Poltergeist

CHAPTER 18

Most people lie. They lie in little ways all the time—to themselves, to others, to the government, to their bosses and spouses and kids. Tuckman's project members had lied to me—it pretty well went with the territory and with their peculiar glib willingness to answer the questions of a stranger. What mattered was not the existence or the blackness of those lies, but the relevance. So I spent the remainder of Monday and all of Tuesday checking and double-checking biographies and backgrounds, looking for lies that mattered, for the cracks in the stories that might point to someone who could have moved the power line, boosted the poltergeists input, or skewed it in a murderous direction. Tuckman was wrong about a mechanical saboteur and I wasn't convinced he'd been straight with me about why he wanted me on the case. The pieces didn't make a picture; they just made another puzzle and I had a bad feeling about it. Besides, running backgrounds would keep me out of the way of Solis, who would be starting to interview the same people I'd just finished with as well as Tuckman himself.

Tuesday morning I hiked up the hill to the county records office and requested files. I made phone calls. I stared at microfiche cards and paid for photocopies. I listened to people grouse and gave them money, and I looked through every scrap of paper Tuckman had supplied and everything I'd picked up since I'd started. The pile of oddities was smaller than I'd expected, though it was interesting.

Quite a few of the group turned out to have skeletons in their closets. Patricia had been under a doctors care for depression and other psychological problems off and on since the birth of her last child—what kind of problems weren't given. She'd also filed for divorce once, but withdrawn the paperwork a few days later with no explanation.

Ken and Ian both had short arrest records with the SPD. Ian's SPD record was juvenile and therefore sealed now—except for a sexual harassment complaint lodged with PNU by one of the women in the dorms. That was being handled internally, and no one at the school would discuss it. The charge didn't surprise me, now that I had Ana's perspective on him. There was a rather odd note from the Humane Society in his file—a letter about a cruelty to animals complaint which seemed to have no follow-up. His project profile showed that his family had moved around a lot when he was a child—that might explain the lack of follow-up on the cruelty note—and I'd had no luck finding anyone who'd known him before college. His parents had moved to Idaho. When I tracked them down on the phone, they seemed vague and uncomfortable, rambling about their dog and the squirrel population and how they'd had to have the poor dog put to sleep when it ate a poisoned squirrel and how horribly the creatures had suffered. Their only comment on Ian was that they didn't get along with their son and they didn't seem to miss him. They would not discuss his juvenile record or the harassment charge with me. His mother seemed a little hysterical about it all and slammed the phone down at that point.

Ken's record was a little worse: minor possession, minor violence, lots of stupidity, an assault charge that had been dismissed, and note of a sealed psychiatric evaluation that didn't seem to be related to anything—I was guessing some more serious charge had been expunged from his sheet. I couldn't find a record of whatever it had been, even in our notoriously nosy newspapers, though it had been embarrassing enough to someone to rate a cleanup. His family also had no comment, though they waved it away, saying it was in the past and best forgotten.

Dale and Cara Stahlqvist both got rave reviews as backstabbing hard-asses, though most of their associates found Dale the sneakier of the two and referred to Cara as «honest» in her ambitions and intentions—they preferred to know who had the knives and where they meant to stick them. But Cara had not been honest in her application to the Rainier Club. She'd made her claim of relation to Bertha Landes—one of their earliest female members—but the membership secretary had discovered a flaw in her story. Cara's application to the venerable business club had been refused. As amusing as I found it, the fact led me nowhere relevant. Neither Stahlqvist seemed to have any history of paranormal contact or abnormal behavior, however.

Wayne Hopke yielded no surprises. An occasional overindulgence in drink since his retirement seemed to be the worst of his sins. Nothing strange or uncanny had ever been noted on his records.

Ana Choi was also not shaping up as paranormal femme fatale material. She was finishing her degree in graphics and working both freelance and part-time in the field as well as helping her parents. She didn't have time or energy for skullduggery—I doubted she slept more than five hours a night and generally not that much. What free time she had was spent with friends from work or school and a procession of manipulative boyfriends. She'd given the previous one the boot in Harborview ER after he'd broken her wrist—she sure couldn't pick 'em.

