CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

"Tara and Bryan Steele?" Irene echoed.

I nodded. "I know. I couldn't believe it either."

"Are you sure it was him?"

"It was him." I paused. "He was probably listening just inside the door to our entire conversation."

"Yet the tough guy didn't have the guts to show his face." Irene's mouth twisted in disgust. "Can't say much for Rebecca's choice in men."

"Or Tara's," I agreed.

She made a face. "Those two deserve each other. Not exactly two class acts. She's got to be hiding something."

"She was hiding him," I said. "Obviously they didn't know I was still outside when he left."

"Wonder why she cared whether you knew about them," she mused. "She seems completely shameless about everything else."

"Maybe he's the one who cared." Although I couldn't imagine why. It wasn't like he was married, hiding an affair from his wife. "What'd you find out about the deli, anyway?"

She brightened. "It wasn't as easy as I thought to figure out who owns the business. I had to wade through a ton of boring corporate records. A company parenting another company, parenting another company. The trail was a mile long and not a straight shot by any means."

I raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like a lot of work to go to just to hide your ownership of a simple deli."

Irene grinned. "Right. It if were just a simple deli."

"So, did you get a name?"

"Yes, ma'am, I did. You ready for this?" She paused for effect. "Vincent Gordon."

I looked at her. "Who's Vincent Gordon?"

"Gordon? Name doesn't ring any bells?" She shook her head. "I knew I was right about that creep. He's in this up to his pale little neck."

"You mean Dominic Gordon?" I asked. "Of Gordon's Mortuary?"

Irene nodded.

"I don't know. That's a pretty common name. They might not even be related."

"Oh, they're related, alright," she said. "Vincent Gordon not only owns Lucky's Deli but also Gordon's Mortuary."

"I stand corrected."

She grinned. "I know, right?"

"It is coincidental," I mused, shoving mental puzzle pieces around to fit in this new information.

"It's more than coincidental. It's downright diabolical."

"There's that word again," I said, feeling another harebrained theory coming on.

"Think about it—Vinny gets people hooked on his Fluffy Bunny pills, they overdose, and then they end up at Gordon's Mortuary. It's an ideal business model. He profits on both ends. They live—he has an addicted client. They die—he profits from the funeral."

"That's pretty cynical."

"These aren't Boy Scouts," she said. "We're talking about drug dealers and probably worse."

I wished talking about them was all we were doing. I had a bad feeling that this case had just gotten exponentially worse. "But Rebecca didn't take the Fluffy Bunny," I said. "According to Watson, her tox screen came back negative."

She waved me off. "That's not important right now. They sold it to her, didn't they? Well, Vincent's minions did, anyway. But maybe something with the deal went sideways. Maybe Rebecca can't pay or decides to rat them out. They follow her home, kill her, then—believing she has the Fluffy Bunny they sold her in her system—they steal the body so no one can trace the designer blend back to them."

As much as I hated to admit it, it made as much sense as anything else we'd come up with so far.

I glanced at Irene. Her eyes had that dangerous look in them. Like she was either about to initiate a hostile takeover or drag me into another Sherlockian moment.

"We're going back to Gordon's Mortuary, aren't we?" I asked.

She nodded. "I think we have to."

"Fine. I'll drive." I pulled out the car keys.

Irene immediately snatched them from me. "These are BMW keys! Where did you get these?"

"They're Watson's," I reluctantly admitted. "He left them for me last night."

"Oh, did he? Did you properly thank him?"

"I was asleep," I told her.

"That happens," she said. "Only usually it's the man who falls asleep."

I rolled my eyes. "Will you stop it? He left his keys with Mrs. Frist so I didn't have to Uber around today." I left out the part about keeping an eye on me, as I wasn't sure Irene would be as forgiving about the insult as I was. She, unlike me, had a fleet of cars at her disposal.

"That man," Irene said, "is a geyser of surprises."

"Yeah, well, I'm returning the car as soon as we get back from the mortuary," I told her as I made my way toward the door.

Only as soon as I opened it, I found Barbara Lowery Bristol standing on the other side, her hand raised as if ready to knock.

Surprised, I took an inadvertent step back, bumping into Irene, who immediately took the lead. "Please, come in, Barbara. Did we have an appointment today?"

Barbara stepped into the foyer, clutching a handful of tissues to her reddened nose. "I hope this isn't a bad time."

Not if it kept us away from Gordon's Mortuary, it wasn't.

"Not at all," I assured her. "How can we help you?"

"I hadn't heard anything from Mr. Holmes, so I thought I'd stop by for an update on the case. I can't bear the thought of my sister being out there…" She sniffled, and her lower lip caught between her teeth while she struggled to maintain her composure.

