding.
My blood ties to Dracula were more recent and disturbingly clear. . . .
So what Mama Samm's disjointed ramblings meant beyond a red-eyed vampire with a cell phone remained to be seen. As did my walking companion. I reached out and tapped him on the shoulder as we came out of the tunnel of trees and onto the expanse of recently mowed grass.
He didn't start, didn't jump, and didn't even flinch. He had almost no reaction, at all. He took a couple of additional steps before stopping and then turned as the motion detectors turned on the security lights around the house.
"Can I help you?" I asked, trying to peer into the backlit silhouette where a face should be.
Maybe I had startled him: it took him a few extra moments to answer.
"A phone," he said slowly. "I need . . . to make a call . . ."
"Sure," I said, after a little hesitation of my own. "This is my house. Come on up." I moved to take the lead and he fell in behind me after another protracted pause.
Standing on the front porch, I fumbled for my key. After a minute of fumbling it became apparent that I had lost my key along with my shoe. Now what? Yell for an invisible, disembodied spirit to come down and unlock the door? Not with company standing behind me and damn but the paper mill was venting something particularly odious tonight! What kind of chemical makes wood pulp smell like burned pork?
"Hold on," I said. "I've got to go around back to get in. I'll come through and let you in the front in a minute or two." Stepping off the porch I got a better, sidelong glance at my visitor. Hospital, I thought, hurrying around the side of the house, got to get an ambulance for this guy ASAP! The driver of the wrecked car looked like he was in worse shape than I was. It was a wonder he had managed to walk all the way up the hill. He was probably in shock.
I got to the back door, which was just as tightly locked as the front, and sat on the step.
I closed my eyes. Squeezed my breathing into a regulated cadence. Worked on regulating the rest of me.
Relax!
Be calm.
Focus. . . .
"Death is but the doorway to new life. . . ." I whispered.
We live today.
We shall live again.
In many forms shall we return. . . .
This time there was no dream state, no hallucinations, nor a sense of falling between dimensions.
I opened my eyes, expecting this attempt to have failed like most of the others. Instead I found myself sitting on the floor in the kitchen.
Naked.
That's the problem with translocation. In vampire lore they have Dracula and a dozen other long-toothed clones turning into mist and flowing through keyholes and under doors and such then reassembling, perfectly coiffed and without a wrinkle in their formal evening wear.
In real life—and don't you even get me started on the concept of "real" life—translocation doesn't involve mists or fogs, at all—unless the practitioner uses a little hypnotic suggestion on his or her audience. It's actually a psionic talent brought about by the vampiric mutations in brain chemistry. And it isn't a gift that most undead develop. It is restricted to the Domans of the underground communities who secretly break the wampyr taboo against mingling their blood with that of a lycanthrope—something that Lupé and I had ignorantly done on a couple of occasions.
Perhaps it was my not being "technically" undead that made successful translocations, even without my clothes, so unreliable.
That, or the lack of a discipline and frequency in my practice sessions. I scrambled to my feet and unlocked the back door.
Grabbing my puddle of clothing from the back porch, I hurriedly dressed and then grabbed the cordless phone on the way to the living room. The man on my doorstep flinched away from the light as I opened the front door. I caught a glimpse of a blistered cheek, a singed moustache and goatee, and a bloody eye socket before he stepped inside and pulled the wall switch back down.
"Why don't you come inside and rest?" I invited. Before you collapse from shock.
He took the phone and punched in a number. "Got to get back to my car," he said slowly, remaining just inside the doorway.
"At least let me get you some bandages, some ointment."
He raised the receiver to a bloody ear as I backed toward the first-floor bathroom. "Hello, Susan?" he said softly. "I'm going to be late . . . I just wanted to tell you that I love you. . . ."
It took me a couple of minutes to gather a handful of first-aid supplies. When I returned, the outside door stood open and the phone was on the floor buzzing a fresh dial tone.
I went to the doorway and peered out across the front yard. Between the outside security lights and the flickering illumination of the burning car and flashing lights from the main road, I could make out a lone figure shuffling back down the driveway between the trees. I looked down at the bandages and salves in my hands. The emergency vehicles down at the accident site would be better equipped to deal with any serious trauma. I closed the door, picked up the phone, and headed back to the bathroom.