Which left Terry Dornier and Denise Francisco, both of whom seemed to have no Grey connection to the poltergeist at all.

The glaring blank in Ken's record reminded me of his weird isolation in the Grey. I didn't know if it was relevant, but I wanted that hole filled in, especially if it would shed any light on why he had those shifting Grey walls around him. That phenomenon might make him less likely to have access to power in the Grey, but I couldn't be sure and it was the only real lead I seemed to have.

Sitting at my desk, playing with a pencil and pushing paper around on the blotter, I decided I'd have to bite the bullet. I called Sous.

He sounded wary and tired. I was still feeling a bit worn-down myself, but I knew he wouldn't appreciate sympathy or offer any. I came straight to my request.

"There are a couple of sealed police files related to two of the project members. I'd like to see them.”

"No.”

"I haven't told you whose files.”

"I know whose.”

"Can you at least give me an idea what the files were about?”

"No.”

"Not even broadly? Markine's is a juvenile record, so I suppose that's standard procedure. What about the George file? What was that about?”

He paused before answering, sounding irritated. "It was an unfortunate circumstance that is none of your business. Foolishness and bad attitudes made everyone wish it had never happened. Mr. George overpaid for his part in it. It should be allowed to die quietly.”

I was as baffled as ever about what had happened, but if it had been so embarrassing that the SPD and the county court wanted to make it go away, maybe Ken had reason to hide himself in some psychic way. "All right. I'll assume it's of no interest to me.”

"Assume so. What's of interest to me is your impressions of these people.”

My automatic urge was to stonewall—he hadn't been of much help to me in return for my information so far—but as a cop investigating a homicide, he had legal recourse to pressure me and he wasn't asking for the files, only for my impressions—which weren't my client's property. And I'd said I would tell him what I knew. I'd have to edit a bit, though. I sucked in a breath and let it out in a gust, tapping my pencil on the blotter.

"Where do you want to start?" I asked. "This is a messed-up bunch of people.”

"Are they?”

"Have you interviewed any of them yet?" I asked.

"I have.”

"Who?”

"I won't tell you that.”

"All right," I conceded. "They seem like pretty normal people individually but as a group they have a lot of sexual tension and control conflicts, weird instabilities. I'm not sure that Tuckman didn't engineer that into the group dynamic deliberately.”

Solis grunted.

"None of them were completely honest with me," I continued, "but then, I'm not investigating a murder and that might make a difference.”

"Possibly. Mrs. Stahlqvist claims to be related to Bertha Landes.”

I found myself parroting the words of Bertha Landes when I'd met her in the theater. "It's not true. She's no relation.”

"How are you sure?”

"Standard background check.”

"I'd appreciate it if you could be specific as to why you are so certain.”

Well, I wasn't going to say a ghost told me so. And I'd had adequate confirmation elsewhere. "The membership secretary of the Rainier Club told me the Knight family Carolyn Knight-Stahlqvist is descended from moved to Seattle before Bertha Landes came here from Indiana.

Carolyn didn't seem to know this when she made up her story or she'd actually have had a better claim. But because she lied, Mrs. Stahlqvist didn't pass muster and the secretary didn't mind telling me so.”

Solis's quiet had a speculating quality. I could almost see the sleepy-eyed expression he got when the wheels were turning.

"Here's something you might like to chew on," I offered. "A few days ago Mrs. Stahlqvist told me she'd lost a brooch that belonged to Bertha Landes—an heirloom as spurious as her background. She eventually told me she thought she'd left it at Mark Lupoldi's the day he was killed. It turned up at a project session Sunday and Mrs. Stahlqvist accidentally cut her cheek on it.”

"Then she had not left it? Why would she say she had?”

"It appeared rather dramatically and Mrs. Stahlqvist claimed one of the other project members must have thrown it at her, which implies one of them stole it from Lupoldi's apartment. If she really did leave it there. Since she's a liar about her past, maybe she lied about that, too. Maybe she never left it at all, but used the story to try and cover her own presence at the scene or to cast suspicion on one of the other members of the group.”

