Tangled Souls (9 page)

“Bummer,” Seamus squawked.

“Yeah, bummer.” It was the third time Kathryn had canceled one of their nights together. They were drifting apart, an inevitable fate when the chemistry wasn’t right.

“Dammit,” he muttered.

For once Seamus had no reply.

When O’Fallon opened the folder to get his mind off his faltering love life, the witch’s eyes snared him again. Gavenia Kingsgrave had moved into a new condo five months ago. Her credit report showed she paid her bills on time and had only one credit card, which carried a small balance. Her job as a translator must pay well.

“You’re not strung out in debt,” he murmured. “So why are you messing with Gregory Alliford? Cruising to be wife number two?” He stared at the woman’s face a little longer and finally put the folder aside. It would do no good to obsess. The answers would come at their own speed.

His mind turned to his other case and his confrontation with Glass. How much should he tell Avery about his son’s situation?

“Best not to meddle,” he said, but somehow that didn’t feel right. He looked toward the phone, wondering if the young man might call, perhaps drop him a hint as to where to find the rosary. It would save a lot of pawn-shop visits.

“Maybe the kid has his blinders on too tight,” he said. “That would be a shame.”

He opened the magazine and leaned back in the recliner, content to let things fall as they might.

* * *

“If you’re on the make, Ms. Kingsgrave, you need some fashion tips,” O’Fallon observed as his quarry caned her way to the front door of the Alliford house. Clothed in a long black skirt and a light-green blouse, she sported very little makeup, and her hair was in a long French braid. He personally thought she looked nice, but then he didn’t socialize with the upper crust, where three-thousand-dollar designer dresses and five-hundred-dollar shoes were the norm. What did Gregory Alliford see in this woman? Was he slumming? Or was there something else?

As she was readily welcomed inside by the maid, O’Fallon popped open his notebook and made an entry, glancing at his watch to check the time. Nine fifty-eight. At nine ten she’d left her condo and stopped at a Starbucks, purchased two Grande coffees, and then made a beeline here. She’d drunk one on the way over and carried the other inside the house.

“Serious caffeine addiction,” he said. He flipped open the subject’s folder and riffled through the growing collection of documents he’d added to it this morning after an online search. Rising before dawn had its advantages. Not that there was a choice—once Seamus was awake, sleep was impossible. This morning it had been Gilbert and Sullivan opera tunes.

Better than artillery.

O’Fallon pulled out his voice recorder, a gleaming silver digital version he’d bought for his birthday. He still thought it looked cool, more high-tech than the one he’d carried before, although he hadn’t figured out all the little bells and whistles.

He clicked it on.

“Further notes on Gavenia Kingsgrave. She’s thirty-seven years old, unmarried, a genuine card-carrying witch, and claims to be a psychic.” He snorted at that and then read a bit farther, letting the machine run. “What, no one–eight hundred psychic hotline of your own?” he chided. “You’re never going to get rich that way.” A few more lines down. “Oh, you don’t need the money because your family’s rolling in it. Your aunt is the widow of Alexander Merin, of Merin Foundation fame, and your sister, also a widow, is co-owner of Hansford Technologies.” He shuffled papers, doing a quick calculation of their combined net worth. “Ka-ching! Well, we’ll never have to run a benefit for you, sister.”

He clicked off the recorder and moved to the page he’d found most interesting—a newspaper account of his quarry’s traffic accident overseas nearly six months earlier. The accompanying photo made him queasy. The car was mashed beyond recognition, crumpled into a stone wall like a flattened soda can. Apparently Ms. Kingsgrave had come damned close to meeting her pagan gods. Her boyfriend, a man named Winston Thomas, made the trip without her. O’Fallon scanned further in the article, but found no mention of drunk driving. According to the paper, it was just an early-morning encounter with a flock of woolies on a remote Welsh country road.

“Sheep happen,” he said. He dug through more of the papers until he found the second article, a brief mention in the local Welsh newspaper from a month later, saying that the patient was returning to the States and that her aunt had contributed a sizable donation to the hospital in gratitude for the care her niece had received.

“Bor-ing,” he muttered, unconsciously using Seamus’s favorite word. Nothing screamed temptress or scam artist. “So if you’re not screwing him, what’s your game, sister?” he asked. He tossed the file onto the seat and huffed in irritation. The beginning of a case was always a hassle. Too little information, with no clue who was on the level.

“So how does this relate to the TE?” he grumbled, using Avery’s shorthand for the “triggering event.” In this case, the TE was the Alliford boy’s death, the tragedy that had brought Gavenia Kingsgrave into Gregory Alliford’s life.

“What’s her angle?” No answer came bubbling forth. “‘When in doubt, work both sides of the equation.’” Another Avery gem. It was time to learn more about the grieving parents. Perhaps they might provide clues to the lady with the sea-blue eyes.

He opened his notebook, flipped to a new page, and titled it
The Allifords
. It sounded like a third-rate sitcom. He dug out his cell phone and began a series of calls. He was one day into his seven-day timeline and needed answers.

“She has a friend named Paula.” Another sip of coffee. “She lives in Glendale.”

“If you have no objections, I’ll give her a call,” Gavenia said.

“Fine.” He didn’t move, staring at the contents of his coffee cup.

“Do you have her phone number?”

He blanked for a moment, then gestured. She followed him down the long hall into a bright room filled with light oak furniture.

