“I remember seeing Soldan on TV maybe three months ago on one of those Hollywood entertainment shows. He was standing in a gloomy cemetery, naturally after dark, with manufactured fog creeping up to his knees. He was wearing jeans and three-inch stack-heeled boots to make him look more formidable, I guess—tough sell, let me tell you, because Soldan is really quite puny-looking. He was standing next to an oohing and aahing fluffy blonde who was handing him eight-by-ten photos of famous dead people. He told the camera what these folks were doing, how they felt about what their famous living relatives were up to. The blonde seemed to be impressed.
“August always said Soldan couldn’t carry it off in front of a camera, that anyone seeing him would believe he was a gold-plated fraud. He’d say Soldan gave psychics a bad name.”
Cheney pulled into Soldan Meissen’s big circular driveway, stopped in front of the front door, cut the engine, and looked around. “Another big spread. I guess the psychic business is thriving.”
Julia said, “Oh yes. Atherton is one of the biggest hubs of conspicuous consumption in the Bay Area. Soldan used to have a Spanish-style hacienda, then moved two blocks and went Oriental.”
Cheney looked at the long, single-story house, solid windows all along the front, bonsai trees thick on the ground, crowding close to the house. “Is the guy married? Any children hanging around?”
“I don’t know about kids, though there may be a former wife. A couple of months ago I heard a woman moved in, but I don’t know anything about her. I sure hope he’s here, Cheney. It’s late. Maybe this time we should have called.”
“Nah, a surprise visit you never know what’s gonna pop. Look, there are some lights on at the end of the house.”
They walked along a flagstone path lined with Japanese-garden-style bushes and flowers. There was a double front door lacquered glossy black with shiny gold dragon’s-head doorknobs, flanked by a pair of huge Asian stone statues, too dark to tell any detail. Cheney pressed his finger against a dragon’s snout and heard the bell chime some creepy music from that old Bela Lugosi film Son of Frankenstein.
“Maybe the guy’s a warlock too.”
There was no answer for perhaps a minute, then came the sound of mules flapping up and down on tile. The door was opened by a woman wearing a very low cut frothy peach peignoir that floated around her ankles. She looked, Cheney realized, with those prodigious breasts framed by silk and feathers, like a saloon girl from a western movie, a little over the hill, a little too much makeup, but authentic enough, at least TV authentic.
Cheney said, “Hello. This is Julia and I’m Cheney. We’re here to see Soldan. Is he available?”
“You look familiar,” the woman said to Julia. “You don’t, sir. It’s after nine o’clock. At night. What do you want? Soldan is tired. We don’t see uninvited visitors. Besides, I don’t like the look of either of you.” She stared at Julia. “Yeah, you do look familiar. Is there a reason I don’t like you?”
Cheney smiled at the woman; she looked like she could shoot them both, then blow the smoke off the end of her six-shooter and toss back a shot of straight whisky. “We’re harmless. Actually, maybe you have met Julia. She’s Julia Ransom, Dr. August Ransom’s widow. And I am Cheney Stone, FBI. We won’t take up much of Soldan’s time. And who are you?”
“You’re sounding all chummy, aren’t you now? I’m thinking you’re the best-looking paid federal assassin I’ve ever seen. Fact is, you probably make use of being gorgeous, don’t you, makes it easier for you to flimflam innocent women like me.”
“Nah,” Cheney said. “They don’t pay me that much.”
“A federal assassin making jokes—you’re smart too, but really not that funny.”
“Who are you?” Julia asked.
“I’m Sol’s mother. Okay, okay, you got me. Obviously I’m far too young and beautiful to be his mother. I’m Sol’s sister— younger sister. Hey, I bet if I don’t let you in, you’ll pull a gun and force your way in. Isn’t that what you secret fed enforcers do?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what we do,” and Cheney showed her his SIG on the clip at his waist.
For the first time, Cheney saw a flash of genuine alarm in her eyes, though it was hard to tell since she was wearing so much eyeliner. She held out her hands in front of her, to ward him off. “Don’t you dare! All right, come in, I’ll warn Sol.” She gave Julia a dismissive look. “Shame on you, plastering your plain face all over the TV news.” And she sashayed away, clip-clopping on the three-inch peach satin mules.
