Seance on a Wednesday Afternoon
by
L.M. Lewis
It was part of the routine, whenever the Lone Ranger and Tonto had to ride the high plains in search of desperados—or trout— that their neighbor, Mrs. Ella Mulvaney, picked up the mail. She didn't mind. She was out twice a day anyhow, she said, making sure her teacup poodles, Misty and Tinker, got their daily constitutionals.
It was also routine, for McCormick anyway, to make the trip to 's to collect the mail even before unpacking the saddlebags. He didn't mind. He was fond of Hardcastle's nearest neighbor, who'd been one of the first to accept him, nearly four years back, as something other than a suspicious character. He only wished he could say the same of her dogs, who were ounce for ounce two of the most vicious animals he'd ever encountered.
But on that fine morning he didn't hear the usual frantic barks from just inside as he approached Mrs. Mulvaney's front door. He knew she was home—her spotless '71 El Dorado sat gleaming in the drive. In fact it wasn't alone. The late model midnight-blue Buick Riviera alongside it was a clear indication that she had company.
McCormick hesitated. The owner of the Buick was also known to him: Mrs. Victoria Emmers, who owned a pricey place over on Via Cataldo. She had a pair of Dobermans and an attitude to match. In this case it wasn't so much the dogs that made him uneasy, but the unrelentingly judgmental attitude of their owner.
It was too late to retrace his steps and he knew it. By now, even without the usual poodle alert system, he'd have almost undoubtedly been spotted. It would be both awkward and suspicious to be seen walking away.
He stepped up to the door, arranged his face to something neighborly and cheerful, and rang the bell. Still no high-pitched yapping—perhaps they were off at the doggie spa, getting fluffed. There was a long pause before he heard the latch being fiddled with, and finally the door opened.
Ella Mulvaney's face was framed in an opening not much wider than necessary, and her voice was hardly more than a whisper. "Oh, you're back already. I wasn't—"
She broke off and glanced over her shoulder, then opened the door a bit more and eased through, not fully closing it behind her. Whatever precautions she was after, it didn't seem to include secrecy.
"Mustn't disrupt the ether. It gets unsettled, you know."
"Ah—?"
"You know - the ether. The connection between spiritual planes. It's very thin today." She looked up at him as though she'd just commented on the chance of rain, then she dropped her voice to an even more confidential tone. "If you ask me, it's Vicky. I think she's … skeptical."
McCormick knitted his brows, though the picture was becoming a bit clearer. He could see Vicky Emmers through an inner doorway, in the room he knew Mrs. Mulvaney called her "parlor". She was sitting very upright in a straight-backed chair at a bridge table. Kitty-corner from her was a young man with pale skin and thick, dark hair. His eyes were closed and his palms were flat on the table, as though he might be holding it down. The impression was one of great concentration. The whole effect was only slightly spoiled by the presence of two diminutive poodles, snuggled under the table at the man's feet with looks of great contentment.
It was a still-life, though. Nothing more was happening, except that Mrs. Emmers cast a glance in Mrs. Mulvaney's direction. Catching sight of McCormick, her lips seemed to go a little thinner. McCormick didn't attempt his usual polite nod at her. He was still staring at the mysterious visitor. Even with no voice or movements to cross-check by, that pale face struck a note that resonated in his memory.
"I've got the mail right here." Mrs. Mulvaney reached back inside toward a small table by the door. "Advertisements, mostly." She sighed. "Isn't that how it always is? No one writes letters anymore."
He broke off his study of the familiar stranger and nodded distractedly as she handed him the stack. He realized she was stepping back through the door with no further invitation to linger. He took the hint and nodded one more time.
"Thanks." He stepped back as well, and then, as an afterthought, added, "Sorry about the ether."
She smiled vaguely and shut the door. It wasn't quite in his face, but close enough.
McCormick was still frowning as he finally turned and headed back to the estate. He sorted as he walked, and had Hardcastle's larger portion separated out by the time he arrived at the main house. He knocked perfunctorily and didn't wait for an answer. He could hear the judge fast-forwarding through messages on the answering machine.
He put the heftier part of the pile on Hardcastle's desk and dropped into the nearest chair, intending to thumb through his own scanty stack. Instead, almost as soon as he sat down, he found he was thinking about that out-of-context face that he had almost-recognized.
He must have been staring. He snapped back into the present and noticed Hardcastle was staring right back at him.
"What's wrong with you?" the older man grumbled.
"Huh? Nothing … well, nothing major. Mrs. Mulvaney has some ether issues."
"What, she had dental work done?"
"No … looked more like a séance."
Hardcastle stared back at him blankly for a moment.
"You know," Mark prodded, "everybody sits around a table and some guy tries to get in
touch with the dead. A séance."
"I didn't know you had to get knocked out for one of those."
"Ya got me," Mark shrugged, "all I know is she said Mrs. Emmers was messing the ether up, so it didn't sound like things were going very well."
"Vicky?" Hardcastle looked surprised. "I never woulda pegged her as the séance type."
"Yeah, well, it gets weirder," Marks sighed. "The guy who was sitting with her—'bout my age, thin, pale, dark hair—I'd swear I know him from somewhere."
"San Quentin?"
Mark shook his head.
"Strykerville? Clarksville?"
McCormick looked peeved. "You know I have met a couple of people outside of prison."
"Okay," Hardcastle conceded, "so this particular choirboy shared a pew with you in which church?"
McCormick let out a long breath and finally shook his head and said, "I dunno. Not prison though. Definitely not Q. Lemme think about it."
Hardcastle shrugged and reached for his mail, shuffling through it. Mark had resumed staring, at a point somewhere just to the left of the judge's head.
That's where they both were a few moments later when the front doorbell rang.
Mark startled. Hardcastle leaned back in his chair and cast a glance over his shoulder and out the front window, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
"It's Vicky Emmers."
McCormick cocked his head. "Well, I know she's not here to pay me a friendly visit."
He made a move to rise. Hardcastle gestured for him to stay put as he got himself up. He lumbered toward the hallway, looking motivated more by curiosity than neighborliness. He unlatched the door, with an all-purpose smile on his face and no particular surprise in his greeting.
"Well, hello there, Vicky. McCormick mentioned you were over at Ella's place."
The visitor, who'd been looking not all that happy to start, sniffed sharply at the mention of Mark's name.
"May I come in? I need to speak to you."
Hardcastle stepped back and gestured her into the front hall. She stiffened slightly at her first glimpse of the den. From that vantage point McCormick was plainly visible.
She turned back to Hardcastle. "I thought this might be a bad time."
"Nonsense."
"Anyway," Mark added cheerfully as he started to rise, "I was just leaving. I'll be …" he frowned in search of an excuse, and then shrugged and concluded with, "somewhere else."
"No," Mrs. Emmers said with her usual air of decisiveness, "perhaps you should stay. I'd like to hear what you say about this."
From her tone, it seemed apparent that "this" was nothing good. Mark winced but didn't sit down again until Hardcastle had finished escorting their guest to a chair and resumed his own place behind the desk.
Mrs. Emmers, sitting primly forward in her seat with her purse securely clutched in her lap, looked not unlike the woman who'd been recently attending the presumptive séance: skeptical. Other than that, though, the ether at Gull's Way wasn't transferring any signals. It was a full moment, with one more sideward glance at McCormick, before she nodded sharply in Hardcastle's direction and spoke.
"You've already heard about Ella's visitor."
"Not all that much," Hardcastle admitted cautiously.
"He says his name is Owen Warlow."
Hardcastle darted a quick glance in McCormick's direction, but there were no light bulbs of sudden recognition to be seen from that quarter.
Mrs. Emmers leaned in, slightly confidential. "I believe it may be an assumed name."
"How did Ella meet him?"
Mrs. Emmers' face was tight with disapproval. "At the cemetery. She was visiting Harold."
"Harold?" McCormick interjected politely.
"That'd be the late Mr. Mulvaney," Hardcastle informed him. "It's been about ten years now, I'd say."
"Eleven," Mrs. Emmers corrected. "You know Ella; such a sweet person." It was clear that Mrs. Emmers did not share that weakness. "The young man claimed he was there to visit his mother's grave. All lies, I'm sure. These confidence men —" She sniffed again and shot a sharp look at Mark, who was doing his best not to appear confident.
She turned back to Hardcastle and sighed. "You undoubtedly have more experience with these things than I do. He inveigled an invitation to her home, and now has her convinced that he is some sort of medium—that he can communicate with the dead."
Hardcastle rubbed his thumb against his chin. "You know there's nothing actually illegal about that —"
"Sleazy and immoral," Mark interjected, "but not illegal."
Victoria Emmers shot another glance at him in surprise.
