Deadly Quicksilver Lies (2 page)

“Desperate?”

“You like to tore the door down. You woke up the Goddamn Parrot with your whooping and hollering.” That about-to-become-roasted squab was holding forth up front. “I figured you had killer elves slavering on your trail.”

“I just wish. I told you how my luck’s been. I was just trying to get your attention.” She refilled her mug, did mine, headed for my office. “All right, Garrett. Business first.”

She paused, listened. T. G. Parrot was on a roll. She shrugged, slipped into my office. I followed quickly. Sometimes things fall into Winger’s pockets if you’re not there to keep an eye on them.

I wriggled into my chair, safe behind my desk. Eleanor guarded my back. Winger scowled at the painting, then eyed my book. “Espinosa? Ain’t that a little heavy for you?”

“It’s a real thriller.” Espinosa
was
beyond me, mostly. He tended to make a big deal out of questions that wouldn’t have occurred to anybody who worked for a living.

I’d gone to visit a lady friend at the Royal Library. The book was all I got.

“Philosophy is thrilling? Like a hemorrhoid. The man should’ve got a hobby.”

“He did. Philosophy. Since when can you read?”

“You don’t need to act so surprised. I been learning. Got to do something with my ill-gotten gains, don’t I? I thought maybe some learning might come in handy someday. But mostly what I’ve learned is studying don’t make you no smarter about people.”

I started to agree. I know some pretty dim academics, people who live in another world. Winger cut me off. “Enough chit-chat. Here’s the gig. This old broad name of Maggie Jenn is maybe gonna come see you. I don’t know what’s up, but my boss is willing to pay a shitload of money to find out. This Jenn crone knows me so I can’t get close to her. What I figured was, why don’t I get you to let her hire you, then you let me know what she’s up to and I can take that to my boss.”

Vintage Winger.

“Maggie Jenn?”

“That’s the name.”

“Seems like it ought to ring a bell. Who is she?”

“You got me. Just some old broad off the Hill.”

“The Hill?” I leaned back, just a harried man of affairs taking a moment out to relax with an old friend. “I have a case.”

“What is it this time? A stray lizard?” She laughed. Her laughter sounded like geese headed north for the winter. “Meow, meow.”

A few days earlier, I’d gotten stung by an old biddy who’d hired me to look for her beloved missing Moggie. Never mind the details. It’s embarrassing enough just
me
knowing. “That’s on the street?”

Winger swung her feet onto my desk. “All over it.”

Dean was in it deep.
I
hadn’t told a soul.

“Best Garrett story I heard in a while, too. Thousand marks for a cat? Come on.”

“You know how some old ladies are about their cats.” The cat hadn’t been the problem, really. The problems started when I found a real animal that was a ringer for the imaginary, red herring beast. “Who would suspect a sweet old lady of wanting to set him up for a fall guy in a scam?”

Honk honk, har har. “I would’ve got suspicious when she wouldn’t come to my house.”

What saved me was finding that cat. I caught on when I tried to take him home. “Yeah.”

The Dead Man might have saved me all the embarrassment. Had he been awake.

Part of the discomfort of the mess was knowing he’d never stop reminding me about it. “Never mind that.

Since we’re talking about old ladies, tell me what this Maggie Jenn is going to want.”

“I figure she’s gonna ask you to kill somebody.”

“Say what?” That wasn’t what I expected. “Hey! You know —”

2

Somebody else was trying out my front door. This somebody had a fist of stone bigger than a ham. “I have a bad feeling about this,” I muttered. “Whenever platoons of people start thumping the door...”

Winger stowed her leer. “I’ll disappear.”

“Don’t wake the Dead Man.”

“You kidding?” She pointed toward the ceiling. “I’ll be up there. Find me when you’re done.”

I was afraid of that.

Having a no-strings, no-complications friendship can have its own complications.

The small front room had grown quiet. I paused to eavesdrop. Not one obscenity marred the precious silence. T. G. Parrot was asleep again.

I thought about making it that jungle pigeon’s last nap, the beginning of the big sleep, the longest voyage, the...

Boom boom boom.

I peeked through the peephole. By-the-numbers Garrett, that’s me. Fixing to live a thousand years.

All I saw was a smallish redhead facing three-quarters away, staring at something. That little bit did all that pounding? She was stronger than she looked. I opened the door. She continued staring up the street. I leaned forward cautiously.