The phone rang as I finished putting away the bandages. "Haim residence," I answered, leaving the first floor bathroom and starting up the stairs.
"Hello?" The voice was feminine, hesitant. "Hello? Is Bradley there?" Undertones of fear and barely repressed panic were layered into her precise diction.
"Bradley?" I asked, trying to remember if I knew any Bradleys.
"Sinor," she elaborated. "He just called me. The number didn't come up on my caller-ID so I hit star-sixty-nine. Is he there?"
"Is this—" What name had my accident victim said? "—Susan?"
"Yes!" Overtones of relief crept into her voice. "Is he still there?"
"Um, no." I opened the front door and peered down the hill. "He left." It was as if the night had swallowed him whole.
"Is he all right? He sounded so strange!"
"Well . . . ?" How to phrase this so it didn't sound worse than it really was? "He had a little accident. . . ."
"Accident?" Relief took a powder: panic surfaced like a submarine with blown ballast tanks. "What kind of accident?"
I told her. Described the crash site, suggested that the car might be DOA but Bradley must be pretty okay if he could walk up the hill to my place and right back down, again. Most healthy folk find the uphill trudge leaves them a little breathless. I assured her that Bradley would probably call her from the hospital. . . .
Which set off a new round of quavery questions in spite of my reassurances that any crash you could walk away from was not that serious.
She didn't seem inclined to wait by the phone so I gave her directions and threw in my address for good measure—though the fire and flashing lights would prove beacon enough once she got close. Since most ERs treat nonfatalities with the speed and promptness of a tax refund, she was probably right in deciding to not "cool her heels" at home.
She most likely had a cell phone anyway.
I hung up and the phone rang again. Unlisted number, line-filter against caller-IDs, and they still track me down. I glanced at my own caller-ID: the block was one-way so I could still see who was calling me even if they couldn't see who was calling them. It was the office.
"Haim Mortuary," I announced blithely, "you stab 'em, we slab 'em; you plug 'em, we plant 'em."
"Sam." It was my secretary. Her tone suggested I might want to be a little less blithe.
"I'm running a little late, Olive." In point of fact it was just a little before ten p.m. I glanced back to see if I—or my transitory visitor—had dripped any blood on the carpet.
"Sorry to bother you at home, Boss, but I figured you'd want the heads-up."
I groaned. "The Snow Queen?"
"My, my, a detective and a psychic!" I heard laughter in her warm, dulcet voice.
Walking into the hall bathroom, I turned on the lights, and considered my reflection in the mirror. It was just a little blurry tonight. "I—I've run into a few complications so I won't be in right away. Try to set up an appointment for Mrs. Cummings next week."
"I'll do my best, Chief, but—you know . . ."
I sighed. "I know."
"Are you okay? Want to take the night off?"
I considered my bruised face and throat. Even without an infusion of hemoglobin I was starting to look and feel better. Already the dark purples and reds were fading to pinks and pale greens. My cuts were closed. Were I still completely human it would have taken two to three days to heal to this point.
Of course, if I were completely undead, I would have totally recovered in minutes, if not seconds. "I'm fine," I answered. "I'll be in shortly. But don't tell her that."
"Do my best."
I opened the shower doors. "See you soon." I clicked off and reached over to turn the hot water faucet enough to start the showerhead dribbling on the floor of the tub. Then I wrenched the cold water handle as wide as it would go. A few minutes later I was properly thankful that a well-insulated house and twenty acres of property kept my neighbors from wondering about all the yelling.
It was closer to eleven-thirty by the time I squeezed the Merc past the fire trucks, drove down to the river, and parked next to the abandoned railroad spur.
In 1867, George Pullman, already renowned for redefining the concept of railroad luxury, rolled out the acme, the pinnacle, the Alpha and damn near Omega of the Pullman Palace Railway Cars. Called "The President" and essentially a hotel on iron wheels, it incorporated the finest accommodations imaginable for sleeping, dining, and passing many a long hour with all of the amenities of a penthouse suite. The sleeping compartments had been lined with cherry wood, and heavy, brocaded curtains afforded each window a measure of elegance to go with complete privacy. Over fifty feet long and ten feet wide, the interior was paneled and trimmed with teak, mahogany, and black walnut. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling and French plate mirrors adorned the walls. All of the upholstery was plush and the floors were softened with thick Brussels carpeting.
