Nascent Shadow (Temporal Armistice Book 1) Page 14

I shrug. “I dunno. It feels like it’s my calling to run into places and try to help people. I mean, I guess this is still helping, but less direct. I’ll think about it.”

  He raises both eyebrows. “It’s a pay raise.”

  “Okay.” I smile. “I’ll think harder about it.”

  We take the Fire Marshal’s Office SUV to the scene of the restaurant fire. The property’s covered with beat cops keeping sightseers away from the ruin. A bald almost-fifty guy with a horseshoe of black hair around the back of his head and a navy windbreaker climbs over debris, taking pictures.

  “Insurance investigator.” Lawrence points him out with his eyes. “They can help sometimes, notice stuff our guys miss.”

  I open the door. “He’s here looking for any excuse he can find so his employer can refuse to pay out. They’re not trying to catch bad guys.”

  Lawrence grins and shuts off the engine. “When we get lucky, the two align.”

  The cops greet us, all smiles, and we wind up BS-ing with them for a few minutes.

  “You guys find anything yet?” asks a short, but muscular officer. Her nametag reads E. Rivera.

  “Working on it.” Lawrence nods toward the ruins. “Going to do another walkabout. Just to be thorough.”

  Rivera’s partner, a white dude who looks like he’s been back from the Marine Corps for all of eight hours, laughs. “Gotta be a case of ‘restaurant isn’t doing well, burn it for insurance money.’”

  I glance at his nametag. Officer Hunt might have a point. The guy who planted the crystal sure felt like he’d been doing a job. “Kinda what I’m thinking too.”

  “Word is,” says Rivera, “The dude who owns this place is chummy with the Mob.”

  “Maybe they used it as a front to smuggle griffon down, or Starshell?” asks Hunt.

  Lawrence shakes his head. “Doubtful. If there’d been any Starshell in there, everyone within two blocks would’ve been seeing vapor trails and talking to interdimensional gods when the place went up in smoke.”

  “That only happens if there’s an arcane ignition source.” Hunt pauses, closes his mouth, then cringes. “Oops. Forget I said that. Not out in the open yet, is it?”

  “You guys are fine.” Lawrence grins. “Don’t say that to the media yet though.”

  “So who owns it?” I ask.

  “Fella by the name of Michael Rossellini. Real smooth one, that.” Rivera hooks her thumbs in her belt. “I hear he’s not too deep in, but he’s got friends. Couple of detectives stopped by earlier. Got the feeling they’re thinking it’s organized, too.” She adds in Spanish, “Ain’t no one gonna go down for this.”

  “We’re working on it,” I reply in kind.

  She gives me a shocked look and cracks up. We chat for a little bit about my mom and where I grew up. Yeah, the human half of me is Mexican/Puerto Rican, but… that snow-white thing throws people off.

  Lawrence takes a step toward the former building. “Starting to feel like this is getting complicated.”

  “You sound disappointed.” I give the cops a ‘take it easy’ nod and follow him over to the wall.

  “Ehh, you do this long enough, you get cynical sometimes. Mob involvement on a restaurant fire, no one died or even got hurt… little interest from the brass, less interest in throwing a bunch of resources trying to pin charges on a guy made out of Teflon.”

  “Slippery, huh? All that means is we need a sharper tack. Gotta at least try. Next time, someone might get hurt.” I hop over the wall.

  “Ahh, kids.” Lawrence grins at me. “Ever optimistic.”

  I spend a while traipsing around the burned-out restaurant, picking up random things that catch my eye. Forks, a couple spoons, candleholder, other burned bits of appliances I can’t even recognize anymore. Nothing sets off any visions until I’m in the area that used to be the kitchen, and I find a serrated, pointy knife with a bent tip. The imprint isn’t so strong that it forces its way into my head on contact, but I can feel something there.

  A little concentration opens the psychic door, and I’m treated to a vision of three guys standing around a wooden table. One, a handsome guy in an expensive suit, is holding the knife and waving it around while shouting. He’s disappointed, and furious at an older man across the table. The grey-haired guy’s got his hands clasped in front of him, and a severe disapproving frown on his face.

