real world.”
I looked around.
She laughed. “Don’t think I had anything to do with this. I was extremely lucky in marriage. Materially that is. My first husband, Charles Morehouse, was descended from the Alabama Morehouses, who came from the Carolina Morehouses. They made money from slaves, and they sent their sons into the military. They lost their plantations in the Civil War, but there was a branch of the family out in California, and they were doing well. So they all came out here, and learned to exploit Mexicans as well as they had the blacks.
“Chuck’s dad, Ferris Morehouse, was in the Air Force with my dad. From World War II they remained friends. My dad settled in Sacramento when he retired from the service. Chuck and I had always known each other, we started dating, got married, had two kids, and Chuck got killed. His family took away the kids. It caused, shall we say, a rift between the two families. They paid me off handsomely, though, out of guilt I guess. I drifted into the artistic scene: Frisco, L.A., Greenwich Village, Paris, Rome, all over. Through artists and hangers-on I got to know Aaron Carlisle, who had made a pile selling pot. But he saw the writing on the wall and he was investing in other kinds of herbs when we met. We were married in 1980. He expanded his business and I patronized the arts.
“Then, four months ago, he died.” She frowned, baffled. “Fifty-four years old, didn’t smoke, rarely drank, lived a healthy, happy, active lifestyle. And he dropped dead.”
I nodded.
“I know anybody can have a heart attack. And the autopsy report came back saying that’s all it was. But the more I think about it, the more….It all just seemed too routine. You know? It’s intuition, and the psychic vibrations.” Her beautiful neck and shoulders twitched.
“As you said, psychic vibrations are fine, but I can only deal in three-dimensional facts.”
“I know, I know, I know. I’ve been wondering, since we met, if you could find some facts that would either back up my feelings, or convince me to toss them. I’ll be honest with you, Marvin. I’ve learned to trust those inner voices. Still, the facts go against it. So what I need to find out—are there some facts I’m not party to?”
I scratched my chin.
“I know what you’re thinking. In my grief I just can’t accept Aaron’s death.”
“Well—“ She was perceptive, all right.
She sighed, gave me a patient—not condescending--smile. “Of course I’ve been grieving. But grief has nothing to do with my uneasiness about all this. I want you to see if you can uncover some facts. We all have a role to play. I don’t believe in coincidence or accidents. And it was not a coincidence that we met the other day in Capitol Park.”
“Maybe. I guess I could make some inquiries. I don’t know. What you’re getting at is not in my usual line.”
“But who else might?”
“Probably no one,” I admitted.
“I’m not asking you to uncover some massive conspiracy. I know life isn’t like the movies.” She smiled. “It’s more exciting. But I need to know if there’s anything to know.”
“Where did Aaron die?”
“At his Vita Green office, in Sloughhouse. It’s been sold.”
I winced. “Probably under ten feet of water right now.”
She nodded. “Or mud. You’re not likely to turn up anything there.”
“I have to be forthright with you, Loralee. I don’t see how I can help you out.”
“Why don’t you just indulge a middle-aged, wealthy woman, and an old friend?”
I started trying to stand. “As they say, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Don’t forget.” She pointed at the envelope with the check inside.
I shook my head. “I’ll bill you if I find anything out.”
“Marvin.”
I nodded, like a bad little kid. I avoided the controversy by saying, “Oh, well, you’re the boss.”
“Thank you, Marvin.” She stood, in one graceful, sinuous motion, which only accentuated my own clumsiness. Just as gracefully she moved toward me and we hugged, she in her flashy tights and me in my Sunday best. Here we were, each attired in the way that makes us most attractive to the opposite sex: nearly naked woman, fully decked-out man—gender differences that neither side would ever understand.
I went downstairs. Clarissa was waiting with my hat and overcoat and umbrella, and a folder with some papers. “I apologize for making you stand in the rain, Mr. Kent,” she said. “But she never allows her meditations to be interrupted.”
“No big deal, Clarissa. As a matter-of-fact, we have the same boss now, so call me Marv.”
It was raining harder as I went out. I didn’t want to go to work. I wanted to go back in that big house and be kept there, surrounded by all that warmth and wealth and womanliness. But instead of what I wanted, I had what I needed: a job.
Downtown
The first thing I did as an employee of Loralee Carlisle was to deposit her check in the bank. Because I forget things, and nothing is more embarrassing than having to go to the boss and say you lost her check. I’ve had to do it twice. The first wrote me a new check but never hired me again. The second told me to go find it and go to hell. Of course I’d already done the work. I had to go to Small Claims Court to get paid. Since then I always put the check in the bank as soon as I get it.
I’m a detective for two reasons. First, because I can’t do anything else, at least to the satisfaction of whoever’s cutting paychecks. Second, because the work gives me a focus, something to follow, and helps me get past the Attention Deficit Disorder. In this job I believe my so-called disorder is really an advantage. I can work at my own speed and tend to the details. For years I thought I was lazy and incompetent when in reality I was only different. I was doomed until I found the work I’m in now.
Another advantage of my condition: I can get Ritalin anytime. I don’t do that often, I don’t like the buzz. But it does come in handy if I need to spend a long time in one place waiting for something to happen. I don’t drink alcohol on the job, and I don’t see how some peepers can. I’d fall asleep five minutes into a stakeout. I do depend on caffeine, if there’s a restroom nearby, or tobacco, if I’m not going to appear too conspicuous. Mostly I do my work on chocolate.
My bank is one of the last banks in the downtown area. Mergers and downsizing, along with the general destruction of the downtown economy, have sent the banks out to the suburbs. My bank will probably close or move soon too.
From the bank it’s a short walk, even in the rain, to the City and County offices. I went to my office first. I made a pot of coffee and looked at the papers Clarissa had given me. They were copies of official documents dealing with the death and burial of Aaron Markham Carlisle: straight, statistical facts. The autopsy report stated in scientific lingo that he had died from a heart attack. I looked over the documents twice, and the only amazing aspect about them was that they had been waiting for me when I left my client’s