"We completely understand." Irene steered her into the living room while I followed behind, wishing we could delay an update until we actually had one. Especially now that I knew she was lobbying Detective Lestrade to take over our job. We couldn't compete with law enforcement. After all, what did we have so far? Everything but Rebecca's body.

"The not knowing must be just awful," Irene continued. "I can't imagine. Can we get you anything?"

I didn't have anything except dry dog food, for those times when Toby paid a visit. There was no point in stocking a kitchen in a house where I didn't live.

Thankfully, Barbara shook her head. "I won't take up your time. I really would just like to know if you've learned anything that might help find my sister."

I expected another expression of solicitude from Irene, but that's not what I heard.

"We've learned that you're claiming 100 percent of your parents' estate," Irene said.

Barbara recoiled at the bluntness, the tissues halting partway to her nose. "Yes, I-I-I suppose that's true. But I told you I hadn't spoken to Rebecca in years. I mean, yes, I'm living in our parents' home, but I knew Rebecca had no intention of doing so."

"Was it Rebecca's intention to sue you for her half of the value?" Irene asked.

"My parents weren't wealthy people," she said. "We're not talking about millions of dollars. Just so you know."

"That's not an answer," Irene said. "Was your sister going to sue you?"

"I don't…" Barbara swallowed. "I really don't know."

I got the feeling she really did know but didn't want to say. Whether it was because she didn't want to speak ill of her dead sister or for more nefarious reasons, I wasn't sure.

"So, who inherits your sister's half now?" I asked.

Barbara licked her lips. "I do."

"Your estranged sister left you her half?" Irene asked.

Barbara looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Not exactly. It was a provision in our parents' will that if one sister outlived the other, the estate reverted to the living sister. At least, for a certain period of time after their passing."

"And how long was that period?"

Again with lip licking. "Five years."

Irene and I shared a look. By Barbara's own admission her mother had died almost five years ago. That provision was almost up. Fortunate timing for Barbara.

"I'm not sure where you're going with all these questions," she said, gathering her purse close to her chest in a protective gesture.

Since I was distinctly interested in learning what was in said purse, I switched gears to calm her nerves.

"Tell us how you chose Gordon's Mortuary," I said.

She seemed relieved at the change of subject. "You could say they chose me. Mr. Gordon contacted me and offered me a generous discount on his services. I guess they were having a sale of sorts."

A Blue Light Special on funerals?

"How did he even know about you?" Irene asked. "Did he say?"

She shrugged. "I assume he got the information from the morgue or something. To be honest, I didn't ask. I was just grateful for the kindness in my moment of need." Her voice caught at the end of that sentence, and she put the tissue up to her nose again.

Watson had specifically said he hadn't referred Gordon's to Barbara. I couldn't imagine it would go the other way. And I had to believe the staff would follow his standard of practice. Something felt off. Well, everything felt off. I didn't want corpses and drugs and criminal masterminds taking up space in my brain. Yet here I was, and here they were.

"I wish none of this had happened," Barbara murmured.

None of what? Her sister dying? The body disappearing? Or her complicity in all of it? I had to agree: I wish it hadn't happened too. Looking for a dead body wasn't my idea of a good time.

"I hope our questions didn't offend you," I said. "We're just following the process." As if we had one. "We never know what might lead to useful information," I added.

She nodded her understanding. "I just want Rebecca to be found."

It took another few minutes to assure her we were doing everything possible to that end, and then she packed up her tissues and left. We locked up and followed her out. A few minutes later we were on the road in Watson's BMW, with Irene rooting through the papers in the glove box.

"Barbara was pretty broken up back there." She pulled out the registration. "This baby isn't a lease. Watson owns it. Nice."

"Stop being so nosy," I told her. "Do you think her grief was genuine?"

"Hard to say. She could have taken sandpaper to her nose, right?"

"You think I'm being overly suspicious."

She glanced up from the pile of receipts in her lap. "There is no such thing. Especially with the timing of her sister's death."

"Convenient, right?" I asked.

"Too convenient." Irene shoved the receipts back into the glove box and slammed it shut. "But I'd still like to know how she got connected to Gordon's."

"Agreed."

I rolled to a stop at a red light and glanced in the review mirror at the gray sedan behind us.

"No way," I said, more to myself than my passenger.

Irene spun in her seat. "What?"

Shaggy sandy hair, big brown eyes behind clear glasses, and a self-confident smile that made me both want to be in on his little joke and smack the grin off his face all at the same time.

"It's him," I hissed.

"Him who?"

I squeezed the wheel, imagining it was his neck. "I told him to stop following me!"