"Unless she claims he defrauded her—lied to obtain something of value, then she'd have standing for a civil suit," McCormick mulled half to himself, "or maybe on the grounds of failure to fulfill the provisions of a contract—assuming he didn't actually tap into Harold's vibes." He paused on that thought, then looked up at the other two, who were staring at him flatly.
Hardcastle turned to Mrs. Emmers, tapping his own temple lightly with a forefinger. "It's Torts. Makes 'em a little goofy. But he's pretty much hit the nail on the head."
"In truth, I suspected as much," she sighed. "Which is why I agreed to meet her new 'friend'. I hoped I might entrap him—to give Ella a chance to see he was a fraud."
Hardcastle sighed. "Didn't work?"
"I invented a story about a dead sister. It was rather a good story, if I do say so myself. She died tragically after being jilted by a young man."
"Suicide?" Mark asked politely.
"No," Mrs. Emmers shook her head, "I thought that would be too much. I gave her a blood disorder. I looked one up in Taber's. She had a collection of china cats that she left to me."
Mark nodded consideringly. "Nice touch, the cats."
Hardcastle was frowning. "But he wasn't buying, huh?"
"It's possible I allowed my true feelings to show. I have a low opinion of frauds and cheats." Mrs. Emmers stared fixedly at the two men for a moment before plunging on. "He claimed that he wasn't able to make contact with my departed sister. He even said something rather pointed about my motives."
Mark cocked his head in assessment. "He was onto you, china cats and all."
"I appears so, but something else of interest occurred." She'd shifted her gaze entirely to McCormick. "When Ella came back into the room, after she'd given you the mail, she mentioned you by name to Mr. Warlow, along with a very brief sketch of your situation."
"You mean she said I was an ex-con? Wait," McCormick held up a palm toward her, "I don't really want to hear that," then muttered, "I thought we got along, her and me."
"Which doesn't mean you're not an 'ex-con'," Mrs. Emmers pointed out coolly. "But that's not the point." She drew herself up even straighter and turned back to the judge. "I am fairly certain that Mr. Warlow took special notice of the name. He immediately looked toward the window—the one that has a view of the front drive. He was watching Mr. McCormick; I'm sure of it."
Hardcastle frowned. "Could be lots of reasons for that."
"Yeah," McCormick said stiffly. "I'm not in cahoots with him, if that's what you're thinking."
"Of course not."
Mark looked surprised.
"Well, if you were, you hardly would have come over there, or, at least if you had it would have come as no surprise to Mr. Warlow."
"Finally, a vote of confidence."
"Anyway, he was just sitting here, right before you showed up, trying to figure out where he'd seen the guy before." Hardcastle shifted in his chair and looked at McCormick. "You figure it out yet?"
Mark shook his head. "Maybe if I got another look at him. You think you could convince Mrs. Mulvaney that we're in need of spiritual guidance?"
"Nah," Hardcastle looked doubtful, "he'll just get the heebie-jeebies again. I don't even have a dead sister with some china cats."
"No, but you do have an L.A.P.D. lieutenant with access to the FBI fingerprint database." Mark grinned. "Who needs china cats when you've got china coffee cups?"
Mrs. Emmers got a fairly quick escort to the door and polite but hasty farewell from Hardcastle. He only popped back into the den for a moment, having snatched his jacket from the closet. He was clearly warming to the project.
"Won't take long," he assured McCormick.
"I think I oughta go with you. I'm usually pretty good with faces."
"Uh-uh." Hardcastle shook his head as he donned the jacket. "You heard what Vicky said. You make him nervous. Me," he reached up, straightening his collar, "I'm just another old duffer who probably knows a lot of folks who've passed over Jordan." He flashed a crafty smile. "You might want to find us some kinda table, and make sure there's a fresh pot of coffee."
He headed toward the door, leaving McCormick—head cocked. He was pondering just how much Warlow might already have gleaned from the chatty Mrs. Mulvaney about her closest neighbor.
00000
Hardcastle strode up to Ella's and rapped the knocker briskly, having tempered his expression into something less aggressively interested and more neighborly. Ella seemed surprised to find him on her doorstep.
"Mark already stopped by."
"I know. Thanks for looking after things for us." Hardcastle smiled broadly. "He mentioned you had some company. Sorry if he got in the way."
"Oh, no," Ella managed a smile of her own and then seemed to remember she had more company on the porch. "Won't you come in? Seems like we hardly get to visit anymore."
"I was just thinking the same thing myself." Hardcastle let her usher him into the foyer. "Here we are, right next door to each other and nobody ever drops in." He glanced around, trying not to look like he was doing so. There were no signs of the other man. He sighed. "I thought maybe you'd like to come over—a little coffee, maybe take a look at the roses."
"I couldn't—"
"And bring your friend, too. His name's …?"
"Owen." Mrs. Mulvaney shut her mouth firmly on that, then seemed to ease up after a moment. "You know, Milt, he's a most unusual young man. Very … perceptive."
"You don't say."
She nodded with a touch of eagerness, unable to restrain her enthusiasm for the subject. "Now I know what you're going to tell me. Nancy always said you were the most level-headed man she knew." Ella looked at him fixedly for a moment, then sighed. "Don't you ever wish …"
There was a long pause, but before she could find the rest of the words, footsteps were heard in the hall and a moment later a man appeared in the doorway to the parlor.
Ella looked startled, but there was an almost immediate change in her expression. It was genuine affection, and a beaming smile. She reached out for the young man's hand. He was about McCormick's age, with a slight build and large, dark eyes. His hair was nearly as dark, a thick shock of it that seemed to need to be frequently pushed back from his forehead. He let himself be led in by Mrs. Mulvaney.
"This is Owen Warlow. Owen, my dear neighbor, Judge Hardcastle."
Hardcastle winced slightly at the title but Warlow didn't seem to have registered any alarm.
"We've known each other for ages, haven't we, Milt? Us, my Harold, and Milt's Nancy—we were quite a foursome."
"I'm pleased to meet you, Judge." Warlow's hand was surprisingly unfishlike. A natural grip, he wasn't trying too hard. "Ella's told me some about you."
I'll bet she has. Hardcastle maintained his own grip for a moment longer and said, half to Ella and half to Warlow, "McCormick mentioned you were having some sort of, ah, session here earlier."
Ella smiled a bit nervously. Her hands fluttered like birds. "Oh, that—"
"It was a sitting," Warlow interjected. "A séance, to use the common term. Though not much of one." He shrugged diffidently. "Sometimes the flesh is willing, but the spirit is weak."
"I think it was the ether." Ella patted him consolingly on the arm. "Or too much astral resistance." Then she turned back to Hardcastle. "But I don't think you're interested in spiritual things, Milt."
"Oh, I'm interested in lots of things." Hardcastle peered at Ella with what he hoped would pass for honest curiosity. "You know my housekeeper, Millie?"
"The one who didn't stay very long?"
Hardcastle nodded. "Yup. She said she had some kinda gift." He frowned slightly. "'Course she didn't think it was much of a gift. She saw stuff."
"Channeling?" Warlow asked politely. "Clairvoyance? Precognition?"
"That last one. She saw the future." Hardcastle's frown stiffened a little. "And she was pretty good at finding lost stuff … keys and things."
"Really?" Ella's eye had gotten a little wider. "You never told me, Milt. I would have loved to talk to her."
"She was kind of shy about it."
"Such gifts need to be sheltered," Ella murmured. "Nurtured."
"Hmm." Hardcastle nodded. "Anyway, no séances, nothing like that. It was like pulling teeth to even get her to talk about it."
"Poor dear," Ella sighed. "It's such a strain. Now Owen, here, he's quite open about his gift. Aren't you, Owen dear?" She patted him again. There was no flinch, but Owen didn't seem all that open at the moment.
"I'd really like to see how it all works," Hardcastle said. "How do you know who you're going to connect up with from the Great Beyond?"
Warlow stared at him briefly, as though weighing his sincerity. If so, clairvoyance didn't seem to be his strong suit. He sighed, as if the burden of his own gift was fairly weighty.
"Certain locations call to certain spirits—like the places where they lived, or died—but some of them are real bullies. We don't always have a choice of who we channel."
"Sounds dicey," Hardcastle observed.
"Yes," Warlow nodded, "but I find the spirits take care of me."
"Oh, Milt," Ella said cheerfully, "wouldn't it be wonderful if Owen could get in touch with Nancy? It'd be just like the old days." Her face lit up.
Hardcastle felt a twinge of guilt as he nodded along dutifully. "It'd be interesting." And then, to salve his conscience he added, "McCormick is more into all this stuff than I am." He turned toward Warlow. "You met McCormick?"
A slow blink from Warlow and then, "No. Not that I recall."
"He and Millie—my housekeeper—got on like a house afire. She had his number right off the old psychic switchboard." Hardcastle grinned, purposefully offensive. Let no one say he hadn't given fair notice to his quarry.
