“A woodenfish?” she said, laughing. “No, I think I’d remember that.”
“Does the name ‘the Westmore’ mean anything to you?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Sounds like a hotel or an apartment complex. Did I die there?”
“I can’t really tell you,” I said, “but off the record? No. Not there.”
Nothing I mentioned was triggering any memories of her past.
“Speaking of apartment complexes,” she said, “I do believe you had a call from your building manager. He was going on about you falling behind on your maintenance…”
“Crap,” I said. I selected a parabolic mike from the case and futzed about, trying to open the satellite-dish-shaped cone around it.
“I take it that’s a bad thing?”
“Yes, it’s bad,” I said. “Unfortunately, working for the forces of Good isn’t quite as profitable as…um…my old profession.”
“Is there anything you can do?” she asked.
The concern in her voice was touching. I looked down at all the equipment spread out before me.
“Yeah,” I said with resolution, “I can probably take care of it tomorrow during the day. I’ll have to call in sick, though.”
“Are you not feeling well?” Irene asked.
“Outside of being ashamed for falling behind on my maintenance fees?” I said. “No, I feel fine.”
“Then what is it?”
“I need to play a psychometric round ofThe Price Is Right,” I said and threw the equipment back into the case. By tomorrow night, I was sure I would have figured out how to use it…
16
I turned in early for the long day I suddenly had before me. Irene was still sleeping in my guest room when I quietly left the apartment. I felt bad blowing off work, but not bad enough to actually get off the train with my file box and head back south to the city. I was desperate for the cash, and besides, spying on Jane would require darkness so I had to wait until nightfall anyway.
In the meantime, I hoped to reunite one of the promising purchases cluttering up my apartment with its original owner. Kevin Matthews had been the name I had gotten off the Intellivision game system reading at the night market, and a Google search had led me to believe that he had most likely grown up to be a Kevin Matthews who managed a bookstore at the mall in White Plains-so that was my first stop. The four other items I had brought with me were good finds that I could sell off to a local antiques dealer I knew up there. If I didn’t supplement my income unloading these goods, I doubted my building’s management company would accept antiques as payment.
Twenty minutes into my trip, Connor called, and without thinking, I answered.
I debated putting on some form of sick voice, but decided against it.
“How ya feeling, pal?” Connor said. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, opting to sound not necessarily sick but not necessarily well either. “I’m okay. I’ve been better.”
“Well, make sure you get lots of fluids.” Why does everyone say that? You could be hit by a car or dive naked into a vat full of razorblades, but people were always suggesting that you get lots of fluids.
“Yeah, I’ll make sure to do that,” I said. The train slowed for its next stop, and before I even thought of covering the mouthpiece, the doorsbonged open and a voice came over the loudspeaker.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the conductor said with all the enthusiasm of Droopy Dog. “The station stop is Crestwood. Crestwood station. Scarsdale will be next. Scarsdale will be next. Step in and stand clear of the closing doors, please.”
I slammed my hand over the phone’s mouthpiece.
“Ohhh,” Connor said, “I see…you’rethat kind of ‘sick’ today.”
Shit. Busted.
“Don’t tell the Inspectre, okay?” I pleaded.
“I don’t know, kid.” Connor sounded dead serious. “You’ve already got a mountain of paperwork sitting here in your in-box. Then there are the open investigations you’ve yet to do any follow-up on. I really don’t think it’s fair to the rest of us in Other Division.”
“How about if I promise to…” I couldn’t come up with anything that might appease him. Connor outranked me. I couldn’t bribe him by offering to do most of his tasks or reports that he needed to file. I also doubted he would take me being his coffee boy as payment for his silence.
“Don’t sweat it, kid,” he said with a laugh. “I’m just busting your chops. Everybody sneaks out every now and then. I’ll talk to you when you get back to the office. And kid…?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time, be a little faster on the mute button, will ya?”
After hanging up, I settled back and tried to enjoy the rest of the ride as the fall foliage whooshed past at breakneck speed. The foliage thinned as we pulled into the White Plains station, and I grabbed the legal-sized filing box I’d brought and got off.
A short cab ride through the White Plains business district of shiny modern buildings-tiny compared to the steel canyons of Manhattan-and I was at the Westchester Mall. I had never been there before, and my first thought wasWho the hell carpets a mall? I made my way to the nearest directory, found the B. Dalton Bookseller, and headed off to it.
The scent of plastic, books, and fresh carpeting washed over me as I entered the store. After asking to see the manager, a matronly looking clerk named Yolanda showed me to their back room. It was stacked to the ceiling with boxes, and a lanky gentleman was unpacking one of them onto a sleek metal library cart. He would never win World’s Hunkiest Librarian-midthirties, possibly older, with stringy brown hair that made him look all Six Degrees of Ichabod Crane.
“Kevin?” she said. “There’s a gentleman here to see you.”
“Thanks, Yolanda. I’ll be with you in a second,” he said, his face still buried in the contents of the box. “As you can see by the state of our store room, the holiday rush is upon us.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking up at the towering cartons. “Who knew the holidays could look so…dangerous.”
“Please,” he said with a gesture toward a small table with several chairs around it, “have a seat.” He sat down, but looked distracted by the amount of work teetering behind him. “I assume you’re here about the holiday help.”
He pulled a yellow legal pad and a stack of blank applications from a nearby shelf, handing one to me. “You’ll need to fill one of these out.”
I placed my file box on the table and sat down opposite him. “No, I don’t, Kev,” I said, pushing the application back toward him.
“I’m sorry…do I know you?”
I shook my head. “Not really.”
There was the tiniest hint of nervousness in his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. “Well, if you’re not here for the job, whatare you here for?” He gave a quick look toward my box.
“Don’t worry,” I said as reassuringly as I could, “it’s nothing bad. I promise.”
“Oh God,” he said, with sudden revelation on his face. “Are you an author? Look, we have buyers at our home office who handle all that. I can give you their phone numbers but you have to go through the proper channels. We do very little direct buying of self-published work on the store level…”
“I’m not selling anything,” I said, reassuring him. I was already losing patience. I still had the antiques dealer to see and I really didn’t have time for Kevin’s guessing game.
I went for the direct approach. I pulled the lid off the box and lifted out the Intellevision unit.
“This, I believe,” I said, handing it to him, “is yours.”
I reached back into the file box and began laying out game box after game box before him-twenty in all. There was a little water damage to some of the boxes from the puddle in the alley where I had helped Connor with the ghost, but other than that, they looked okay.