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Ghost of the Past Page 8


  “Maybe,” says Elliot. Or maybe not.

  He closes the door as she walks off towards the next door in the hallway. He opens the container and takes a bite of a cookie. They are chocolate chip and they taste delicious. He sits back down at his laptop. He is sure that he will see the woman again. He starts on another cookie. He needs some coffee to wash it down, so gets back up and makes another cup, this one not as sweet. The cookie is enough sweetness for him—and maybe his new neighbor. He taps away at his laptop for a few more minutes before he has an address. He writes it down and puts his shoes on. He puts his ear against the door to check for talking. He does not want to run into her in the hallway and have to make small talk. When he is confident that there is no one out there, he exits and quickly makes his way downstairs.

  I wonder if this is the way the killer took. It must have been. The pace would have been similar too: woman at my door—Joyce’s door—bloodstain under my feet. Maybe now I’m making my exit at speed. Is this what happened on that night? I have to find out.

  The outside is too hot for any sane person. The street is empty, windows are fully open. It is hard to tell which is hotter, the outside world or the stuffiness of the inside. Elliot gets into his car and turns up the air conditioning. The car may be a wreck, but at least the air works. The day it kicks the bucket is the day he gets rid of the car. The drive only takes five minutes, but it is better than the twenty-minute walk—in this heat especially.

  He goes onto the antique store and walks to the desk. Behind it sits an old man. He should have retired years ago, but probably cannot afford to. He looks up at Elliot as he approaches and then back down at the ring he is examining. In his left eye is a magnifier. He has the ring up close to it, looking for some information which would only make sense to him.

  “What can I do for you?” asks the man without taking his eyes off the ring.

  “What can you tell me about this bracelet?” asks Elliot, putting Joyce’s bracelet on the glass counter.

  “You want it valued?” asks the man.

  “Valued. Anything else you can tell me about it. Where it came from. Anything out of the ordinary,” says Elliot.

  “Cost you ten bucks for a valuation,” says the man. Elliot takes out his badge and places it on the counter. “I should charge you twenty,” says the man, “for all the trouble you’ve caused me, but I am in a good mood today, so I will only charge the usual ten. Come back in a half hour.”

  “Half an hour?” says Elliot.

  “What, you think that you are my only customer today? I should drop everything and get to work on your bracelet? You think you are special, and because you carry a badge, you are the only person in the world? I should make it an hour, but I am in a good mood today so—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” says Elliot. “Half an hour it is. I’ll go get a coffee and come back.”

  “Black, no sugar,” says the old man. Elliot chuckles to himself and leaves the store. There are many coffee shops nearby, but the closest one will do for Elliot. He walks into one two doors down, orders a black coffee with no sugar for the old man, and an iced coffee for himself. He has had so much coffee today that he thinks he should not have any more, but an iced coffee does not seem like real coffee so he lets it pass.

  The iced coffee feels cool in his stomach as he walks back to the store. He cannot imagine drinking a hot drink on a day like today, but the man is inside, sheltered from this outdoor heat. He lingers on the street as he makes his way back, to kill the time. This street is deserted too, the heat too much for most people. He thinks about the woman who came to his door, a woman he may have a chance with—if he lets her in, which he won’t. He thinks about Joyce, the woman who appeared in his apartment. It seems that this is becoming a thing, women appearing in and around his apartment. He still could not make sense of her, but she had helped him, and he was sure that he could help her. He thinks about the dead woman found in the hotel, and how the bodyguard fits into it all, if he even does. Elliot is sure that he does, and if the bodyguard is part of it, then the politician surely is too.

  When he enters the store, the old man is examining the bracelet. Elliot puts the coffee down on the counter and without looking the old man picks it up and sips it. He lets out a satisfied sigh and continues with the bracelet.

  “So what can you tell me?” asks Elliot.

  “Not much,” says the old man. “It probably dates to the early seventies. Looks common. The gemstone looks like ruby, but it is actually rose quartz. There is some skill here in making it look more expensive than it is. The band is simple silver. It is solid all the way through. I would give you fifty bucks for it.”

  “I’m not selling it,” says Elliot.

  “Just the ten then, for my time,” says the old man.

  “Minus the coffee?” asks Elliot.

  “You chose to buy me that, for which I am eternally grateful. Ten will be fine.”

  “Nothing else? I mean nothing weird or out of the ordinary? I mean, I have heard that gems can hold energy or something. Anything like that?”

  “You sound crazy,” says the old man. “No, no energy, no souls trapped in there, no demons or anything. Nothing out of the ordinary—well, except one thing.”

  “What?” asks Elliot anxiously.

  “The only thing which is out of the ordinary is why you have not paid me yet,” says the old man. Elliot sighs and pulls ten dollars from his wallet. He places it on the counter, and picks up the bracelet.

  “Thanks,” says Elliot and leaves. He looks through the window and can see the old man studying another piece of jewelry, sipping the coffee as he does.