Cheney said, “Look how that silky thing floats around her as she walks. If she weren’t so scary, it’d be sexy. Is she really his younger sister?”
“Why not? Don’t you know? After all, you’re the federal hired gun.”
They walked down a wide long hallway that ran the full length of the house. The front was all glass windows, with a series of open rooms to their left, and a line of translucent shoji screens covered in rice paper that slid shut to provide privacy. The screens were all at half-mast now. He could see into the rooms, decorated with Asian statuary, from small naked bronze boys to three-foot stone gods. A huge gong that looked to be as ancient as the goddess sitting next to it was hunkered down in the middle of the largest room.
Eastern mysticism to add to the mix? Truth be told, Cheney didn’t think anything much could surprise him after the trio of psychics he’d already met.
He was wrong.
Soldan Meissen sat in the middle of a half dozen huge silk pillows piled in front of a low, elaborately carved, red lacquered table, smoking a hookah. Smoke wreathed his bald head and fogged his rimless round glasses. He was slight, and looked swallowed up in a crimson silk robe belted at his meager waist with a wide black silk cummerbund. One narrow bare foot stuck out from the bottom of the robe. Ugly toes, Cheney thought, gnarly and bent. He realized he had seen him a couple of times on TV, but not like a little pasha in full costume. Why wasn’t he wearing a fez to complete the presentation?
The man observed them in silence for a moment through a veil of lacy smoke, then said in a lovely deep voice, “Why did you bring these people into the house, Ancilla? You know I do not deal with clients after eight o’clock at night. It is now well after nine o’clock. Who are they?”
“They forced their way in, Sol. One of them is a federal agent, at least that’s what he said. This person standing beside him is Julia Ransom.”
The rheumy eyes turned toward Julia. A slight smile unseamed his tight mouth. He carefully set down the end of the tube connected to the detailed Oriental glass hookah, its cooling water bubbling and frothing. He took off his glasses and cleaned them on the sleeve of his silk robe. “Ah, you are my sainted August’s beautiful widow, yes, I recognize you now, Mrs. Ransom. Forgive me. We met once, several years ago at one of August’s soirees. Your aura was murky with grief and I believed that odd since you’d so recently married August. But then I came to understand. Still, I was glad August didn’t see auras. It would have distressed him to know the depths of your pain. Ah, do call me Soldan and I’ll call you Julia. Sit down, both of you, take your ease.”
They made themselves as comfortable as they could on the silk cushions. Cheney could feel Julia had tightened, probably because she was thinking about her son, but she said nothing.
“I would have thought your aura would once again be chaotic from what I heard on the news today, but it’s not. The reporter said you were with an FBI agent in a mad car chase all the way to the beach. But you survived. I’m pleased about that. Oh, I see. The little drama was well staged even though I only saw the back of you when you climbed into a police car. I myself found it very effective. If there are people who believe you murdered August, that incident will turn the tide. You looked quite heroic.”
“You don’t think I killed August, do you, Mr. Meissen?”
CHAPTER 44
Soldan Meissen drew deeply on his pipe, then carefully laid it down again. He frowned at his toes and tucked his fee
t beneath his silk robe. He built the tension around him with superb skill. He said, "To kill a man such as August Ransom would require, I believe, a phenomenal degree of enmity, the result, I would think, of a steadily building rage. I see no signs of such a rage in your aura.”
Julia only smiled. “What you saw on TV today was not staged. The man who chased us was the same one who tried to kill me on Thursday and Saturday night. His name is Xavier Makepeace.”
“Hmm,” Soldan said, holding the tube between his long thin fingers again and sucking in deeply. He whispered, his eyes now closed, “Did this man also kill my poor August?”
“It’s possible,” Cheney said. He waited until Soldan opened his eyes, then showed him his shield, and offered his hand, but Soldan ignored it. He drew again on his hookah.
Ancilla said to Cheney, “I’ll bet you were the one who couldn’t abide August, or at least your fed bosses couldn’t, and you murdered the poor man. Or had your partners do it. That’s why he’s trying to kill you, no honor among assassins.”
