Unquiet Dreams Page 7

  She tilted her head in thought. “I guess it’s possible in a ‘golly gee I hope I can figure out how to get involved with the most important murder case in the world’ kind of way.”

  “I can never thank you enough for your support,” I said.

  “I think the dwarves are your best bet. They’re very territorial, especially down that end of the Weird.”

  “Yeah, I agree. I was wondering if…”

  “…I could do you a favor,” she said with an smug, matter-of-fact tone.

  I glowered at her. “Yes. Any chance you can score me some gang files?”

  She laughed. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  “So, how long have you known Nigel Martin?” I asked.

  She sighed. “I thought you let that go too quickly.”

  I threw my hands in the air in feigned innocence. “What? I’m having a casual conversation about a mutual friend.”

  She cocked her head again. “There’s really not much to tell. As far as I know, he showed up at the Guildhouse sometime in July—and no, don’t ask me, I am not going to check the ID scanner logs for the precise date. He came to my office one day to ask me about Scandinavian relics. He comes by every couple of weeks to see what I find. We shoot the shit. End of story.”

  “What do you talk about?”

  “I don’t know. At first it was just business. Lately it’s been music. He has the most archaic taste. I’ve been trying to convince him that the best thing to happen to Faerie music was Convergence.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “You were in Faerie?”

  She laughed. “Goat’s blood, Grey. I hope this isn’t an example of the investigative skills your reputation claims.”

  “Where were you born?” is a game the fey like to play. The fey that came from Faerie were known as the Old Ones: Maeve, the High Queen at Tara; Donor Elfenkonig, the self-styled Elven King; Briallen, though she won’t discuss it; Gillen Yor, High Healer at Avalon Memorial. Certainly, Nigel Martin, but he’d never said anything about it, and no one seems to remember him from there. Lots of others.

  Some people believe the Old Ones, the ones directly from Faerie, are more powerful and adept at manipulating essence than their offspring. True or not, most people believe it, so to impress people, more fey than possible claim to have been born in Faerie. While druids and druidesses hold their age extremely well, I doubted Meryl could be that old.

  “What kind of relics?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Rune stakes, mostly.”

  Rune stakes. Nigel certainly knew enough about Celtic rune stakes. He’d taught me everything I know about them. You get a stick, you scratch some ogham on it, you poke it somewhere. They were like stone wards, only much more precise since you can get pretty detailed with them. Scandinavian rune stakes used old Teutonic runes. So, that meant elf research most likely. Nigel is a political animal as well as a powerful druid. Know your enemy are the watchwords for both.

  “Anything interesting?”

  She toyed with a strand of her hair. “Sure. Tribal territory markers and a couple of evil eye type of things. I’m definitely going to try one of the evil eye things. I’m infested with Christian missionaries lately.”

  “So, let’s go for coffee, and you can tell me all about it.”

  She shook her head. “Can’t. I’ve got stuff I have to take care of.”

  “Maybe I could come by your place later. You could make dinner. Food’s the fastest way to a man’s heart, you know.”

  She cocked her head to the side. “Really? I thought it was the fourth intercostal space between the ribs.”

  I shook my head, looking at the ceiling. I pulled myself up out of the chair. “Fine. I’ll just have to catch you when you don’t have ‘stuff.’”

  She quirked an eyebrow up. “I’ve got lots of stuff.”

  “Okay! Okay! I’m leaving!” I said.

  “Give my regards to Manny,” she called as I walked out. I gave her the finger and smiled at the sound of her laugh all the way to the elevator.

  The previous spring, I had stopped a madman from destroying reality and gotten my ass kicked. Between the strain of fighting powerful entities and the physical battering I took in the process, I’d almost died again. Meryl had stopped in often at the hospital to see me. Of course, she made a point of reminding me that she had healing abilities and always asked about my health, my treatment, and my essence. When I was discharged and went home, we developed an avid email correspondence. Which led to drinking together. Which led to the occasional lunch or dinner.

