Mind to Mind: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (23 page)

"I'll remember that," he replied soberly.
"Meanwhile I'll just do what I can."

"Great," I said, for lack of any better
response. This kid was actually making me feel inferior. "Your dad
would like that," I added lamely.

"He probably wouldn't notice," Manuel
said.

"Sure he would. Well, if he was in a
position to..."

"I didn't mean that way. I just meant he
never noticed anything much."

I said, "Hey! That's pretty harsh, isn't
it?"

He said, "No."

I said, "Your dad had a mean job. Cops live
with a lot of tension. Lot on the mind, most of the time."

"You don't have to make excuses for him,"
Manuel told me. "I still love him. Mom does too. Even if he
never..."

"Never what?"

The door was opening. Manuel was glaring at
it. I told him, sotto voce, "Be careful you're not substituting,
pal."

He whispered back, "Substituting what?"

I replied, "Anger for grief."

He said, "Oh. I see what you mean."

Eight years old.

A ten-year-old who looked six was standing
in the open doorway. She tilted the head and angled a doleful gaze
at me, moved aside, slammed the door after we entered.

Manuel said irritably, "For Pete's sake,
Vicky!" He whispered to me, "She's been this way ever since we
heard about Dad."

I set him down and picked her up, stroked
her hair, told her, "It's okay to be sad, honey. There's a time for
laughter and a time for tears. This happens to be a time for tears.
So go with it, feel it, then get rid of it, make a time for
laughter. Your dad would tell you that. I'm saying it for him."

She squeezed me very
tightly about the neck, and I thought she said something to me—I
thought she whispered in my ear with that same husky breathiness of
Oom and May-un—but, hell, her face was turned
away
from my ear. Whatever, however,
the words that hit my auditory centers were: 'To hell with
him!"

I gingerly set her down, searched her face
for a clue but found none, unconsciously reached for a cigarette
and lit it, followed the kids to the breakfast room. Georgia sat
slumped in a chair with a cup of coffee in front of her. She showed
me a wan smile, said, "Hello, Ashton. Thanks for coming. Please sit
down."

I took a chair across from her. Vicky was
already pouring coffee for me.

Manuel announced, "I'll be
in the den if anyone needs me." He touched my hand as though to say
"Thanks," and shuffled laboriously out of the room.

I told Georgia, "That is some hell of a kid
you've got there."

She smiled, musingly replied, "Yes, he is
definitely one of a kind. I believe that he has now assumed the
duties of the man of the house." She looked at Vicky, told her, "Go
with Manuel, sweetie."

Vicky's gaze swept from her mother to me,
twice, with a look that could have been defiance, but then she
shrugged and obeyed.

I commented, 'Tough time for kids, eh?"

She replied, "Yes, I'm sure it is."

"And for moms."

She said, "Ashton, I—it's
so—I feel...abandoned. And helpless. It's—I don't—Jim took care of
all the business. The finances. Everything. I hate to admit it, but
I don't even know about insurance. I don't know where to make the
house payments. This is... it's stupid, I know, and maybe it sounds
like I'm focusing on the wrong thing, but this is where I'm at
right now. I feel...six years old, and...lost...at
Disneyland."

I took her hand and
squeezed it, told her, "What you're feeling is perfectly natural.
Don't be reluctant to lean on people until you get your bearings.
Lean on the Department, on Frank, on everyone you
trust."

She wiped an eye and said, "Yes, I—thank God
for Frank, all the men. And their families. I just turned
everything over...he's having a Department burial. Thank God. I
wouldn't know...my God, Ashton, I don't even know how to bury my
own husband."

Maybe Manuel had an
insight, but his mother was not numb now. That had passed; maybe it
had already started to pass before my arrival, but it had
definitely passed now. She was now weeping as though her heart were
breaking, and I was sure that it was. I went to her side of the
table and knelt beside her, took her in my arms, and just held on.
It was not a time for words.

