Stefan Petrucha - Dead Mann Walking

Rather than wait for the full Google, I pulled out my recorder to get down the address. Almost had it, too, but the white-eyed string bean I spotted on the way in started screaming. I hoped he was doing a random schizophrenic thing, but the finger he jabbed in my direction said otherwise.

“‘Son of man, can these bones live?’ ‘O Lord God, thou knowest! ’ ”

Great. An evangelist. I knew the quote. Grandma was a churchgoer. Ezekiel in the Valley of Dry Bones. Famous passage, even has its own song—the leg bones connected to the hip bone, etc. But the old man wasn’t singing. He came closer, finger first.

“Unclean bones!”

I’d have been offended if it wasn’t so accurate. Ashby turned from his screen, looking worried. “Heh-heh.”

“You reek of brimstone and death!” Now he was aiming at Ashby.

“Hey, take it easy,” I said.

“Breathe!”

When I stood to block him, everyone in the small library stopped and stared. I guess we were more interesting than whatever they were reading.

The old man went into a fit, eyes rolling all over the place. If he’d been a chak I’d expect him to start moaning.

“Breathe on these dead!”

“Easy, easy! Could you give it to me in English, pal?”

He shook his finger at the kid. “There! There! Behold !”

His nostrils flared. His eyes rolled again, but this time he looked like he was really grossed out. I took a sniff and suddenly realized what his problem was. It was Ashby. His face and arms looked okay, but the smell was unmistakable. The kid had some rot on him somewhere, probably made worse after the hot car ride.

The last thing I needed was a fight with a crazy liveblood with a good sense of smell. I had the address, so I’d done all I could for now anyway.

“Okay, got it. We’re going! Come on, Ashby.”

“Heh-heh.”

“Back to the valley, back to the dust, unclean dead!” he croaked.

“Right. Exactly. We were headed there anyway.” I pulled the kid toward the door, then back out into the sun.

The old man kept yelling, but didn’t follow. Soon as we were clear, I yanked my hand back from Ashby. I should’ve been more careful about touching him. That stuff can spread fast. I’d been in a car with him last night and hadn’t even noticed. I had to get him back to the office so Misty could have a good look at him.

Taxi was out of the question. Only a few would hit the Bones to begin with, and an odor like the kid had could ruin the comfy seats. Turned out the smell was so bad, I couldn’t even get him on a bus. I walked him, fast as I could, nearly shoved him up the stairs and through the door.

Misty caught the smell before she even saw his face. I made some quick introductions.

“Can you take care of it?”

Her hands went to her hips, lingered, then covered up her nose. “You know I’m not a cleaning lady, right, Hess?”

“I know; I just have a lead I have to follow fast,” I said; then I tried to look helpless.

She narrowed her eyes. “If there’s any deep cutting, you’ll be helping.”

“Promise,” I said. I felt bad about that. I had no idea when I’d be back.

“Heh-heh.”

Ashby gave her what looked like a smile. Misty tried to smile back, but couldn’t quite manage it.

9

Ithought getting into the building would be the hard part. I don’t know who I was kidding. Turned out reaching the damn thing was the challenge. Unless we’re delivering something or picking something up, chakz do not belong on Wealthy Street—and I definitely didn’t look like a cheery FedEx man. The second I got off the bus, heads turned. Wherever I walked, livebloods gawked. Heaven forbid I should ask for directions.

I pulled the hat down so far I nearly tore the brim, but my face was only half the problem. My crumpled clothes didn’t even match the pavement. It was only a matter of time before someone called the cops and had me arrested for aesthetic reasons. With my luck, Booth would show up.

I stuck to the alleys as much as I could, but even those were so clean that I stood out. Then again, so did my destination. No gleaming tower, 128 Wealthy Street was its own kind of zombie. It was dark, and had a kind of foreboding nineteenth-century splendor, with high gables, deep roofs, terra-cotta spandrels, and the like. Almost like a big, finely decorated fortress. It was also one of the most desirable addresses in the city.

The Boyles were on the sixth floor, not quite the penthouse, but not too shabby, either. There was no way I’d be getting past the doorman, so I wandered along the side and manage to slip into a service entrance and make for the stairs. That much was on my side. No one uses stairs anymore. So there was nothing between me and their apartment.

The big question was, What was I going to do once I got there? There was a time when I could stare a suspect down and he’d confess. I didn’t think I’d be that lucky, especially without a badge, but I did think that if I could talk to them, even for a little while, they’d let something slip. See, I doubted they’d knocked off a brother every day. Odds were this was a one-and-only event in their little lives. First-timers are always sloppy, especially emotionally. They’d give me something. Maybe it would just be a narrowing of their eyes if I mentioned Turgeon’s name, or a twitchy lip when I talked about Frank’s plans for his inheritance, but it’d be something. I only hoped I’d be on the ball enough to spot it.

After that, I had no idea what came next, but at least I’d know I had my perps.

The hall was wide, neat plaster with art deco sconces that looked original. The Boyle residence was one of three on the floor. I straightened my jacket and tie as best I could, took my hat off, and knocked on the heavy oak door.

A lock clicked; it swung inward. An old geezer, nicely dressed, in pretty good shape, still with some color in his hair, blocked my view of anything behind him. Butler, I figured, judging from the stiff posture and stone manner.

That gave me an advantage. He had no idea what to make of me.

I put my foot in the frame and said, “Cara or Martin Junior in?”

He took a step back, purely on instinct. Seems the thing to do when a dead man comes to your door.

Recovering from his initial shock, he scowled pretty fiercely. “How did you get in? Get out of here. Get out of here at once.”

I could tell he was used to having chakz obey him, so I came on strong, just to keep him off guard. “No can do, Jeeves. But the sooner I talk to them, the sooner I’ll be gone. Want to tell them I’m here? And maybe take my hat?”

“I’ll do no such thing!” he said.

His hand came out, fast and flat, to shove me in the chest. He probably thought one quick push would send me sprawling into the hallway, so he could slam the door. If he’d been ten years younger, ten years faster, it would’ve worked. As it was, before he connected I managed an uppercut to the solar plexus. For a second I was afraid I’d hurt myself more than I’d hurt him. My wrist felt like I’d nearly snapped it. But I caught him right where I wanted. He keeled over, went fetal, and started moaning.

I stepped over him into a huge living room tastefully decorated with a few paintings. Chayce was the artist, I think. He was a pretty big local talent that the beautiful people oohed and ahhed over. Not to my tastes, but I admit he has a nice use of negative space.

The art appreciation class didn’t last long. No sooner did my street-worn shoes settle on the plush carpet than a stately woman rushed in.

“Is someone at the . . . ?”

Her gaze went straight to the guy on the floor.

Cara, I presumed. Couldn’t be sure yet. There was a photo on the computer, but I only saw it for a few seconds. She was very thin, but lovely, even in middle age, and had a finely carved face that showed just the right amount of cheekbone. It was only when I saw a bit of Frank’s eyes in hers that I was sure it was his sister. For a second I felt like a garish intruder, until I remembered why I was there. If she was guilty, she deserved it; if not, she should be grateful someone cared.