More Than an Echo (Echo Branson Series) (23 page)

His eyes seemed to turn red. “It will when I prove he’s sleeping with one.”

I swallowed a lump in my throat. “That’s not investigative work, Carter. That’s mudslinging.”

His lip curled like Billy Idol’s. “Then I suggest you put on a raincoat, because my story is going to bury you in that mud. Now, scoot along and let the real reporters work.”

I turned to walk away and he called after me.

“You would be better off spending this time preparing your ultra thin résumé. I hear they’re hiring at Burger King.”

Turning on my heel, I started for the conference room where I flipped open my cell, and called Danica and told her about Carter’s story. Danica loved Mayor Lee. He had done so much for the small business owners in the city as well as put up a good fight for gay marriage. He was a love him or hate him kind of politician, leaving few straddling the fence over his policy-making.

“He wants to bury our mayor? What an ass! You do know what you have to do, right?”

I shook my head.

“Are you shaking your head?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“You need to discredit his story before it gets out of the gate. He is going for the sensational angle. He is going for what appears to be a juicy story, when it is, in fact, nothing but a burnt hot dog. You need to pull that rug out before he gets started.”

Nodding, I started taking notes.

“Mayor Lee is a good man and has done so much for San Franciscans. He deserves better than to have to defend harmful allegations. You need to cut that jerk off at the pass, Clark.”

 “I suppose I can do that.”

“Know what you need?”

“Don’t say it.”

“You need Tip.”

“I said don’t say it.”

“Clark, she’s the best telepath you know. If she could get in there and read Lee’s mind, see if there’s even a hint of truth to it, at least you’ll know whether to pack your bags or fight. Maybe if you can get close enough, you’ll know for yourself.”

She added, “If I have to go out with that pecker head, you are going to owe me until the day you die.”

“I know.”

“Then go on out there see whether Lee is innocent and get your proof if he’s not. I’ll see if there’s anything the boys can get you.”

I picked up the phone all right. I called Rupert James, a local necromancer who owned one of the nicest yachts in the Berkeley Marina. Rupert and I met my junior year in college, when there had been a haunting of a local boy. Melika had sent us to put a lid on the situation and see if the boy was also a necromancer. Turned out, the boy was not. He was being haunted by a kid he had killed in a gang fight in Oakland. That’s what a necromancer does...they talk to the dead.

And I thought
I
was cursed.

I had enjoyed working with Rupert and he said I could call him anytime for a nice sail out on the bay. I needed a nice sail, right about now, but unfortunately, I got his voice mail saying he was in Catalina and would be returning tomorrow. I left a message telling him I was in bind and to call me as soon as he got back.

Rupert had some of the best connections in the city. Well, around the city. You see, dead men
do
tell tales, and if I couldn’t find the truth out about Mayor Lee from the living, maybe the dead could tell me a thing or two.

In a recent story, one of the Hispanic workers at the mayor’s home had died of a heart attack. It was that worker I wanted Rupert to talk to; see if there was anything to Carter’s charges.

I started off toward my own car and unlocked Ladybug, trying to push Tip from my mind. She was the last thing I needed right now. I spend a great deal of energy trying to convince myself Tip had never been anything more than a good-looking complication in my life. Like most telepaths, she felt superior to the rest of us. She always had. It pissed me off back then, and it pissed me off now. Calling her to come help me would just open doors I didn’t need open.

Me need Tip?

Never.

Luigi from the bakery nabbed me as I made my way up the stairs with two bags of day olds in either hand. Flour dusted his thick moustache and floated off it when he explained how he ended up with two bags of day old pumpkin spice bagels.

When I got to the Mission, Bob was nowhere to be seen. My senses were firing off impulses telling me all was not well in the Haight.

Ditching my day olds into the hands of a perplexed drunk, I headed deeper into the Tenderloin. Everyone I stopped to ask about Bob was either too drunk, too strung out or too oblivious to even know who Bob was. I had been on the streets for over an hour before someone finally remembered seeing him.

“Bob? Saw him two days ago. Or was it three? No, two.” He shook his head. “Coulda been four. Anyway, he was talking to some guy in a van.”

“A van? What color van?”

“You a cop or somethin’?”

“I’m the bagel lady.”

His eyes lit up and his face softened. “Oh! Bob talks about you all the time. You’re…uh…”

“Echo. Echo Branson.” I handed him my business card.

“No, that’s not it.” Suspicion returned to his eyes.

“He calls me Jane. My…um…street name is Echo.”

“Yeah! That’s it. Man, Bob thinks you fuckin’ hung the moon. Goes on and on about what a good friend you are.”

I smiled politely, but my senses were tingling. Something was wrong. “Do you remember the color of the van?”

“It was dark.” He stuffed my card in his back pocket.

“Okay...do you happen to remember where you were?”

He scratched his nine o’clock shadowed chin. “Wait. Yeah. I remember...he was wearing them really cool hiking boots some do-gooder gave him. Columbus or something. Bob really loved them boots. Always yammering about them and the friend who gave them to him.” He squinted at me. “It was you who gave them boots to him, wadn’t it?”

I sighed.  I
was
that do-gooder and he did love those boots. “It was. Your name is?”

“Leroy. Leroy Brown. You probably heard of me. I’m the baddest guy in the whole damn town.”

I wrote his
nom de plume
down, lowered my shield, and knew, of course, that he was lying. It’s not uncommon for street folk to make up names, or, as was more common, have them foisted upon them by someone else. I imagined that at some point in time Leroy here probably
was
a bad ass.

“Thank you, Leroy. Look, if you see anything, call me any time, day or night.”