“That’s a pretty good theory,” Cheney said, cocking his head at her.
Julia said, “No, Agent Stone didn’t kill my husband.”
“Hah, so you say. But you’re consorting with a federal assassin, aren’t you? Who can believe you?”
“Neither you nor your sister are what I expected, sir,” Cheney said, looking around at the violent, eye-crossing array of colors and exotic fabrics that filled the smallish room, mixing in with the gently outward floating hashish smoke from the hookah. There was no furniture, no books, no attempt to instill confidence that this man could speak to the dead. Huge silk pillows, and fabrics, not much else. Soldan Meissen reminded him of an emaciated long-ago pasha in Istanbul, quite at home at the Topkapi Palace. But Cheney doubted he’d have much interest in a harem.
Soldan ignored Cheney, stared at his bare toes again, and frowned. “I must have a pedicure, Ancilla. Make a note of it.”
“Yes, Sol,” Ancilla said, pulled a pen and small pad from her bosom and wrote on it.
“She is not my sister. She is my assistant.”
“But I look like his younger sister,” Ancilla said and fluffed her long hair.
“Do you like the table? It’s Japanese, you know. I acquired it recently from one of those automobile moguls in Tokyo. Isn’t it exquisite? I had it lacquered crimson. It was a very dark blue before, clashed with my spirit, dimmed my connection to The Beyond .”
"The Beyond?” Cheney said, eyebrow arched.
“That can hardly surprise you, Agent Stone. Yes, that is what I call it. The Beyond.” He offered Julia his hookah pipe. “Would you like to try some of my delicious Asian delight?”
Julia shook her head. “Not this evening. I fear it might disrupt my aura.”
“What would you say if I were to arrest you for doing drugs, Soldan?”
“You are an assassin, not a vice cop. You are also not very amusing.”
“He tried to be funny with me too, Sol,” Ancilla said. “But I told him he wasn’t.”
Cheney said suddenly, without preamble, “I understand that after Dr. Ransom was murdered you became the medium for Mr. Thomas Pallack.”
Soldan inclined his head, puffing contentedly. He looked toward Ancilla. “What is the day today?”
“It’s still Tuesday, Sol, very late on Tuesday, I might add.”
“How strange, I won’t see him tomorrow night, Wednesday night. Yes, every Wednesday and Saturday I am with Thomas. Only he had to break our session for tomorrow night. I saw him last evening at his lovely home on Russian Hill from six o’clock to eight o’clock in the evening. I did not return home until nine o’clock, very late for me.”
Cheney said, “Did you kill Dr. Ransom to gain control of his rich clients, Soldan?”
“It doesn’t sound like something I’d do, does it, my dear Ancilla?”
“No, Soldan. You loved Dr. Ransom. You thought he was practically a god. If he had asked you to kill this federal assassin you would have done it gladly.”
“Probably so,” Soldan said and sucked in deeply.
“From Dr. Ransom’s bank records, Thomas Pallack paid him a great deal over the past ten-plus years.”
“Oh yes, I would imagine so. He provides excellent reimbursement to me as well.” He puffed again.
“Did you make contact with Mr. Pallack’s parents, Soldan?” Julia asked.
“Naturally. Vincent and Margaret Pallack are quite gregarious, always pleased to speak to their son, though Mrs. Pallack did tell me tonight that she believed her poor Thomas was, sadly, looking his age. She even mentioned the age spots on the backs of his hands. She said she didn’t trust his wife Charlotte, told me to tell him to be careful of her. She was surely too young for him and what did he think he was up to?”
“Did you pass this along to Mr. Pallack?” Cheney asked.
“Only a bit of it so Thomas would know that he was indeed in contact with his parents. Evidently Mrs. Pallack was always a possessive mother. That didn’t change when she died.
“Her sniping is a mother-in-law’s jealousy, nothing more. I myself am very fond of Charlotte. She’s done Thomas a world of good, keeps his spirits bolstered, laughs when she’s supposed to, and is of immense assistance to him in all his political fundraisers. Thomas’s mother was simply being bitchy, not at all uncommon amongst the departed, you know. Some of the dead are like that—mad and vengeful. So is Margaret Pallack, on occasion. I’m relieved she hasn’t terrorized anyone. She would be very good at it.”