  Surging with fury, the man with the knife rams it point-down into the table, shouting, “Goddammit!”

  Reality fades back. The imprint is brief, and forged in anger. That’s interesting. I carry the knife back to where Lawrence is waiting. He’d decided not to get ash and gunk all over his shoes since he has no psychic gifts. I relate what I saw.

  “Got a picture of this Michael Rossellini?”

  “Not with me, but…” Lawrence takes out his phone and summons Google. A few finger-taps later, he holds his phone up so I can see a man, late thirties/early forties with slick black hair, dark tan complexion, and brown eyes. He looks like the ambitious son of the don in half the Mafia movies ever made. You’d think if the guy really had connections to organized crime, he wouldn’t wear the costume.

  “Yeah, that’s the guy.”

  Lawrence slides his phone back in its holster, grinning. “Sounds like either his Mob friends or dear old dad told him to pull the plug and he didn’t really want to.”

  “Maybe the guy liked having a restaurant.” I start toward the SUV. “Why don’t we go ask him?”

  On the ride to Rossellini’s home, I stare into space, thinking about my father. He told me the Shaar’Nath are all what humans refer to as psychic, with ‘mentalist’ type abilities, which makes me wonder if I can do more than lift ‘impressions’ from people. Normal humans have occasionally claimed to be able to read minds or see into dreams.

  I shift in the seat and face Lawrence, fixating on his eyes while slowing my breathing and attempting to see into his head. He glances briefly at me before returning his attention to the road. Minutes pass as I form and rearrange intention within my head, trying to find a way to ‘push’ mental energy to open the doors of his brain. It might be easier if I knew for a fact it would work. All I have is hope.

  “You’re either about to soil your pants or something’s really bothering you,” says Lawrence.

  I close my eyes and exhale to give my brain a rest. “Trying out a new trick. Not sure if it will work, though. I’ve never done anything like it before.”

  “What’s that? Trying to see my future? I’ll tell you if you want to know. Florida. A beach. A drink in my hand that’s either a margarita or some bright fluorescent nonsense.” He grins for a moment before sighing. “Still like ten years out though.”

  Again, I focus on his eyes, and my desire to know what’s going on behind them.

  … bastard light is gonna turn red on me. Yep. There it goes.

  “Whoa.”

  We stop at the light and he looks over. “Whoa? I stopped in time.”

  I grin, shaking with excitement. “I got it to work. I heard you think. Called the light a bastard.”

  The deep brown of his face gets a bit grey. “Uhh. That’s a little unsettling.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t get far in. Only like the tip of your brain.” I face forward, head swimming.

  I managed to read his thoughts, immediate as they might’ve been, far from deep into his mind… and that made me tired. New muscle, so to speak. Going to take getting used to. Heck. Do I want to be able to peek at everyone’s thoughts? Some people remain friends only because they can’t read each other’s minds. Of course, in that situation, I suppose the truth of ‘friends’ is debatable.

  “When we get there, I’m going to try that on him.” I grin with eagerness. “Even if I can’t dive all the way into his head, if you ask him questions, the answers might float across where I can see.”

  “All right, but I don’t think it’ll stand up in court. This ain’t magic, and there ain’t enough psychics out there for ‘em to hav
e made laws about warrantless mind reading.”

  I frown. “Yeah, but maybe It’ll point us in the right direction so we find something the police can use.”

  He nods.

  We’re quiet for the rest of the ride, about six minutes. Michael’s got a nice house in Bala Cynwyd. Fair bit of land, pool, two stories―probably five or six bedrooms.

  “Guess there’s money in burning restaurants down.”

  Lawrence laughs. “This would be his first. We already checked on that. No pattern.”

  I hop out and lead the way to the front door. Once Lawrence catches up, I ring the bell.

  Michael Rossellini answers in person, though I’m not sure why that surprises me. He looks strange in a t-shirt and boxers, but his hair is still perfect. “Can I help you? Oh, is this about the bistro?”

  As in the truck, I focus every scrap of my intention on Michael’s eyes, trying to invade his mental cloud.

  “Sorry to bother you at home, Mr. Rossellini,” says Lawrence. “I’m Lieutenant Ellis from the Arson Investigation unit. We’re following up on a lead on a man by the name of Ronald Harris. We believe he’s the one who started the fire.”