"Some people are more attuned to the astral planes," Warlow said mildly. "They may not be channeling, but they project a more significant aura." He turned toward Ella. "It might have been what I noticed earlier."
"I ought to have introduced you—"
Warlow smiled. "These things have a way of working out." His smiled expanded to include Hardcastle. "Like I said, the spirits take care of me. They call to me."
"How do they feel about four p.m., my place?" Hardcastle said speculatively.
Warlow cocked his head briefly as though he were listening and then straightened, gazing directly at the judge.
"No objections," he said, "and I'm feeling pretty psyched."
00000
Hardcastle strode in, looking more puzzled than pleased.
"The poker table?" he said, squinting dubiously at the green baize, six-sided top, complete with corner drink holders. It was set up in its usual spot in the den, lacking only beers and chips to make it look right at home.
"You said a table," Mark protested. "It's a table."
"Maybe a tablecloth or something. Dress it up a little."
"So he's coming?"
"Four p.m.," Hardcastle slapped his hands. "flying in on the astral plane from the Great Beyond."
"I dunno if you should joke about stuff like that. He might be full of hooey, but …" McCormick frowned. "Four?" He glanced at his watch. "That's only a half-hour."
"You find the tablecloth. I'll rustle up the coffee cups."
00000
The appointed hour arrived, and with it the expected guests. They might have been expected, but McCormick twitched at the first chime of the front doorbell. He'd just finished unfolding the tablecloth and settling it into place.
Hardcastle was already moving for the door. There were voices in the hallway, Ella's soprano and Hardcastle's bass-baritone bracketing a measured tenor. McCormick shut his eyes for a moment, just briefly, trying to hear the disembodied voice in some different context. He opened them again and sighed. It wasn't familiar.
The judge and the two guests entered. The man who belonged to the voice now stood silent, only his eyes slowly surveying the setting. The glance paused for a moment on McCormick, who barely had time for a tentative smile before the pale young man was looking to the right, stepping forward toward the table as if drawn to it.
It wasn't the poorly disguised poker table that drew him, though. He was standing at a spot to one side of it, just in front of Hardcastle's desk. He drew in a slow breath and then let it out, looking back toward the judge.
"She's unhappy."
McCormick couldn't help himself; he snapped a quick glance at Nancy Hardcastle's picture, in its place on the shelf. She looked her usual, serene self. The judge, on the other hand, did not look happy.
"Ashley," the young man continued, "it's something about Palm Springs." He shrugged. "Vague. Kind of disorganized. Some of them are that way. The sad ones barely whisper."
Mark had a sudden flash on the white-tape outline of the young woman who'd been strangled two years earlier in the very spot where Warlow was standing.
"Ashley … Austin," he murmured.
He caught a scowl from Hardcastle, who, come to think of it, had decamped to the gatehouse shortly after the body had been discovered. The judge would have described it as preserving the crime scene, but perhaps psychics weren't the only people who heard whispers from the dead.
"Ah, sorry," Mark muttered. And then, to Warlow, "Should we move the table?"
The young man shook his head. "It shouldn't interfere. Violence focuses the astral forces."
McCormick glanced at the judge again, thinking maybe Warlow was about to get his astral forces seriously focused but, no, Hardcastle was in control, stepping forward to pull out a chair for Ella Mulvaney. Then they were all getting settled.
"The lights?" Mark asked.
Warlow shrugged as if it made no difference. Mark succumbed to a sense of tradition, headed for the light switch and sent the room into spectral shadow. He took the seat across from Mrs. Mulvaney, with Hardcastle on his left and Warlow on his right. There was a momentary silence that grew awkward. Warlow's eyes were already shut.
"Is there anything we have to do?" Mark asked quietly. To his surprise Warlow answered, but the voice was deeper, with a harsh edge.
"Shut the hell up."
Mrs. Mulvaney, in the middle of reaching for Warlow's hand, pulled back, looking startled. Warlow's eyes jerked open. He was staring around him, as though taking it all in for the first time. Then his gaze turned left, settling on McCormick. His eyes narrowed.
"Looks like you're doing okay for yourself, sonny boy."
Mark froze. The voice, a baritone growl, struck at some primal level that the words barely reached.
The corner of the man's mouth turned up in a sneer. "Found another sucker to sponge off of, huh?" The features were still Warlow's, but the expression not. It was a face distorted by hate. "Always figured you'd land on your feet."
"What the hell—?" It was Hardcastle who'd found his voice first.
"Let the man talk." Mark heard his own low growl, almost as if he, too, were possessed. "It's what he's here for, right?"
The man sitting in Warlow's chair eased back, never taking his eyes off McCormick. "You oughta thank me. A punk like you—if I hadn't toughened you up a little—"
Mark focused on the incongruity—Warlow's thin, pale face in the place of the coarser, reddened one of memory. He forced a bland smile and caught a glimpse of Ella Mulvaney's shocked expression out of the corner of his eye. He said nothing. Let the man talk.
"What happened to that smart mouth of yours?" The man shook his head. "You and that slut who—"
There was a shout. It was Hardcastle again and the single word was "No!" but even that wasn't brief enough to beat McCormick to the punch, backed by a lunge from his side of the table and knocking Warlow, chair and all, onto the floor.
Mark found himself, one hand grasping the man's shirtfront, the other pulled back for a second blow. Someone clutched at his elbow. It was Mrs. Mulvaney. Hardcastle had made it out of his own chair and looked ready to intervene. Warlow blinked up at him blearily. He was going to have a shiner.
Mark relaxed his grip and settled back on his haunches, muttering, "Sorry."
Hardcastle motioned him away and then turned to Warlow, helping him up and righting his chair. He got him sitting down and handed him a handkerchief; a trickle of blood was coming out of one nostril.
The judge gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. "Get some ice."
Ella scooted out of her chair, casting one worried glance back at the tableau.
Warlow murmured, "Bad, huh?"
It wasn't clear if he was referring to his face, the attack, or what had provoked it. Mark was only relieved to hear the return of the mild, blessedly unfamiliar, tenor voice.
"You don't remember?" Hardcastle asked gruffly.
Warlow shook his head cautiously, reaching up to rub the back of his neck and then touching his nose tentatively. "Anger—just anger. The angry ones, they want to be heard. Some of them are bullies."
"That one was," McCormick said quietly.
Ella returned, holding a dishcloth, wrapped into a lumpy bundle. She flicked on the light switch as she entered.
"Here," she said, nudging the judge aside. "Can you hold it or should I?" She said to Warlow. Her earlier horror had apparently vanished, replaced by sympathy.
Mark couldn't blame her. The instantaneous satisfaction that he'd felt from throwing that punch had dissipated, too. The presence that had been so overwhelmingly apparent a moment ago was now just a fading after-image.
Warlow took the ice pack from her and nodded his thanks. "I'll be fine." He looked up at McCormick warily. "I take it that one was for you."
"He seemed to think so," Mark answered, equally wary. "He had my number, anyway. You don't know who he was?"
Warlow shook his head. "No, just impressions." He shuddered slightly. It might have been the cold as he settled the ice pack onto his face. "Your father?"
Mark snorted. "No. You missed him by a mile." And then, in what must have seemed like a segue, he asked, bluntly, "You ever been to Jersey?"
Warlow hesitated for a moment and then shrugged. "Yeah, I've been lots of places." He edged the icepack over and let out a quiet hiss followed by a distinct silence and no further elaboration.
"Maybe some coffee?" Hardcastle said, with a sudden, inappropriate cheerfulness.
Warlow didn't have to make excuses. Ella took one further glance at him and shook her head firmly.
"I think we'd better get home. I have a nice beefsteak in the fridge that should suit." She kept her hand under Warlow's elbow as he got to his feet.
"Maybe we can give it another try tomorrow?" the judge suggested.
They were already at the steps to the hallway. Ella turned back only for an instant. "I don't think that's a good idea, Milt. She glanced over at the shelf and the photograph. "Poor Nancy, keeping company like that." She shook her head and ushered Warlow into the hall.
Hardcastle hustled to catch up and see them out the door. He returned a moment later, one eyebrow rising in jaundiced assessment.
"What the hell was that all about?"
"Ah … I told you about my uncle with the bottle cap collection?"
Hardcastle gave that a tentative nod, then cocked his head and squinted. "Don't tell me you were buying this guy's hooey. Come on—he called you a couple of names. If I could play it back for you you'd see it for yourself. He was just stirring the pot and he misjudged how fast it would come to a boil."
"He nailed it, Judge. I can't tell you how, or even exactly what he did, but he nailed it." Mark frowned and flexed the fingers of his right hand. "More like an exorcism than a séance."
"Hooey."
Mark glanced up sharply. "What about Ashley Austin?"