  Well, that accomplished nothing.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Bracelet

  Elliot stands in front of the mirror and looks at himself. He is wearing the one formal suit that he owns. This could be the only time he has worn it for a reason other than a wedding or a funeral. Black pants with a neatly ironed crease down the front. Black jacket to match the pants. White shirt, perfectly white from not being used. Navy blue tie to add a hint of color to the black and white ensemble. He tugs at the front of the jacket to neaten it up slightly. He holds onto it as he stares at himself.

  I can scrub up nicely when I want to, which is rarely. Not worn this suit for a few years now, but catching a criminal is as good a reason as any. I wonder what Joyce would think of me if she could see how I look.

  When he gets to the door, he stops and listens, hoping that Lynne might be out there, so that she can see him all dressed up, though he is not sure why he wants this. He pats his inside jacket pocket and can feel the shape of the bracelet. He gained no information yesterday, no information which is of any use.

  He opens the door and looks outside, there is no one in the hallway. He stands by his door for a moment before locking it, lingering as he does. Still no on appears in the hallway. Finally he gives up and goes downstairs to his car. As he gets in, he feels out of place, he feels too dressed up to be riding in this old car, but he has no other way of getting to the gala so starts the engine and pulls away from the curb.

  The charity gala is being held in a conference center in the middle of downtown. Various businesses and organizations have donated prized for the event. The highest bid, win the prize. Elliot checked his bank balance before leaving for the event, he is planning on not bidding for any of the prizes.

  As he nears the event, he can see increasing numbers of taxis and expensive cars. There is a value service at the event, but he parks a couple of blocks from the event, he does not want his car parked with the expensive ones, he does not want anyone else to drive it either. As he walks the two blocks, he basks in the coolness of the night. The stars have begun to come out, a clear sky allowing him to gaze up and see them in all their twinkling glory. The moon is nearing fullness, perhaps in a day or two it will become pregnant with fullness.

  Elliot enjoys the walk. He has not been outside at night
for quite some time, doing most of his business during the day, and he is enjoying the chilled walk under the stars. The street begins to become more populated as he nears the doors. The men all look the same, dressed in their tuxedos, but the women are a rainbow of color, each trying to outdo the others, some in simple and elegant gowns, others in outlandish and statement pieces. Each of them are wearing heels too high for them. They grip into the arm of a man, the teetering on the shoes, apparently enough of a fashion statement to warrant them being worn. Elliot looks down at the lack of woman on his arm.

  He gets to the door. There are two suits on the door. They both are wearing tuxedos, but they have a different look to them. They are security, but not real security. Elliot has seen security before. These people are there for show. He walks past them, they stare straight ahead, not bothering to look at anyone. They may as well be statues. Inside the doors there is a counter. A woman behind it is checking tickets.

  Shit, the site didn't say anything about tickets. Who the fuck does tickets any more? A charity auction too. I guess charities are picky about who donates to them.

  “Sir, your ticket please?” Elliot realizes that he had gotten in line and he is now at the desk. “Sir, can I see your ticket please?” says the woman, a look of hope on her face. She just wants to see the ticket and move onto the next person. The last thing she wants is a scene. Elliot reaches into his inside pocket and brings his hand out empty. He does the same for his pants pockets, and a look of confusion takes over his face. He sighs and applies a slight smile to his lips, being careful to keep the frustration on his face.

  “I seem to have misplaced my ticket,” says Elliot. “I’m sorry. I can go home and get it, but I really do not want to miss the start of the auction.”

  “You do not have a ticket at home sir, you do not have a ticket at all.”

  “Sorry, what is your name?” asks Elliot. The woman behind the desk does not respond, she just stares at him. “I had my eye on the Florida trip,” says Elliot.

  “Sir, you need to leave,” says the woman. Elliot notices two men appear from out of nowhere. They are also wearing tuxedos, but they are not there for show. They both have the look of security, Elliot is sure that they have thrown people out of many venues before. He reaches back into his inside pocket and brings out his badge, he puts it down on the desk. The two security guards close in, but hold off on throwing him out.

  “I need to get in there,” says Elliot. “It is official police business.”

  “Sir, do you have a warrant?” asks the woman.

  “No,” says Elliot, “but this is time sensitive.”

  “Then I am afraid that I cannot let you in. Can you escort this gentleman out please?” She motions towards Elliot and the two security guards close in on him, each grabbing an arm. He knows better than to fight.

  “Just two minutes,” he pleads. “I just need two minutes with Mr. Clarkson, I have some questions for him.”

  “Then you will have to obtain a warrant or make an appointment with Mr. Clarkson,” says the woman.

  “That will not be necessary,” says a voice from behind. “Mr. Clarkson will be happy to give you two minutes of his time. Just this way.” Elliot turns round to see David Arquez standing behind him. He looks even bigger than the last time they met. In a way, Elliot is glad that Arquez is one of those men who can get out of any situation—he has powerful friends. This means that he has never been faced with the situation of taking Arquez down, or Arquez deciding that he wanted to be somewhere else. He would not like to go one on one with this man.

  The two security guards let go of Elliot’s arms and walk back to their positions, blending into the scenery once more. Arquez takes hold of Elliot’s arm and guides him through the crowd, through the bodies of people milling about in the entranceway, past the intricately decorated tables, and into a side room. David Clarkson is sat inside, sipping some champagne with some other men, all of them in the same tuxedo.