Irene opened her visor mirror to take a more surreptitious look. "That guy behind us, cool glasses, needs a haircut?"

I nodded grimly. "That's him. Wiggins."

"Marty, you didn't tell me your stalker was cute!"

I shot her a look that could freeze a volcano. "Let's focus on the stalker part and not the cute bit, okay?"

The light changed. I fought the urge to stomp on the gas, instead letting the car accelerate gently, as if I hadn't noticed him on my bumper. "What should we do?"

"I have an idea. Keep driving, but don't go to the mortuary yet." She tapped a number into her phone. "I need an intervention," she told someone on the other end.

I mouthed intervention?

She held up a one second finger. "Tell me where you are, and I'll deliver the target."

Target? A frisson of alarm shivered through me.

Irene glanced at her watch. "Give me ten minutes. Thanks." She disconnected. "Head toward the Westfield Centre mall."

"Why? That's in the opposite direction from Gordon's."

"Because we need to shake Wiggins." She crossed her arms. "And he has to learn to respect boundaries."

I liked the sound of that. I headed toward the mall, remembering my conversation with Wiggins. "You know, he asked me about Sherlock Holmes. Details like where he went to school, where he lives, why there are no photos of him."

She waved it off. "I'll shore up Sherlock's bio. No worries."

I had worries, alright. Plenty of them. To begin with, what did Wiggins think he already knew that had him tracking us? Had he followed me to Tara's house? If he thought she was a suspect, would he make that public? How far would he go to uncover the details of Sherlock Holmes's life?

"There it is up there." Irene pointed. "Slow down a little. See that black Challenger?"

I saw it, crouched on the side of the road like a snarling jaguar.

She smiled. "This should be fun."

"Should I pull over?" I asked.

"No. Drive right past him. Be casual about it."

I cruised past the waiting Challenger with Wiggins following—not exactly tailgating us but making no effort to be discreet either.

As soon as we'd passed, the Challenger leaped into action, a blue light flashing on the dash. While I watched in the mirror, Wiggins' sedan slowed, pulled to the curb, and stopped. The Challenger nestled up behind him, and a hulking muscleman swaggered up to the driver's window.

"There." Irene sat back, pleased. "That'll keep him busy for a while. Now we can go talk to Dominic Gordon."

"Who is that?" I asked. "He's not going to kill him, is he?"

She laughed. "Not unless we want him to."

"Are you serious?"

"Marty." She touched my arm. "Relax. He's an actor friend who owes me a favor, that's all."

"Then what was with all that 'intervention' and 'target' stuff?"

She shrugged. "Okay, so maybe he's an actor who I met during a Jericho spy mission."

I blinked at her. "Spies? More explanation please."

She grinned again. "It's an urban gaming adventure. The game master gives you a 'mission' to track down a defective spy. Then you're outfitted with all kinds of cool spy gear and take off in teams around The City. Shinwell was on my team."

"Shinwell?" I asked. "Sounds like a prison nickname."

"Relax. Shinwell's harmless." She paused. "At least I'm pretty sure."

"Very comforting," I mumbled, gripping the wheel again as I pointed the car toward Gordon's Mortuary.

We drove on in silence the rest of the way while I gauged how comfortable I was with Irene's actor-slash-spy-games friend pulling Wiggins over under false pretenses. As long as he didn't really hurt the reporter, I decided I could live with it. In fact, I wouldn't mind putting him on the payroll if it kept Wiggins away from Sherlock Holmes and our investigation.

By the time we arrived at Gordon's, a brooding black cloud had snuffed out much of the day's light, threatening more rain. I chose to believe it was purely nimbostratus and not a prophetic omen. We had our choice of parking slots in the empty little lot and stepped out of the car into a stiff breeze scraping off the bay.

"Do you have the same weird feeling I do?" I asked.

"You mean kind of like a tingly electrical thing?" Irene asked. "Nope."

Just for that, I pushed her ahead of me into the foyer, where there was, once again, no sign of life. No phones ringing. No Muzak playing. Presumably the pink-cheeked old lady in Viewing Room Two had come and gone.

"How can this place afford to stay open?" I whispered.

"It's probably Vincent's money laundromat," Irene whispered back.

That tingly electrical feeling was back, fizzing through my veins.

The office door across the lobby flew open, and Dominic stuck his head out. "Can I—oh."

How could he have heard us whispering?

"Mr. Gordon." Irene grabbed my arm and pulled me over to him before he could duck back inside. You'd think he'd have been happy to see anyone who was vertical. "We'd like to ask you a few more questions."

"I'm busy right now," he said.

