Silver Master (24 page)

DAVIS STUDIED THE ENTRANCE OF THE RUN-DOWN FLOP-
house through the windshield of the Phantom.

“I don't like this,” he said.

“We've been over it a dozen times.” Celinda unfastened her seat belt. “I'm involved in this thing. That means I've got a right to go in with you. Besides, after I read his psi waves, I might be able to give you some useful information.”

She had a point, he thought.

He got out of the car. Celinda opened her door and joined him on the cracked sidewalk. Trig had followed them in his own car. He eased his battered little Float into a vacant slot, climbed out, and walked across the narrow lane to meet them.

“His room is on the second floor at the back,” Trig said. “I'll go around to the alley. That way if he slips out the window or down the fire escape, I'll be able to grab him.”

“Right,” Davis said.

He took Celinda's arm and steered her toward the apartment house entrance. The neighborhood was deep in the Old Quarter, only a block from the massive green wall. The Colonial-era buildings loomed darkly, blocking most of the sunlight. It was midmorning, so there was no visible glow coming from the Dead City, but you could feel the psi energy seeping up from underground.

By mutual agreement they had left Max and Araminta at the apartment along with the relic. Davis was fairly certain the artifact was safe with them. No human intruder could move as fast as the bunnies. If Araminta sensed a threat, she would most likely grab the device and run off with it.

Trig disappeared into the narrow passage that separated the apartment house from the building next to it.

The lock on the front door of the building looked as though it had been broken a long time ago. He opened the door and moved into the front hall, Celinda at his heels. The smell was a mix of rotten carpeting, garbage, and mildew.

“Whew.” Celinda wrinkled her nose. “Hard to believe anyone would actually pay rent to live here.”

“Probably better than sleeping in an alley.”

“Not by much.”

They climbed a sagging, creaking staircase and emerged in a narrow, unlit hallway. Number six was at the end of the corridor.

Davis knocked a couple of times. There was no response.

He tried the knob. The door was locked.

“Brinker,” he called. “Open up. We want to talk to you. This is Guild business.”

“Oh, that's sure to make him come running,” Celinda mumbled.

“You'd be surprised how often it works.”

“Well, it doesn't seem to be doing the trick this time,” Celinda observed. “I'll bet he's halfway out the window by now.”

“If he is, Trig will get him.”

He reached into his pocket and removed the locksmith's tool that he had brought with him. He inserted it into the lock and rezzed it gently. It hummed briefly in his hand, trying various frequencies.

There was an audible click.

“Got it,” he said softly.

Celinda eyed the tool. “Is that thing legal?”

“It is if you're a licensed and bonded locksmith.”

“That doesn't quite answer my question.”

“I know.”

He opened the door. “Brinker?”

There was no answer. None was needed. The unmistakable miasma of death wafted out into the hallway.

Celinda took a step back. She looked at him with shocked eyes.

He moved into the shabby studio apartment. The body was on a cot, sprawled amid dirty sheets. There was no sign of physical injury, just the pale gray color of death. A number of prescription medicine bottles stood on the end table together with a syringe. Two of the bottles were empty.

Davis picked up one of the bottles and looked at the label. Ice gripped his insides.

“Psi-trauma meds,” he said. “They tried this stuff on me while I was in the hospital.”

“Looks like he OD'd,” Celinda said, following him slowly into the room. “How sad. I wonder if it was accidental or a suicide.”

“There's a third possibility,” he said quietly.

She gave him a sharp, searching look. “Murder?”

“If this is our man, he was with someone else the night they searched your apartment. Mrs. Furnell said the second man spoke like a professor or a doctor, remember? He seemed to be the one in charge.”

Celinda shuddered. “Someone with a medical background would have known how to kill him with drugs. Is that what you're thinking?”

“Crossed my mind.”

“What's the name of the doctor who provided that prescription?”

He checked the bottle again. “Looks like Brinker was being treated at a local street clinic.”

“Why would someone murder him?”

“Don't know for sure, but I can think of a couple of possibilities offhand. Maybe he knew too much. He was being treated for psi trauma. Maybe he had become too unstable. Or maybe his employer didn't need him anymore.” Davis touched the dead man's arm. “I'm no medical examiner, but I don't think he's been dead very long. A few hours, maybe.”

He put down the bottle and crossed the small space to raise the window. Trig stood in the alley, looking up. Davis waved him upstairs.