  I didn’t know what was going on with her. I liked being around her. I liked getting to know her. I liked that she gave me shit at every opportunity. Normally, I don’t start getting those feelings until after I’ve slept with someone and, even then, not usually. This was different. I hadn’t even had a good fevered dream about her, never mind gotten her naked. And it gave me an odd pleasure that if she knew that, she would act all annoyed and dismissive.

  I hit the UP button. Due to the odd nature of the Guildhouse, with its towers and arches and spires, the doors opened on the fifteenth or the eighteenth floor, depending on how you counted. In any case, it was the Community Liaison Department, my old haunt where Keeva macNeve now held sway.

  Since my accident helped boot me out of the Guild, I had been back only a few times and even then, insultingly, under escort. As I stood in the hall, knowing that Keeva had her job only because I saved her ass on her last major assignment, it finally struck home that I was never going to be back at the Guild as an investigator. The only place to do that was where I was standing, and there was no way in hell I could stomach Keeva as my boss.

  The floor was surprisingly quiet. As I looked in at empty office after office, the only person I saw I didn’t know. He didn’t look up as I passed. I was about to turn around, when I found myself outside my old office. I didn’t need a psychology course to get why I had ended up in front of the closed door. Seeing the empty nameplate next to it, I entertained the momentary thought that perhaps they were holding it for me even after all this time.

  I pushed the door open and laughed. My desk was still there. My bookshelves. The floor lamp that I banged into every time I pushed my desk chair back. My desk chair was there, too. The credenza that I special ordered out of spite when accounting was giving me a hard time about my budget overruns. And every single flat surface was stacked with boxes. My office had become a storage room for old case files. So much for preserving the memory of me.

  In another time, I would have nurtured a furious bitterness. Seeing that office, though, I really did have to laugh. What else could I do? The Wheel turns as It will, one of my favorite mentors likes to say. Who am I to rage against It?

  I walked up to the window. At least the view had not changed and was still worth every penny. Boston Common at any time of year looks amazing. The oldest public park in the United States, and a fairy hill sits smack-dab in the middle of it. What’s not to love?

  I glanced down. Tucked between a chimney pot and the bottom of a flying buttress, a small cyclopean gargoyle squatted, a horn coming out of his forehead and his oversize genitalia proudly displayed. He’s never told me his name, so I keep calling him Virgil. He shows up at unexpected times and places. Gargoyles have a knack for omen and given that he could only be seen from this angle, I was willing to bet he knew I would decide to visit my old office. I waited to see if he would say anything. He rarely does, and after a few minutes, he still hadn’t spoken. I knew I would spend the rest of the day, if not longer, wondering if his presence alone was supposed to indicate something.

  “Are you lost?”

  I turned at the sound of Keeva’s voice. The Guildhouse has dampening wards everywhere, so I didn’t sense her behind me. “No, just needed some paper clips.”

  She leaned against the door, her de rigueur black jumpsuit fitting snugly over a body that was made for things to fit snugly over. Keeva is without a doubt attractive and knows it. At t
he same time, she has that look, slightly bitter, like she’s sure any moment she’s going to smell something bad. It knocks her down the hotness scale in my book. Today, though, she just looked stressed, even pale. “How did you get in?”

  I perched myself on the corner of the desk. My desk. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” I had a perfectly legitimate reason to be in the building, but she didn’t have to know that.

  “Look, Connor. I’m busy. I am in no mood to talk about your visa.”

  I nodded. My visa. In all the action of the last twenty-four hours, I had actually not thought about it, which is amazing considering how obsessed with it I’ve been. I’ve been trying to go to Germany to track down the elf who almost killed me two years ago and again indirectly this past spring. I’m hoping for a little payback. Somehow I’ve been mysteriously put on the German no-entry list and can only get past it with a diplomatic visa, which only the Guild can provide. I guess I didn’t have to put “want to kill someone in the Black Forest” on my application for them to figure out why I wanted to go.

  “Come on, Keeva. Bergin Vize is running free. He obviously has some powerful connections there, or I wouldn’t need the visa. Someone has to bring him in, and I think I deserve to be the one to do it.”