As he rummaged through his wife’s desk in search of the phone number, Gavenia inventoried the walls. She found a number of pictures of Janet and Bradley in loving poses, in contrast to Gregory’s assertion that his wife was an indifferent mother. Then a framed piece made her gasp. It was an obituary. She reread the name, just in case she’d made a mistake.

“I see you found it,” Gregory remarked as he thumbed through a leather-bound address book.

“I don’t understand,” Gavenia said, removing the frame from the wall to study the newspaper clipping in detail. “This says your mother-in-law died two years ago, but I talked with her yesterday.”

“A screw-up. There was a private plane crash in Belgium and we were told Augusta was on the flight. The press jumped on it and ran the obituary before it was officially confirmed. Augusta was furious and sued the newspaper.”

“I see.” Gavenia skimmed the piece, the final testimony of a person’s earthly accomplishments. Mrs. Pearce was respected, even feared, but not loved. The list of survivors held another revelation: Janet wasn’t the only child. An older daughter, Emily, lived in the Los Angeles area.

“I’ve got Em’s number,” Gregory crowed, pointing to an entry in the address book. The reaction seemed overblown, as if he’d just discovered the Holy Grail.

He needs to feel useful
, Bart’s soft voice explained. He stood near the doorway, quietly observing the scene.

“That’s great,” Gavenia said, trying to sound supportive. “Do you have Emily’s address as well?”

Gregory’s face clouded. “Em? I can try to find it. We don’t see that much of her; she’s persona non grata in the family.” He grinned. “She told Old Lady Pearce to shove it. It was a hell of a scene. Best Thanksgiving I’ve ever had.”

Gavenia cracked a smile. “I can imagine.”

“Em’s out of the will; her independence cost her everything.”

Gavenia puzzled over the framed obituary. Why would Janet keep such a thing, especially in such a prominent place?

Wishful thinking?
Bart offered.

She gave him a subtle nod in agreement. Perhaps Emily’s price for freedom was nothing compared to what her sister Janet was paying.

* * *

O’Fallon disliked stakeouts. You sat in your car; your butt got sore and your shoulders stiff while you waited for your quarry to do something interesting. Most of the time they never did. Except on one notable occasion when he and Avery were caught in the middle of an impromptu gang war, their car windows disintegrating in a blizzard of lead. His current situation was just the opposite; Gavenia Kingsgrave departed the Alliford residence about half an hour after she’d arrived, her clothes tidy and her hair in pristine condition.

“No quickie,” O’Fallon observed. Somehow that pleased him, though he wasn’t exactly sure why.

As he followed her on her daily rounds, she committed no untoward acts other than failing to come to a complete stop. Nothing sinister at all, unless you counted the fact that she was currently inside a New Age shop.

“Low on eye of newt, no doubt,” O’Fallon snorted.

He eagerly embraced his bias against all things New Age, and for that he blamed Shirley, his second wife. A seemingly sensible Catholic when they’d married, she’d hared off into the supernatural shortly after the honeymoon. Their small apartment became home to three stray cats—reincarnated souls, she called them—countless crystals, and enough incense to put the Vatican to shame. Seamus had rebelled, pulling feathers out of his tail in frustration until he resembled a bedraggled gray football.

O’Fallon took the hint; if Seamus wasn’t happy, neither was he. He filed divorce papers at the six-month anniversary. Not quite a Hollywood record, but it left a scar nonetheless. The last he’d heard, Shirley was living with her lover—another New Age woman—in Portland. That was the ultimate blow to his male ego. O’Fallon had chosen his girlfriends with more care from that moment forward.

He sighed and poured more coffee from his thermos. Mrs. Pearce’s fixation on the witch puzzled him. Why was she so sure that Ms. Kingsgrave was some sort of threat? So far she seemed pretty harmless.

“Everybody’s got an agenda,” he grumbled, clients included.

Parked down the street from the shop, he shifted his eyes from the entrance to the rearview mirror. It wasn’t the best of neighborhoods, and it paid to be vigilant. He’d already fobbed a dollar into the dirt-smeared palm of an itinerant who’d cleaned his windshield. He suspected more dollars would part from his wallet in the near future; the nearby homeless shelter attracted a steady stream of patrons. One waved his hands in the air as if signaling the mother ship. Another waited while his scruffy dog urinated on a nearby fire hydrant, and then he followed suit.

O’Fallon chuckled. “It’s pretty bad when a dog’s got better aim that you do, buddy.”

His cell phone rang. “O’Fallon. Yeah, hold on a sec.” He wrestled his notebook and pen out of his jacket on the seat beside him, then hastily scribbled notes as he cradled the phone to his ear. When his neck protested the unnatural position, he switched sides, nodding as the litany continued. One of the upsides of being a former cop was that his sources were always on the mark.

“Got it. Thanks, that helps,” he said, smiling.

The female voice on the other end reminded him that the transaction would cost him dinner and a movie.

“I’m good for it. Just not a chick flick like the last time, okay?” A laugh was the answer.

He flipped the phone shut and tossed it onto the seat, reviewing the notes he’d made. Gregory Alliford’s rap sheet was clean. His wife was another matter. Janet Pearce Alliford had a string of petty offenses: shoplifting along Rodeo Drive, speeding, tangles with authority figures ranging from tollbooth operators and cops to bouncers in upscale bars. Lots of citations, no convictions. The road map of a life off the rails, all smoothed over by Mommy’s money and influence.