Demon Demon Burning Bright, Whisperings book four (4 page)

Mel leaned over the box. “They’re not here
to prettify a brown cardboard box, Tiff.”

I squinched up my face. This was turning
into a chore. Still, Mel was right, the damned tree should be
decorated.

“He put the stuff for the tree on top,” Jack
pointed out.

That’s Royal, nothing if not methodical. The
package on top contained a collection of traditional glass
ornaments: Santas, trees, stars, what could be elves, reindeer, in
shining red, blue, orange, green, silver and gold. I cast my gaze
at my roommates, knowing what came next.

“You can’t hang a Santa right next to
another Santa!”

“Are you really this helpless?”

“If I could get my hands on those, I’d show
you how to decorate a tree.”

“Where’s the angel?”

“Maybe Mr. Hunky got a star.”

Mac stuck his head around the doorframe,
flattened his ears and disappeared again. He wasn’t getting near
the chaos. Smart dog.

Jack regarded the tree, which did look
lovely dotted with the colored glass shapes, twinkling transparent
icicles, glowing golden balls, the whole shebang wound about by a
wide, shining gold ribbon.

“It’s a mercy he got one already dressed
with lights,” Mel said. “Imagine the mess you’d make putting
those
on.”

I
could
imagine. They say you learn
something new every day. Me, I’m Christmas tree challenged.

Although I removed the decorations for the
tree, the box still bulged. The living room would out-dazzle
Santa’s grotto if I hung all the sparkling doodads. At least I
talked Royal out of decorating the kitchen, and my bedroom. He
wanted to hang mistletoe in the bathroom, too.

Jack bent to the box. “I see the tree
topper! There’s a picture on the side.”

I knelt to extract the box from all the
other stuff and had to blink hard at the picture on the outside. I
carefully eased the angel from the box and her casing of bubble
wrap.

She had pale skin, jewel-tone blue eyes, and
long, straight, silver-white hair.

I went back to the kitchen and despite my
resolve to
not
call Royal again, picked up the phone and
dialed his cell. It rang, and rang.

“Are you trying to call him again?” Mel
asked.

I ignored her.

Jack sniffed. “I never liked him.”

“I’m sure the feeling was mutual,” from Mel.
She skimmed one hand over her hair. “He was . . . nice.”

Jack made a disparaging noise. “
Nice
isn’t what you mean.”

She swept up to him. “Sexy. Hunky. So
what?”

“Mm. He was that,” Jack said. He caught my
gaze and decided to quit while he was ahead.

I wished they would not talk about Royal in
the past tense.

Mel twirled to face me. “Anyway, I don’t
understand why you keep calling him. When I was dating, calling was
the guy’s job. A girl
never
called the guy.”

The phone clunked in the cradle.

“Get over it, Tiff. You had a good time,
he’s moved on to greener pastures, that’s all there is to it,” Jack
said with a toss of his head.

I turned on him, ready to lambaste him, but
couldn’t find the words.

CHAPTER TWO

Next morning I drove down Twenty-Second to
find all the parking slots on Royal’s block taken. I should have
expected that at eleven-thirty. Twenty-Second is a favorite for
people taking a quick lunch break from work. I found a spot in the
Clarion Hilton’s parking lot and walked through the brick passage
which separates Chauncy’s Chapeaus and Bits ‘N Pieces, beneath
Mallory’s Bar and Grill. Royal’s apartment is three doors along
from there.

The gate across the wrought-iron staircase
was locked, so I fished in my jacket pocket for the key ring and
separated the heavy, old-fashioned key to the gate from the others.
Snow had frozen in little ridges on the whorled pattern on the
bottom two steps and the rail felt ice-cold beneath my hand.
Protected by the bricked-in stairwell, the higher steps were
clear.

Wonderful aromas from the street teased me.
Scones and raspberry butter from the bakery would be good. And
maybe a loaf of cinnamon-swirl bread.

The oiled lock turned easily. Through the
gate and up more steps, I knocked on Royal’s front door, hoping
against hope he would open it. He’d been away on urgent business,
something so important he had to rush off and didn’t want to
disturb me. He meant to be back by morning, but it took longer than
he estimated.