"It was in the newspapers. He does his homework."
"The very room. The right spot?"
"Lucky guess. Anyway," Hardcastle sighed, "I mighta set you up as the target this afternoon."
McCormick eyed him suspiciously.
"I said something over at Ella's about you being better at this psychic stuff than me."
McCormick drew back indignantly. "A better victim, you mean?"
The judge gave him a half-shrug. "I didn't know you were gonna slug him. I thought I might do that … if he started conjuring up some hooey and said it was Nancy."
"Thanks—for the vote of confidence, I mean." McCormick bent and straightened his stiffening fingers again. "Sorry I let you down, but that voice —"
"Another lucky shot. That's all." Hardcastle was already turning away, shaking his head. "And we still don't have any fingerprints."
00000
The tablecloth was folded and the poker table stowed. No new ideas arose over the pork chops and fried potatoes. A lingering sense of failure persisted into the quiet evening. The two of them sat in the den, Hardcastle paying bills while McCormick thumbed through Prosser on Torts without much enthusiasm, absently flexing his right hand now and then.
"Basketball."
Mark looked up, startled from his reverie on strict product liability by this one-word comment from the judge.
"Get the blood flowing." Hardcastle was already on his feet. "The brain working. Heck," he pointed, "it'll keep your hand from getting all stiff."
"I thought it was 'rest, ice, and elevate'," but Mark was already laying Prosser aside.
"Nah, basketball's better."
So the darkening night found them out on the court, elbowing for position in the key. There was twenty riding on the outcome—a twenty that had changed hands many times with a very slight preference for McCormick's wallet.
And after a hard-fought struggle, with the score 19-20, he was poised to make the winning basket yet again, when they both heard it—
A woman's scream.
Afterwards, neither man would ever admit he'd been waiting for it, but they'd turned as though one, ball dropped and forgotten, and charged towards Ella Mulvaney's property—"charged" covering both McCormick's sprint, and Hardcastles eager, but prudent, jog.
Mark arrived first, of course, and didn't wait for his back-up before hollering, "You okay?" as he approached the house.
To his relief, he saw Mrs. Mulvaney appear in an open second-floor window.
"Mark?" She was clutching something to her chest, half enveloped in the folds of her robe. "Wait, I'll get the door." She disappeared into the shadows but a room light popped on a moment later.
Hardcastle caught up, panting. "She okay?"
Mark nodded. "The front door."
They trotted to that side of the house, the door opening just as they arrived and a cautious Mrs. Mulvaney peering out. "Come in, come in."
Her command was echoed by a high-pitched keening sound, very near at hand—the bundle she was clutching.
"It's Tinker," she murmured. "One of them kicked him."
"'Them'?" Hardcastle said, pushing past her toward the stairs.
"The men—there were two. Misty was barking, I heard noises, a struggle. They were in Owen's room. Tinker fought like a tiger, poor dear. I screamed. Misty went for the one man's throat."
McCormick noticed Tinker's better half sitting on the third step from the bottom, shivering.
"They're gone?" Hardcastle asked.
"Retreated. The cowards." Mrs. Mulvaney jutted her chin, and then dropped it again. "Oh, poor Tinks."
"And Warlow?"
There was a rustling sound from the top of the staircase and a shadowy silhouette against what light there was from upstairs. "I'm okay."
He didn't sound all that sure of it. McCormick reached over, hitting the light switch and flooding the foyer.
Hardcastle helped Ella over to the chair that sat next to the phone table. Misty's muzzle was pink with blood, though precisely whose wasn't clear. She slunk down the steps and crept to her mistress' feet. McCormick mounted the stairs, reaching the top just as Owen started to sink. He got him under the arms and lowered him to sit on the top step.
"Head down, slow breaths."
"They didn't hit as hard as you," Warlow muttered mildly. "I'm okay." But he followed instructions.
Hardcastle called up from the foyer, "How's he doing? We need an ambulance?"
Warlow lifted his head to shake it no. He seemed to immediately regret the motion but didn't change his mind.
"No," McCormick relayed.
"Well, you call the cops; we'll run the pup in to the emergency vet's."
Warlow lifted his head again, this time peering between the balusters. "How bad?"
"He'll be fine, Owen," Mrs. Mulvaney said stoutly. "Just lock all the doors and—"
"No," Hardcastle interjected. "Back to Gull's Way, both of you. Call Frank from there." He cast a narrow look at Warlow. "We don't know who these guys were or what they wanted. Better to have some firepower handy."
He'd already fetched Ella's coat and was draping it around her shoulders; she apparently intended to make the trip in slippers and nightclothes. Misty was still shivering slightly, but gazed up at her expectantly. Ella looked down and said, firm but kind, "Stay with Owen and Mark, dear. You've already done everything you could."
Then she, the judge, and their bundle were gone. Misty paced back and forth a few times, with whimpering yips at the unyielding door. She finally turned, trotted up the stairs, gave Mark one quick desultory growl, and sat herself down next to Warlow, as if awaiting further instructions regarding anyone else whose throat he might need ripped out.
McCormick grimaced, then nudged the man—careful not to aggravate his best friend. "You up for a walk?
Warlow straightened up slowly and nodded once.
Mark thought this willingness added some ballast to Hardcastle's unspoken notion. House-breakers didn't usually tackle homes with a car in the drive and other signs of current occupancy, and they didn't stay to duke it out when they stumbled into an occupied room—especially one with dogs, even small dogs. This, combined with the attack on Warlow, made it look as if he'd been the object of their attentions all along.
"Who were those guys?" Mark asked, pointedly. There was no immediate response. "More unhappy customers?"
This got him an unexpected snort followed by a stubborn silence.
"Come on, then," Mark said half-tugging and half-supporting for the trip down the steps. "We don't want to be here if they decide to try again."
They made it back to Gull's Way, with Misty following faithfully and no untoward events. McCormick parked Warlow in a chair at the kitchen table and brought him a glass of water—a nice smooth glass, and room-temperature water to prevent any beading on the outer surface.
"Need something stronger?" he inquired politely.
"No water's fine," Warlow said. He even took a sip, wincing slightly. There was obviously some new damage since the afternoon's fiasco.
Mark looked at him appraisingly then turned toward the phone.
"Wait." The sudden plea made Mark glance back. Warlow's flat look of resignation now had a sharper edge.
"Frank's a lieutenant with the L.A.P.D.; he's a friend of Hardcastle's. He's fair, and he listens."
"'Unhappy customers'," Warlow grunted. "You don't know the half of it."
"So tell me," Mark said, sitting himself back at the table
Warlow gazed off, towards the window and into the impenetrable night. He finally sighed and turned back to McCormick. "What the hell, why not?"
He reached down and scooped up Misty, setting the diminutive dog in his lap, where she spared a quick tooth-baring snarl for Mark, and then promptly curled up, tucking her chin onto her paws. Warlow stroked her absently for a moment.
"Okay," he finally said, "I suppose I ought to tell somebody—before I end up being a guest at someone else's séance." He quirked a smile. "I've always wondered how that works; if I'll be as good at sending as receiving."
"Those guys," Mark prodded, "who were they?"
"Good question." Warlow tilted his head as if he had to consider it. "I suppose they might be Saderucci's, though nobody works for him anymore—well, except maybe for me— since he's dead."
"Joe Saderucci, the mob boss? Dead? The cops would definitely like to know that."
Warlow laughed. "Yeah, well, there's a catch."
Mark though he might've guessed that. "You mean you killed him?"
Warlow gave him a hard stare. "No … hell, no. Nothing like that." He shook his head. "No. I never even met the guy. Well, not in the flesh, anyway."
"I think I need to call Frank. "
"No." Warlow held up a hand and then, finally sensing Mark's rising impatience, he leaned forward. "Okay, Saderucci's daughter, his only daughter, Vera Delaroe—"
Mark frowned. He'd seen this in one of the files. "Married to Frankie Delaroe, suspected hit man?"
"The same." Warlow nodded. "Mafia princess, you know the type? And her hubby's on the fast track, they say."
"Especially if there's a position open at the top," Mark said drily. "So what's your relationship to the nice folks from Murder, Inc.?"
"Vera is what we call a seeker—her mother died when she was very young. They say she's been interested in the paranormal for a long time, everything from Bardo to EVP."
McCormick stared at him blankly. "Ah—?"
"Never mind—psychic stuff. The thing is, a friend of a friend put Mrs. Delaroe onto me, and, trust me, you don't say no to a Delaroe."
"Not even to a former Saderucci."
Warlow grimaced and nodded. "So I agreed to the sitting. She wanted me to put her in touch with her mom."
"Your aim was a little off?"
