Ashes To Ashes: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (5 page)

Then Marcia Kalinsky blurted, "God's sake,
Karen! You've lost your suit!"

Whereupon "the kid" seemed to rouse from
some weird form of waking trance, looked down at her naked self in
absolute horror, dropped my hand as though it were a firebrand, and
bolted back into the sanctuary of her palace.

It was at about that moment, I believe, that
I began thinking about Karen Highland in terms of double
habitation.

Chapter Five: Body and Soul

If you have never heard the term "double
habitation," and I would suppose that many well-informed people
have not, it refers to a peculiar and really quite rare human
situation in which a single body seems to be host to two separate
personalities. There are cases recorded involving multiple
habitation. The shrinks talk about it in terms of a schizophrenic
manifestation—split-personality, dissociation, etc.—but other
learned people with equally valid credentials prefer to see it as
something else.

The opposing poles of
thought are best exemplified in the public mind by a couple of
motion picture dramas—with the psychiatric view presented in
The Three Faces of Eve
,
the story of a woman whose personality was split into three
distinct and disparate identities; the other view given the widest
public exposure by
The
Exorcist
, the supernatural story of a
young girl possessed by a demonic spirit.

Not being credentialed
either way, I had always felt free to make my own conclusions,
though I had never done so because I had never really been faced
with the need to do so.

I did have the opportunity a couple of years
ago to study some video footage of a young man in the San Francisco
area who appeared to exhibit five different personalities, only
two, of which were male—and I ran into a guy at Big Sur last year
who slipped over into an identity as Alexander the Great when faced
with a difficult problem beyond his immediate abilities. This guy,
when in one of these "spells," held one-sided conversations with
none other than Aristotle, in a strange tongue that I am told is
Classical Greek.

I did not have any clear idea as to what any
of this might have to do with Karen Highland or her strange
behavior, but I was rather impressed by the way Kalinsky reacted to
that stunning stunt. His wife had run on behind Karen and followed
her inside the house, pausing at the doorway to snatch up a terry
cloth robe that apparently had been abandoned there.

Some of the ladies present were shooting me
guardedly measuring looks. Mainly, though, everyone was just
standing about in giggly-embarrassed clusters, wondering maybe if
this meant that the party was over.

Enter Kalinsky, then, moving casually from
group to group, grinning and talking a mile a minute, putting the
guests at ease. By the time he got to me, everything seemed just
about back to where it had been before.

He strolled past me with
the same grin he'd worn for the others, but the vocal tone was
tailored just for me as he delivered his orders without breaking
stride: "We need to talk."

I left my unfinished drink at the bar and
gladly followed his unhurried tracks across the patio and into the
house. Entry there was via a large lounge area—for want of a better
name; I'd almost call it a nightclub. A full bar that would be the
envy of many commercial clubs occupied an entire wall. A dozen or
so heavy leather couches arranged with marble tables and computer
games still left plenty of room for a decent dance floor and a
small, raised stage outfitted with grand piano, drums, amplifiers,
and whatnot. Two guys who looked the bartender role were working
stock behind the bar and apparently getting set up for a long
evening. Otherwise, the lounge was deserted.

We went on through there and along a bright
hallway past another room, which could have lobbied for a small
resort hotel, before Kalinsky spoke to me again.

This time it was over the shoulder as he
veered left into another, broader hallway with doors spaced along
either side. "Executive wing," he told me, with the air of a bored
tour guide.

"Naturally," I replied, but under my
breath.

We were, it seems, at the seat of
government. One of the rooms we passed—actually a broader hall teed
off behind an archway and sealed in glass—had OPERATIONS CENTER
engraved in gold on the double glass doors. In smaller letters
below: Authorized Personnel Only.