It took only a few minutes to search the studio. By the time Trig walked through the door, Davis had checked the closet and gone through the drawers in the battered dresser.

“Damn,” Trig said, looking at the body with a glum expression. “Looks like we're going to have to call Detective Martinez again. Got a feeling she's going to be a mite put out about this.”

Davis closed the kitchen drawer and turned to contemplate the room. “Once she gets involved, things will get even more complicated. We need to find Brinker's employer before the Cadence PD opens up another murder investigation.”

Celinda looked up from the stack of mail she was going through. She held a crisp-looking white envelope in one hand. “I don't know if this is important, but it's the only piece of mail here that isn't addressed to current resident.”

Davis took the envelope from her. Another chill went through him when he saw the return address.

“What is it, boss?” Trig asked, frowning.

“A letter from the Glenfield Institute,” Davis said without inflection.

“Huh.” Trig made no further comment.

Celinda's brows snapped together. “Why are you both looking as if that letter is a note from the City-State Tax Service?”

“The Glenfield Institute is where I ended up when I went into that extended coma I told you about,” Davis said. “It's the private parapsych hospital where the Cadence Guild sends hunters who get burned.”

“I see.” Understanding lit her eyes. “Not a lot of happy memories, in that case.”

“No,” he said. He ripped open the envelope, pulled out the neatly folded sheet of business letterhead, and read the letter aloud.

The signature was that of Harold J. Phillips, DPP.

“Phillips is the head of the Glenfield Institute,” Davis said. “I've had a couple of letters from him, myself, in the past few months. He didn't like the fact that I checked myself out of the institute. Thinks I need follow-up care like Brinker, here.”

“Well, clearly you don't,” Celinda said firmly. She glanced at the body on the bed. “But Brinker may have needed some.”

Davis looked at Trig. “Call Martinez. Fill her in on what happened here. Remind her this is still Guild business.”

“Sure,” Trig said. “But she isn't going to like it.”

“I know. Once you've made the call to her, check with the director of the street clinic that issued these meds. Tell him the patient died and that the Guild wants to talk to the doctor who was treating Brinker.”

“Got it,” Trig said. “What are you going to do next?”

“Looks like I no longer have a choice,” Davis said. “Got to make that appointment at the Glenfield Institute.”

DAVIS LOOKED AS CALM AND CENTERED AS ALWAYS, BUT
Celinda was intensely aware of the tightly leashed tension beneath the stony surface. His energy patterns were sharp and hotly colored just as they had been last night when he had prepared to do battle with Landry's men.

She stood with him in front of the massive iron gates that guarded the Glenfield Institute. The large stone building was designed to look like a gracious mansion. It was surrounded by at least a couple of acres of manicured gardens, ponds, and fountains.

She looked at Davis. “You okay?”

“I'm not going to have hysterics, if that's what you mean.”

She smiled. “I know. You're under complete control.”

He cocked a brow. “You can tell that?”

“Sure can. I call 'em as I read 'em. You're definitely in control.”

“Thanks for letting me know that. I can't tell you how much better that makes me feel.”

A groundskeeper approached the gate.

“Security,” Davis said to Celinda. “The theory is that if they're dressed like gardeners, the patients won't notice.”

“Obviously, you noticed.”

“Security people always look like security people. They can't help themselves.”

“What can I do for you?” the groundskeeper asked, eyes watchful.

Davis handed him a business card. “We're here to see Dr. Phillips. Guild business.”

The guard frowned at the card and then spoke quickly into his phone. There was a brief pause while he listened to the response. He nodded respectfully at Davis.

“I'll escort you to Dr. Phillips's office,” he said.

He rezzed them through the gate and then led the way along a white gravel path to the colonnaded entrance.

Inside the lobby, a woman in a business suit waited for them. Celinda did a quick check. The vibes were all wholesome.

The woman smiled warmly at Davis.

“It's good to see you again, Mr. Oakes. We're so glad you decided to return. Dr. Phillips has been very anxious to speak with you.”

“This is Miss Ingram,” Davis said coolly. “Celinda, this is Dr. West.”

Celinda smiled. “Doctor.”

Dr. West inclined her head. “Perhaps you would care to wait out here while Mr. Oakes consults with Dr. Phillips?”