  Shit. How did they find Harris? Michael keeps a perfectly straight face. “Harris? I don’t know anyone by that name. Are you sure it wasn’t some random crazy, or an electrical problem?”

  “The man who tipped us off claims to have seen you meeting with him,” says Lawrence.

  Those backstabbing motherfuckers. I catch a flash of a tavern chasing the thought, a scrap of a green sign with the word ‘Otto’s.’

  “Someone’s playing you, lieutenant.” Michael’s expression is perfect detachment.

  “A witness claimed he saw the two of you meeting at a bar called Otto’s,” I say. I don’t have the finesse to talk and peek at the same time yet (maybe that’s not even possible).

  “I’m afraid to tell you that someone’s wasting your time.” Michael smiles. “I don’t frequent ‘bars,’ Miss. When I drink, it’s either at home among friends or at nice restaurants.”

  What’s James up to? I did everything they wanted.

  “So you have no idea where may find this Mr. Harris?” asks Lawrence.

  He thinks of an older, potbellied guy in a green shirt behind a bar. Maybe he didn’t meet Harris in person, but a guy who subcontracted. I think we need to go to Otto’s.

  “Not a clue. I’m telling you, I never met the guy.” Michael shifts his weight, losing patience.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rossellini. Sorry about your restaurant. I heard you were quite fond of it.” I offer a mostly-believable smile.

  There it is. A twang of regret. He really did like the place.

  “I appreciate that. Maybe I’ll try again someday.” Michael backs into his house and closes the door.

  When we’re halfway across the front yard, I mutter, “Someone forced him to burn it. He didn’t want to. I almost feel sorry for the guy.”

  “Heh. Not sure what good any of that did.” Lawrence beeps the SUV unlocked.

  “Know a place named Otto’s? I think we should talk to the bartender.”

  Otto’s turns out to be a working-class watering hole near Fitler Square. It’s early in the day yet, barely one in the afternoon, but there’s already a handful of old guys working on their second or third pints. It smells like leather and furniture polish, with an undertone of deep fryer oil. It sits on the corner, and feels bigger on the inside than it looked outside. Eagles pennants and jerseys cover half the room, while the other’s a veritable shrine to the Phillies. Two dartboards in the back have different logos, one a Steelers icon, the other the New York Giants.

  The guy behind the bar is the same guy I saw flicker by in Michael’s head. He carries his weight weird. Except for his belly, he’s got a thin frame. Looks like he’s smuggling a golden retriever under his sweater.

  I walk up to the bar near him.

  “Hey, little lady. Got ID?” asks the man.

  “Thanks for the compliment, but I’m not here to drink.” I gesture at my assistant arson investigator badge. “I’m looking for a guy by the name of Ronald Harris. We heard you put him in touch with Michael Rossellini.”

  The bartender grins at me like I told a good joke. I manage to get my focus up in time to catch a scrap of thought. That ain’t even his name. This chick has no clue. “Name don’t ring a bell.”

  “Hmm. That’s rather curious,” I say. “When the police pull Mr. Rossellini’s phone records, I’m sure they won’t find a single call connecting him to your tavern.”

  This little pixie don’t know what she’s messin’ with. “It would be unlikely, seein’ as how I never called no Mickey Rosso-whatever.” Who’s a rat? His thoughts leap around over dozens of people who’ve hired him to ‘make problems go away.’

  My eyes widen. This guy usually sends men his thoughts call ‘cleaners.’ Eavesdropping on his head seems to get easier when I don’t look at him. Instead of trying to see what’s rattling around between his ears with my eyes, I find myself sensing where his cloud of consciousness exists, and delving into it by mental ‘feel.’ Arson isn’t usually his game, but he knew a guy. A phone number floats into my awareness.

  Impulsively, I grab a napkin and a pen from the bar and jot it down.

  As soon as he sees it, the bartender slaps his hand on mine, pinning the napkin, trying to pry it away from me. He’s pissed, but also flustered.

  Lawrence lunges for the guy and gets two fistfuls of his shirt collar. “Get off her.”

