Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2) (7 page)

Brighid picked up her coffee, wrapping her fingers around the cup, feeling the warmth of its contents as it radiated through the stoneware, and she brought it to her lips and drank, holding the cup with both hands. When she put the cup down, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the toaster, a distorted image caused by the imperfect surface, which she thought quite appropriate. She wasn’t quite sure if what people got with her, was not what they saw or if what they saw was not what they got, but it didn’t matter really because it all boiled down to the same thing. There was a part of her that no one ever touched because it was so peculiar that even she could not grasp it, not entirely. She once believed she could make it go away, if she wished it hard enough. She no longer harbored that illusion. Her grandmother had tried to explain. “You’re different,” she would say. “You have a gift.”

Had someone at the bar given her something, slipped it into her drink? Yes, she thought they had but that wasn’t all. Her purse had been emptied as well. She was five days late on the rent, she had no money, and she hadn’t pulled a trick in . . . three days that she knew of. She was afraid to; afraid it might happen again. A thought she’d been trying to avoid snaked through her. Perhaps it had not been drugs at all but magick that had been used against her. Someone had attacked her in a way that was all too personal. She brought her hand across her stomach, touching the tattoo that ran along the left side and prayed for the gods to give her strength.

Brighid pushed away from the table and went to the sink where she washed her coffee cup, performing the act more out of rote memory than anything else, and she began to cry. Why had she allowed herself to get in such a state? The drugs and the partying had caused her to forget her ways, and the gods had done this to gain her attention. She thought about Douglass, the quiet man she’d met at the Full Moon. His interest in her had been genuine, so much so that it had frightened her, and she’d feigned a lack of interest to discourage him. It had worked, though not immediately, and it had been as much for his sake as it had for hers. The bashful gentleman with a verifiable lack of self-interest deserved no place in her world. Then again, such an unconditional act of kindness on her part could be construed as evidence of her evolution, her growth toward a way of life that wasn’t so self-centered.

She pushed her hair back. Perhaps she could change, crawl out of her universe and slip into his. The more she toyed with the idea, the more attractive it became. It could be as simple as knocking on his door; her way out of this.

She went into the bathroom and smeared cold cream on her face, letting it set for a spell, then removed it, wiping away the makeup and dark eyeliner encircling her eyes. With a through washing, she was ready. She rummaged through her closet, finding a Bob Dylan T-shirt and a pair of jeans, the most conservative clothes she had, and put them on.

She studied herself in the mirror. A little too plain. She dug through her drawer and found the right touch, some silver jewelry. She put it on and left her house and walked the short distance to the area, where Douglass lived.

As soon as she turned onto St. Louis Avenue, however, she saw someone in the parking lot behind the Full Moon who caused her to pause. The face looked familiar, though it didn’t quite fit the distorted image in her mind, like seeing someone through the peephole in her front door, an old customer perhaps. And then it came to her. This was the person she’d been with in the parking lot at Cymry’s. She had to do something. Such a meeting would have been too much to believe had she not realized it for what it was: a gift from the gods. She had no choice but to take the advantage and confront what had been laid in front of her. She strode forward, her coat billowing behind her like the cape of a countess, and when she came within a few feet she spoke, demanding to know why such a thing had been done to her.

When Brighid saw the eyes of the stranger, she paused, her courage draining from her, for they were not the eyes of a mortal, but those of the dark god, the never-ending veil of darkness who could take many forms and had done so in this guise of deception. It was then that Brighid heard the dark god’s voice, which was painful to her ears, and felt the deadly embrace, which was hot in her stomach, for the touch of the dark god is final.

Chapter Ten

Patricia Orwell opened the door to the building and held it, her right arm trembling slightly under the pressure. Elliot stepped inside. It was cold and shadowy, the only light coming through the tinted windows, and as Elliot watched the door ease shut, a feeling of insecurity crawled along his nerves.

No cars were driving past, no other visitors strolling the grounds. She started forward, walking deeper into the glass tomb, her conservative, low-heeled shoes crackling against the dirty concrete, the sound echoing in the expanse of unused space.

