I paged Quinton and left a message that I couldn’t pick up Chaos yet. He might be stuck with her furry company for a while longer. I had to pin down Lupoldi.
FIVE
I drove over to Lupoldi’s apartment in the Fremont district. Autumn twilight was already falling with a scent of impending rain. I knew the address was near the troll under the Aurora Bridge—a cement sculpture of a life-sized monster crawling from beneath the structure to snatch an ancient VW. Along with the amusement rocket mounted to a building and the heroic bronze of Lenin that stood in the patio of a fast-food restaurant, it was typical of the neighborhood the locals had dubbed the Center of the Universe and others called the Haight-Ashbury of Seattle, in spite of a recent spate of yuppification. Parking is always bad in that funky little neighborhood and worse so close to quitting time, so I didn’t even try to get close. I left my old Land Rover in a pay lot near the supermarket on Fremont Boulevard and started hiking up the hill.
The street was choked with cop cars. An unpleasant cold trickled down my spine at the sight. I paused outside the building and looked it over; a grim black and yellow haze wrapped it. I narrowed my eyes, searching the Grey shroud for anything that might be lurking, but all I spotted were confused or fragmented shapes and shadows.
My study was interrupted by a voice near my ear. “You have business in this building, Ms. Blaine?”
I shook myself and refocused my vision on the man in front of me. Detective Rey Solis: a wiry, dark-haired Colombian émigré with a face like the surface of Mars. I hadn’t seen him since we’d both been looking for the same hit-and-run witness over a year ago. His sloe-eyed calm was as impenetrable as ever but the uncharacteristic red-orange gleam around him made me wary. This aura thing might be useful once I figured it out, but that particular color didn’t reassure me.
“I thought I did,” I replied.
“Now not so much?”
I tried to shrug, but it didn’t come off so well. “Don’t know. What about you?”
“Homicide.”
I felt sick. Solis watched me. He glanced at the building, then back to me.
“I wanted to talk to the tenant of apartment seven on business.”
“Client?”
“No, just information-gathering for a case.”
Solis made a tiny tilt of his head. “Come up.”
I followed him into the old brick building and up to the second floor. The dim hallway smelled of musty carpet and resonated with conversations and TV noises from the open doorways of curious neighbors. The closer we got to apartment seven, the colder and queasier I felt.
The door was open, bright light flooding out, and the crime lab crew was still crawling over everything. The photographer was done and heading out the door as we stopped just outside. Solis stood with his back to the room. Looking at him, I could also study the room beyond without entering the crime scene.
It was a small no-bedroom apartment with a Murphy bed folded up into the hallway wall and a long counter that served as a kitchenette to the left of the door. A bicycle with a U-shaped lock leaned against the far wall under the window. The closet and bathroom shared the wall on the right with a blood-spattered dent about the size and shape of a man. The room was hazy with layers of memory and Grey shapes left by past occupants and, to my eyes, thick with a swirling miasma of red and black. The reek of the fumed cyanoacrylate used to pick up fingerprints carried an uncanny undertone of gunsmoke and iodine that made me shiver and cough on a sudden sour taste in my mouth and a tightness in my chest.
Solis noticed my gagging shudder. “We don’t have a positive ID yet, but I’m assuming the victim was the tenant. Can you identify him?”
I shook my head. “I never met him. He was supposed to show up for a lab demonstration at PNU, but he didn’t. I came to find out why.”
The coroner’s crew was preparing to bag the body, which lay crumpled and facedown on the ragged carpet by the dented wall. As they rolled it into the bag, the weirdly limp form flopped and the misshapen head lolled, turning its staring face my way for an instant.
The silent force of an unreleased scream crashed into me. I jolted backward a step, squeezing my eyes shut and pressing my hand over my own mouth. The shock of the blow drained away. Solis put his hand on my shoulder and I shook him off. “What did that?” I demanded. I thought, if he’d been dead a few hours, shouldn’t the body be stiffer?