I marked that one in the mind but had only a
quick study as we walked past: no windows, big mainframe computer
at the back wall, several small desks with terminals, half a dozen
or so Teletypes and several stockmarket tickers, God knows what
else. This was Saturday afternoon, remember, but two of the
Teletypes were spitting copy and a guy in knee shorts and bright
Hawaiian shirt was wrestling a stack of computer printouts.

The throne room was at the very end, beyond
another ten or twelve closed-door offices, with its own waiting
room with two secretarial desks and a telephone switchboard—the
old PBX type.

Kalinsky trailed a finger along the top of
the switchboard as we walked through—said, almost lovingly, "Don't
use this anymore, of course, but it was JQ's pride so we keep it
around for old time's sake."

I learned later that everyone at the palace
referred to the dead king by his initials (middle name was Quincy).
The also-dead son was called TJ, when at all.

Seemed to be the style here to abbreviate
names. Kalinsky murmured, "In here, Ash," as he showed me into the
Executive Office.

I don't know exactly what I'd been expecting
to find in there, but it must have been less than the reality
because I was a bit surprised by the layout. The polished mahogany
desk (Philippine mahogany, no doubt) would hold a king-size
mattress, even between the swirls for the visitors' chairs, which
were pedestal-mounted on swivel bases and richly upholstered in
some fine leather. The executive chair, rail-mounted at the rear,
was contour-molded and heavily padded with a backrest about four
feet high. Had a control console built into the right armrest—I
didn't know, maybe they launched missiles from Vandenberg here—and
there was another gizmo built into the desk that obviously was
light-years ahead of the old PBX in the outer office, some jazzy
telephone setup with video monitors and taping facilities.

Kalinsky motioned me toward one of the three
scoop-outs up front. Pretty nice working environment, I had to
admit as I eased myself into the imbedded chair—imbedded in the
desk, that is, at just the proper height to rest both arms on the
shiny surface at either side, plenty of work space directly ahead,
each chair angled into the massive structure in such a way that
four people could be seated there and working comfortably while
almost head to head.

I took the opportunity to orient myself as
Kalinsky went around and clambered into the Command Pilot's seat.
Nice, yeah, very impressive. About forty feet square, interior
walls displaying heavy books from floor to ceiling, French windows
opening onto a private flower garden and outside lounge, luxurious
carpeting, evidence of a tiled bath off behind the desk—probably
very elaborate—all the usual tycoon comforts and then some.

"I'd offer you a drink, but JQ was death on
mixing booze with business—so, no drinking in the executive
wing—I'm sure you understand—we still honor JQ here."

I said, "Sure. Not that much for booze,
myself."

"Good. Nothing against a social drink, mind
you."

"'Course not," I agreed.

All that dispensed, my host was now
obviously ready to get to that talk we both needed.

"We know exactly who you are, of
course."

That was nice. I was not sure, myself,
exactly who I was. But I knew, now, approximately who Kalinsky was.
There was no doubt in my mind that he was the "we" who was now
running this empire.

"We got your pedigree. Shortly after you got
Bruno."

"Poor guy," I said quietly.

"Yeah. You shouldn't have copped the poor
guy in the balls, you know."

"He didn't die of that," I observed.

"How do you know that? Delayed reaction,
maybe."

"Are you suggesting that's where his heart
was?"

The guy chuckled. It was not a bad sound.
But we were, after all, discussing a recently dead employee and
organizational "uncle."

"Sometimes I wondered," Kalinsky said, still
grinning. The smile faded as he veered back into our talk. "I was
not referring to his unfortunate death. But that was a shock, a
real shock, too young for that. I meant after he came home with
bruised balls. I gave him hell, too, for putting himself in that
position. And for putting Karen in that position."

"Not the name of the game," I agreed.

"Absolutely not. That girl
is—well ... you know. We all are trying to help her through
this."

I said, "Naturally."

"Sure. Could be very
damaging, very...scandalous, degrading. I mean to the family name
as well as to herself, and we all are ..."

"... trying to help her through this," I
helped.

"Naturally," he replied, turning it back to
me.