  She shook her head. “Connor, you ran around all summer telling anyone within earshot that you wanted to kill Bergin Vize. You know the Guild can’t endorse that. Do not think for one moment I am distracted enough by Kruge’s murder to sign off on a visa.”

  I shrugged. She wasn’t willing to the first six times I asked. I didn’t think she would be this time either. “You don’t look so good.”

  She nodded instead of taking offense. “I haven’t had much sleep in the last three days. Eorla Kruge has decided to bury her husband here, and I have two diplomatic delegations to coordinate in addition to the investigation.”

  “How is the Kruge investigation?”

  She pursed her lips, crossed her arms, and looked down at her toes. “It’s complicated. Troll essence everywhere, more than one, but the MO is all wrong. We’re thinking some kind of rogue. Maybe the cleaning woman Kruge employed. Her name’s Croda. She hasn’t been seen since the murder. She has known drug gang connections, and Kruge was doing everything he could to take down the gangs.”

  “A troll cleaning lady? Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

  Keeva looked up, unamused. “Is there something you came up here for besides bothering me?”

  “Actually, no. Do the names Dennis Farnsworth or Crystal Finch mean anything to you?”

  She nodded. “Farnsworth is the kid that got killed the same night as Kruge. Murdock’s report got passed to me this morning.”

  That surprised me. I keep forgetting how efficient Murdock can be. “You got the report? So the Guild’s taking the case?”

  She shrugged. “No. I got the report because Murdock thinks the Guild should take it. In fact, I have an entire Murdock file. He thinks all his cases are fey-related. He’s worse than you are.”

  “Keeva, the kid had Kruge’s blood on him. How can you ignore that?”

  She gave me that long look again. “Correct me if I’m misquoting, but I believe the report says ‘due to concurrent circumstances, elf blood evidence on running shoe may be related to Kruge case.’ Also correct me if I’m misremembering, but I believe this blood evidence has also been destroyed. Is that what you’re claiming I’m ignoring? Even if the kid was there, he’s dead, so he’s no help. I’m not seeing anything on the police report to follow up on. Is there something you know that’s not in the report?”

  “The kid was wearing gang gear. You have to look at that angle, too.”

  She nodded. “Kruge was a gang mediator. Practically everyone related to his outreach office has some gang history. He wasn’t killed by some street kid, Connor. It was someone fey and someone powerful. If I start assuming every gang member is Kruge’s killer, I’d be hauling in a third of the population from your end of town. If the kid’s death becomes relevant, I might take the case. Right now, he’s just collateral damage. I’ll feed Murdock any info that might close what is, and remains, his case.”

  Keeva’s focus on fey-only crimes was exactly what frustrated me about the Guild these days. She didn’t even want to entertain the notion that a dead human kid was something to be upset about. “But…”

  Annoyance crossed her face. “But, nothing, Connor. Look, whoever killed Kruge would have no problem killing Farnsworth. Why would he bother going through the effort of flying him almost a mile away and dropping him? It doesn’t make sense. I think the kid saw what happened, ran, and got caught in his own little problems. I’ll tell you this if only to get you out of my hair: I have another report on my desk. A gang fight happened two days ago involving elves. Your kid was wearing the colors of one of the gangs. You want to find a motive for your case, it’s right there. Instead of trying to tell me how to do my job, why don’t you go tell Murdock to do his and talk to the Boston gang unit.”

  I could tell by the self-satisfied smirk on Keeva’s face that I did a bad job of hiding my surprise. I couldn’t believe Murdock didn’t tell me about the gang fight. It didn’t change my gut feeling, but it certainly didn’t help me get Keeva interested in the case.

  “Can I see the file?”

  “Ask Murdock. You have to leave now.” Her voice was neutral. She wasn’t just being obstinate this time. I knew the drill. She probably had every power player in the city breathing down her neck. Instead of pushing her buttons some more, I decided to enjoy her discomfort vicariously for now.

  “Okay. Let me know if I can help,” I said.

  Nigel Martin appeared at the door. “Here you are,” he said to Keeva.