Solis thought a moment, casting his gaze over me and around the hall as if there were an answer there somewhere. He watched the men carry the corpse away. Then he motioned me to follow him back outside.
We watched them load the black bag into a discreet blue van and drive off. We both took a few deep breaths of the cool, moist air and didn’t look at each other. A small crowd had gathered at the end of the street, but they kept their distance and we were left alone.
At last, Solis spoke up. “Not sure yet. Looks like he was thrown against the wall. Maybe an accident.” He didn’t sound convinced. “We’re working on it. You have any ideas? Anything like that demo he missed?”
“When did this happen?” I asked, dismissing momentary visions of dancing tables.
“A couple of hours ago, possibly three. I’ll know more when the autopsy is done. What do you know?”
I stared at Solis, my mind racing. Lupoldi had died before the séance started, while I’d been eating lunch with Quinton. The scene gave me an unsettled feeling. What I’d witnessed at St. John Hall stuck in my mind and, though I’d been thinking Tuckman was wrong about it, I suddenly didn’t like the thought that a poltergeist—real or artificial—could have the energy to do something like this. It was ludicrous, but I knew better than to assume Solis wouldn’t be interested in at least some of the possible connections; someone who could fake PK phenomena might be able to fling a man across a room as well as a table. Fake ghost he wouldn’t buy, but killer acquaintance he might.
Reluctantly, I started. “The demo is part of a psychological study at PNU. The researcher hired me to find out who in his group might be sabotaging his results, and today’s demo went a bit wild. I came to see why Lupoldi—Mark Lupoldi is the name I was given with this address—why he hadn’t shown up and if he knew anything about the demo going bad.”
Solis regarded me in silence.
“And I do recognize him,” I conceded.
He blinked slowly and gave half a nod. “From where?”
“He worked in the used bookstore a couple of blocks from here—Old Possum’s. I only knew him as Mark, and I didn’t make the connection until I saw his face.” I shivered again, harder and nothing to do with the sharp tingle of tiny raindrops that had begun falling. Now Lupoldi wasn’t just a name on a list, just someone who was horribly dead; he was someone I knew, however fleetingly, who was horribly dead. The situation didn’t feel like an accident to me any more than it did to Solis.
He must have seen the speculation on my face. “Ms. Blaine, I don’t need to warn you against obstructing an active felony investigation.”
“The two cases might not be related,” I suggested. “But I won’t get in your way. I can’t just drop my investigation on the chance that it might parallel yours, but I’ll share any information I get that might be relevant. OK?”
“What if it’s your client who did this?”
“Then he probably won’t pay me and I won’t feel too bad about ratting on him,” I answered.
Solis almost smiled. “OK.”
I started to go, then stopped and looked back. “I’m going to head down to Old Possum’s—I know the owner and I can ask her some background questions on Lupoldi. Do you want me to break the news or leave that to you and your partner?”
“I’ll do it. I want to talk to the staff later.”
I nodded and walked back down the hill. I hadn’t put Mark’s death out of my mind, or the possibility of some paranormal involvement in it—the look and feel of the Grey in Mark’s apartment was too abnormal to ignore. The idea of a killer th
ought-entity didn’t sit well with me, but I wasn’t sure which way Occam’s razor would cut this time: person or poltergeist?
SIX
Old Possum’s Books ’n’ Beans was one of the first businesses I’d patronized when I moved to Seattle: it was cluttered, overstuffed, and as full of odd objects and comfortable, shabby chairs as it was full of interesting old books and the smell of fresh coffee. I’d run in to get out of one of Seattle’s fifteen-minute downpours while apartment hunting. Two hours later I’d still been curled up in a chair with my rental listings, a pile of books, and a cup of coffee, the rain by then long gone. The shop cats had dropped by to vet me—some of them literally dropping from the cat highways over the tops of the towering shelves. Wearing their fuzzy badge of approval all over my jeans and jacket and carting a stack of books for which I didn’t even have bookcases yet, I’d been adopted into the shop’s ragtag family. The fact that I loved weird old stuff hadn’t hurt, either.