"It's not like I have a Rolodex or something. Sometimes the recently dead are stronger. Heck, there's lots of reasons for interference. All I know is I tranced out, and next thing, I'm sitting there, my throat is hoarse and Vera's having hysterics, screaming about her daddy. A half-dozen of Saderucci's guys are already pushing their way in, wanting to know if they should rip me apart."
"Lemme guess, that was the first word they'd gotten that the boss wasn't gonna be home for dinner?"
"I was lucky, really. Somebody found Frankie, and Vera's cousin showed up."
"Little Joey—Saderucci's nephew?" Mark whistled. It was one long descending note. "You do know how to attract sharks. They say the rest of the mob was happy when Vera married a hit man—it brought the sanity level up in the family."
Warlow shrugged. "I didn't know he was part of the deal. Anyway, he and Frankie both pooh-poohed the whole thing. Little Joey said he'd just talked to his uncle on the phone. I think some of them still wanted to kill me, though, just on general principle, making the princess cry and all that."
"You talked them out of it?"
"Frankie did. Surprised the hell out of me. He told two of his guys to take me out and rough me up a little, then drop me somewhere."
"He's trying not to take the hit man approach to all his problems?"
"Maybe. Anyway, three of 'em put me in a car. I said, if I had a choice, could they drop me at the cemetery? They liked that. Thought I had cojones." Warlow smiled. "Which I don't, not really."
"And when you got there …?"
"The spirits take care of me. I told you that. Everybody's got something to say in a cemetery. And goons, they're a pretty superstitious bunch. I think one of them might've had a couple previous victims buried there. They couldn't get out fast enough once they'd been recognized."
"And you?"
"It drains you, ya know that?" Warlow sighed. "I was stumbling around, trying to find my way out of the brier patch; I ended up near the Mulvaney plot. Ella had just arrived."
"The spirits taking care of you, huh?"
"Yeah," Warlow said, a little defiantly. "That was three days ago. I've been trying to figure out if it's safe to go home."
"Doesn't sound like it," Mark observed drily. "Sounds like you were onto something."
"I've been reading the LA Times. Nothing. Three days. I finally put the word out to a friend of mine just this morning … an acquaintance, really. I just wanted him to check my place, see if anyone was hanging around. He must've run into somebody."
"Threats … or a payoff." Mark pondered that for a moment. "Somebody wants you back—Saderucci must not've come home. Did you recognize the two who came after you?"
Warlow shook his head. "No, but that doesn't mean anything. I only met a couple of Saderucci's guys."
Mark tapped the table-top and then got to his feet. "We gotta call Frank Harper. Hardcastle, too."
Warlow didn't protest, but as McCormick was reaching for the phone, the doorbell chimed. Warlow jerked, nervously.
McCormick cast him sharp look. "Kinda polite for goons, don't ya think?"
Warlow frowned and kept his voice low. "Hardcastle mentioned firepower?"
"Same direction as the front door." Mark gestured. "I think we ought to stick together."
He moved first, easing a peek around the final door edge before the front hallway. His forehead wrinkled when he saw a female outline in the diamond-paned glass but he strode forward, not bothering with the gun cabinet. The vague form was familiar from recent contact.
He unlocked the door and nodded politely to Victoria Emmers.
"It's late, I know," she said coolly, but I tried to call Ella a little while ago, to see if everything was alright and there wasn't any answer. How did the—?"
She broke off suddenly, having set eyes on Warlow, who'd finally edged out from the shadows in the rear of the hallway, still holding Misty cradled in his arms.
"Where is Judge Hardcastle?" she said, dragging her gaze back to McCormick.
"Tinker had a little emergency. He's driving Mrs. M. over to the vet."
"I knew something like this would happen," she said sharply, glancing daggers at Warlow.
"Home invaders," Mark corrected politely. "Owen here tried to fight them off. Tinker got in the middle of it."
Mrs. Emmers sniffed, not looking very abashed for her spot assumptions, which Mark had to admit—only internally, of course—had been pretty much on target.
"Would you like to come in?" he added, thinking that might be the best way to get rid of her.
"Yes—yes, I think I will," Mrs. Emmers said with dogged determination. "Ella will need comfort and guidance," she added, implying that guidance was in short supply around Gull's Way.
McCormick sighed and opened the door a bit wider. "Come on in. You don't mind if I load a shotgun, and call the cops, do you? We're feeling a bit twitchy."
"Not at all. I think the police most definitely should be called." Mrs. Emmers shot one more hostile look at Warlow, slipped by Mark, and descended the two steps, taking the same seat she'd occupied only that afternoon.
It might have been just that minor distraction, her regal progression into the den, that provided the cover—that and the usual protective spirits having fled Emmers' hostile aura, and Misty being just about done in. There was no other explanation for the man who stepped into the hallway behind Warlow, taking all of them completely by surprise.
He had a gun, and towered over Warlow. He scowled down at the small dog, who was clearly tensing for a spring. He gestured with the gun toward the closet door.
"In there, so I don't have to waste a bullet on it."
Warlow complied, opening the door and lowering the dog while muttering stern instructions to her. Misty complied long enough for him to shut her in, though she responded to the betrayal with a series of plaintive yips from behind the closed door.
A second man emerged from the back, also armed. He cast a wary look at the closet. There were puncture marks on the side of his neck and trickles of dried blood, as though he'd been the victim of a tiny, demented vampire. The first man limped forward, pushing Warlow in front of him with the muzzle of his gun.
"Mr. Delaroe wants to see you again."
"What about these two?" the second man said, his sight line now taking in Mrs. Emmers, as well.
"No witnesses," the first man said, as if on general principle.
"Wait," Warlow interjected sharply and pointed at McCormick. "He's an invocator."
"Huh?" The second man had drawn up short.
"Like a magnet, only what he attracts is spirits."
"Like you do?" the first man said warily.
"Different. Like bait is to a hook."
"Huh," the first man grinned, "he's a worm." He jerked his chin toward the second man. "Kill him."
"You gonna tell Mrs. Delaroe you killed her only chance to find out what happened to her father?"
The second man's jaw moved, like he was chewing something he didn't care for the taste of.
He shot a glance sideways at his companion who shrugged and grumbled, "We'll take him. Get rid of the broad."
Mark cocked his head and stepped injudiciously between the second man and his new target.
"Look," he kept his voice low and calm, like someone who could summon spirits at will, "you might get away with killing me, but do you really want to leave a dead lady in a Malibu home? Didn't either of you guys ever listen to Meyer Lansky?"
Both men were staring at him blankly. Had it not been for the relatively innocent bystanders, it would have been the perfect moment to make a move. Mark sighed and let it slip by.
"Lansky … before your time I suppose. 'We only kill our own.' It's excellent advice. Mrs. Emmers," he hooked a thumb over his shoulder at Victoria, "is an honest citizen. She knows people. We've got some nice clothesline in the laundry room, barely used."
The first man blinked, freeing his mind from the barrage. "Take her with us, too."
Mark's shoulders dropped slightly—it was not what he'd hoped to achieve, but still an improvement over giving Ashley Austin some company. He stepped back to the gesture of the second man's gun. Mrs. Emmers held onto her stubborn look for just a moment, then finally rose to join the rest in the hallway.
They were frisked, then marched through the house, out the back door, and down to a limo that had pulled in tight behind the garage. A third man occupied the driver's seat, leaving the odds further imbalanced against them. No opportunity for action presented itself during the ride and no questions were entertained by their two guards. McCormick still clung to Warlow's supposition that this was Vera Delaroe's party, that being the most optimistic possibility.
00000
Hardcastle didn't try too hard to persuade Ella Mulvaney to return to Gull's Way with him. For one thing, he figured she was perfectly safe there where she wanted to be, in the waiting room of emergency vet service. For another, he doubted that she'd be able to contribute much as a witness, until she had her mind relieved regarding Tinker's condition.
On the other hand, she was perfectly at ease with his departure—encouraging, even.
"I don't think I ever really understood those things you do, Milt," she'd said in a low, apologetic tone, a half-hour earlier, as he'd sped down the PHC to the clinic. "I wondered what Nancy would think."
There followed a soft, keening sound from Tinker. She'd shushed him gently and told him it would be all right, just a few minutes longer, then she'd lifted her chin. "I do understand it now. Those men—such evil." She'd closed her eyes for a long second, and opened them again, turning toward him, carefully.
"Get them for me, Milton. They can't be permitted to do such things … to hurt anyone else."
Now, in the otherwise deserted waiting room, she sat quietly with only a handkerchief in her hands. Tinker was off in the treatment area. The vet had told her kindly he had hopes.
"You go now," she said to Milt earnestly. "Do something about those men."
He promised her he would do his best, not mentioning that his first move would be to hustle back to Gull's Way and see if Frank Harper had made any progress with their main person of interest. He didn't doubt that Warlow was connected with all of this in some way, and he was having trouble staying at the limit as he drove down the PCH.