Once I'd finished the project, I couldn't say which was more expensive: acquiring a genuine Pullman and setting it up on an abandoned railway spur on the western bank of the Ouachita River or restoring this relic from a bygone age to all its former glory. The forty thousand I spent on converting the toilets to chemical recyclers, the oil lamps and chandeliers to electrical, and getting the solar-powered heat exchanger to interface with the plumbing was a mere dribble in the bucket in comparison.
But I could afford it: Prince in Exile, Vlad Drakul Bassarab had treated me well. Between the suitcases of cash he had provided and the protected investments he had set up in my name, I could buy a whole train if I wanted to.
Never mind that it was essentially blood money for the lives of my wife and daughter.
I grabbed my equipment bag out of the back seat and walked to the end of the Pullman. Up the stairs, onto the platform and, sure enough, there it was on the glass window of the narrow door: "After Dark Investigations." Just as Mama Samm had "foreseen."
Too bad she hadn't been more forthcoming about Je Rouge.
"Go long!" I called, as I opened the door.
Olive looked up and kicked her rolling chair back from the desk as my camcorder went sailing across the room. One arm went up for a perfect, left-handed catch. Before I could launch into my crowd-goes-wild routine I became aware of another presence in the front office.
It was the Snow Queen.
"Miz Suanne is here, axing to see you," Olive added unnecessarily.
I cocked an eyebrow at her: the polite "darkie"-mixed-with-street patois was an affectation she reserved for the crackers who annoyed her. The Snow Queen was no cracker but she did tend to overdo the noblesse oblige bit for those of a darker skin hue or a lighter social status. I considered telling her that my secretary did the New York Times crossword puzzle in ink but I knew Olive would not appreciate my blowing her cover.
Suanne Cummings hadn't always been the Snow Queen. Once upon a time, I'm told, she had been a cheerleader and a model and a beauty pageant runner-up. She didn't acquire her royalty status until after she married Dr. Hyrum Cummings—eye, ear, nose, throat and just-about-anything-else specialist—and she, subsequently, became the top realtor in Northeast Louisiana.
She had everything a woman could want: money, success, social standing and, at the age of thirty-seven, she still possessed the body of a twenty-five-year-old. That her natural blond hair was now bleached an unnatural shade of white and that the extra layer of makeup was no longer sufficient to hide her frown lines, did little to distract from the overall package. Suanne was a babe, a power-babe, in fact, and the world as a rule stepped aside and held doors for her.
"Mr. Haim," she said, extending a hand dribbling jewelry.
"Mrs. Cummings," I countered. Her touch was nearly as cool as mine and I ran a quick check on her eyes. Nope: reputation not withstanding, she was still human. "Your lawyer hired me and I really should be talking to him."
"But I'm paying the bills and retainer, and it is my husband." She kept her cool, elegant fingers twined about mine and nodded toward the door to my office area.
"I'm not really ready to make a report, yet."
"Then tell me what you do have."
"Nothing solid enough on which to build any kind of a case."
"Then tell me what you have done to date." The frown lines deepened, putting stress on her makeup base. "Or have you done anything to date, Mr. Haim?"
I turned to Olive. "Get me the most recent surveillance tape on the Cummings case."
She extricated a tape from the camcorder and placed it on the desk before opening a locked door set in the side of her credenza. She extracted several cassettes and checked the labels. "Go short," she retorted, selecting one, and flipped it to me underhanded.
I caught it underhanded and escorted Mrs. Cummings through the next door and into my office.
"Make yourself comfortable," I said as I popped the tape into an adapter, then the VCR and hit rewind. "I'll be back in a moment."
I stepped back into the reception area, closing the door behind me. "Olive, get me the number for Mama Samm D'Arbonne."
"The fortune teller?"
I nodded. "In fact, give her a call, see if she'll see me tonight."
"Tonight?"
"If not tonight, set me up an appointment for in the morning."