The neighborhood pixie teens were chucking rotten fruits off the cornices and gutters of an ugly old three-story half a block up Macunado. A band of gnomes below dodged and cursed and shook their walking sticks. They were all old, clad in the usual drab gray, with whiskers. Not beards, whiskers, like you see in paintings of old-time generals and princes and merchant captains. All gnomes seem to be old and out of fashion. I’ve never seen a young one or a female one.

One spry little codger, chanting a colorful warsong about discount rates and yam futures, pegged a broken cobblestone hard enough to actually hit a pixie. It did a somersault off a gargoyle’s head. The gnomes pranced around and waved their sticks in glee and sent up an ave to the Great Arbitrager. Then the pixie brat opened his wings and soared. His laughter was a mocking squeak.

I told the redhead, “An exercise in futility. All sound and fury. Been going on all month. Nobody’s gotten hurt yet. Probably all die of shame if anybody did.” Gnomes are that way. Gladly make fortunes financing wars but don’t want to watch the bloodshed.

I spied a sedan chair at streetside down toward Macunado’s intersection with Wizard’s Reach. Beside it stood something half man and half gorilla with hands that fit the prescription for whatever it was that had tried to demolish my door. “That thing tame?”

“Mugwump? He’s a sweetheart. And as human as you are.” The redhead’s tone suggested she might be, unwittingly, insulting friend Mugwump.

“Can I help you?” Boy, would I like to help her. Mugwump was old news.

I make a point of being nice to redheads, at least till they’re not nice to me. Redhead was always my favorite color, barely edging blonde and brunette.

The woman turned to me. “Mr. Garrett?” Her voice was low, husky, sexy.

I didn’t owe any money. “Guilty.” Surprise, surprise. She was a good decade older than my first guess. But time had stolen nothing. She was proof on the hoof that aging produces fine wines. Second-guessing, I put her over thirty-five but under forty. Me, I’m a tender, innocent thirty and don’t usually look for them quite so ripe.

“You’re staring, Mr. Garrett. I thought that was impolite.”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. Excuse me.”

The Goddamn Parrot started muttering in his sleep. Something about interspecies necrophilia. That got me back to the real world. “What can I do for you, madam?” Other than the obvious, if you’re looking for volunteers. Hoo.

I was amazed. Yeah, female of the species is my soft spot, my blind side, but the mature type didn’t usually get me. Whatever, something about this one totally distracted me. And she knew it.

Businesslike, Garrett. Businesslike.

“Ma’am, Mr. Garrett? Am I that far past it?”

I sputtered. I stumbled around and tripped over my tongue till it was black with footprints. She finally had mercy and smiled. “Can we get in out of the weather?”

“Sure.” I stepped aside, held the door. What was wrong with the weather? It couldn’t have been nicer. There were barely enough clouds to keep you from falling into a sky as blue as you will ever hope to see.

She brushed past without tricks, just close because she had to. I shut my eyes. I ground my teeth. I babbled, “My office is the second door on the left. I can’t offer much but beer or brandy. My man Dean is away.” The woman had to be a witch. Or I was out of practice. Bad.

“Brandy would be perfect, Mr. Garrett.”

Of course. Pure class. “Coming right up. Make yourself at home.” I dove into the kitchen. Dig dig dig till I found some brandy. A bit of a tippler, Dean hides the stuff all over so I won’t know how much he has bought. I poured from a bottle that I hoped contained good stuff. What did I know about brandy? Beer is
my
favorite food. I zipped to the office. The seasoned redhead had set up camp in the client’s chair. She frowned as she studied Eleanor. “Here you go.”

“Thank you. An interesting painting. There’s a lot there if you look long enough.”

I glanced at my honey as I settled. She was a lovely blonde, terrified, fleeing something only hinted at in the painting’s background. If you looked at that painting right, though, you could read the whole evil story. There was magic in it, though much of that had gone once I got the man who murdered Eleanor.

I told the story. My visitor was a good listener. I managed to avoid getting totally lost in my own chemistry. I observed carefully. I suggested, “You might introduce yourself before we go any further. I’m never comfortable calling a woman ‘Hey You’.”

Her smile softened the enamel on my teeth. “My name is Maggie Jenn. Margat Jenn, actually, but I’ve never been called anything but Maggie.”

