Chapter Twenty-Three
Alice tucked Sebastian under one arm and stepped off the sled. She followed Owen through the ragged crack in the glowing tunnel wall and waited while he used the code to unlock the vault door.
“About that note from Vinnie the Broker,” he said over his shoulder. “The one that was taped to the dashboard of the sled.”
“What about it?” she asked.
“It said, ‘No Charge.’ ”
“Yes, I know. That was very kind of Vinnie to provide free transport, wasn’t it?”
“Can I ask why this broker isn’t charging for the use of the sled?”
“I think it’s because he’s grateful to me for helping him deal with his insomnia.”
“You have some interesting friends and clients.”
“I am very fortunate in that regard.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“What’s another way?” she asked, curious.
“Has it ever occurred to you that some of your friends and clients might be dangerous?”
“So far none of them has tried to kidnap me or lock me up in an insane asylum.”
“Fair point.”
The heavy door swung open. They moved into a dark, musty basement.
The sled had been waiting for them when they exited the underground passage beneath the Amber Palace.
The small vehicle was about the size and shape of a golf cart.
It was powered by a simple amber motor because more sophisticated technology did not function reliably in the psi-heavy atmosphere of the tunnels.
The result was that top speed in a sled was only a little faster than a human could run, but it beat walking.
Alice swept the flashlight on her phone around the basement. The space was littered with old-fashioned slot machines, discarded card tables, and broken stage furnishings.
“This looks like a dumping ground for worn-out casino stuff,” she said.
“Yes, it does,” Owen said.
Sebastian chortled, wriggled out from under Alice’s arm, and bounced down to the floor.
“There’s no time to look for souvenirs, Sebastian,” she said. “We’re here on business.”
Evidently grasping the concept, he contented himself with a few quick forays into the jungle of old gambling paraphernalia. He reappeared when she and Owen started up the basement stairs.
When they reached the ground floor, they found themselves in the ruins of a long-abandoned nightclub. Owen checked his locator.
“The address we’re looking for is about four blocks from here,” he said.
He clipped the locator onto his belt and headed for the door. Sebastian, evidently opting for the better view, bounced onto his shoulder and chortled enthusiastically.
Alice followed man and dust bunny out into a narrow alley.
It was midmorning, so the fog had thinned somewhat, but it never disappeared in the Shadow Zone.
She could barely make out the opening at the far end of the blind alley.
The locals joked that the ever-present mist provided ambience.
It also provided cover for various shady activities at all hours, day or night.
They said you could buy anything in the Shadow Zone—if you were willing to pay the price.
The zone did offer some advantages when it came to rents. You got what you paid for, but if you didn’t mind shabby accommodations in a dicey neighborhood, there were bargains to be had. Carl Voyle’s former residence proved to be a good example.
The small run-down apartment building was a three-story structure on a narrow street.
The manager, a middle-aged man with sparse gray hair and a stocky build, came to the door in a stained white T-shirt and baggy trousers.
He was not happy to have visitors, but he took the cash Owen offered with a grudging attitude.
“Nah, I haven’t seen Voyle for a couple of days,” he said. “Took off in his car a while back. Don’t know where he was going. Around here, you don’t ask questions like that. But his weekly rent is due today, and now I’ve got to wonder if he skipped out so he wouldn’t have to face me.”
“It’s safe to say Mr. Voyle won’t be back,” Owen said. “My wife and I are interested in an inexpensive rental here in the Shadow Zone. Do you mind if we take a look at Voyle’s apartment?”
The manager’s thick features screwed up into a suspicious mask. “Why in green hell would a nice couple like you two want to rent an apartment in the Shadow Zone?”
“We thought it would be fun to have a little pied-à-terre here,” Alice said brightly.
The manager went blank. “A what?”
“Forget it,” Owen said. He took out his wallet again. “Do you mind if we check out Voyle’s place? It won’t take long.”
The manager grunted. “You two look familiar. So does the dust bunny.” He switched his attention to Alice. “You’re the Deranged Bride, aren’t you? The one who just got married again.”
Alice cleared her throat. “I’ve been told I look a little like her. But actually—”
The manager cut her off with another grunt. “No two dust bunnies wearing dark glasses and a necklace in this town.”
Alice looked at Sebastian. Owen had been right, she decided. So much for her own attempt at a cover story. Sebastian was unmistakable.
The manager gave Owen an appraising look. “So you’re the new husband, huh? Got to hand it to you, you’ve got more guts than me. Marriage is scary enough, even if the wife doesn’t have a track record like yours.”
“Usually I’m risk-averse,” Owen said. He took some more cash out of his wallet. “But I decided I needed to move out of my comfort zone.”
“Good luck with that.” The manager snatched the money out of Owen’s hand. “You’re here now, so you might as well take a look. Come on inside. I’ll get the key to Voyle’s apartment.”
The manager retreated into the shadows of the hallway. Alice glared at Owen.
“Excuse me,” she said, remembering—barely—to keep her voice low. “Marriage to me was a way to move out of your comfort zone?”
“On an investigation you sometimes have to improvise.” Owen motioned for her to enter the hallway. “It’s not like your pied-à-terre story was working.”
She glanced at Sebastian in his sunglasses and necklace. “No, I guess not.”
Abandoning the argument, she walked into the dingy hallway. The manager handed her a key.
“Number three,” he said. “Upstairs and to your left. Be sure to turn in the key when you leave.”
“Thanks,” she said.
She led the way up the stairs to the second floor. Owen—Sebastian still on his shoulder—followed her down a hall lined with a carpet that was so thin the floorboards were visible in several places.
She got the door to number three open. A musty smell tinged with the unmistakable odor of aging kitchen garbage wafted out of the small studio apartment. She wrinkled her nose.