"Rather late to be calling civilians, isn't it, Boss?"
"Maybe." I reached behind and ran my hand down my back: the electrical burns barely twinged now. "But I'm not so sure she's a civilian. And I think she's anticipating this call."
The cassette had reached the beginning of the tape when I returned to the inner office. I picked up the remote and fired off the two codes that activated the monitor and the VCR. "I don't think you're going to like this," I murmured.
"I don't expect to," she said.
But it wasn't what she expected.
The monitor displayed a stretch of green-black water, bracketed by cypresses and evergreens decked with bursts of gray-green Spanish moss and black-brown underbrush tented with cascading canopies of emerald-green kudzu. A silver-gray blob resolved itself into a canoe as the video camera was focused. "Black Bayou," I announced as the zoom kicked in and we were brought up to hailing distance of the canoe's two occupants: a bespectacled man in his early forties with thinning hair, and a pear- shaped woman with more gray than brown in her hair that might have been styled in a blunt-cut pageboy before the wind got hold of it.
"Hyrum Cummings and Delores Hastings," I announced unnecessarily. We watched for a few minutes as they drifted along, propelled by an occasional dip of a paddle in the still, brackish water. Hyrum and Delores wore expressions of quiet contentment, the occasional movement of lips indicating the briefest of verbal exchanges.
"This was taken two weeks ago, Saturday. They spent close to four hours on the bayou, together."
Suanne shook her head. "Hyrum played golf that Saturday. Hyrum goes to the country club every Saturday and plays eighteen holes of golf."
It was my turn to shake my head. "Your husband never plays golf more than once a month—and then it's no more than nine holes, never eighteen. He drops by the country club every Saturday, puts in an appearance so later on someone can say that they saw him there. But he leaves after twenty to thirty minutes."
"I find that hard to believe."
"Mrs. Cummings, how often does your husband clean his clubs?"
"Hyrum stopped cleaning his own clubs some time ago. There are people at the club who do it for him."
"Really." I produced a photocopied page of receipts. "According to the clubhouse records, your husband has had his golf clubs cleaned a total of three times this year. He gets more exercise hauling them to the car and back than he does from actually using them."
Her face darkened as she turned the logistics over in her mind. "All right, so he's cheating. I wouldn't have hired you if I hadn't had my suspicions."
"Depends on what you mean by 'cheating,' " I said.
"Oh, don't get Clintonesque with me," she snapped. "Let's cut to the chase; let's see some video that catches them in the act."
"The act." I nibbled a dry patch on my lower lip and considered the bookshelves on the far wall of my office.
"I can presume from your expression that you don't actually have any tape of them in bed together." She studied Delores' Rubenesque figure that wasn't exactly minimized by the flowery muumuu that she wore in the canoe. "I suppose I should be glad to be spared the sight of that woman naked. Gawd, it would be so . . . disgusting." She tapped a finger armored in gold against her perfect teeth. "But video of them going into or coming out of a motel would be just as good in court."
"They've never gone near a motel."
"So where do they do it? Her place?"
"They don't."
"Don't what?"
"Do it."
"They don't . . ." she paused, " . . . do it?"
I nodded.
"You're suggesting that they've never consummated the affair?"
"Define 'affair.' And, no, I am not suggesting, I am telling you that they haven't done 'the act' or anything closely resembling 'the act,' since I put your husband under surveillance seven weeks ago."
"Impossible!"
"Impossible for them to consummate, based on the evidence to date. My associates can account for your husband's and Ms. Hastings' whereabouts for every hour since you hired me and I have backtracked on all available records for six months previous to my hire. Other than the fact that they prefer to spend time together, there is just no credible evidence that Dr. Cummings and Ms. Hastings are lovers. At least in the conventional sense."
She shook her head. "I don't like it."
"I said you wouldn't." I stopped the tape and pressed rewind on the remote. "I have additional tapes of them at a concert, a monster truck rally, bicycling through Kiroli Park . . ."
"Where there's smoke, there's got to be fire."
I tapped the intercom on my desk as the cassette finished rewinding and ejected. "Olive, round up the Cummings' files and tapes with something to carry them in." I glanced up at one of the cut-glass mirrors set in the cabinet doors and noticed that my tie was askew. I had loosened it on the drive over and neglected to rebutton the collar before coming in. I also noticed that my reflection was a little vague—something that might be difficult to explain to the uninitiated.