Leroy nodded and started away. Then he stopped and turned around. “You really want to know anything that goes on down here, you oughtta ask Shirley. She knows everybody and everything that goes on down here.”

“Where can I find her?”

“This time a day, she’s napping in the park. Can’t miss her. She got a white dog, a black cat and a green bird. Be careful a them animals. If that dog growls at you, she won’t talk to you. You gotta pass muster with them animals before she’ll give you the time of day. So, if the dog barks, just keep goin’.”

I found Shirley and her menagerie sleeping on a park bench. The white dog, which looked like a dalmatian with one black spot right between his eyes, was curled up under the bench. The black cat was asleep on what appeared to be a pile of rags. Perched on the back of the bench was the green bird, a parrot of some sort. The parrot had a yellow head and eyes that were studying me. I can read many animals, but not birds.

The dog rose and ambled toward me. His nose was pink and his eyes were blue, and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his sleek frame. I put my hand out for him to sniff, which he did.

“Cotton doesn’t usually warm up to strangers that quickly.” Shirley looked a hundred and five years old; like one of those apple dolls with a thousand folds and wrinkles. She had a green kerchief in her hair, which was completely white and heavy like straw. Like most homeless along the Tenderloin, she was wearing different outfits. She had on a green dress, a purple skirt, red stockings, blue leggings, several white socks, a multi-colored macramé vest and a pair of brown shoes. When she sat up, the cat rose and stretched before walking over to me and checking me out.

I realized Shirley had one blue eye and one green eye, and I nearly fell over. One of two things was happening here; either she was one of my kind, or she possessed some other psychic ability because my shield was
always
up. Just to make sure, I put a wall around my mental energies as well. Tip had taught me how to do so after long, tedious and grueling hours of frustration, yelling, and even throwing things. My powers did not extend to telepathy, but Tip and Melika insisted I learn how to protect myself from them. I was not a quick study, but I did eventually learn how to perform even the most rudimentary mental telepathic block.

Shirley grinned. “My. I don’t see that move very often. Of course, it’s not often I’m coherent enough to notice. Whoever sent you...did they tell you I’m a loon? A nutjob? I fade in and out of sanity like the San Francisco fog. Mostly in. In. Sanity.” She chuckled. “You’re getting me on an upswing, but that could change at a moment’s notice. I’m not kidding you, either. So, out with it.”

I told her, and when I finished, I handed her my card, which she tucked into her layers of socks.

“I’ll check around and see what I can find out. The missing guys are Rusty, Don Jack and Bob?”

I nodded. “And a fourth guy, but no one seems to know his name.”

“I’ll see what I can…see.”

“Good. Thanks for your help.” I started for my car when she called out to me.

 “There’s evil afoot out here. Don’t know what it is, but it’s there and it’s very powerful, Echo Branson. If it’s not after you now, it soon will be.”

A cold breeze blew across my arms as I ducked into my car. What was I getting myself into?

Finn called and left a message. I returned it.

She told me without preamble, “I filled out an incident report on those guys, so at least we’re working on it.”

“Thank you. It mea—”

“Look, I have to run, but if you find a few evenings that work for you, can we make a date?”

“You do know that people don’t go out on dates anymore, right?”

“What can I say? I’m old-fashioned. Talk to you soon.”

“Be careful out there.”

No sooner had I hung up than my phone rang again. “What the fuck have you done?” It was Carter.

“I’ve done a lot. I showered, I’ve eaten, I’ve played with my cat. Can you be a tad more specific?”

“You know what the hell I am talking about. Wes won’t run my mayor piece. He didn’t say why, but I’m pretty damn sure you had something to do with it.”

“So?” I hadn’t, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

“God. Damn. You. Branson! Who the hell do you think you are? You’ve got nothing! This is professional suicide! You can’t make something out of nothing, and stopping me from going to print is an amateurish move at best.”

“Apparently, whatever trash you wrote, Wes doesn’t want or he’d take it to press. That’s not my fault.”

“Being incompetent is one thing, but making an enemy of me is a foolish, foolish mistake.”

“Carter, I was your enemy before Wes held your story.”

“You’re going to regret this, Branson. When this all comes out in the wash, you won’t be able to get a job as a paperboy.”

I hung up on him. The truth was, he was probably right. If I didn’t come up with a real story, Carter had enough clout to make me invisible.

By the time I got home, I was mentally drained. Too much noise in my head exhausted me. I needed to meditate, to get centered, to quiet my spirit.

At the front door, there was a huge Tupperware container filled with lasagna. I smiled. Luigi was the best.

My belly full, my mind finally beginning to quiet, I quickly fell into a meditative state where all those bad energies slowly dissipated. I was there for a long, long time, regenerating my spiritual energy and just cleansing my soul.

When I was coming out of it, I could hear Franklin’s voice saying something about seeing the obvious. Had I missed the obvious? Had I looked through it instead of
at
it?

Opening my eyes, I rose and stretched. Tripod sat in the window ignoring me.

I pulled my pen out and started writing down words that were coming to me. Addict was at the top of the list. So far, the commonalities of the disappearances were they were homeless guys who were drunks, but interestingly not drug users. All were from the general vicinity. All disappeared at night. If they had been killed, if someone was just out to roll a drunk, they’d have been left where they were murdered. Who would move a dead homeless body around, and why? If they’d been killed, someone would have found their bodies.

Did that mean they were still alive?

And if so, for what purpose?

Kneeling down, I gently stroked Tripod as I stared at the stump of his missing leg. What wasn’t I seeing here? It was like the lyrics of a song you know but can’t quite come up with the title; barely out of reach, I shook my head and hoped whatever I was missing would come to me sooner than later.