Dead Bolt (29 page)

“I am alive, a part of this world. You are not,” I repeated.

There was sudden silence. I waited, opening my senses to further communication with them. I sensed nothing, heard nothing.

Had it worked? Had I banished them? As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t quite believe it. That had been too easy. I held still, listening, feeling, but as minute followed minute and I still sensed nothing, I dared to hope.

I descended the attic ladder to the third-floor hallway. The air seemed to shimmer, shadows hidden within shadows—it all seemed sinister. They were still here.

An image flashed in my mind: the settee.

I walked slowly down the stairs, pressing my back against the wall for safety, taking care to stay away from the railing. Each step seemed to squeak, and the wind rattling the windowpanes sounded like far-off laughter.

In the dining room was the settee. The settee I had laid Katenka’s still form on after she fainted the other day. The settee Katenka intended to bring to Emile’s shop the day he was murdered. I had wondered at the time why she was focused on it when there were so many other things to worry about. As I approached, I fully expected to see indentations in the dusty horsehair cushions, as though the ghosts were sitting there, watching me. But I saw nothing. I took a seat.

It was supremely uncomfortable. One area bulged out, the edging pulled up on one side. I looked closer. The upholstery was held down not with upholstery tacks but with staples, the kind used in a desk stapler. I snagged my fingernail under the staples and pulled them out, one by one, until I could fit a hand under the upholstery. I reached in. My fingertips felt something hard yet yielding, grasped it, and pulled it out.

An envelope. Filled with cash.

I counted it. One hundred twenty-dollar bills. Two thousand dollars.

It was an odd way to pay for an upholstery job. Unless that wasn’t what the money was for.

Had Katenka been paying Emile for something else? Had the Russian-speaking Emile known about her past and blackmailed her? Had Katenka killed Emile to put an end to the blackmail, and then fled, afraid she would be discovered?

And if so, why had she waited so long?

My phone rang. I glanced at the screen.

Zach.

“I got that information you wanted,” he said without preamble.

The voices started up again around me, bickering now. Sniping at one another. It wasn’t as frightening as the nasty laughter in the attic, but it was much more annoying. It was like speaking over a phone with a bad connection, when you hear the echo of your voice and try to ignore it. They were giving me a headache, as well as a sincere appreciation for those poor souls afflicted with schizophrenia.

“Did you find her?” I asked loudly, trying to drown out the voices.

“No. But I found something else. Meet me at Caffe Trieste in twenty minutes. Why are you shouting?”

“I’m sort of in the middle of something,” I said, lowering my voice. I tried plugging my free ear with my finger. “Just tell me what you found.”

“No.”

“Why not?” I thought of all those movies where someone refuses to divulge a secret on the phone, saying instead:
“I have critical information to solve the mystery; meet me in an abandoned warehouse down by the docks at midnight.”
That never turned out well.

“Because I want to buy you coffee. I’ve been trying to buy you coffee since we met.”

“This isn’t a
date
, Zach, for heaven’s sake.” The whispering grew louder, snider. The ghosts were making fun of me. “Just tell me.”

“You need caffeine. I can tell. If you can’t meet me right now, then how about this evening?”

“No,” I said, rubbing my temples. I needed Olivier to do his miraculous headache cure. Or bigger hands to do it to myself. “Fine. I’ll meet you there in twenty. But if you wind up dead, don’t come whining to me.”

“If I
what
?” Zach said. “Why would someone kill me for this information?”

“Why not? That’s what always happens in the movies.”

He laughed. “I’ll take my chances. Caffe Trieste is pretty mellow this time of day.”

I snapped the cell phone shut and gathered my things.

“I’ll be back,”
I said to the ghosts, channeling my inner Terminator. As I slammed the door behind me I could have sworn I heard a ghostly Bronx cheer.

A small part of me felt like a chicken for not finishing what I’d started with the ghosts, but the biggest part of me felt a palpable sense of relief as I stepped outside into the fresh air.

Besides, my resolve had been seriously eroded. I needed time to recuperate, to decide where to go from here. And my now nagging headache should be helped by the caffeine.

I noticed the homeless man sitting on the corner, singing “Jingle Bells.” He had attached a holiday wreath with a bedraggled red bow to the front of his shopping cart. It was nice to see somebody embracing the holiday spirit.

As I passed by him, he stopped singing and shouted, “No, I
don’t
have any heroin, as a matter of fact. Why would you ask me that?”

After my bizarre experience at Cheshire House, this made me wonder: Maybe he and the other talkative street folk weren’t mentally ill. Maybe they were conversing with invisible spirits. I stopped in front him and searched my peripheral vision. Nothing.

“You okay, lady?” the man asked.

“Sorry,” I said. “Hey, are you hungry? I almost forgot—I brought some lunch. My dad’s a good cook.”

“Sure,” he said. I fetched a brown paper bag from my car and handed it to him. He peeked in.

“Chicken and rice with broccoli,” I said.

“I like Thai better,” he replied.

Only in San Francisco.

“Sorry. It’s potluck at my house. I eat what my dad cooks.”

“Okay, thanks,” he said. “I’m honored. Got a spoon?”

“It’s in the bag.”

I was about to turn back to my car when I noticed a couple of long, thin, brown cigarettes peeking out of his shirt pocket. Pricey, European cigarettes.

“Hey, you hang out here a lot, right?” I said. “You talked to the police about the fellow who was killed the other night?”