I turned my back and moved to block my reflection as I struggled with the button. "Mrs. Cummings, aside from my files and a set of dossiers, I've got a dozen or so tapes, six hours each. I invite you to review all of them minute by minute and find even the suggestion of a kiss or improper body language."
"So what is your next step?" Suanne's head appeared just over my reflection's right shoulder: the woman was tall. The stiletto heels helped.
"I don't know that I have a next step in your case, Mrs. Cummings."
"But what about me?" Her arms appeared from my sides and reached up to adjust my necktie.
"You take the tapes and go over them with your lawyer."
"And?"
"Decide what you want to do next."
"If I understand you correctly, there isn't enough here to guarantee a hefty divorce settlement." She pulled my tie snug. And then a little beyond.
"I gather evidence, Mrs. Cummings, I don't manufacture it."
"I'm not asking you to falsify evidence," she murmured, "just stay on the case until you can get something solid." Her hands continued to fuss with my tie even though it was as straight and snug as could be.
"That may never happen."
"And . . . ?"
"And I find that I am no longer interested in pursuing the case."
"I'll up your retainer and fee."
"I'm not interested."
"Isn't there anything I can do to change your interest?"
I started to turn around but thought the better of it when I noticed Suanne was disinclined to step back. I glanced at my office door: Olive, help . . .
"I'm not really keen on doing divorce cases, Mrs. Cummings . . ."
"Please call me Suanne."
Olive, help!
" . . . As you may know, I do this more as an avocation than an actual job . . ."
"Yes, I know. The stories are you're quite 'well off.' "
Help me, Olive!
" . . . Anyway, I find that I'm not really willing to take money from you to continue a surveillance that is unlikely to produce the results you're looking for."
"If you're not interested in taking my money," she said silkily, her mouth way too close to my ear, now, "then perhaps we could make some other arrangement for your remuneration . . ."
Dammit, Olive: get your ass in here RIGHT NOW!
The door opened and my secretary poked her head in. "I'm sorry, Boss, but did you call me?"
Suanne had stepped back but not before Olive had taken in the entire tableau. "Oh, it's that pesky tie again, huh, boss?" She marched over, took me by the arm, and spun me around to face her. As she fussed with the knot (that was just fine now), she launched into Mother Mode. "I swear! Why a man your age can't learn to tie his own ties . . . can walk out of his house without dressin' hisself proper?" Mindful of Mrs. Cumming's scrutiny, her speech patterns devolved as she warmed to the performance. "Mm-mmm, an' lookit dis collar! When is your woman gonna get herself back home, here? I gots a good mind to call Miss Lupé up right now an' tell her you is goin' to the dogs, for sure!" That with a sidelong glance at my client. "Tell her to git her shapely little butt out of Hollywood and git back here afore you pile up so much laundry it ain't never gettin' done in this lifetime!"
"Did you get Mrs. Cummings' materials together?"
"All done, boss. Everything but the billing." I had lucked out in hiring Olive Purdue. Especially when you consider the number of secretaries willing to work a night shift.
Cummings finally took her cue: "Why don't I come back at a more convenient time? I can run everything past my attorney and then we'll see what business remains for us to . . . consummate." She breezed past us and into the outer office.
Once she was outside and starting her BMW, Olive started to giggle. "I could've sworn I heard you yelling for help, Sam."
I loosened my tie. "I totally didn't see that coming."
"It's that old PD thing, Boss."
"What old 'PD thing'?"
"You know; in all the books it's where the sexy client wants to find out where the term 'Private Dick' came from." She guffawed—I mean there is no other term for the sound coming from her mouth.
"Yeah, well, I figure that she's pretty pissed at her husband and I'm the most immediate form of payback at hand for the moment."
"And there's that," she agreed. "Seriously, Sam; when is Miss Lupé coming home?" She returned my frown. "You say it's none of my business then you done answered both my questions."
"Both your questions?"
"You said she had an opportunity to do some stunt-work for a movie. But it's more than that, isn't it? Some sort of lover's quarrel."