I was beginning to like the guy, though with
strong reservations. Or maybe respect is a better tag for what I
was feeling at that moment.

I said, "Let's get back to Bruno. Where's
the body?"

"In a funeral chapel, where it belongs."

I said, "But, naturally,
to help him get through that ... ."

Kalinsky chuckled again. I believe he was
starting to like me too. "Pretty sharp, aren't you? Look, Ash, this
family does not need notoriety."

This "family," I was thinking as he
continued talking, now consisted of a single person: Karen.

"JQ would have done it this way. I was a
punk kid fresh out of Harvard Business School when he took me under
his wing, wet as hell behind the ears and not a dime to call my
own. He gave me the responsibility for Karen, and by God I mean to
exercise it the same way he would. So don't miscalculate my
feelings in all this. She is my granddaughter, dammit, the same as
if..."

"Grandfather surrogate," I mused. "But
you're far too young."

A slow smile began at his eyes and spread
warmly toward his mouth as he pushed that one around. "Better
than—I thought I'd die. But it was funny, wasn't it? I
mean—serious, sure, serious and embarrassing as hell, but still
funny. Wonder whatever possessed her to pull something like
that."

"Exactly," I said.

"Exactly, to what?"

"Whatever possessed her."

"Don't get you."

"It wasn't Karen."

"What do you mean, it wasn't Karen?"

"Not herself."

"Oh. Sure. 'Course not.
That's what made it so damned funny. But she's been doing a lot of
strange stuff lately, and ..."

"Ever see her like that before?"

"Like what?"

"Naked."

"Oh. Well ..."

"Grandfatherly fashion, of course."

I got a flash from the eyes as he responded
to that one. "I was thinking of when she was a little girl—but, no,
nothing like that since—hold it, there, Ash—why do I feel that
you've taken charge of this conversation?"

I showed him a flash of my own as I replied,
"You said 'Have a talk.' Talk flows both ways, doesn't it?"

The lord of the manor produced a single
cigarette and lit it without offering me one. I took the
opportunity to study him closely while he did so, then I lit one
of my own.

He was less relaxed than
when we came in there, shoulders a bit tight and tilted
forward—aggression—chin out and reaching toward the flame as he
lit up—belligerence—fingers clenched tightly onto the
cigarette—fear of losing—hard, sharp pulls as he sucked up the
smoke—anxious—settling back in his chair to fix me with a stern
gaze—reasserting control.

"Didn't like the navy life, eh?"

I blew smoke back across the desk to mingle
with his and replied, "Too confining. Great institution, though, if
you like institutions."

"But you don't."

"Not usually."

"Maverick. Love your independence. Like to
run your own show. Can't really knuckle under to organizational
structures."

I showed him a very small smile and replied,
"Bingo."

"IQ of one-ninety. That's genius level."

I waved it aside. "Genius is as genius does,
or however that goes. I never put much stock in intelligence
tests."

"Trust fund from your mother's family really
doesn't set you up the way you'd like to be, though. You can't
afford that Maserati, Ash."

Bingo, again, but I would
not give him the satisfaction. "I do okay. Lots of sun, plenty of
fresh air, come and go as I please. Why are you hiding Bruno's
body?"

He did not miss a beat. "Who says we're
hiding it and why should we? Fella has a right to a decent
laying-out. Simply had him removed to a decent place."

"You removed also every official trace of
the event."

"The vulgar press loves this kind of shit.
We just do what has to be done to avoid notoriety."

"JQ would have done it that way."

"Bet your ass. And, speaking of your ass, my
friend, you really had no right to push the coroner that way,
desecrate the body, all that shit. Man died a natural death. Leave
him alone in peace. Why don't you become a tennis pro?"

He was showing me that he
could turn it quickly too. I was really beginning to enjoy this.
"Think I'm good enough?"

"Beat the shit out of Centrales at Carmel.
Yeah, I'd call that good enough."