He glanced at Mrs. Mulvaney's house as he passed by. The lights were out and all looked peaceful, with no signs of a police investigation having commenced. The judge frowned, but he supposed it would make sense to start with the witness, now ensconced at Gull's Way.
Oddly, it looked just as peaceful when he pulled up to his own home. There was a light on in the den, and Vicky Emmer's Buick inexplicably parked out front and, even more inexplicably, no sign of Frank—nor even so much as a squad car. The gate house appeared dark and deserted.
The judge frowned as he mounted the front steps. There was no greeting as he let himself in, no sounds of conversation, no one in the den. His quick patrol of the first floor took him back to the kitchen. The light was on there as well, and the back door was unlocked and slightly ajar.
It was unsettling. He thought maybe they'd all decamped to the police station, though why Vicky might have tagged along was anyone's guess.
He reached for the kitchen phone and dialed that number. The sergeant working the night desk was an old acquaintance, Bill Filmore, but he couldn't offer any enlightenment.
"Harper worked the p.m. shift. He left about an hour ago."
There hadn't been any calls for him earlier, either, and no reports of any home invasions in their neighborhood.
Hardcastle thanked him, hung up and then dialed Frank's home directly, holding on hard to the dwindling hope that McCormick had followed his instructions.
Frank answered. His "Hello?" sounded sleepy.
Hope vanished in a tiny puff of smoke. Hardcastle had to ask anyway, "McCormick didn't call you, huh?" He found himself staring at the kitchen table, a single nearly-full glass of water at one of the places.
There was a moment of silent mental gathering from Frank's end, and then, "Milt? You know it's almost one in the morning?"
"Listen. I know. I'm sorry. It's a long story and I don't think I have time to tell it." He was pretty sure he was at least looking a partial set of Warlow's prints, but not certain that would do them any good right now. He tried to cut to the chase. "There was a break-in tonight at our neighbor's. Mrs. Mulvaney. A home invasion—'bout ten-thirty."
"I didn't hear. When did she report it?"
"She didn't. There were two intruders. She had a house guest, guy calls himself 'Owen Warlow'. I think maybe they were after him."
"Why?"
"No idea. Just a guess, he says he's a psychic. A medium—one of those guys. Anyway, Mrs. Mulvaney's dog got hurt, bad. They're like her kids, ya know? I drove her to the vet, told McCormick to bring the guy here—my place—and call you. He didn't call, and they're not here."
"They never made it there?"
Hardcastle heard something, a small, scratching sound, faint and frantic.
"Wait a sec," he said to the receiver.
He put it down on the counter and returned to the hallway. The sound was still faint but localizable. As he approached the closet door, an insistent yip joined the scratching. He turned the knob and opened the door.
Misty, suddenly silent, glared up at him as if he were a great disappointment. Then she stepped out, picking each foot up daintily, her toenails clicking on the tile floor.
Hardcastle hustled down into the den, picking up the closer extension. "They were here and they're not here now. McCormick, Warlow, and another neighbor—her name's Victoria Emmers."
"That's familiar—she's the one who calls dispatch every time there's a shootout by you guys?"
"She's a concerned citizen, yeah," Hardcastle said reluctantly. "She was concerned about this guy who was hanging out at Mrs. Mulvaney's, too."
"It is a long story, sounds like. Lemme make some calls, get the techs over to your neighbor's place."
00000
McCormick was thinking hard, trying to decide if the fact that they hadn't been kept from seeing their route was a good or bad sign. His tension must've transmitted itself to the other two, sitting on either side of him.
From Warlow's side came a whispered, "Vera's place," after they'd turned a corner into a neighborhood of expansive residential properties with hedges and high walls that insured privacy. McCormick wasn't sure how much hope to pin on that fact, either, since it would be Frankie Delaroe's address, too.
From Mrs. Emmer's corner came only a considered sigh. She probably hadn't heard Warlow's whisper, and even if she had, she might not connect the name Delaroe with anything particular. She seemed to recognize the neighborhood by type, at least, and perhaps was under the impression that people who lived on two-acre lots didn't believe in violence.
Mark was willing to let her keep her subscription to Better Homes and Gardens for a while longer, even though this particular estate, whose wrought-iron gates they were now passing through, had state of the art security cameras perched above the shrubbery, and a suit-coated thug standing guard inside the grounds.
They halted smoothly and the rear window was lowered to permit inspection, all part of a slick and apparently inviolate routine. The thug's eyes tightened a little when he took in the back seat crowd, but he was too well-trained to say anything. He just stepped back and jerked his chin toward the house, allowing the vehicle to pass.
Their driver pulled up under a portico at the side of the house. There were more figures in the shadows there, none female. Mark cast a quick look at Warlow, who whispered, "The two on the right."
Mark had already figured the end one for Little Joey—the moniker fit the short man in the flashy suit. He was glowering steadily at the car and its occupants. Next to him, though, was a predator of a different class. Frankie Delaroe had a professionally flat expression that would make his actions difficult to anticipate.
Little Joey was following Warlow's every move, but his discontent seemed to deepen as McCormick assisted Mrs. Emmers out of the car. He cast a disapproving look at Frankie. "You said you wanted this psychic guy. What's with the entourage?"
"Had a little trouble," the number two goon said, scratching at his neck wound nervously and then stifling a wince. "He said this one," he jerked a thumb at Mark, "knows stuff. I dunno about the broad. She was with 'em."
"I told you this was a dumb idea," Joey muttered.
"I wanna know what he knows," Delaroe said sharply. " Inside. Now."
00000
It was just under eight minutes before Hardcastle heard the approach of sirens, and a moment after that when a squad with flashing mars lights entered the drive: a couple of beat officers, unknown to Hardcastle, but a clear indication that Frank was taking the evening's events seriously.
The lieutenant himself was only another ten minutes behind that. Hardcastle met him on the front steps.
"That neighbor of yours—"
"Mrs. Mulvaney?"
"No, the other one. Emmers, you said? Her address is on Cataldo?"
Hardcastle nodded. "Right across the road."
"Dispatch logged a call from there about fifteen minutes before that home invasion. She reported a 'suspicious vehicle'."
"Everything's suspicious to Vicky. What did she say it was doing?"
"Driving in her neighborhood, sounds like. You know how it is with the frequent fliers, Milt. The dispatcher said he'd send a squad to take a look."
From the look on the faces of the two beat cops, they had clearly not been randomly ordered to Gull's Way. Lieutenant Harper turned to them.
"It was your call, right?"
The men both nodded. The older one, whose nameplate read "Sloan", said, "We'd just come on duty. Got the call, came over. We saw a vehicle—black Caddy limo, private plates—parked over on Sea Vista."
"That's right behind Ella's place," the judge muttered.
"We ran the number. No outstandings," Sloan offered apologetically. "Registered," he reached into his pocket for a small notebook and flipped it open, "to something called 'Gela, Ltd."
Frank turned to Hardcastle. "I wouldn't have recognized it right off, either, but he's been all over the departmental bulletins the last couple of days."
"Who has?" Milt said impatiently.
"Joe Saderucci—mob boss—it's one of his main holding companies. Rumor has it he's dropped off the map. The capos are all in a stew; nobody seems to know—is he dead or what, and if he is, who killed him?"
"What the hell does that have to do with this Warlow character?"
Frank shrugged. "Maybe he knows something, or somebody thinks he does."
Hardcastle frowned for a long moment and. "Joe's got a kid, doesn't he?"
00000
McCormick sincerely hoped Delaroe was making a successful transition between hit man and mob CEO. At least the latter occupation encompassed a few more varied approaches to problem resolution.
And Little Joey was looking at them as though they were a problem. Even the two henchmen, standing nervously at the back of Delaroe's oversized study, seemed to be included in that assessment.
But Delaroe was still the guy in charge. He'd seated himself behind his desk—one of those modern, sleek, glass numbers. It was possible that people who knew him wouldn't sit across a solid desk from him. Joey drifted over to Delaroe's left, still looking twitchy.
"Talk," Delaroe said, looking directly at Warlow.
"About what?"
McCormick could have sworn he'd heard the answer before Warlow said it. Maybe some sort of weird psychic vibe, or possibly because it was what he would have answered himself. Didn't Hardcastle always say "Don't answer a question that hasn't been asked"?
Except when you're talking to a hit man—though it was Joey who'd taken two steps toward Warlow, looking as if he wanted to get the first punch in.
"He's a punk," Joey muttered.
Frankie held up a hand, imperiously, waving the man back. It was then that Mark knew for a near-certainty that Joe Saderucci was no longer receiving mail on this particular astral plane.
"About Joe. Tell us everything you know."
Warlow's face was almost as impassive as Delaroe's. Even with the bruises from earlier, he looked remarkably serene. "I'd say he's a remarkably powerful man—"
"'Is'?" Delaroe said suspiciously.
