Heart to Heart: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (13 page)

Of course they had not been receiving two
and a quarter million each year since 1918. Their fee rose as
property values in general rose—but it is all the same in the
relative sense. If a hundred grand would have bought the property
in 1918, then seven and a half percent of that in 1918 would buy
you the same thing that the same percentage of the current market
value would buy you today.

More to the point though: why was it that
important to Valentinius?—so important that he was willing to pay
such disproportionate fees for custodial care?

It was a question not to preoccupy the mind
at that

point, but to be tucked away for future
consideration. I had other bases to cover and not much time left in
the game, so I set my sights for Newport Beach. Henry Gibson's
Realty Holdings International Corp. was officed there, and Windmere
Hill was situated in adjacent Costa Mesa.

It has been said, and I am willing to
believe it, that Newport Beach is the financial capital of the
West. It has a population under 100,000 and stands a full hour
south of the Los Angeles Civic Center, but it is a business
stronghold of immense diversity and is said to house more
corporate power per square foot than any U.S. city. Much of that
is grouped upon a hillside overlooking the Pacific in a business
complex known as the Newport Center.

If California should one day tumble into the
sea, as various prophets and soothsayers have predicted, then
Newport Center will probably become the new Atlantis to be
discovered and explored by some distant generation as a lesson in
twentieth-century civilization, to be marveled at in its watery
grave and to provoke endless discussions as to the significance of
the architecture and the mysteries of the life-styles suggested by
the ruins—the various temples and palaces, expansive promenades and
courtyards, the bazaar and the wide, curving boulevards and immense
stone and glass structures soaring into the sky. They probably will
not get it right, but all will agree that this new Atlantis was an
important cultural center of twentieth-century mankind.

And so it is.

The monolithic structure
that housed the international bank through which Valentinius moved
his funds also provided corporate home for Gibson's Reality
Holdings. I stopped at the bank first and presented my credentials
to a delighted vice-president who unfurled the red carpet for me
and happily presented the accounts for my scrutiny. Accounts,
yeah, two of them—one a sort of general fund accessible by Sloane,
Sloane and James, with a current balance of $432,816.32—the other a
household account under the care of one Ming Hai Tsu containing
$37,280.90.

I transferred $400,000 from the general fund
to the household account. The banker seemed a bit nervous about
that, but what the hell could he do? I had the power. I took a
transcript covering the past twelve months' activity in both
accounts, thanked the guy for his efficiency, and went on to
Gibson's offices.

Something was going on there; I could feel
it in the air—a sort of electrical tingling that sensitive people
can sometimes pick up on—some sort of mental energy I believe.
Whatever, I experienced it even before I ventured through the
double glass doors that admit you to this superswank alter ego of
Sloane, Sloane and James. It must have cost the guy more per month
than the law firm paid all year to present themselves to the
public. From the gilt lettering on the doors to the space-age
stylings inside, surrounding in splendor the yuppie receptionist
who at least presented the suggestion of MBA, the entire gestalt
reeked of moneyed success and undeniable position on the business
ladder.

The receptionist was about twenty-five. She
had square shoulders and a stiff upper lip, an easy smile that came
maybe too easy at the surface with no involvement below; if there
is a magazine for young upwardly mobile career women, she could
qualify for the cover.

I told her I had a golf date with Hank—so
where the hell was he.

She had me dissected and analyzed even
before I opened my mouth. She gave me one of those quick surface
movements of the lips—okay, call it a smile—and said, "I'm sorry...
you are mister... ?"

"Ford," I said.

"Of course," she said and reached for the
intercom.

I retreated to a neutral corner, still
wondering how I wanted to play it when or if Gibson did or did not
invite me in.

Didn't have long to wait.

A door opened behind the receptionist and
Sergeant Alvarez leaned through.

He said, "Ford, what the hell!"

"Small world," I said, my throat suddenly
gone almost too dry to speak.

"Small you ain't seen yet," he assured me.
"Get in here!"

So I went in there.

The room was full of cops. I guess both
Newport Beach and county cops—a coroner's homicide team and all
that implies.

A guy about my age sat in a high-backed
swivel chair behind a massive desk containing all sorts of hi-tech
gadgets of the modem business world. He was blond, well built,
handsome.