"Hm. Very much like an Agatha Christie novel.”

"Yeah, it is, isn't it?”

"If she had left it behind and it was picked up by someone else…”

I grinned at the phone. "Makes an interesting puzzle, doesn't it?”

Silence. I should have been embarrassed at the amusement I took in his annoyance, but I wasn't. If it had been a Sherlock Holmes story it would have been titled "The Case of the Curious Brooch" and that amused me even more. And reminded me of Celia's kleptomaniac habits.

"Solis, was anything missing from Lupoldi's apartment?”

"It is difficult to say, since we don't know what he owned.”

"Would you even tell me?”

There was that down-draining silence again. Then he replied with great care, "If you asked after a specific item, I might have to say no.”

My mind raced. Solis was offering a hell of a favor. The brooch information must have piqued his interest enough to feel he owed me something in return, but being Solis, he could only bend himself so far and he'd already bent a lot with the information about Ken— paltry as it was. I would have to ask the right question—Solis might not even know it was important himself. There was something… I just knew it.

"Did you find his wallet?”

"We did.”

"Did it seem to be intact? Money and credit cards still in it?”

"Yes.”

"Car keys?”

"Mr. Lupoldi did not own or drive a car.”

"Bicycle keys? I know he had one of those U-locks with the cylinder keys. Did you find a key like that?”

"No keys.”

"Not even the apartment key?”

"No. I searched for them myself. Now that we're done with the scene, the landlord will have to use his master copy to lock up, since no apartment keys have been recovered.”

"You're releasing the scene?”

"We've taken all we can from it. The lab continues to analyze samples and fingerprints and to compare against any new ones I can supply.”

I had a feeling he'd be supplying more samples soon, but relying on few. A lot of the tests and analyses take a while, so most forensic evidence is more important at trial than during the investigation. Solis would proceed with the more readily available evidence of people and their tendency to talk. The case was already a week old and unsolved, so Solis would be under pressure soon to show some progress. I shouldn't have been surprised that he was picking my brain or willing to give up what might seem like worthless information in exchange.

Whoever had those keys was likely to be Mark's killer. Unless Celia had them. I'd have to find out if the poltergeist had been in Mark's apartment when he died.

I wished Solis luck and assured him I wouldn't mention the missing keys to anyone—by which I meant anyone who might be connected to the case—and broke the connection.

It wasn't quite dark yet. The overcast sky made it seem much later, but it would do me no good to go looking for Carlos until the sun was fully set.

I burned the last half hour of sunlight typing up a report for Tuck-man. I planned to tell him there was no saboteur at the next day's séance, but I'd have to have documents to prove it.

When I was done, I drove up to Adult Fantasies—the twenty-four-hour "home of live girls" and a half acre of exotic fetish wear and sex toys—to ferret out Carlos, who besides being Cameron's mentor also owned the place. If I appeared in person, he'd find it much harder to refuse my request. I hoped.

For the most part, I despise and avoid vampires—when I'm not revolted and in terror of them. They rarely needed my help as much as they wanted to command my obedience, and I didn't go in for that. I'd been pulled into their byzantine politics and personal wars once and had no desire to be pulled in again. They were unpleasant, manipulative, arrogant, and selfish, and their presence often made me physically ill, even when on their best behavior. I also owed part of my strange, irremediable connection to the Grey to one and I consider that grudge-worthy.

The employees in the shop had changed since my last visit. The current crop had a kind of Stepford generic-ness to them—as if Carlos had decided it was better to hire people easy to forget to work in a place most people tried not to remember. A man wearing a T-shirt with the words "I wasn't there and you can't prove it" on it told me Carlos was out and hadn't been coming in much lately. I guessed the new employees were also more trustworthy than the previous crop.

After I'd fenced with him for a while and given him my card, the T-shirt man made a phone call. His eyebrows went up as he listened; then he hung up and looked me over. Curiosity gleamed on his face like sweat.

"He says to meet him at Green Lake on the south side of the community center. He said he'll smell you coming.”