"Some sort," I said reluctantly.
"Well, I know that it can't be another woman . . ."
Actually, if you considered the ghost of my dead wife to be another woman . . .
" . . . and I really don't want to know what it is about." She put her hand on my arm. "But what I do need to know is: is she coming back?"
"I don't know, Olive. I just don't know."
"Do you want her back?"
My head snapped up. "Hell, yes!"
"Then why don't you go after her?"
"I can't."
"Can't? Or won't?"
Both actually. I didn't know where she actually was and what name she was using. And, even if I did, going after her would put us both in serious danger.
"It's more complicated than that," I said finally. "Trust me, it's better if I wait for her to come home."
The telephone rang and Olive snagged it. "After Dark Investigations." She listened and started to frown. Covering the mouthpiece, she said, "No one's there."
"No one's there or someone's not talking?" She shrugged and I felt a prickle of apprehension spidercrawl up my spine. "Transfer it to my office," I said, heading back to my desk.
I grabbed the receiver on the second ring. "Samuel Haim . . ."
Jenny's voice crackled in my ear: "Darling, it's me."
I leaned back and pushed the connecting door shut. "I've told you to never call me at the office."
"Or you've told you to never call you at the office, if you believe your silly little theory about virus-induced hallucinations," she countered.
"I don't have time for this," I hissed. "What is it?"
"Someone's dropped by the house. I think he's looking for you."
"Who is it?"
Maybe the accident guy had wandered back up to use the phone again. . . .
"He isn't saying. He's dead, dear."
Then again, maybe he hadn't.
"Dead?" I struggled to keep my voice down. "He's a vampire?"
"No, honey; that would be an undead person. This gentleman is . . . well . . . dead. Has been for quite a long time, it would seem."
"He's a ghost? A spirit?"
"No, more like a rotting corpse. Walking dead. You know, like a zombie."
"A zombie?"
"That's what he looks like."
"What does he want?"
"How should I know? Do you want me to invite him in? I could put him on the phone and you could ask."
"No! No. I'll be right there." I hung up the phone. "Goodbye." Oops. Get a grip, Cséjthe.
The clock showed a quarter past midnight as I came back out. "I think I'm going to take your earlier advice and call it a night, Olive. I'll be in tomorrow after my night class."
She was back to her desk, organizing a spill of paperwork. "I left a message on Miss Samm's answering machine. Want me to try again?"
"Not tonight. I'll just drop by tomorrow, unannounced. In fact, I think I prefer it that way." I dug my spare set of keys out of my pocket, trying not to drop them in the process. "Oh, and Olive . . ."
"Yes, Boss?"
"Three things. First, call the cop shop and see if any exsanguinated corpses have been turning up."
"Discreet or direct?" she asked.
"Hmm?"
"If the police haven't run across any bloodless corpses, they'll think we're mad for asking. If they have, well, they'll be wanting to know—"
"—what we know, how we know, and when we knew it," I finished, embarrassed for being so distracted that the obvious had escaped me.
"Especially since 'we' would be a very misleading term in this case."
"Sorry, Olive. Trust me; you don't want to know. But if you can run sources and be discreet, find out if there have been any unusual corpses in the morgue of late."
"Mmhmm. And if that's your first request, I'm not real keen on finding out about numbers two and three."
Yep, Olive Purdue was a gem and if I seemed to have caught a round of bad luck it was probably because I'd used up all my good luck in finding her. "Item number two: I'd like you to pull the obituary on a Mr. Delacroix for me before tomorrow night."
I don't know how she did it but my secretary managed to look both relieved and wary at the same time. "And the third?"
"Memo me in triplicate: No more divorce cases!"
Relief now battled surprise as she contemplated our accounts receivables. "But that's eighty percent of our case load."
"Better to kill time than have time kill me." I paused at the outer door and leaned my head against the frame.
She chuckled as she made shooing motions with her hands. "Maybe you're right. You look like you're dead on your feet."
I eased out the door. "More than you know, Olive." It closed behind me, the dim light from the pebbled glass barely adequate for my feet to find the platform stairs.
More than she knew.
I stepped down into the deeper darkness and set my face toward the heart of the night.