But I thought I heard some. Something
tickled my auditory centers. It was softly husky but not an
altogether pleasant sound. And I am not even sure that words were
involved.

I just know that I turned
my head toward the doorway and there encountered the cold stare of
little Vicky Victoria.

And that shivered me clear to the bottom of
my soul. A kid of ten who looked six—okay, maybe so, but those
eyes, at that moment, those eyes were infinitely old.

Chapter Thirty-Two:
Synthesizing

Georgia had her emotions
pretty well under control by the time I departed. She even walked
me to my car and waved smilingly to the cop on duty at the curb.
Both kids stood in the open doorway of the house, two little waifs
too old for their years, yet far too young, I presumed, to fully
appreciate what was happening to them. Manuel raised his good arm
for a forlorn little wave, then disappeared inside. Vicky just
stared. I stared back for perhaps five seconds, then broke that
disturbing eye contact and got in the car. Georgia leaned in to
kiss me lightly on the cheek.

"Thanks again," she said, the eyes brimming
just a bit.

I said, "Let me know if there's anything I
can do."

"I will."

"Does Vicky ever talk to you?"

"No. Vicky has never talked."

"Not to anyone?"

"Not to anyone, no."

"You've never heard her talk to herself or
to imaginary friends?"

"No."

"That's odd. Jim told me just the
opposite."

"What do you mean?"

"He said she's been talking to Jane Doe for
years."

Georgia stiffened, withdrew, carefully
closed the car door, muttered, "You misunderstood."

I leaned across the
windowsill, studying her body language, told her, "No, I
understood him perfectly. Her real name is May-un-chee-tee. Jim
said she visited often. He seemed to think that she was Vicky's
natural mother."

Silence reigned for about fifteen seconds,
during which Georgia was studying the open doorway of her home.
Finally she said, without looking at me, "Why are you doing this,
Ashton?"

I replied, "I am obliged
to do this, Georgia. Jim told me the full story before he died. Or,
at least, as he understood it. He was trying to end that story. He
knew that he was jeopardizing his own life in that attempt. He
asked me to follow through if he could not. I'm following through.
And I need your help."

She said, "Whatever are
you talking about?" and walked stiffly into the house without a
backward look.

Vicky slammed the door.

So call me an insensitive bastard. I felt
like one. But I also felt something very ominous in the atmosphere
surrounding that little family. And I was resolved to by God get
to the bottom of it.

I arrived at Alison's
place ten minutes early, called in from the security door, she
buzzed me inside. It was a nice building, U-shaped with a
tastefully decorated lobby opening onto a large interior court
with swimming pool and gardens. Each ground-floor apartment opened
onto that courtyard. Alison had one of those. Took me a couple of
minutes to locate and get to it.

I have to say that this
young lady lived well. The apartment was spacious, stylish,
beautifully put together with lots of blooming plants and miniature
potted trees—also very sensuous, with soft colors and softer
fabrics that seemed to invite tactile involvement. I really hated
to step onto the carpet with shoes on; it was white, ankle-deep
pile, built for bare feet and maybe bare bodies. Alison was close
to that. She answered the door chimes wearing nothing but bra and
panties, greeted me with a soft kiss on the lips, apologized that
she was "running late," bade me make myself comfortable, then
quickly retreated to the interior.

I found chips and dip and a small pitcher of
vodka gimlets on the bar, cocktail glasses chilling in crushed
ice, so I filled a couple of glasses and went looking for my
hostess, found her in a queenly boudoir putting finishing touches
to her makeup. She accepted the gimlet, sampled it, made an
approving face, commanded me to amuse myself elsewhere.

Which was what I had in mind, anyway. But
first I satisfied my curiosity about the bedroom, took careful
mental note of the decor, browsed on through the rest of the
apartment. Soft music filled every room from concealed speakers.
There was one other bedroom, a study or library in which was set up
an artist's easel and a blank canvas, a guest bathroom, breakfast
room, dining room. Kitchen, bar, and living room were combined in a
flowing pattern that recognized the essential unity of functions
there.