  “This is Detective Lankford. He was asking about you at the front desk. I thought it better to bring him here for a chat with you, rather than make him go all the way home for his ticket or a warrant.”

  “Well, Detective,” says David. He stays sat down. The other men stay too, looking at Elliot as he stands there. Arquez himself stands behind David. Elliot looks around the room, which is waiting for him to say something.

  “Where were you the night of March 15th?” asks Elliot.

  “I have no idea,” says David. “You would have to talk to my secretary. She deals with all the details.”

  “And you?” asks Elliot, looking toward Arquez.

  “There is a good chance that I was with Mr. Clarkson,” says Arquez.

  “Were either of you at the Glamorgan Hotel?”

  “As I said, you would have to check with my secretary,” says David.

  “Have you ever been to that hotel?” asks Elliot.

  “I do not remember,” says David.

  “And you?” asks Elliot.

  “My memory escapes me, I’m afraid,” says Arquez.

  “Is there anything else, Detective? You do not have a warrant, after all. Are you here to arrest me?” asks David,

  “No, I am not here to arrest you, but I can tell when someone is lying,” says Elliot.

  “And what are you implying?” asks David.

  “That you are lying. The way you dress, the way you talk, the way you act, you can't escape it. You are a liar,” says Elliot.

  “I think that it's time for you to go,” says David. He looks over his shoulder to Arquez, who moves to Eliot straight away.

  “I will find out the truth,” says Elliot. Arquez gets closer and leans in to Elliot.

  “Let’s play nice,” he whispers. “No one in this room would be unhappy if I beat up a cop, maybe broke a few bones. All of them would swear that you started it. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  “I don’t get it,” says Elliot loudly.

  “Do not test me,” says Arquez. He takes Elliot by the arm and leads him out of the room. He throws him to the floor among the crowd and disappears back into the private room. Elliot stays down for a second before getting up and dusting himself off. Everyone is looking at him, but no one has looked round to see where the shouting is coming from. Elliot tries to look through the crowd as they go back to whatever they were doing. The voice is loud, but no one seems to notice that it is there.

  “If last night was not a dream, then tonight surely is!” shouts the voice.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Bodyguard And His Client

  He looks through the crowd, but he cannot see anyone. The voice continues, not as loud as before, but there is still an excitement in it. He tries to find the source. He knows that he should be leaving. David and his bodyguard will leave the room at some point and he does not want to create a scene, not with so many important people here to see it. Surely it would get back to the Chief if something did happen.

  He is looking in the direction of the voice when Joyce suddenly appears at his side.

  “I thought it was you,” says Elliot.

  “Oh, not you again. I thought that I had wandered into some lovely dream. I mean, look at all these handsome men. And the women! Just look at those dresses, I have near seen so many beautiful dresses in my life. What is going on here? Is it a celebration of some kind?”

  “You don't want to know,” says Elliot. “It is a way for the rich to rub their egos and pretend that they are doing something of worth, for once in their lives.”

  “Well I think that it's splendid,” says Joyce. “Everyone looks so grand. If you cannot find the happiness in that then I don't know what to do with you.”

  “We need to go,” says Elliot.

  “No, come on, let’s stay here for a while. Look at you—you scrub up well,” says Joyce.

  “Thank you,” says Elliot, “but there is no time to lose. I think that we are on to something.


  “We?” asks Joyce.

  “Yeah,” says Elliot. “You did help me to find some fresh evidence. It may just lead us to the killer, but we need to go now. We need to follow up some leads.”

  “Lead the way, Detective,” says Joyce.

  As they drive through the city, the questions form in Elliot’s mind. He needs to know the answers—he is a Detective. It is what he lives for.

  “Can I ask you something?” he says.

  “I'm not sure. You have been quiet since we left the event. I knew something was up. You want something from me, but have been hesitant to ask for it. Yes, you can ask me, but I cannot promise to answer.”

  “That’s all I can ask. It’s about your death, I mean, do you remember anything about it. Do you know that you are dead? Can you feel it or something?” asks Elliot.

  “Of course I know that I'm dead, but only because of the evidence. I don't feel dead. I don't know what I feel. It's like my memories are all inside me, but I cannot remember them. I know that I'm here right now, but I'm not sure how I got here. I was here before, but it's weird. When was I here last?” asks Joyce.

  “You were here yesterday, and the night before, all in one go,” says Elliot.

  “See, I knew that I was here, but I did not know when. It is the last thing that I remember, but it is not connected to being here now. If it was a minute prior to last time I saw you, that would feel right, yet if it were a hundred years ago, then that would seem perfectly normal too.”

  “I have been looking into your case,” says Elliot. Joyce goes quiet. “I’m sorry if it bothers you and I’ll shut up right now if you want me to, but I just want to make sense of it. We have an opportunity here, you know? Not many victims get to talk about their murder.” Joyce flinches at the word.

  “Can you please not talk about my murder?” she says.

  “Okay, but you are the perfect witness,” says Elliot. “There were some theories at the time, some suspects, but they were never followed up, or they led nowhere. Someone thought that it might be connected to the last case you were working on, but there were no reports from the case.”