Ah, the monster of the prophecy. Winger’s old crone. Must have lost her walker. I blurted, “Maggie doesn’t sound like a redhead.”

Her smile warmed up. Incredible! “Surely you’re not that naive, Mr. Garrett.”

“Garrett is fine. Mr. Garrett was my grandpop. No. It hasn’t escaped me that some women miraculously transform overnight.”

“This is just a tint, really. A little more red than my natural shade. Just vanity. One more rearguard skirmish in my war against time.”

Yeah. The poor toothless hag. “Looks to me like you’ve got it on the run.”

“You’re sweet.” She smiled again, turning up the heat. She leaned forward...

3

Maggie Jenn caught my left hand, squeezed. “Some women enjoy being looked at that way, Garrett. Sometimes they want to look back.” She tickled my palm. I stifled an urge to pant. She was working me and I didn’t care. “But I’m here on business and it’s important, so we’d better get to it.” She took her hand back.

I was supposed to melt, going through withdrawal.

I went through withdrawal.

“I like this room, Garrett. Tells me a lot. Confirms what I’ve heard about you.”

I waited. Clients go through this. They’re desperate when they arrive. They wouldn’t come to me if they weren’t. But they stall around before admitting that their lives have gone out of control. Most end up telling me how they chose me. Maggie Jenn did that.

Some change their minds before they get to the point. Maggie Jenn did not.

“I didn’t realize I was so well known. That’s scary.” Apparently my name was common coin among the ruling class, to which Maggie Jenn clearly belonged, though she had not revealed where she fit. I should avoid the flashy cases. I don’t like being noticed.

“You’re on everyone’s list of specialists, Garrett. If you want a coach built, you go to Linden Atwood. You want unique flatware, you commission Rickman Plax and Sons. You want the best shoes, you buy Tate. You need prying and spying, you hire Garrett.”

“Speaking of prying and spying.”

“You want me to get to the point.”

“I’m used to people circling in on their troubles.”

She reflected a moment. “I see where they might. It’s hard. All right. To the point. I need you to find my daughter.”

“Huh?” She blindsided me. I was all tensed for her to ask me to kill somebody and all she wanted was the basic Garrett service.

“I need you to find my daughter. She’s been missing for six days. I’m worried. What’s the matter? You have the funniest look.”

“I get like this when I think about working.”

“You have that reputation. What will it take to get you out of the house?”

“More information. And the fee settled.” There. I could be proud of me. I was taking command, being businesslike, handling my weakness.

So how come I was practically agreeing to take a case blind?

Actually, despite my reputation and past habit of laziness, I had been working steady, minor stuff, grabbing a few marks while I avoided the house and Dean, the Dead Man and the Goddamn Parrot. The former suffer from the delusion that it will be a better world if I work myself to death. T. G. P. just nags.

“Her name is Justina, Garrett. She’s an adult, though just barely. I don’t hang over her shoulder.”

“An adult? What were you, ten years old?...”

“Flattery will get you everywhere. I was eighteen. She turned eighteen three months ago. Never mind the math.”

“Hell, you’re a spring chicken. Twenty-one with a few years’ experience. You don’t need to stop counting yet. I bet plenty of people take you for Justina’s sister.”

“Aren’t you the sweet talker.”

“Actually, I’m only being honest. I’m way too distracted to...”

“I’ll bet the girls love you, Garrett.”

“Yeah. You hear them chanting in the street. You saw them climbing the walls so they can get in through a second-story window.” TunFaire being TunFaire, my house has only one ground floor window, in the kitchen. Iron bars cover it.

Maggie Jenn’s eyes sparkled. “I have a feeling I’m going to wish I’d met you sooner, Garrett.” Those eyes promised. Maybe I was going to wish that, too.

A redhead will knock me for a loop every time.

She continued. “To the point. Again. Justina’s been running with bad companions. Nothing I can put my finger on, no. Just youngsters I don’t like. I got the feeling they were up to something wicked. No, I never saw anything to confirm that.”

One thing you notice about parents who are looking for strayed children. They never liked anyone the kid liked. The kid is gone because he or she fell in with evil companions. Even when they strain to be non-judgmental, there’s this basic assumption that the friends are no good. If any of the friends are of another sex, boy, howdy!