Who was I kidding?

The key ring also held keys to his front
door, the office door, his bedroom door and the door leading from
there to the roof. They were identical, but he’d had them etched. I
put the key marked “F” in the front door lock and turned it, then
pushed the door open.

I said his name aloud. My voice echoed from
the high ceiling.

I wiped my boots on the mat before bending
to take them off. Royal does not appreciate mucky footprints on his
polished oak floor.

He’d shifted his furniture along the room
when we took fourteen feet of it for our office, but apart from
moving the Christmas trees from the east wall to the south wall
behind the couch, the basic arrangement had not changed. The
fat-bellied Buddha smiled at me from across the room. The black
lacquered bar gleamed. The Christmas tree lights were
unplugged.

Now thirty-six feet long instead of fifty,
the room is still cavernous but voices don’t echo as badly. With
its high ceiling and brick walls, it still reminds me of a
warehouse loft.

Two big cardboard boxes on which Royal had
written
Xmas Decorations
in big red letters sat beside the
front door. During our last evening together, he said he’d hang his
decorations the next day, then help me with mine.

During our last evening together
. I
hated the sound of that.

With the sky overcast, insufficient daylight
came through the two new windows in the west wall, so I flicked the
switch beside the door to turn on the row of lamps which stride
along the ceiling.

His living space was tidy, nothing out of
place, a few paperbacks neatly stacked on the leather trunk he uses
as a coffee table, blue quilted placemats perfectly positioned on
the glass dining table. I went in the kitchen. No dirty dishes in
the kitchen sink; clean dishes, pots, glasses and silverware in the
dishwasher. The glass coffee carafe glistened.

The office was not as neat as Royal
preferred. I have my own filing system; a pile of papers here,
books and sheets of notepaper there -
I
know where
everything is. I flick a feather duster over my mess now and
then.

I went outside and trudged to the top floor.
Royal could be up here. He would not hear me in the living room if
he were showering.

Dammit, Tiff.
Of course he would
hear, his demon senses could penetrate the noise made by the
shower.

The king-sized bed was made, the quilt
smooth, pillows fluffed. In the bathroom, the towels on the rack
and his washcloth were dry. He had not used the shower or bathtub
today.

Depressed, I returned to the living room,
flipped my phone and called Royal’s cell again. It rang three times
before I noticed the tone sounded strange. It went to voicemail
after the fourth tone. I didn’t leave another message.

Something about that ring tone. . . . I hit
the button again.

This time I listened carefully. Not till the
fourth ring did I understand what I heard: two tones, one the
outgoing call, another a phone ringing at precisely the same
time.

Royal’s cell was in his apartment.

I dialed again, keeping my phone away from
my ear, concentrating. I followed the ring tone back to the office.
Another attempt, and I slowly sat in my chair and opened my desk
drawer.

I drew out Royal’s shiny black cell phone.
“Why did he leave it here?” I asked aloud.

He didn’t want to speak to me. Simple as
that.

But he could have turned it off, or hid it
where I would not find it, or ditched it. Or just plain ignored my
calls.

And it was in
my
desk drawer. This
did
not
make sense.

I flipped open the phone and checked the
call log. No outgoing calls, three missed calls, six messages and
one text in his mailbox. I called and hung up three times. I left
six messages yesterday. I checked the messages anyway. Don’t you
hate listening to your own voice? I sounded hesitant, whiney:
“I
hope you’re okay. I’m getting just a
little
bit
worried.”

This left the text, which I definitely did
not send.

I made the first of my six calls at noon
yesterday and the text came yesterday afternoon at two. It looked
like Royal was here, deleted his phone records, put his cell in my
drawer and left. Everything before yesterday afternoon was gone, so
he left his apartment before then.

I read the text.

“
I expected you this morning. I trust you
did not forget our appointment.”

Cicero.
”

Cicero?
Who in hell’s name is
Cicero?