  I grab the bartender’s wrist with my free hand and squeeze. “It’s all right, Lawrence. I got this.”

  The bartender looks back and forth between us, breaking out in a sweat.

  “You sure?” Lawrence glances at me.

  “Yeah.” I lean forward, nose to nose with the bartender, and shift my eyes into their Shaar’Nath form: glowing pools of blue light. After a second to let the man’s brain grind on that, I make them normal again and whisper, “Someone owes me a soul, and if I can’t find him, you’re next on the list.”

  “Gah!” yells the bartender. He releases the napkin and mutters, “Guy’s got an apartment in Harrowgate somewhere. I dunno the address.”

  “Thanks.” I give him a sweet smile. “Hope I don’t need to come back.”

  Lawrence gives me a ‘what the hell just happened’ stare, but follows me out to the SUV.

  Once we get in, he stares at me for a while. “Did I see some kinda blue light?”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “Was that some kinda psychic shit?”

  “Yeah, it is.” Technically, maybe?

  He slides the key in the ignition, shaking his head. “Anything more you need to tell me?”

  Maybe I should. Especially if we’re going to be working together. Assuming I want to be transferred. Feels like a waste for me to not stay a front-line firefighter and take advantage of being immune to flames. Of course, a transfer might not prevent me from volunteering to gear up and go in. Meh. Not yet. I still haven’t sorted out how I feel about all this. I hold the napkin up in two fingers. “Yeah. I got a phone number.”

  awrence has a couple friends in the police department who are able to turn the phone number I got into an address, which isn’t publicly listed. They lifted the name Martin Bradstreet from the system. Also, we learned the cops are still working their way through a bunch of Ronald Harrises within a reasonable radius of Philadelphia. I’m convinced that’s a fake name at this point. It’s common enough to be generic without sounding like John Smith.

  Apologies to anyone actually named John Smith.

  Guys with that name probably like being asked ‘is that really your name’ about as much as I like being mistaken for a seventeen-year-old.

  A little after two thirty (we stopped for lunch), Lawrence pulls into the parking lot of a six-story apartment building. The C-shaped structure ‘hugs’ the parking lot on three sides. No fire escapes on the inside face, only a bunch of balconi
es with metal basket-type railings. Ugh. If this place ever burns, it’s going to be a pain in the ass to deal with. I’m almost glad it’s out of our district, though we still might get pulled in if it’s bad enough.

  We park and go inside, up to the second floor. The apartment we’re looking for is near the end on the left wing. Our knocking and doorbell ringing gets no response. Either our guy’s at work (not likely), out burning something else down (improbable so soon), or there’s something else going on (I’m betting on that).

  I rear back to punt the door in, but Lawrence waves me off.

  “Ease down there, Amari. We’re not cops, and as far as I know, this place isn’t on fire.”

  Easy enough to fix. I glance at my hand. Kidding. Seriously. I’m not going to burn down homes so we can search a place. “So…”

  “Let’s see what we can find out from the super,” says Lawrence.

  I follow him back to the middle of the main wing and down the elevator to the first floor leasing office. At least it’s close to the lobby. A bored looking woman in her late forties sends us to the basement office in search of ‘George.’

  The stairs down are also conveniently close to the lobby, and sure enough, a door labeled Super is in eyesight from the bottom. Lawrence knocks, and I do my best to stand with authority so I don’t look like some intern tagging along. Grr.

  A man inside yells, “T’aint locked.”

  What ought to be a living room is set up like a workshop. To the left as we walk in, a skinny sixty-something with John Denver hair and thick glasses stands behind a wood-paneled counter covered in papers, some of which are probably from 1962. He pushes his glasses up by the knot of white tape between the lenses and squints at us. Breathing in here tastes like I’m licking the inside of an ancient oil-burning furnace.

  “Howdy,” says George. “You two just move in? Don’t reckon I’ve seen ya ‘fore.”

  “Pleasure meeting you.” Lawrence extends a hand. “I’m Lieutenant Ellis with the Philadelphia Fire Marshal’s Office, arson investigation unit.”

  “Aw, shit.” George rummages at the massive pile of paperwork. “Sorry. Got so much crap here, I’m sure I forgot to file them certificates.”