  She smiled at him. “Sorry, Nigel. Look who I bumped into.”

  He smiled thinly. “Connor.”

  “Twice in one day, Nigel. Almost like old times.” I couldn’t resist injecting a little sarcasm into my voice.

  “Much has happened since then,” he said.

  “Maybe we can have dinner. Catch up,” I said.

  He glanced at Keeva. “Other things are more pressing at the moment. Perhaps another time.”

  I tried to appear unperturbed. “What brings you back to Boston?”

  “Research,” he said.

  I waited a beat for him to ask me what I was doing. Then another beat. And another. “I’m working cases for the Boston P.D.,” I finally said.

  “Yes, I had heard that. I’m sorry, Connor, but we don’t have time to socialize right now. Keeva and I have work to do,” he said.

  I tried to mask my embarrassment with a neutral face. I doubt I did it very well. Not in front of two people who knew me well enough to know the difference between my neutral face and my upset-but-hiding-it face. Nigel knew damn well how I would react to what he said. Sure enough, Keeva now had on her I’m-pretending-not-to-be-enjoying-this face.

  “Sure, no problem. I just stopped by to say hello,” I said.

  Keeva stepped back to let me pass by the two of them as I went into the hallway. I continued walking without saying anything. As I was about to turn the corner to the elevator, she called my name. I looked back. They continued walking away from me as she spoke over her shoulder.

  “Just so you know, I’m not going to screw up the Kruge investigation to spite you. If anything pans out on Farnsworth, let me know.”

  I smiled and nodded once. She turned and walked in the other direction. I knew she wouldn’t screw up the investigation to spite me. If I found any key evidence, she would take credit for solving the case to spite me.

  6

  I could hear the phone ringing when I was in the shower, as phones tend to do at inconvenient times. I let the machine pick up. Unlike a lot of people, I don’t leap out dripping wet to answer the phone. I don’t always remember to check the answering machine because it’s more or less my junk phone number. Anyone who really knows me and needs to reach me has my cell or knows someone who does. The
apartment phone was for strangers and bill collectors, who apparently share it freely. Besides, I don’t have caller ID on that line, and I like to choose whom I talk to when I’m wet and naked.

  I hit the answering machine replay as I got dressed. “Hello, Mr. Grey. My name’s Janey Likesmith. I work at the OCME. I have some information about a case you’re involved in. I…um…I don’t always get my messages, so please stop by the office so we can talk. I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but the value of this may not last. I can explain in person. Thank you.”

  The OCME is the Office of the City Medical Examiner. At the moment, the only person I knew there was Dennis Farnsworth. Murdock, of course, knew the staff, but how anyone knew me was intriguing. I had to laugh about this Janey Likesmith not getting phone messages. The OCME had been in a slide downward for so long, the fact that the lights were on was a minor miracle. Asking for a decent receptionist was probably out of the question.

  At the end of my street, a bitter wind swept up the channel and welcomed me to the outside world. Boston sits on a harbor, of course, and the Charles River frames it to the north, making the city an island of cold misery in the winter. Even in October, wind chills off the water pull the temperatures down in the freezing zone, and when you live in the Weird, you have no choice for decent transportation except your feet. There’s a bus line that does run down Old Northern, but it doesn’t take anyone where they want to go. I made my way over the Northern Avenue bridge with shoulders hunched against the wind, my ears freezing. While I’m not particularly vain about my hair, the least I figure I could save people is the spectacle of hat head. So, my ears freeze. I crossed into the financial district and hopped a bus to the South End.

  The bus trundled down Washington Street, weaving in and out of the steel girders of the abandoned elevated subway. It’s a strip of perpetual twilight, the el blocking out the sun during the day, sooty arc lights casting dim illumination at night. I hate buses. They’re slow, irregular, and rank. It’s hard to feel the least bit important if you have to ride a bus. It practically proclaims to the world you can’t afford a car or cab fare. The subway is at least a convenience. A bus, though, a bus says sit in traffic, in discomfort, until you’re late as hell. Fortunately, I didn’t have an appointment.