Touch of the White Tiger (9 page)

Blast from the Past

A
heartless woman. I’ll say. Anyone who could gun down a cool guy like Roy and a young man in his prime had no heart. But I wasn’t sure
cherchez la femme
was the order of the day. It just didn’t ring true to me. Corleone Capone rarely used female assassins. So I grabbed Mike from his meditations and we headed off for a visit with Roy’s widow to investigate the old-fashioned way—one interview at a time.

“Oh, Angel,” she said when she opened the door and, to my everlasting gratitude, pulled me in her arms for a warm, forgiving hug.

“Connie, I’m so sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault. I didn’t believe that for a minute.”

I held her tight, wishing I could cry with her. But emotions wouldn’t help either of us, and mine seemed so far away. She
finally pulled back and dabbed her reddened nose. Sniffling, she said, “Come in. And Mike! I didn’t see you there.”

“I am sorry, Connie,” Mike said, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. “Roy was a good man.”

“Come in, both of you.”

We stepped through the door of her northside bungalow into the heady scent of funeral flowers. Dozens of arrangements adorned every available surface. Connie offered us tea and made a pot of oolong, knowing Mike would drink that.

After the chitchat died down, Connie wanted to know what I had witnessed at the Cloisters. I shared the details with her, conscious of her vulnerability. She was a sweet-natured person whose eyes reflected her gentleness. I tried to choose my words carefully.

“The strange thing is,” I said after she seemed to be satisfied with my account, “I am certain that Roy called me for help. The police say there is no record of it, though. Did Roy say anything to you about getting in touch with me before he went out that evening?”

Connie shook her head. “He said nothing out of the ordinary. Though I can well imagine if he needed help he’d turn to you, Angel. He always said you were his best student. And he’d rather call someone he’d trained rather than a competitor. He was a proud man.”

“That’s why I responded immediately. I knew it would take a lot for Roy to ask anyone for help.”

“What about the mayor’s son?” Mike inquired. “Did Roy speak of him?”

“Of course,” Connie replied. “Roy was surprised and pleased that Victor Alvarez wanted to talk to him about a retribution job.”

“Did they have a contract?” I asked, eager for the answer. If there was no contract, prosecutors would have a hard time proving I had plotted the murder out of professional jealousy.

“Not that I know of. I believe that Roy talked to Victor for the first time the night they were both murdered. Victor requested the meeting at the Cloisters.”

“Why so late?” Mike wanted to know.

I nodded. “And why would Victor want to meet in a public place?”

Connie shrugged. “I wish I knew. I wish I could turn back the hands of time and tell Roy not to go.”

“Do you mind if I snoop around in Roy’s office?” I asked. “I’d like to make sure there was no contract.”

“Go right ahead.”

I wandered around Roy’s office alone while Mike waited for me out on the street. He said he had a bad feeling and wanted to make sure we hadn’t been followed. I chalked his uneasiness up to feng shui.

The Leibmans obviously hadn’t considered yin and yang when decorating their home in a typical nondescript Midwest style. They had self-vacuuming brown shag rugs and serviceable air-form furniture in golden earth tones, which was warm and cozy. But every cubicle surface was cluttered with memoragrams of the Leibmans’ grandchildren. Memoragrams were six-inch motion holograms created from digital video, looped for endless replay. It was like having a collection of pixies who never stopped moving and never aged. Mike loathed them.

I had to admit it was distracting to sit on the sofa and find a three-dimensional image of seven-year-old Trevor sliding into home base on the end table next to your elbow. Even more disconcerting was a commode-side hologram of three-year-old Maggie picking up her new puppy and beaming happily at you while you were on the toilet.

I ignored them as best I could while I explored Roy’s of
fice at the back of the house. With papers on his desk still waiting to be filed and phone messages still waiting for reply, I could momentarily pretend he was still alive. Especially when I got a whiff of his spicy cologne. I inhaled deeply, trying to memorize these final impressions that warmed my heart and made me smile.

Getting to work, I perused his filing cabinets and computer files, but found no evidence of a prior relationship with Victor Alvarez. Nothing else drew undue curiosity. I was about to leave when I rested my hand on the sweater draped over the back of his chair.