“She's with me,” Davis said, taking Celinda's arm. “And this isn't a consultation. It's Guild business. We'd like to see Phillips immediately.”

Dr. West's smile faded into an expression of grave concern. “Of course,” she said, sounding a little anxious now. “Come with me.”

She led them into an expensively paneled and carpeted office. A receptionist smiled at them, but before she could speak, the door of the inner office opened. A small, rumpled man with a crown of thinning gray hair bounded out. He grabbed Davis's hand and pumped it energetically.

“Good to see you, Davis,” he said, beaming. “How are you feeling?”

“Normal, thanks.” Davis freed himself. “This is Celinda Ingram. She's a friend. Celinda, Dr. Phillips.”

“Dr. Phillips,” she said.

Phillips turned to her, still smiling broadly. “A pleasure, Miss Ingram. What do you say we all go outside onto the veranda? It's a lovely day.”

She opened herself to the psi energy emanating from the little man. His warmth and smile were genuine.

Within minutes they were all seated on a wide, shaded veranda overlooking the lush gardens and a tranquil pool. The setting was very restful, Celinda thought. Maybe too restful for a private investigator. No doubt about it, the place would probably have driven Davis crazy, even if he hadn't been medicated.

“We've been very worried about you, as I'm sure you're aware,” Phillips said earnestly, speaking to Davis. “But seeing you here today, I am vastly reassured. You appear to be in excellent health.”

“I appreciate your concern.” Davis's tone could have frozen hot lava. “But I didn't come here today to talk about my case. I want to ask you about one of your other patients, a man named Robert C. Brinker.”

“I see.” Disappointment flashed briefly across Phillips's face. “I thought perhaps you had finally decided to respond to my letters. I know that your experience here was extremely unpleasant. Please believe me when I tell you that we did the best we could under the circumstances. We had never seen a case like yours before. We thought for a time that we were going to lose you altogether or that you would be trapped in a coma for the rest of your life. We were desperate.”

“About Brinker,” Davis said flatly.

Phillips hesitated and then evidently decided to surrender to the inevitable. “You know I am bound by rules of confidentiality.”

“This is Guild business,” Davis said. “In any event, the patient is deceased.”

“Dead?” Phillips was clearly shocked. “How did he die?”

“The cause is still under investigation, but there is a high probability that it was murder.”

“Good Lord.” Shaken, Phillips leaned back in his chair. “This is terrible.”

“Brinker was a Guild man,” Davis said. “His death occurred in the course of an investigation that I am pursuing on behalf of Mercer Wyatt.”

Phillips pondered that closely for a few seconds and then nodded once. “Well, under those circumstances, I suppose I can talk about Mr. Brinker's case. But I'm not sure if I can supply you with any useful information.”

“I'd like to see the file.”

“Very well.” Phillips got to his feet. “I'll be right back.”

He disappeared through the glass doors of his office. When he returned, he had a blue folder in one hand. He gave the folder to Davis.

“Brinker was brought here after he sustained a very serious psi burn in the catacombs,” Phillips said, sitting back down. “The trauma was bad enough, but it was made much worse by the fact that he had a long-standing drug habit that had rendered his parapsych profile extremely fragile and unstable.”

Davis flipped open the folder and leafed through the notes, pausing occasionally to read more carefully. “It says here that when he regained consciousness, he was prone to both visual and auditory hallucinations. In other words, he heard voices?”

“Yes.” Phillips sighed. “It was a very sad situation and complicated, as I told you, by his addiction history.”

Davis went back to the file. “He was treated by several doctors. I recognize most of the names.”

“No doubt.”

“They're all still here at the clinic?”

Phillips looked troubled by the question. “All but one. Seton Hollings was on the staff at the time Brinker was a patient. He left us shortly before you came to us as a patient.”

Davis looked up at that, very focused. He might not be sensitive to psi wave patterns, Celinda thought, but there were other ways to read people, ways a good private investigator no doubt utilized instinctively.

“Why did Hollings leave?” he asked.

Phillips hesitated. For a few seconds, Celinda was afraid he might not answer at all. She wasn't sure what Davis would do if that happened. He wanted answers.

“I'm not certain if the reasons for Hollings's dismissal come under the heading of Guild business,” Phillips said quietly.

Davis fixed him with a steady expression. “If he was dismissed in connection with the Brinker case, it does.”