Sebastian sniffed experimentally but he did not seem to care about the smell. He vaulted down to the floor and began to explore.
Alice glanced at Owen. “Do you have to do this sort of thing a lot in your line of work?”
He eased past her and entered the room. “By the time I’m called in, the smell is usually a lot worse and the garbage is the least of the problems.” He paused, taking in the space. “Looks like someone else got here first.”
Alice moved across the threshold and closed the door. “I see what you mean.”
It was clear the studio had been searched—cupboard doors and drawers in the kitchenette stood open. So did the small closet. The lumpy cushions on the couch had been gutted.
“I doubt if we’ll find anything useful,” Owen said. “But you never know.”
She watched him move methodically around the sparsely furnished room, thinking about the kinds of scenes he must have encountered in the course of hunting the monsters. Her imagination painted terrible images.
“Why do you do it?” she asked.
“The crime scene consulting?” He glanced into an open drawer in the kitchen. “You know how it is. If you’ve got a talent for something, it’s hard to ignore it. There’s a need to use it.”
“You could have stuck with writing papers and conducting seminars on your inheritance theories.”
“Mostly that’s what I do,” Owen said. “But I can’t always limit my work to the theoretical stuff.”
She understood. “As long as the monsters are not theoretical, you are called to do the real-world work, too.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. The flash of energy that appeared in his eyes told her she had surprised him. The heat was quickly followed by something akin to relief, as if she had given him the response he had needed to hear. He turned back to his search of the cupboards.
“It’s the same for you, isn’t it?” he said. “You need to do the dream therapy.”
“Yes. Cadence Ballantine said it was my calling. She was right.” Alice shook off the whisper of intimate connection with Owen (no time for that now) and walked deeper into the apartment. “Is there anything in particular that I should be looking for?”
“It would be great to find his phone, but I doubt we’ll get that lucky. He would have had it with him at the hotel. Whoever murdered him probably had the common sense to take it. But there should be other useful data lying around. Bank records. Bills. Late notices. That kind of thing.”
“Right,” she said.
There was no desk and no computer but there were various papers scattered about. Sticky notes. An old copy of the Curtain. A menu from a restaurant that promised delivery throughout the Shadow Zone.
“Are you picking up any sense of his talent?” she asked.
“Nothing unusual or high-rez,” Owen said. He closed the refrigerator. “He was just an ordinary guy.”
“Who made money taking videos of people who did not know they were on camera and then offering to sell the videos to his victims.”
“I doubt that you were his first target. If he used that mirror camera to record the kidnapping ten months ago, he probably worked at the hotel or had ready access to the rooms.”
“Maybe he was working for Kelbrook and Twitchell in some capacity and tried to take advantage of the situation by blackmailing me?”
“That’s a possibility.”
There was a short pause while Owen went through the pockets of a well-worn jacket. “But maybe I’m overthinking this. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
She saw that he had pulled a crumpled pamphlet out of one of the jacket pockets. She recognized the colorful logo immediately. Somewhere out on the psychic plane, alarm bells clanged.
“That’s a brochure from the Aurora Street Dream Clinic, where I work,” she said. “It lists the days and hours of the various services. He must have seen me on the street by chance and recognized me as the woman in the video.”
Owen studied the pamphlet and then tucked it into his jacket. “Maybe, but I don’t like coincidences, and that scenario doesn’t begin to explain everything.”
“He was never one of my clients.” She glanced around the dingy studio apartment. “It’s obvious he was struggling financially.”
“He was a gambler. We know that much from the comp cards in his wallet. Gamblers are always struggling financially.”
“In which case he probably took advantage of the food banks and street clinics from time to time. He could have seen me entering or leaving the Aurora Street clinic and recognized me.”
“Even allowing for coincidence, there are still a lot of questions. But I think we’ve seen enough. Let’s get out of here.”
“All right.” She looked around. “Sebastian? Where are you? We’re leaving, sweetie.”
There was a muffled chortle from under the lumpy sofa. Sebastian reappeared, eager to move on to the next adventure. He had a bent business card in one paw.
Alice scooped him up and took the card. “Let’s see what you found. ‘Madam Xirena. Psychic Financial Consultant. Fortunes read. Predictions provided. Take the risk out of gambling.’ ”
“Voyle was seeing a fortune-teller?” Owen said. He sounded intrigued.
“One who preys on people with gambling addictions, apparently. They are quite common here in Illusion Town.”
“That’s not a surprise. I don’t know what she charged, but judging by his apartment and his wardrobe, it doesn’t look like he got his money’s worth. It might be useful to talk to her, though.”
“I agree. People who go to storefront psychics wind up confiding all kinds of personal information.”
“Usually without being aware of it,” Owen said dryly. “Fortune-tellers are very, very good at reading their clients. Most of the ones I’ve met would make great police detectives. Is there an address on the card?”
“Yes. She’s here in the Shadow Zone.”
“Let’s go.” Owen looked at Sebastian. “Nice work, pal.”
Sebastian chortled in gracious acknowledgment of the compliment.
Alice paused on the threshold and surveyed the grubby studio one last time.
“It’s very sad when you think about it,” she said. “What a waste of a life.”
“The man was a blackmailer with a gambling addiction,” Owen said. “I’d say he made some poor choices along the way, and statistically speaking, a short lifespan was almost guaranteed.”
She went out into the hall with Sebastian. “Still, it’s sad.”
Owen followed her out of the apartment and closed the door. “Let’s go see the fortune-teller.”
“We have to talk to the manager first. In addition to giving him the key, we’d better warn him that someone broke into Voyle’s apartment. We don’t want him to think we did the damage.”
“He’ll blame us anyway, but given the amount I tipped him, I don’t think he’ll call the police.”