Cheney asked, “Do you stop aging once you die, Soldan?”
“Oh yes. Thomas looks older than his parents now. He’s quite a bit older than they were when they were killed. This disturbs them, naturally. They don’t want him to die. For two reasons: They don’t want to have to spend eternity with a son who looks older than they do, and they’ll lose their only strong connection to this world since there are no other relatives here who would even think to call them, much less want to.”
Cheney said, “You make it sound like picking up a video phone and punching in the right numbers.”
Soldan merely puffed away.
Cheney was frowning. “Soldan, you mentioned the dead terrorizing the living. But that’s the movies. Do you think a dead person can really physically affect a living person? In other words, if Margaret Pallack wanted Charlotte Pallack out of the way, could she make it happen?”
“You’d need to be a federal assassin for that,” Ancilla said, and sneered at him.
“Usually,” Soldan said, “once a person crosses into The Beyond , they lose their corporeal being, with all its advantages and disadvantages.”
“Disadvantages?” Cheney asked.
“Liver disease, for example,” Soldan said. “That is why I indulge only in my Asian delight. The liver is a sensitive organ. It does not deal well even with the finest vodka.”
Cheney said, “So not all the dead lose their ability to assume a corporeal form?”
“Yes, they do, only—this is difficult but I’ll try to explain it simply enough for you, Agent Stone. Some of the dead appear to be able to tap into a source of energy—it’s black, this energy, and it’s frightening. I have no idea where it comes from, no one does. I myself have never tried to connect with any of the spirits who wallow in it, and I don’t ever want to. They scare me. I don’t know what it is they want. Do they truly terrorize people like you see in the movies? Maybe it’s all a myth. I don’t know.”
Cheney asked, “Have you spoken to August since he was murdered?”
Soldan said, “August roams, endlessly. He’s a nomad in The Beyond. I suspect he will calm down within the next decade or so. A violent ending, it shocks the psyche, you see.”
CHAPTER 45
Did you ask him who he thought might have killed him?” Cheney asked. "What an interesting question, Agent Stone. No, I did not put that question to him precisely like that, but it was obvious he didn’t know. He did mention to me tha
t before his murder he was trying to locate a new cocaine dealer since the one he had was becoming unreliable.”
“Why has Thomas Pallack wanted to speak to his dead parents for so many years?”
“How very odd,” Soldan said after a long pause, eyes wide open now, sucking in his Asian delight. “When I look at you through my delicious smoke, the two of you appear to merge. It’s a lovely aura that envelops the both of you. Your aura, Agent Stone—I see clashes of purples and reds that show a formidable intelligence at the service of sheer determined meanness, a violence deeply controlled, beautifully controlled, yes, and channeled.
“Julia’s aura—right now it roils like dark clouds in the sky, with pulses of fear, so many unanswered questions. But there is hot excitement where you merge. She dampens your anger, you lessen her fear. It is quite remarkable.”
Cheney said, “That’s very interesting, Soldan. I can see you’re good at what you do. But answer my question, please. Why the obsession with his parents? It would seem to me they’d have nothing left to talk about.”
Soldan merely frowned at Cheney and continued puffing.
“Soldan,” Julia said, sitting back on her heels, “we’re thinking that the same person who killed my husband is trying to kill me. What Ancilla said about an accomplice trying to kill me, that simply isn’t true. You know I would never have harmed August. Neither would Agent Stone.”
“No, of course you wouldn’t have, but you didn’t love him, Julia. What you felt was immense gratitude toward him, not a passionate, full-bodied love, the sort of love a young woman would heap on a man who’d caught her heart, no, you cannot say that, not with any honesty. But gratitude, you overflowed with gratitude since August joined you to your dead son, provided you comfort in your time of need.”
Julia, Cheney saw, looked shell-shocked. She nearly tipped off the huge silk pillow. Then she stared straight ahead, as if unable to move. She said finally, “I know August didn’t tell you about Linc. He wouldn’t. It would be a betrayal of me. How do you know Linc died? How do you know August was there with me?”