The owner, Phoebe Mason, still seemed to see herself as a bit of a surrogate mother to me, though she wasn’t much older than I was. Phoebe was working at the front counter when I arrived much as I had the first time, dashing in from a sudden delivery on the promise of rain. I stood in the doorway shaking off the water as she laughed at me.
“Hey, girl!” she shouted, the dim childhood memory of Jamaica lengthening her vowels. “Where you been? And when are you going to buy a proper coat?” She beckoned to the nearest employee to take over while she exited the cash desk island to chivy me. She grabbed my jacket and hung it up on the rack by the door. A sign over the pegs read HE WHO STEALS MY COAT GETS TRASHED.
“Hi, Phoebe. I wanted to ask you some questions. Do you have time?”
“Sure! Let’s go back by the espresso machine. The minions can run the store for a while.”
I can’t remember when they’d picked up the collective nickname “Phoebe and the minions,” but it had become universal among the regular customers and the staff. It made the ensemble sound like a punk band, which seemed to please everyone.
I followed Phoebe to the back, where she evicted the minion from the espresso stand and sent her out to police the shelves. We were alone in the coffee alcove with its fake fireplace and grand mantel of papier-mâché stone guarded by cat-faced gargoyles. One of the gargoyles looked a bit dyspeptic, leaning at an angle on a recently chipped base. A traffic mirror hung from the ceiling to give a view of the alcove from the cash desk.
I kept on my feet and toyed with some of the books and knick-knacks on the shelves in the alcove. I needed information, but now that I was here, I wasn’t sure how to start—especially in light of Solis’s desire to interview the staff without their having prior knowledge of Mark’s death. It would have been easier to ask someone I didn’t know or like about someone I’d never met.
Behind me the steam valve on the espresso machine roared. In a minute, Phoebe nudged me and handed me a large cup of coffee. “Sit down and drink that. You’re all cold and fidgety.” I let her push me toward one of the scruffy armchairs near the cardboard hearth and sipped the drink.
“Hey ... what is this?” I asked, looking up. The hot drink was much richer than I was used to.
“That’s a breve—like a latte with cream instead of milk. And don’t you make that face at me,” Phoebe added, flipping her hand. “You need a little padding on those bones of yours. You look like a bundle of brooms.”
“You’ve been hanging out at your dad’s place, haven’t you?” I asked. Phoebe’s restaurant-owning family chided me for being underweight every time I saw any of them, which was a refreshing change from my own mother’s insistence that I was in danger of running to pudge at all times and must be ever-vigilant against rogue calories that might stick unbecomingly to my hips or thighs.
She laughed. “Hugh and Davy convinced Poppy to put an espresso machine in at the restaurant—though I say what’s espresso got to do with Jamaican food? So I went up to show them how it works. They already got bored with steaming milk and so I said I’d show them some fancy drinks next time.” “Them” came out sounding like “dem”—Phoebe had definitely been spending a lot of time with the older members of the family. She gave me a toothy leer. “You’re my guinea pig. So drink up, cavy.”
I gave a good-natured shake of the head. “Squee squee,” I said.
While I tried to sneak up on the hot cream and coffee, Phoebe made her own drink and joined me in the comfy chairs. “So,” she started, “what did you want to ask me about?”
I looked away as I put down my cup. “Mark.”
Phoebe sighed. “That boy is bad luck lately. Whenever he’s around, things get broken, books fall off the shelves, the power goes out—you’d think we’d angered a duppy.”
“What’s a duppy?”
“In Jamaica that’s what we call a bad ghost—or what Poppy calls it—I can hardly remember the place now, but I remember Poppy telling me how the duppies’d get me if I threw dishwater out the window without calling out first. Or how he said I shouldn’t throw rocks at night or sit in the doorway, ’cause the duppies’d come over and smack me.”
“Why would they do that?”