Mr. Leibman?

Yes?

This is Victor Alvarez
.

I heard their voices as clearly as if they stood in the room with me. Shocked, I yanked my hand away and spun, convinced I’d see them. But I was still alone.

“What in the—” I muttered. I spun back and stared at the sweater, taking a deep breath to slow my galloping heart. “Psychometry.”

The word popped from the recesses of my sizzling brain. It was a word I’d learned on a recent trip to the Investigative and Psychic Alternatives Consortium downtown. IPAC was a secret quasi-governmental agency that worked to develop practical uses for extrasensory perception and other mental phenomena in law enforcement and the military.

I’d been in denial about my own abilities. I’d always thought my mother’s fortune-telling parlor routine was an act, and I wanted no part of it. But when Marco talked me into being tested at IPAC, and my scores were off the charts, I was forced to accept that I was a natural psychic, and that I’d inherited my ability from my mother. They were two bitter pills to swallow.

I was still learning how to use my talents. So far I’d relied on scrying with a crystal ball. I’d never before dabbled in psychometry. Psychometrists could conjure images, sounds and scenes from the past by touching objects connected to those events. That, apparently, was what I had just done when I touched Roy’s sweater. Excitedly I touched the soft material again.

Yes, Victor, what can I do for you?

Do you know who I am?

Yes, of course.

Then you know I want to keep this quiet.

I’m discreet with all my clients, and potential clients.

Can you meet tonight?

Name the time and place.

Two a.m. The Cloisters.

Wouldn’t you rather come to my house? We can sneak you in the back door. It will be much more comfortable than the Cloisters at that hour.

Uh…no. I have my reasons.

Very well. See you then
.

I pulled my hand away and stood a long moment in stunned silence. Slowly I smiled, then let out a quiet whoop of amazement. This stuff really worked. I had to tell Mike.

When I rejoined Connie in the living room, she was chatting with her Personal Listening Device at a Queen Anne desk. I recognized the head-and-shoulder model because it was similar to mine.

“I’m thinking about having Roy’s nephew Robert give the eulogy,” Connie said quietly to the PLD. “What do you think, Teresa?”

The PLD smiled and nodded. “That’s a wonderful idea, Connie.”

“And I’m thinking of wearing the black dress with the gray lace.”

“You’ll look lovely,” Teresa replied.

I hated to interrupt. “Connie? I have to go.”

She looked up, startled, and smiled. “Of course, I was just…talking with Teresa. That’s what Roy named her. She’s been a great comfort to me.”

“I’m glad.”

“Have you enjoyed your PLD?”

I shrugged. “I don’t use it much. But my foster child enjoys dressing her up in pearls and funny hats.”

Connie chuckled and gave me a reassuring hug. We said our goodbyes, and I left promising to keep her up-to-date on my investigation. As I skipped down the front steps that led to the sidewalk, I promised myself that I’d take a vow of silence before I’d ever resort to having a personal conversation with a PLD.

“I heard it so clearly,” I excitedly told Mike as we walked down the sidewalk.

He glanced at me with his inscrutable eyes, then gave me one of his rare smiles. “I am pleased, Baker. Pleased that you used your talent.”

“It’s not my only one, you know,” I said with mock indignation. “I’m not half bad at wushu.”

“Now you are—how do you say?—pushing it.” He grinned, gently elbowing me in my ribs.

“Literally.” I gave him a playful shove back. “My point is this—now I know that Roy and Victor had no contract. They hadn’t even met until the night of their murders. This gives me some ammo. I’m going to call Berkowitz and tell him to get Roy’s phone records subpoenaed, which I’m sure he’s already done. If Roy and Victor only had one prior phone call, that’ll be the proof I need. After all, how can I be jealous of a business deal that I didn’t know about and that didn’t exist?”

I looked for a reaction and realized he wasn’t there. Turning, I found Mike standing utterly still, legs slightly bent and set wide. I knew from experience his finely honed senses registered everything in the environment. Suddenly, I too became hyperaware.

“Where are we?” I hadn’t realized we’d taken two turns that put us in an alley. We were still in a friendly neighborhood, but shadows fell on broken chunks of concrete scattered like ill-omened runes.