For a moment, I felt chilled. Carlos scared me more than most— but not all—of his kind. A powerful bloodsucker, he was also a necromancer. He could see, touch, and taste the ghosts and Grey bits that clung to me and was an intimate of death and dead things. I'd almost gotten him killed for good and all once and I still wasn't sure how he felt about that, no matter how many favors might be owed otherwise. I supposed I was going to find out.

I drove north to the gemlike park around Green Lake, slowed by the remaining tail of rush-hour traffic on Aurora.

The last time I'd seen him, he'd still been a cinder creature with charred skin cracking on burned bones and clothed in the reek of destruction. I wasn't sure what to expect in either looks or attitude since then.

I was glad there were people on the streets. Joggers wearing headlights and reflective vests ran on the path around the lake and neighborhood people came and went through the doors of the restaurants and bars across the street. I hoped I had nothing to fear, but even a busy, human-rich environment couldn't protect me from Carlos if he chose to kill me.

I felt him long before I laid eyes on him. A pitching, queasy sensation in my guts and a shiver of icicles up my spine alerted me. Light from the windows of the community center picked out his silhouette but didn't seem to penetrate the dark clot of bleeding Grey that hunched around him. I could see his eyes spark as they met mine, but he stayed still and let me walk almost to the water to meet him.

Up close, I could see that his skin was patterned with scars in coiling loops and baroque twists. He'd regained his intimidating height and breadth, but his black beard and hair were thin. He held himself stiffer than I remembered, but he still had the posture of a poised tiger. His eyes remained black pits that burned with intimations of Hell, even more horrible among the scars.

He gave me half a nod before I could speak. "Blaine. Let's walk," he added, tipping his head toward the water. "I imagine your business with me won't bear the scrutiny of daylighters.”

It seemed Carlos no longer considered me one of the daylight people. I knew I had moved a bit sideways of normal, but I wasn't one of his own. He wasn't causing me the sickening discomfort I would have expected if he were angry, but Carlos was tricky and mercurial in his temper, so I went beside him warily.

We turned together and began walking along the lakeside path.

"What is it you want?”

"A young man was killed last week," I started. He cast me a sideways glance. "It seemed to be an accident, but it's mysterious and the cops are treating it as a murder. I. . have an interest in the case and I need to know if a ghost was on the scene when it happened.”

"Can you not tell?”

"No. I don't have that sort of skill. And it's not a normal type of ghost.”

Carlos had developed a small unevenness in his stride. "And what do you want of me?”

"Is this some kind of ritual? That I have to be explicit with you or you won't help me?”

His mouth quirked in cruel amusement, which sent my stomach on a crash dive. "It is. So be explicit.”

I swallowed before replying. "You owe me a favor for checking on Cameron's. . mistake. I need to know if the ghost in question was there and what it did. So I am asking you to come and see the scene and tell me what you can.”

"Where?”

"It's an apartment in Fremont. The cops are done with it and the key is missing, so I think we should have no problem getting in, as long as we're discreet.”

"Ah. 'We. You still accept equal risk. That's good. You do this for yourself, none other?”

"If you mean is someone else controlling me, no. This is strictly my side of the daylight.”

"Such as it is. Your daylight is darker than most.”

"Yes." I made myself level my gaze and look without flinching into his hell-depth eyes. "Are you going to help me out or not?”

He chuckled a small earthquake through my bones. "When?”

"Tonight, I'd hoped.”

His eyebrows quirked. "Tomorrow. I've already given you too much of my time tonight.”

"Then why did you?" I blurted.

He cupped one giant hand over my left shoulder and drew something off me, flicking it away like lint—perhaps some remnant of Celia. I shuddered and felt a hot twisting thrum in my chest and down my arms. He crossed his own arms over his chest and looked down at me. "You continue to interest me, Blaine. And as you say, I owe you. I'll go with you tomorrow, though I don't guarantee that what I can tell you will be to your liking.”

"It never has been.”

"When it is, I shall be very surprised. Come here tomorrow night at the same time and we'll see what there is to dislike.”

I was dismissed and I left him, feeling the hot/cold bore of his watching gaze as I walked away.