I looked over his shoulder into an empty office, with its empty desk and silent phone. Then I looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"Maybe I can spare a few minutes," he said, stepping aside so we could enter.

We sat on the lumpy cousins of the lobby furniture while he situated himself behind his desk with a lot of minute, precise adjustments. Watching him, I wondered again if he ever saw sunlight. His skin was so pale that it practically glowed. And not in a good way.

"How can I help you?" he asked when he was finally satisfied with the placement of his clenched hands on the crosshatching of tiny time-worn lines and divots on the desk blotter. For the first time, I noticed the wheeled microwave stand in the corner, repurposed as a computer stand holding an ancient looking ink-jet printer coated in a thin layer of dust.

"I'd like to ask you about Vincent Gordon," Irene said.

His fingers tightened into a white-knuckled prayer position. "And why's that?"

"Because he's an interesting guy," she said. "For instance, I find it interesting that he owns this mortuary."

"My brother's an entrepreneur," he said. "He has a diverse portfolio of businesses in several sectors, this being one of them."

"He owns other businesses too," I added.

Dominic cleared his throat loudly. "Yes. As, as I said, his portfolio is very diverse."

I was about to press when my phone chimed in with a text. I surreptitiously checked the screen. Watson. What are you doing at Gordon's Mortuary?

For a brief second I thought maybe Watson had a hidden camera in the room. Then I remembered—the GPS in his car. This was his idea of "keeping an eye on me."

Planning my life celebration, I shot back. Then I shut off the ringer.

"—public records of your brother's holdings," Irene was saying. "Which are fun to sift through, believe you me. Your brother has a lot of companies that own companies that own companies."

No reaction from Dominic.

"For example, the company pyramid was several deep before I found out he owns Lucky's Deli."

Again Dominic maintained his Vampire poker face. Not even a flinch.

"Care to discuss what goes on at Lucky's?" Irene prodded.

"I wouldn't know," he said through unmoving lips. "It's my brother's business."

"Really?" Irene pushed. "I would imagine you've met a fair amount of Lucky's customers. Or, should I say former customers? I bet you get a lot of ODs come through these doors."

Dominic's demeanor suddenly changed with that one. It was subtle, but his poker face went from nervous to on the offensive—eyes more intense, breathing slower, the hint of a sneer tugging at his lips, which told me he was envisioning us coming through his doors in a much more horizontal and professional capacity.

I slid my suddenly wet palms up and down my thighs, willing Irene to abort the conversation before she said something really insulting. Vincent Gordon was hardly up for citizen of the year, and the way Dominic was looking at Irene, I didn't think his brother was a whole lot better. If they'd made Rebecca disappear, what would they do to a couple of nosy pseudo detectives?

Dominic leveled unnervingly flat black eyes on her. "People from all walks of life come to us. Old. Young. Singers. Jane Does. Even detectives," he added.

"Is that a threat?" Irene asked, leaning forward.

My palms stopped sliding. My heart might have stopped for a second too. I had a bad feeling we were one question away from a contract on our heads. And I liked my head just where it was—attached to my very living body. I nudged Irene in the leg. No response.

Dominic's tiny smile was as chilling as the possibility that he went outdoors only after sundown. "Speculation is the orphan child of intellectual deficit."

Oh, great. Now the vampire was going all philosophical on us.

Irene's eyes narrowed. "Spock said that, right?" She smiled.

He stared at her. "I think it's time for you to leave. My family has got nothing to do with your…investigation." The word lingered between us, laced with disdain.

Irene uncrossed her legs and stood. "Yes, that's probably true. Unless you consider the fact that Rebecca Lowery's body was taken from your facility, on your watch. But that's got nothing to do with you either, right?"

He stood from his seat, stomped around the desk, and yanked open the door, his face finally showing some color. "I'll thank you to direct any future communication to my lawyer."

"Happy to," Irene shot back, marching to the outer door.

I followed a step behind, only pausing for a quick glance back over my shoulder at Dominic. He was seething, a total shift from the slimy, creepy guy we'd seen so far. His jaw was clenched, the veins in his neck bulging, hands balled into fists at his sides, and his knees were locked tight as if he was purposely forcing himself not to chase after us.

But as my gaze went lower, I felt a breath catch in my throat. Dominic's black outfit was spotless…except for his highly polished wingtips. Dried mud was spattered across the glossy surface of each. Soft, crumbling clay mud. There was no mud at the mortuary, just a small asphalt parking lot, a tiny patch of grass landscaped to perfection, and a two-bay garage to house the hearse and flower car.

But I knew where there was clay mud exactly like that. I'd been picking it out of my hair all the previous evening.

Lampley Park.