Charming, yeah—beautifully
sensuous while entirely functional—but something was
missing.
Identity
was missing. This could be anyone's home—or no one's. It
looked like something you might see in a magazine on interior
design, an artist's conception. Nothing of a personal nature was
evident anywhere—no memorabilia or family photographs, nothing to
really tag or define the resident personality.

I was not surprised by this. I had more or
less expected it.

I returned to the bedroom
doorway. Alison had poured that lush form into a clinging black
sheath and was fussing with her hosiery. I leaned against the
doorjamb, took a sip of my gimlet, quietly observed, "Nice place.
Fits you as well as that sheath.''

She said dryly, "Thanks.
Beat it, please. I want to dazzle you with the transformation, not
with the process itself."

I told her, "Consider me dazzled to the max.
Lived here long?"

She replied, "Just long
enough to get everything the way I like it."

"How long is that?"

Our eyes met in her mirror. She said, "I
came out a few months ago."

"From where?"

"Back East."

"Uh-huh. Is that where you went to
school?"

She went to her closet, began searching for
shoes.

I repeated, "Did you go to school in the
East?"

"Yes."

"Me too. Ivy league?"

"Nope."

"Where?"

"None of your darned
business. Or
when,
thank you."

I told her, "I have to make it my business,
Alison. Where did you go to school?"

She turned to face me, a
shoe in each hand. "I went to several schools. Do you want
undergraduate or postgraduate?"

"I just want to know who you are," I replied
quietly.

She made it a joke, showed me her tongue,
said, "I'm happy to be whoever you want me to be, Professor Ford.
Do you really want to go out for dinner? Or would you just as soon
hang out here and explore my person?"

I said, "No dice, Dr. Saunders. You're too
pretty and warm to have hatched from an egg. So where did you come
from six weeks ago?"

She said, "You know, I resent the hell out
of this."

I said, "Don't blame you.
But I still need to know. Where were you born? When? What is your
father's name? What does he do? Where did you get your
education?"

"What the hell are you
talking about?" she inquired lightly.

I told her, "I'm talking about the
application for employment you filed with the County of Los
Angeles. Good thing for you they haven't gotten around to checking
it out. Because I did. And it does not check out, kid. All of your
qualifications are false. Even your name is false."

She laughed, sat on the edge of the bed,
angled a sharply oblique gaze at me, put on a shoe, said, "Maybe
you'd better explain the rules of this game to me. I don't
understand it. What am I supposed to say now?"

I replied, "You're
supposed to tell me who you are and why you're posing as someone
else."

She put on the other shoe, stood up, went to
look at herself in the mirror, adjusted the dress. Only then did
she respond. "Does this mean you're not taking me to dinner?"

"No."

"Then let's go. I'm starved."

I said, "You're not going to tell me about
it, are you?"

She said, "No."

I sighed, said, "Then I have to think the
worst."

She smiled, said,
"Tough."

Tough, yeah. Take it or leave it. Like it or
lump it. I did not want to take it or like it—but I could not leave
it, so I had to lump it. For a while. Just for a while.

Chapter Thirty-Three:
Mindtap

I took Alison to a swank
restaurant in Beverly Hills where the food was great, the service
immaculate, and the prices unbelievable. This place is so "in" that
it does not show its name and they accept neither cash nor plastic;
you must be precleared for credit and you get your check in the
mail. I do not frequent such places, but now and then is okay when
the occasion is right. This occasion seemed right. Not that I was
trying to impress the pretty psychologist. Actually I was hoping
to divert her. This place is frequented by movie and television
personalities. I have found that an "open mind is a diverted or
mildly distracted one; open, that is, for my purposes. The willful
penetration of an unwilling or guarded mind is a bit like sexual
seduction; you may not simply overpower, as in rape, but you must
woo and win; you seduce it.