Dead Mann Walking

9

I thought getting into the building would be the hard part. I don’t know who I was kidding. Turned out reaching the damn thing was the challenge. Unless we’re delivering something or picking something up, chakz do not belong on Wealthy Street—and I definitely didn’t look like a cheery FedEx man. The second I got off the bus, heads turned. Wherever I walked, livebloods gawked. Heaven forbid I should ask for directions.

I pulled the hat down so far I nearly tore the brim, but my face was only half the problem. My crumpled clothes didn’t even match the pavement. It was only a matter of time before someone called the cops and had me arrested for aesthetic reasons. With my luck, Booth would show up.

I stuck to the alleys as much as I could, but even those were so clean that I stood out. Then again, so did my destination. No gleaming tower, 128 Wealthy Street was its own kind of zombie. It was dark, and had a kind of foreboding nineteenth-century splendor, with high gables, deep roofs, terra-cotta spandrels, and the like. Almost like a big, finely decorated fortress. It was also one of the most desirable addresses in the city.

The Boyles were on the sixth floor, not quite the penthouse, but not too shabby, either. There was no way I’d be getting past the doorman, so I wandered along the side and manage to slip into a service entrance and make for the stairs. That much was on my side. No one uses stairs anymore. So there was nothing between me and their apartment.

The big question was, What was I going to do once I got there? There was a time when I could stare a suspect down and he’d confess. I didn’t think I’d be that lucky, especially without a badge, but I did think that if I could talk to them, even for a little while, they’d let something slip. See, I doubted they’d knocked off a brother every day. Odds were this was a one-and-only event in their little lives. First-timers are always sloppy, especially emotionally. They’d give me something. Maybe it would just be a narrowing of their eyes if I mentioned Turgeon’s name, or a twitchy lip when I talked about Frank’s plans for his inheritance, but it’d be something. I only hoped I’d be on the ball enough to spot it.

After that, I had no idea what came next, but at least I’d know I had my perps.

The hall was wide, neat plaster with art deco sconces that looked original. The Boyle residence was one of three on the floor. I straightened my jacket and tie as best I could, took my hat off, and knocked on the heavy oak door.

A lock clicked; it swung inward. An old geezer, nicely dressed, in pretty good shape, still with some color in his hair, blocked my view of anything behind him. Butler, I figured, judging from the stiff posture and stone manner.

That gave me an advantage. He had no idea what to make of me.

I put my foot in the frame and said, “Cara or Martin Junior in?”

He took a step back, purely on instinct. Seems the thing to do when a dead man comes to your door.

Recovering from his initial shock, he scowled pretty fiercely. “How did you get in? Get out of here. Get out of here at once.”

I could tell he was used to having chakz obey him, so I came on strong, just to keep him off guard. “No can do, Jeeves. But the sooner I talk to them, the sooner I’ll be gone. Want to tell them I’m here? And maybe take my hat?”

“I’ll do no such thing!” he said.

His hand came out, fast and flat, to shove me in the chest. He probably thought one quick push would send me sprawling into the hallway, so he could slam the door. If he’d been ten years younger, ten years faster, it would’ve worked. As it was, before he connected I managed an uppercut to the solar plexus. For a second I was afraid I’d hurt myself more than I’d hurt him. My wrist felt like I’d nearly snapped it. But I caught him right where I wanted. He keeled over, went fetal, and started moaning.

I stepped over him into a huge living room tastefully decorated with a few paintings. Chayce was the artist, I think. He was a pretty big local talent that the beautiful people oohed and ahhed over. Not to my tastes, but I admit he has a nice use of negative space.

The art appreciation class didn’t last long. No sooner did my street-worn shoes settle on the plush carpet than a stately woman rushed in.

“Is someone at the . . . ?”

Her gaze went straight to the guy on the floor.

Cara, I presumed. Couldn’t be sure yet. There was a photo on the computer, but I only saw it for a few seconds. She was very thin, but lovely, even in middle age, and had a finely carved face that showed just the right amount of cheekbone. It was only when I saw a bit of Frank’s eyes in hers that I was sure it was his sister. For a second I felt like a garish intruder, until I remembered why I was there. If she was guilty, she deserved it; if not, she should be grateful someone cared.

“Your butler’s fine,” I said. “Just had the wind knocked out of him. I want to talk to you about your brother Frank Boyle. I was with him last night. I gotta wonder, do you know what he was going to do with all that money? Can you guess?”

She didn’t guess. She just screamed.

“Hold on!” I said. “Relax! I’m not going to hurt you.”

But she didn’t relax, either. She kept screaming.

I took a step toward her, hands out, trying to calm her down, but that only made her scream louder. “Hey! I just want to talk to you! You know a man named Turgeon?”

No narrowed eyes. No sloppy giveaways. Just screaming, long and loud.

A glimpse at a gilded-frame oval mirror next to one of the Chayces gave me a picture worth a thousand words. There we were, she stately as a statue, me a monster, hovering over her servant, lumbering toward her.

Shit. I knew I wasn’t alive anymore. I mean, it’s a hard fact to miss, but inside, even when my brain didn’t work, I was still, deep down, acting and thinking like I was the same. I don’t think I really realized until that moment exactly how much I wasn’t.

I made for the stairs and ran down as fast as I was able. Even in the alley, I could still hear her screaming. I thought I could still hear her two blocks away, but that was probably my imagination.

Looking back, I probably could’ve played it better.