Phoebe scowled. “They’re just evil old things. They got no heart to tell them right from wrong, so they just get mean and spiteful.” She stopped and laughed. “But that’s just old wives’ tales. You asked me about Mark, didn’t you? And why d’you want to talk about Mark, anyway? You finally giving up on that boyfriend who’s never around?”
I shook my head with a moment’s stifled pang. “Phoebe, I’m not man-shopping. I’m working. Mark was part of a research project at PNU that’s got some problems, so I’m looking into the participants to see who might be causing the trouble.”
“You think it’s Mark?”
“No, but I have to know more about him. Seeing someone a few times a month doesn’t mean you know him.”
Phoebe snorted. “That’s what I’ve been saying about that man of yours.”
I turned a quelling look on her. “Phoebe.”
“All right, all right. What d’you want to know?”
“How long had he worked here? What was he like? What did you know about his life outside of the shop?” I caught myself using the past tense and was relieved Phoebe didn’t seem to notice.
“I think Mark’s been working for me for . . . about three years. Always been reliable, though he’s a big flirt and a joker. He’s always making people laugh or playing pranks on them, but people like it—he’s not mean about it. He’s a nice guy. He’s good with the stock and the customers, smart, reads a lot, of course—you know I don’t take on people who don’t love to read. Everybody likes him, women especially—those big, dark eyes and that wild hair look kind of Byronic or something. Heck, men probably like that, too, but he isn’t interested, not so I ever noticed.”
“Does he have a girlfriend?”
“Not right now. He was going out with Manda for a while, but that cooled off. Good thing, too—I don’t like workplace romances. He doesn’t seem to have another girl lately—too busy, I guess.”
“What was he doing—aside from working here?”
“I think he’s trying to get some kind of apprenticeship or something.”
“For what sort of work?”
“Oh, he got his degree in theater lighting and set design last year. I think he wanted to work with the opera, but they weren’t looking for a junior designer, so he’s looking for smaller stuff. I think he wants to stay on the coast, but the only offers he’s been getting are in the Midwest or back east.”
“And what’s been going on recently? You said he was bad luck.”
Phoebe laughed. “I don’t mean it. About a month ago the shop was being vandalized—just petty stuff, things thrown around, messes in the stockroom and office, alarm going off, stupid electrical problems. Then we had the poltergeist.”
“What?” I started.
“I don’t know what else to call it. And you know I’m not al
l spooky and like that, but what else you gonna call it when books go flying around the room with no people holding them and things moving around and turning up places they shouldn’t be? And the cats hiding under the furniture.” She waved her hands around. “You see any cats out here?”
I looked around and up into the mirror. “I see Mobius on the cash desk.”
“Moby’s just a stomach with legs who thinks he can get a piece of Manda’s sandwich if he looks at her long enough. It never worked before, but he still thinks it will someday. That cat’s brain-damaged. But what I’m telling you is the cats hide whenever Mark is in the shop. They’re just now coming out after his shift.”
“The cats don’t like Mark?”
“Hell, no, girl. They used to love Mark. They’re scared of the things that happen when he’s around, these days—they may be animals, but they’re not stupid. Mark comes in, things get kind of weird—like poor stupid Moby got his tail under a volume of the Oxford English Dictionary last week and that dinosaur head come right off the wall during happy hour once.” She pointed up at a three-quarter-scale reproduction of a tyrannosaur skull that presided over the espresso bar. “I tell you, this has got to end, or I may have to let Mark go.”
I looked down into my cup and discovered I’d finished the drink. “So Mark worked today?”
“Yeah. He’s splitting a shift today. He had a half-shift to open and he’ll be back for the late-night shift at ten.”
“What time did he leave?”
“Noon. Came in at eight. He has some class or something on Wednesdays—oh, that’s the project you’re working for, right?”
“Yeah, they have a regular meeting on Wednesdays.”
“Well, now I know.”
“Phoebe . . . who’s working with Mark tonight?”
“Just me. Wednesdays aren’t too busy—sell more coffee than books.”
“What do you do if someone doesn’t show up?”
“Just work through it.”
“What about the minions?”