Warlow waved one hand airily. "Is, was."
"He's dead?" Delaroe hissed.
"Ask your wife," Warlow said, meeting Delaroe's eyes evenly. "I'm only a conduit. I don't ask for affidavits."
McCormick winced. Even Mrs. Emmers seemed to have stiffened in the chair next to his. Delaroe's face had finally become readable, but it didn't look much like a happy ending.
The man rose and opened his mouth—it would probably have been something like "Off with their heads!" since he was an executive-type now—but at that instant there was a sound from the front of the house—a key in a lock, a door opening.
Delaroe froze where he stood. Little Joey cast him a worried look. "You said—"
"Shut up," Frankie snapped. It was manlier than going "Shhh," but McCormick had a sudden flash of insight into the actual chain of command.
The warning was too late, anyway. There was a clicking of heels in the hallway and a inquiring tone. "Frankie?" She must have seen the lights from the front porch.
A moment later she was in the doorway. No one tried to stop her. She took in the three seated guests, her gaze fixing on Warlow. Then it shifted to her husband. Her expression was halfway between pleased and puzzled.
"You found him?"
There was an edge to the purr. She didn't have to add: When were you going to tell me?
"I got all the way to Bear Lake. I couldn't sleep. Aunt Syl said I should come back if that's what I wanted." She paused, looking briefly from her husband, to her cousin, and back again. Then she added, with a certain emphasis, "I'm glad I did." She smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. "I didn't want to bother you calling first. I even told Marco, out front, not to wake you up; I'd let myself in. And look how thoughtful you are—a surprise."
She crossed over to the desk and perched herself lightly on the edge, facing Warlow. "I want another session. Right now."
Warlow dipped his chin in a solemn, single nod.
Mrs. Delaroe cocked her head consideringly. "We can use this desk."
Mark noticed she hadn't said "Frankie's desk," or addressed her husband in any way regarding the plan. Delaroe gave way without having said a word, stepped back slightly. The others moved into action, clearing space and bringing the chairs closer, as though they were perfectly accustomed to taking orders from the missus.
Mark leaned in slightly, toward Warlow, and said quietly, "I think this'd be a good time to keep both hands on the psychic steering wheel." He got nothing but the shade of a smile from the pale young man, but a moment later, as they were being ushered forward to the converted desk, Warlow motioned for Mrs. Delaroe to take the seat opposite his, bracketed by her husband and cousin.
This left an empty space to Warlow's right, and a subtle tug from him on McCormick's sleeve, pulled him into that spot. Mrs. Emmers hadn't gotten up to join them and Warlow seemed content with that. She stayed in her seat a few feet back, looking on at the proceedings with stern disapproval. At a nod from Mrs. Delaroe, one of the guards dimmed the light.
"I'll need you all to concentrate," Warlow said quietly.
Mark wished he knew what the hell the game plan was. Vera Delaroe's eyes were closed. So were Warlow's. Frankie and Joey were still regarding their guests warily. McCormick felt an unexpected pressure—the side of Warlow's right shoe against his own left. What it was supposed to mean, he had no idea, but the contact seemed very intentional.
"Concentrate," Warlow murmured again. "Focus on the critical spirit."
McCormick suddenly thought he'd gotten Warlow's drift, and though he wasn't sure what good it would do, it would almost certainly be a lesser evil than having Joey Saderucci himself show up and start pointing a ghostly finger.
He concentrated. He hadn't planned on closing his eyes; that just seemed to happen naturally. In the eerie silence he felt a sudden chill and heard a low grating voice.
"You little bastard—I told ya if you ever lifted a hand against me I'd—"
Mark's eyes jerked open. Vera's eyes were open as well. She seemed more confused than shocked by the tone and language. Frankie frowned in suspicious puzzlement, too, but it was Little Joey suddenly looked the angriest, shoving his chair back from the table and starting to rise.
He hadn't gotten far—though far enough for Vera and Frankie to take notice—before it became obvious that Warlow's face had turned toward McCormick, his features distorted by anger, his voice dropping to an unearthly growl. "I'll—"
It was strength beyond Warlow's own that suddenly levitated the desk from his side; Mark might've lent a hand with the heavy lifting once he realized which way things were going. The heavy glass rose nearly vertical before it came crashing down on the startled observers.
McCormick didn't have time to appreciate the results—something lunged into him: Warlow, swinging with more force than seemed possible. Mark had just a moment, as he was going down, to wonder if Saderucci mightn't've been the better choice after all.
00000
Sirens. Lots of shouting, but one voice nearer at hand telling him sternly to hold still.
"Huh?" It sounded muddled. His lip was getting in the way. Mark dragged his eyes open.
"Lie still; you're bleeding."
It was Mrs. Emmers, leaning over him, looking stern. The pressure on his lip was from her, pressing a handkerchief against it. His gaze drifted to Warlow, sitting on the floor, back against the bookshelves. He was holding what must have been one of the goon's guns carelessly in his right hand—but not pointing at him, Mark was relieved to see. Warlow had a dazed expression on his face that was definitely his own.
The sirens had stopped and the rest of the room's former occupants had dispersed—except for Vera Delaroe, who was standing by the window. She broke off her grim, assessing stare and looked back toward them, or, rather, at Warlow.
"That wasn't my father," she said petulantly.
He looked up at her wearily and sighed. "It's not like placing an order from Sears and Roebuck."
"He's dead, isn't he?"
Warlow shrugged, but it was not without sympathy.
"Joey," she spat. "You saw what happened when …" she frowned, "when whoever that was started threatening. Anyway, Frankie never would have let you out of here that first day if he'd known daddy was really dead." Her assessment of her husband seemed more a matter of practicality than faith.
She shot another sharp glance out the window. "The cops are outside." Then looking back at her guests, having assumed an expression of calculated bafflement, she added, "I can't imagine why—don't tell me you were under any compulsion to be here." She gathered herself, glancing down and stepping around the detritus. "I never liked that desk very much anyway." Then she walked out of the room.
00000
Three squad cars and a warrant did wonders for circumventing private security. Finding the previously-spotted limo parked alongside the Delaroe home lifted Hardcastle's spirits immeasurably. But it wasn't until Frankie Delaroe himself and a handful of his henchmen were spotted, trying to make a break for it out the back, that the judge was certain they'd hit pay dirt.
Unlike the rest of the cockroaches Vera Delaroe came to the front door, greeting them civilly.
"I was just indulging in a little hobby of mine," she said.
"Kidnapping?" Hardcastle inquired politely.
Her smile thinned as she ushered them in. She gestured toward a short hallway that ended at another door.
He was already moving toward it when he heard a familiar voice say, "Judge?" A step through the doorway brought him to a sudden halt.
Mrs. Delaroe, from somewhere behind him, added, "There was a little altercation."
Vicky Emmers was kneeling among the wreckage. McCormick, with his lip split and one cheek bruised, managed what was probably supposed to be a jaunty wave. Warlow was behind them, looking distracted as he wearily flexed and unflexed his left hand.
"What the hell?" the judge muttered.
Mrs. Delaroe stepped up alongside him. "A séance," she said coolly. "I'm afraid things got out of hand."
"Kinda looks that way," Hardcastle said disbelievingly.
She nodded once and then, after a half-moment, added, "If you see my cousin, Joey, tell him it's not a matter of proof with me. I believe what I believe."
Arrests were made, though the first round did not include Vera Delaroe. Little Joey was asking to talk to the state's attorney as soon as he was out of sight of Frankie and the boys. Harper guessed that the man would prefer turning state's evidence and even pleading guilty to his uncle's murder rather than face the wrath of the man's daughter.
A squad car was detailed to give Mrs. Emmers a ride home. She was not all that appreciative of the timely rescue, but she seemed to approve of Warlow's attempt at a distraction.
"At least all that spiritual nonsense came in handy," she said tartly to Hardcastle, still well in earshot of the other two.
Hardcastle finally brought the casualties back to the estate. Misty seemed to have forgiven Warlow for her imprisonment. She jumped into his lap as soon as he'd sat down in the closest wingback chair.
McCormick didn't get any hero's welcome, but he was the first one to notice the flashing red light on the answering machine. He tapped it, as Hardcastle was returning from the kitchen with a bag of ice.
"I wanted you to be the first to know—the doctor says Tinker is out of danger. No internal bleeding. He does have two cracked ribs, poor dear—" There was a rustling, as though she were chucking the poor dear gently under the chin even as she spoke.
"Like little chicken bones," Hardcastle interjected, half to himself, "they'll heal fast."
"—I'm going to stay a while longer and call a cab later. You just look after Owen and Misty for me, will you?"