I frowned as I contemplated the message. If
Royal knew this man, why did Cicero
sign
his name when
Royal’s cell would ID him?

The log said
unknown caller
. I
checked his address book. No Cicero listed. That in itself was odd.
Phones nowadays automatically add callers to the address list.

Turning the desktop computer on its
swiveling base to face me, I powered up and activated Snoopy. This
is Royal’s baby, a program which pokes its nose where it should
not. I’m far from adept, but I’d logged in from home a dozen times
today, hoping to find Royal on there. Royal and I can access Snoopy
at the same time from different computers and work together as a
team. If that sounds super-technical, it is, and as I said I’m not
that good with the program, but I’d know whether Royal and I were
logged in at the same time.

Snoopy and I were alone. I sent him prying
cyberspace.

I learned something of Roman philosopher
Marcus Tullius Cicero, the town of Cicero, restaurants called
Cicero’s, but I doubted any of it had anything to do with the
Cicero who called Royal. The chance I’d find anything was
practically nonexistent.

The sequence of numbers told me Cicero’s
telephone number was not US, but maybe from another country? I
dialed it, but got dead air, not even a ring tone.

I leaned back and pictured the evening
before Royal left. Nothing unusual happened. We snuggled in the
living room and read, then drank hot chocolate floating with
marshmallows before going to bed. He took a marshmallow from the
packet and flicked it at me; hit me dead on the end of my nose.
Naturally, I retaliated. We went upstairs laughing. It was a good
evening.

Then he left without saying good-bye.

Things change the longer two people are
together. Maybe this was our first silent parting. Still, I didn’t
fret at first.

I called him when Clarion PD contacted me
about the plant. He didn’t answer his phone so I supposed he must
be out of calling range. No big deal; he’d call me back.

But he didn’t.

Now it seemed I had reason to worry.

None of this made sense. Unless. . . .
Unless someone took Royal by force and he just had time to toss his
cell in my drawer so they didn’t take it away from him.

But that didn’t explain why his call logs
prior to yesterday afternoon were erased, and there was no evidence
of a struggle.

I scrubbed at my scalp with frustration,
shut down the computer, went through the living room and pushed my
feet into my boots. Locking the door behind me, I tromped up the
steps to Royal’s bedroom again.

With a twinge of guilt, I sat at the
roll-top desk, turned on Royal’s laptop and went through his files
and address book. I did the unthinkable: I checked all his e-mail
folders, even the spam, but apart from a few saucy notes from me,
they were business related and no mention of Cicero.

I closed the laptop and sat staring at
nothing, panic rising in my chest. I had no idea what to do next,
if I should do anything. I do not deal well with helplessness.

I left the bedroom, jiggled the doorknob to
make sure it was locked and went down to the street, locking the
gate behind me.

As I paused outside Bailey and Cognac, I
spotted Royal’s pickup truck across the street in the residents’
parking lot. Intent on the slippery sidewalk, I didn’t look that
way when I approached his apartment. Now I couldn’t miss the big
red machine.

Relief flared for a brief moment. He was
here, somewhere on the street, in one of the stores, having lunch
in one of the restaurants.

Hope blinked out like a blown light bulb -
he would have showered this morning if he were here. He was not in
the apartment overnight.

But maybe he recently got back from wherever
he rushed off to? Royal enjoyed his food and never missed a meal by
choice, maybe he went for breakfast or early lunch
before
returning to his apartment.

My head started to spin as I ran options
through. But I knew, deep down, I clutched at straws.

I dashed across the street, earning a honk
from two sedans. The truck was locked and powdered with snow.
Scratching at the crisp white coat, I found ice beneath. Snow from
three days ago had partly melted then frozen overnight; then
yesterday’s light snowfall covered the ice. The truck sat here for
at least three days.

Did Royal drive here from my place three
days ago, park, do God knows what for two days, then erase his call
logs and dump his phone in my desk drawer yesterday morning? Was he
still around? If he took off, where did he go, and by what
transportation? I couldn’t see him catching a bus or train, or
taking a taxi instead of his pickup.