“Didn’t mean to snitch on you,” he said, clutching the leftovers closer.

“No, of course not,” I hastened to say. “I just wondered if anyone else went in, maybe someone you forgot to mention to the police?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes my memory’s not so good. Especially if it’s not jogged by a charitable donation.”

What an operator,
I thought, though I kind of admired him for it. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a ten. “How’s this?”

He nodded and took the bill. His fingernails had that crusted, ground-in dirt that came from going too long without a shower.

“Fellow came by, said he used to live here a long time ago, in the house across the street, back when it was a boardinghouse.”

“What did he look like?”

“Latino guy, mustache. Gave me a twenty, some cigs. Good guy. But I guess he served time and he didn’t wanna talk to police.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dude had prison tats. You can tell ’cause they’re done with ink from ballpoint pens, not like regular tattoos.” He tapped his head. “I figured that’s why he asked me to keep the info on the down-low, if you know what I’m sayin’.”

“Did you hear anything after he went into the upholstery shop? Did you hear a gunshot?”

He shook his head. “Didn’t hear anything but them arguing. Then I left to go see a friend. I mind my own business, mostly.”

“Could you hear what they were arguing about?”

“Crazy talk, somethin’ about ghosts in an attic. And people say
I’m
nuts.”

“Anything else?”

The man tilted his head. “Yeah. Asked about a key.”

“A key to what?”

“A door, I think he said.”

“What about it?”

He closed his eyes and didn’t answer. I waited.

His eyes popped open. “He asked if the key to the door was safe.”

A
s I drove to meet Zach, I thought again of the letters Katenka told me Jim had found, the letters that seemed to be influencing him. I felt sure the key to it all was in the house’s past. If I could get ahold of those letters, perhaps they could shed more light on the house and the family who had once owned it. The ghosts hadn’t wanted their history known, had “told” Hettie Banks to destroy the files at the historical society. They must have had a reason.

Just as I was pulling up to a parking spot, my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number.

“This is Mel,” I answered.

“
Mel
. Thank goodness. I don’t know where to turn. I haven’t been able to get in touch with Katenka for
days
.”

“Elena?”

“Yes, of course. Have you spoken with her? There are so many things to go over for the party . . .”

I let her vent for a moment, only half listening, wondering what to say. If Katenka had stepped out for a couple of days to cool off, I imagined she still wanted the party to take place. It was her son’s first birthday, after all. But if something unspeakable had happened to Katenka, an elaborate Russian-themed birthday party would be in poor taste, to say the least.

I hoped Graham hadn’t confided to Elena my fears about Katenka and Jim. That would be awkward.

“I think you should make the decisions for the moment, Elena. Katenka has been out of touch, I know. But this is why you’re the professional, right? You make all the right sort of party choices.”

“But the event’s only two days away!”

“I realize that, but since you only started planning it a few days ago, percentage-wise, two days is huge. Think of it that way.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“I have to go now, but I promise I’ll let you know when I hear from Katenka. For now go make some party favors so everything will be just glorious, okay?”

“I . . . all right. Thank you, Mel. I appreciate it.”

I made a gagging noise upon hanging up, then felt bad. What was I, twelve? There was nothing wrong with Elena. She was perfectly nice. And it wasn’t out of line for her to be worried about the party that was supposed to take place in two days.

I parallel-parked in a residential area a couple of blocks from Caffe Trieste, an unassuming little coffee shop that has occupied a quiet North Beach corner for about as long as anyone can remember. It’s a local favorite and serves the best coffee in the world, hands down.

Zach was waiting for me at a small table by the window. He gestured to the barista as I sat down.

“I ordered you a double latte.”

“Nonfat, please,” I called to the barista.

“Fat lattes taste better,” said Zach with a smile. “How about a chocolate croissant or something? A sweet for the sweet?”

“Tell me what you learned.” I was
not
in the mood.

“You’re a tough nut to crack, Mel. Know that?”

“Maybe I’m just a nut.”

He gazed at me intently. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“Zach, please. What did you find out?”

He sighed. “Katenka said she met her husband online, when she was living in Russia, yes?”

I nodded.

“That was stretching the truth. She worked in the city long before she met Jim, online or otherwise. Paid a pretty penny to be brought in and ‘allowed’ to work at an underground club called Jelly’s.”

“Hard to picture Katenka as a dancer.”

“That’s because she wasn’t, not in the strictest sense. The women at Jelly’s do a certain kind of dancing, if you catch my drift. It may not be what she thought she was signing up for in Russia, but once they’re brought here, they’re stuck. If the women run away and file a complaint with the police, all they’ll get out of it is deported back to Russia. Either way, they lose.”

“That’s outrageous.”

“Things are tough in the former Soviet Union. There’s a line a mile long of women trying to get out, and there aren’t many legal ways to do it. Anyway, Katenka was one of the lucky ones. The bartender said she didn’t work there for long. Turns out she met up with an old man—would that be her husband?”

I shook my head.

“I got the sense this guy was something of a barfly. The bartender didn’t know his name but said he was an American who spoke Russian. Learned it from his grandparents, who were immigrants, according to the bartender.”

Emile Blunt,
I thought. “What happened then?”

“Far as the bartender knew, that was the whole story. Katenka didn’t show up for work one day, slipped away somewhere. Must have laid low for a while with her sugar daddy. Within a month she sent money to pay off her debt with her employers, so they let it go. Probably used her as a ‘success story’ to lure other women. Come to America, marry a rich man.”