Hardcastle hit the stop button and glanced out the window. "Just as well, the evidence techs are still checking things out over at her place." He turned to Warlow and McCormick, wearing not-quite-matching battered faces. "You two can wake each other up every couple of hours, can't ya? I'm bushed."
It was nearly dawn, with a hint of pink behind them in the eastern sky, as McCormick led the other man down the drive toward the gatehouse. He was dead tired. He almost understood what Warlow had said earlier that night. His two encounters with the Other Side had left him feeling punch drunk.
He hadn't noticed at first that Warlow wasn't keeping pace with him, not until he gotten a good lead. He turned to wait for the other man to catch up. Misty, who'd been trotting faithfully at Warlow's heel, had dropped back as well. She was now a few paces behind him, alert, stock still, and growling softly.
It wasn't Warlow. By now McCormick had enough experience with these things to recognize the phenomena. He could only kick himself for forgetting about the gun that was pointed at him now, the one he vaguely remembered Warlow having gotten his hands on in the aftermath of the Delaroe séance.
The face and stance were not those of Mark's uncle, but the whole situation had an eerie déjà vu that took him back with a sudden jerk of recollection to an early morning a year and a half earlier.
"Warlow," he said, "it's me, you're you—this is crazy."
"Good-bye," the man said. It was a voice Mark had only heard once, uttering that very same word.
"What the hell?" Mark had barely glimpsed Hardcastle, hurrying toward them with his gun in hand, before he took advantage of the distraction the judge had provided and charged toward the man in front of him.
"Dammit," Hardcastle hollered, undoubtedly unhappy about having his sightline interfered with.
Mark was only relieved that Warlow's reflexes hadn't been replaced by those of a hired killer. He intercepted the gun, and took the gunman down with a roundhouse blow that knocked him to the ground. The follow-through brought McCormick to his knee, still grasping the barrel of the snub-nose revolver almost convulsively.
"You okay?" Hardcastle was there, looking down at him. Mark managed a nod.
The judge squinted down at Warlow and gestured with his own gun. "Is he okay?"
"Yeah, I think." Mark lifted one lid. Warlow turned his head and muttered, then blinked. He looked like Warlow, only a little worse for wear.
"Then what the hell was that all about?" Hardcastle said, sounding completely exasperated. Misty was at his feet punctuating the question with yips of her own.
"I think," McCormick hesitated, shook his head, then finally plowed on, "I think it was the ghost of Jake Thomas—you shot him the last time he tried that. And that was," he looked around, getting his bearings, "it was right about here."
"What happened?" Warlow muttered more audibly.
"You tried to kill me," Mark patted him down, and handed the one and only gun to the judge. "Again. Is he coming back?"
Warlow seemed to consider the question for a moment before waving it off. "I'm usually more in control. It's just 'cause I'm tired."
"Oh, good." Mark looked at him askance then offered him a hand up. "You get the first shift on the couch."
00000
Morning came and went, lunchtime, too. Eventually Misty made her needs known. McCormick felt worse, rather than better, and Warlow was even paler and more silent than usual.
Misty got to visit the rose garden, then the three of them headed for the main house, by way of a circuitous route that avoided all previous Gull's Way death scene sites known to Mark. They entered via the kitchen door, in search of coffee and whatever would pass for kibble. They found a note on the table informing them that Hardcastle had gone, after all, to give Mrs. Mulvaney a ride home.
McCormick rustled up sandwiches, and a small plate of minced bologna for Misty. She accepted it warily but at least didn't snap at him when he set it down.
"That's progress," he said, taking a seat across from Warlow, and eyeing his own sandwich warily. It was possible that his stomach had written a check his teeth couldn't gnash. He sighed, tore off a corner, put it in his mouth and chewed carefully, noting with some satisfaction that Warlow was doing the same.
He frowned as he chewed. Warlow looked up and caught him at it.
"I'd say I was sorry," Warlow said, "but you kinda started it."
"Hmmph," Mark muttered. "Don't call a guy's mom a—" he paused and cleared his throat. "What you called her."
"Ahh … sorry." Warlow swallowed, looking uncomfortable. It might have been the results of the more recent blow, but he looked contrite.
Mark was aware that he was still frowning at the man, but it wasn't in disapproval.
"Anyway," he finally said, "it's weird".
Warlow nodded absently.
"No—not all that stuff."
Warlow cocked an eye at him. That expression redoubled the odd feeling.
"You're familiar," Mark said. "I know I know you from somewhere." He leaned back in his chair, trying to bring the recollection into focus. "I'm usually good with faces."
"Not that good." Warlow risked a wry smile. "I recognized you right off. The name anyway—but I wasn't sure till I saw you."
"Not Quentin. Not Strykerville." McCormick squinted. "Where?"
"Jersey. You were right about that."
"Not as Owen Warlow."
"No, I changed that."
"Why?"
"The old one didn't suit me—'Worlowski'."
McCormick's frowned cleared a little as a memory kicked in. "Big family, bunch of kids—lived across the street from my mom and me?"
"Yeah, I had six older brothers." Warlow smiled. "A whole stickball team, and me to shag the balls." His expression sobered. "I liked your mom. She was nice. I would never have said anything like—"
McCormick waved the apology away, back to frowning deeply.
Warlow—nee Worlowski—reached down and scooped up Misty, who'd finished her bologna, and propped her in his lap.
"I've always been good with dogs," he said. "I helped you catch a stray mutt one time. You really wanted a dog."
"But that was—"
"Me." Warlow's smile was back, in now steady contrast to the bruises.
"—Arlene Worlowski."
"I told you I didn't have any cojones," Warlow pointed out, surprisingly cheerful about it.
It was like one of those drawings—a vase that suddenly becomes two faces. Mark could now see it: the striking resemblance to a gangly tomboy he'd once known.
"But—"
"I made the transition about eight years ago. The external transition. I've always been what I am inside." Warlow shrugged. "I didn't realize, though, that it came with a price."
"Surgery?" McCormick winced. "Shots and stuff?"
"Idiot," Warlow said affectionately. "That wasn't the expensive part. My dad came from a big family, too—all boys and him the youngest."
"So?"
"He was the seventh son, and me, I became the seventh son of a seventh son. The manifestations," Warlow moved his less-stiff hand in airy circles, "didn't really kick in until after I'd accepted myself."
"Arlene Worlowski—"
"Is no more," Warlow said solemnly. "Just me, Owen. Hey, I looked after your dog after they came and took you away. So that wasn't your dad, huh?"
McCormick shook his head. "My uncle—my aunt's husband."
Warlow wrinkled his nose, which seemed about the best description. "I'm glad … that he wasn't your dad, I mean."
"Nope, nothing like." McCormick rolled his eyes. "My dad's not angry, just completely unreliable—hell, he's not even dead and I can't reach him."
Warlow was still laughing when McCormick heard someone pull in. He tensed momentarily, though everyone who was currently mad at him on this astral plane was busy fielding questions from the cops. And it was only another moment before he'd identified the vehicle by sound as Hardcastle's truck, followed by Hardcastle's tread on the back steps.
"How's the patient?" Mark asked as the judge entered, tossing his keys on the counter.
"He looks better than you two. He'll be home in a day or two." The judge dropped into the third chair. "You were both crashed out when I left. I didn't want to wake you with the news …"
Mark raised an eyebrow.
"Little Joey rolled over. Says he got into it with his uncle—who he also says has been whacking him around since he was a kid. He finally hit back. It was twenty years worth. The old guy went down and didn't get up. He dumped the body in one of the canyons, and hustled home, then found you," he nodded sharply at Warlow, "entertaining Vera."
"I think he would've killed you then and there if Frankie hadn't stepped in and tossed you out on your keister. And Frankie says Little Joey's been working overtime the past three days, trying to convince everybody that you had something to do with the old man's death."
Warlow swallowed once, but said nothing.
"I think you oughta find another racket," Hardcastle said pointedly. "This one's dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Warlow petted Misty absentmindedly. "I suppose … or you might say the spirits take care of me."
The judge looked at him sternly. "One of 'em almost got you shot in my driveway this morning."
Warlow sighed. "There's the occasional malevolent influence." He scooped Misty off his lap and into his arms as he stood. "I guess I'd better get her home."
Hardcastle nodded.
"And I should say good-bye to Ella," Warlow added, by way of assurance. "Sounds like it'll be okay for me to go home, too."
He nodded a farewell to McCormick, and headed for the back door—Misty's chin resting on his shoulder.
Hardcastle sucked in his lower lip and watched him go. Almost as soon as the door was closed, he turned to McCormick. "I saved the glass; should I have Frank run the prints?"
"Nah," McCormick smiled, "I finally got it figured out."
"So you knew him?"
"No, not exactly." It was a fairly enigmatic smile for a guy with a busted lip. "It was just that he reminded me of a girl I used to know."