Phillips struggled with his professional ethics a moment longer and then exhaled heavily. “Very well. It's not as though I have any interest in protecting the bastard.”

The outrage in the words made Celinda straighten a little in her chair.

“You didn't like Dr. Hollings?” she asked.

“He was a disgrace to the profession.” Phillips got to his feet and started to pace the veranda, hands clasped behind his back. “In the beginning we were delighted to have him on the staff. He came to us with credentials that positively glowed. But later we learned that most of his publications and references were fraudulent. What's more, he had been dismissed from his previous post.”

“Don't you run background checks on your people?” Davis asked.

“Of course. But they are fairly routine in nature. We don't conduct in-depth investigations. Hollings was very clever. He had gone to great lengths to make himself look good on paper, and I'm sorry to say he succeeded.”

“When did you discover that he was a problem?” Davis asked.

Phillips came to a halt, his expression grim. “When I realized that he was conducting unauthorized experiments on a small number of the most severely traumatized patients.”

“Patients like Brinker?” Celinda said.

“Yes.” Phillips's mouth tightened at the corners. “The nature of Brinker's parapsych illness made him extremely vulnerable.”

“What sort of experiments did Hollings perform on him?” Davis asked.

“Hollings was a leading light in dream state research. As you may know, new research has confirmed that the dream state is the only state in which the barriers between the normal and paranormal planes are not clearly defined.”

“No,” Davis said. “Can't say I did know that.”

“The study of the dream state is a new and rather esoteric field,” Phillips explained. “Hollings was fascinated with the subject. He was also an expert with psi drugs. I fear he combined the two skills to conduct experiments that can only be described as mind control.”

Davis watched him closely. “How did he attempt to control Brinker?”

“To be quite honest, I have no way of knowing how much damage he did to poor Brinker, because shortly after Hollings was dismissed, Brinker, himself, disappeared. In the past nine months I have sent a number of letters to the address that we had on file for him, but he never responded.” Phillips rubbed his forehead in an agitated way. “Now you tell me that he is dead.”

“I want to talk to Hollings. Where did he go after he left the institute?”

“Certainly not to a reputable hospital or clinic here in Cadence. I would never have given him a reference, and he knew it. In fact, I filed a complaint with the License Review Board of the Association of Para-Psychiatrists. But by the time they got around to acting on it, Hollings had vanished.”

“What do you mean?” Celinda asked.

“To be frank,” Phillips said, “I suspect he assumed a new identity. All I can tell you is that the last time I checked, there was no doctor in the city practicing under that name.”

Davis looked thoughtful. “Brinker had an apartment here in town. That means that if Hollings is involved in this thing, he's probably still in town, too.”

Phillips raised his brows. “What makes you think Hollings is connected to Brinker?”

“I know coincidences when I see them, and there are a lot of them here. The fact that both Brinker and Hollings have a connection to this place is one of them.”

“I see.” Phillips inclined his head with a grave air. “I wish you luck in finding him.”

“Thanks.” Davis closed the folder and got to his feet. “The Guild appreciates your cooperation.”

“Let me be quite clear about something,” Phillips said, surprisingly brusque. “I did not cooperate in order to please the Guild.”

Davis looked at him, waiting.

“I offered my assistance because I trust you, and I trust your motives.” Phillips's eyes narrowed. “And because I don't want Seton Hollings doing any more damage with his talent.”

Davis was silent for a few seconds. Then he seemed to relax a little.

“I appreciate it,” he said.

Phillips met his eyes. “I also did it because I am hoping to convince you to return to the institute so that my staff and I can learn from the mistakes we made with you. Thus far, your case still comes under the heading of one of a kind. But in the last several years, a number of new types of psychic talents have begun to emerge in the population. New forms of psi trauma are appearing along with those talents.”

“Forget it,” Davis said. The ice was back in his voice. “I'm not interested in becoming a research subject again.”

“Being a doctor is a lot like being a policeman, Davis. As soon as we subdue one criminal ailment or condition, another pops up. We are always fighting a new war. We need allies and spies and raw intelligence. You have a great deal to teach us. I am asking you to help us in this never-ending battle.”

Davis shook his head. “No more drugs.”

“No drugs,” Phillips promised. “You have my word on that.”

Davis looked at Celinda. She gave him an encouraging smile, letting him know silently that she approved of Phillips.

“I'll think about it,” Davis said.