“I just need some information,” Elliot said, “about Douglass Wistrom, his connection to this place, and what you know about him.”

“We’ll get to that,” Ms. Orwell said. “I have a few issues with Mr. Wistrom myself, his giving out this address for one.”

Elliot ran his finger across a filing cabinet as he walked past, pushing a pile of dust to the floor. “Yeah,” he said, “that thought crossed my mind as well.”

Near a partial enclosure created by the intersection of two interior walls, Ms. Orwell stopped and turned to Elliot. “I suppose you want to know about Douglass?”

“That’s the general idea. Does he work for you?”

“He’s employed by Business Solutions.”

“Let me guess,” Elliot said. “That’s his office in the corner.”

She looked as if she wanted to find the comment humorous, but too much else was going on. “No, nothing like that.”

“What is this place, Ms. Orwell?”

She sighed. “It’s exactly what it appears to be.”

“Then why are we here?”

“Some pharmaceutical company out of Dallas wants to open an office in the area. They wanted to look at the place. I’m here to show it.” After a moment she added, “We specialize in commercial properties.”

Elliot noticed a partially open lateral file drawer. He walked over and glanced inside. Empty. “How does Mr. Wistrom fit in with all of this?”

“He’s a handyman. He cuts lawns, trims bushes, does minor repairs.”

“He told me he worked with computers. Why would he do that? And why would he give me a phony address?”

A slight blush came to Ms. Orwell’s face. She was embarrassed for Wistrom. Elliot couldn’t help but wonder why.

“I don’t know,” she said. “The grass is freshly cut. Maybe it was the last property he worked at.” She paused briefly, seeming to search for the right words. “Douglass might seem a little off-color at first,” she continued, “but he’s very dependable and always does an excellent job. He loves computers. That’s probably why he told you that. It’s what he wishes he did. He’s actually quite intelligent, when it comes to that sort of thing.”

Ms. Orwell rummaged through a leather bag slung over her shoulder. “He’s even published some articles,” she said, pulling two magazines from the bag and holding them out. “Here. I brought these for you.”

Elliot doubted a high-tech computer magazine and a backwoods survival publication could possibly relate to his investigation, but he took them anyway. At the very least, he might gain some insight into Wistrom. “Thanks.”

She nodded, her face taking on a serious tone. “Is Douglass in some kind of trouble?”

Elliot thought about that for a moment then said, “He was seen in the vicinity of a crime scene. We’re questioning everyone whom we suspect might have been there or seen something. Have you ever known him to become violent or enraged?”

She shook her head. “Quite the opposite. He’s quiet, always does what we ask of him, never complains. You couldn’t ask for a better employee. In fact, this is the first time he’s ever missed a day of work.”

Elliot gazed through the windows for a moment then turned back. “How well do you know Douglass Wistrom, Ms. Orwell, and what’s the nature of your relationship?”

The same flash of color Elliot had seen earlier returned to Ms. Orwell’s face, her hand darting upward to fuss with her hair.

“There is no relationship. I can’t even say we’re friends and keep a straight face. I mean I’d be bordering on a lie, wouldn’t I. But he talks to me. He doesn’t do that with just anyone. Hardly anyone would be more accurate.”

Ms. Orwell glanced at the floor and straightened the leather bag she’d slung back over her shoulder. “I hope I’m not talking out of turn here, trying to do your job for you, but there’s a lot more to that man than he lets on.”

Douglass Wistrom had given Elliot the same impression, on the surface a cougar posing as a house cat. But Wistrom wasn’t Little Red Riding Hood’s nemesis, someone pretending to be what he was not. He was more like an actor who dresses as a man on one side and a woman on the other; though his act wasn’t one of gender, but one of character, Don Knotts on one side and Carey Grant on the other, and the line didn’t run down the middle, but swirled like the red and white of a peppermint stick.

Elliot’s phone rang, and he slapped it to his ear. It was Captain Harry Lundsford. Someone had been shot on St. Louis Avenue, just a few hundred feet from Douglass Wistrom’s apartment.