“Someone is here,” Mike whispered, squatting into a wide horse stance.

A low, feral growl sounded behind us. I whirled, crouching. Out of the shadows of a two-car alley garage stepped what looked like a wild dog, slinking with rolling shoulders into attack mode. Bared fangs glinted when it inched into sunlight. I squinted for a better look.

“I felt something was waiting for us,” Mike whispered.

“Wait, that’s not a dog. It’s a gray wolf.”

“Her name is Keshon.” The stranger’s voice sounded an inch from my ear.

“Aaaiiieee!” The roaring attack cry sounded from my diaphragm before I had time to think. I whirled with an aerial roundhouse kick to the head. I spun and lunged, striking his chest hard and fast with my fists three times, then knocked his legs out from under him. Down he went, rolling over with a moan.

I turned just in time to see the wolf galloping toward me. Mike gallantly stepped in its path.

“Keshon, hold!” the man on the ground shouted with great effort. The wolf put on the brakes and skidded to a stop. “At ease!”

The wolf docilely sat. The man sank back on the ground, trying to catch the wind I’d knocked out of him. Then he
propped himself on his elbows and looked at me in frank amazement.

Panting, confused, I looked down and recognized the spiked blond hair, the row of earrings adorning his pierced blond brows, the sexy, insolent grin which he managed in spite of his pain.

“Brad?” I asked incredulously.

“I let you do that,” he said hoarsely.

“Right,” came my snide reply, but I was grinning and reached down to give him a hand. “You really shouldn’t have surprised me like that.”

He climbed to his feet, which were covered in silver boots that looked like they’d been hammered by a medieval blacksmith. The chains at his heels jangled as he dusted off his white biker clothing. Brad looked tough, but he couldn’t abide dirt.

“Jesus, woman, who taught you to fight like that?”

“This guy.” I waved Mike over. “This is Mike, a former kung-fu monk from Shaolin.”

Mike stepped forward and took Brad’s diamond-encrusted hand in his. “I am pleased to meet you.”

“Naturally,” Brad said, whipping Mike’s hand in a complicated gang shake. I was amazed that Mike knew the moves and felt a little left out.

“Are you okay?” I asked when Brad turned back to me.

He touched the corner of his lip with a pinky and examined a dab of blood. “I’m not sure, Angel. I think I need a hug.”

He pulled me close, cupping my derriere and pressing my abdomen against his hips where, against all odds, his desire for me stood ready and waiting. Then he grinned and laughed at my appalled reaction.

“You’re an animal, Brad.” I pushed him away. “I see you haven’t changed since I last saw you.”

I’d met Brad five years ago at a convention in New Orleans,
where local retributionists were big into creating mystiques and alter-identities. The convention was like a weeklong costume ball. Even though I wore a skimpy black leather outfit and temporary blue dragon tattoos on my forehead and chest, colleagues looked me up and down as if I were an undercover certified public accountant who had come to audit their taxes.

That’s one reason I fell under Brad’s charms. He looked past my “ordinary” motif and swept me off my feet. Literally. I’m embarrassed to say we had a one-night stand. Actually, we had four in a row. And that was the last we’d seen of each other.

The decision was entirely mutual. We’d had fun in bed, and he still obviously turned me on. But having sex with Brad was like taking an aerobics class. It was sweaty and made me feel better, but I found myself sneaking glances at the clock. I guess you could say he’s the guy who taught me that sex without emotion is just…sex.

Still, I got a kick out of the way Brad stood out in a crowd. It wasn’t just because he was cocky, young and good-looking. He’d dubbed himself Brad the Impaler. Considering his propensity for untimely erections, the name probably fit in more ways than one. But he’d taken that nom de guerre in an allusion to Vlad the Impaler, the brutal Romanian Count Dracula whose savagery gave rise to the Dracula vampire legends. Brad had even filed his eyeteeth to fanglike points.

They gleamed in the sun as he grinned at me. I put my hands on my hips and scowled in return, determined not to let him cop another free feel. Since feminist indignation could never penetrate Brad’s testosterone-saturated brain, I’d have to keep my distance. I really didn’t want to beat the hell out of him a second time.

“So, Brad, what brings you to this alley? It’s a little far from New Orleans.”