A young woman among the crowd briefly caught Elliot’s attention, moving around the edges of his vision. When he turned for a better look, she was gone, and a brief dizziness threatened his balance, leaving him unsettled and lightheaded. He walked clumsily past the police officers and knelt beside the body, an unnerving sensation sweeping through him, a sort of kinship, even an attraction to this fragile and complex female, as if her spirit had not grasped its fate and still hovered close by, and in its reaching out had touched Elliot in some ethereal and intimate way.

Several of the officers were leaning close together, talking about what they saw, and one of them remarked, “What a waste.”

This angered Elliot more than it should have, and almost before he realized his actions, he rose to his feet and clamped his hand tightly around the officer’s wrist.

Sergeant Conley appeared. He put his hand on Elliot’s shoulder and shook his head. “Take it easy, Elliot.”

Elliot released his grip and stepped away, returning his attention to the body sprawled across the parking lot behind the Full Moon restaurant, just off St. Louis Avenue. He knew who she was: the slender build, the hair, but mostly it was the tattoo on her stomach. He’d sketched a likeness of it as Stella Martin described it to him. When he’d shown it to Stella, she’d nodded vigorously. “That’s it,” she’d said.

Elliot flipped through the notepad until he found the drawing—a square with lines coming from each corner, forming a sort of cross—and when he compared the rough sketch to harsh reality, he unbuttoned his coat, a hot sickness running through him in defiance of the cold outside. This was the woman Stella Martin had seen that night, the last person to have been with their John Doe.

He watched a dog walk past the east side of the lot, keeping away, sensing the trouble and wanting no part of it. “Any witnesses?” Elliot asked.

Sergeant Conley answered, his voice, even though he stood next to Elliot, seeming to come from a distance. “A few people heard the shots, but nobody saw anything.”

“Have you heard from Wistrom yet?” Elliot asked.

As soon as Elliot had gotten the call, he’d expressed his concern over the suspect, noting his unusual behavior, and his proximity to both murders. But Wistrom hadn’t answered his door, and when the manager opened the apartment, he and Conley had found it empty.

Conley shook his head.

The victim wore black denim jeans, which, with the button having come undone during the commotion, were lower on her hips than they should have been. Curls of reddish pubic hair peeked over the edges. She’d been shot once in the torso on the left side, and again in the head, just above the right eye. Ornate silver earrings adorned her ears, and a large Florentine chain, also of silver, hung around her neck, from which dangled a set of keys, the brass collection laying over the name Bob Dylan, which was emblazoned across her T-shirt.

The smell of hamburgers sizzling on the nearby restaurant’s grill turned Elliot’s stomach as he stared at the corpse.

The suspect had slipped away. Douglass Wistrom was nowhere to be found but that wouldn’t last if Elliot could help it.

Elliot glanced at Conley. “Any ID?”

“Her name’s Brighid McAlister,” Conley said. “She lived a few blocks from here over on Trenton.”

Chapter Eleven

Elliot walked along the sidewalk, taking caution so as not to trip over those places where the roots of trees had cracked it, and he paused momentarily to study the bare branches of the massive sycamores. Come spring the foliage would form a canopy over the area, blocking the sun while lending the neighborhood a sleepy and restful ambiance.  The leaves were gone now, and those that remained were few and had shriveled into husks, which, even in their best performance, could not hide the dismal gray of the sky that loomed overhead.

After talking with the crime scene crew, Elliot had come to Trenton Avenue to have a look around and talk with the neighbors. He hadn’t had much luck. The residents hardly knew Brighid McAlister, except that she was quiet and never caused any trouble. However, there were several houses to the south that Elliot had yet to try, and it was at one of these, a red brick that reminded him of gingerbread, where he now walked into the yard, approaching a lady who worked at cleaning out a goblet-shaped planter beside the front door.

She saw him coming and stood, brushing the dirt from her knees. About five feet tall, she had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Elliot reached into his coat and pulled his badge, holding it out where the lady could see it. After identifying himself, he said, “I’d like to ask you some questions about one of your neighbors, Brighid McAlister.”