Well, call it exhandsome.

The guy was dead, lips stretched back in a
familiar grimace, eyes open, body stiffly upright in advanced rigor
mortis.

"Gibson?" I asked Alvarez.

"You bought it," he said.

Hell, I hadn't bought anything. Not even
golden eggs from the prize goose.

But I had to wonder what the hell was buying
me.

Chapter Seventeen: The Elect

Alvarez himself had
discovered this corpse. An appointment diary found on Sloane's
body recorded a planned meeting with Gibson on the evening that
Sloane died. Routinely checking that connection, Alvarez called on
Gibson at his office and was told by the receptionist that her boss
had not come in yet.

This was past eleven o'clock.

Alvarez had one of those cop quivers
probably, and insisted on being shown into Gibson's private
office.

In defense of the
receptionist, who later stated that indeed she had looked inside
that office earlier, the presence of a corpse was not that obvious
when Alvarez first stepped inside. The swivel chair is high-backed,
and it was turned sort of toward the windows; the angle of view
from the doorway was such that you saw only the back of the chair
at casual glance. So if the young lady had looked into that office
earlier, then the discovery hours later that her boss had been
sitting there dead all the while must have been an unnerving
experience, to say the least. I sent her a mental apology for my
initial reaction to her executive style; she was doing very well
under the circumstances.

Alvarez was of course stretching the
protocol on city turf by his very presence there, so he called it
in to the Newport Beach police and stepped aside for them to handle
it, though remaining to assist in view of the possibly related
death at Laguna Beach.

There were no obvious wounds or signs of
violence on this body. It looked as though the guy had just been
sitting there at his desk, had some sort of seizure, and died.

"But look at the face," Alvarez
unnecessarily added. "Same as the other guy. What is that?—terror
or what?"

I said, "Yeah...or pain, rage...whatever,
death abruptly stopped it."

He pulled me aside and lowered his voice to
ask me, "So what brings the psychic detective to this latest scene
of death?"

This was somewhat
embarrassing. I had not deliberately withheld the information
regarding Gibson's interest in Pointe House and Sloane's apparent
animosity toward the guy; with all the other mystery, and the shock
of finding myself a possible murder suspect, I simply had not
thought to tell Alvarez about it. Now I tried to gloss it with
vagueness. I told him, "Sloane mentioned this guy when he was
briefing me on the legal problem. Seems that Gibson had been trying
to broker a deal for some developer before the state stepped in
with their claim. But that was the only connection I had until
about an hour ago. Now it seems that these two were old college
chums and still get together frequently on the golf
course."

Alvarez said, "Uh huh. Where'd you get
this?"

"Sloane's office."

"Why didn't you bring it to me then?"

"Would have," I said, "if something had
turned. You and I are not working the same end of the stick, you
know. You're investigating a suspicious death. I have been
retained to prevent a confiscation of the estate. I guess that's
what I'm expected to do. So—"

“
What
d'you mean,
guess?
'

"Just that. The guy just dropped the money
on me and told me to get my ass down here on the double quick. He
said there was a crisis that had to be resolved within ten days.
Then Sloane comes over and lays this power of attorney on me. He
is as baffled as I am. He's looking to me for answers; I'm looking
to him for answers. All he knows is that the state will prevail on
their claim unless he can produce a legal owner within ten days. So
I put the ten days together and decide that this must be the crisis
that Valentinius mentioned."

The cop had been giving me
careful attention during that spiel. Now he fixed me with a
fish-eye and asked, "What exactly did this Valentinius tell
you?"

"You want total recall?"

"That would be nice."

"I am not here by error, Ashton. You
are—"

"What's that?"

"You said total recall."

"Oh. Okay. Go ahead."

"You are the man for me. Let me assure you
that you shall enjoy the assignment. A very beautiful woman is
involved. And, of course, the pay is good. I understand that your
usual fee is five hundred dollars per day. I offer you this, for
ten days' services maximum. The job defines itself. Go to Laguna
Beach. Contact Francesca Amalie. You shall find her at Pointe
House. You must go today. The crisis is now. Help her to resolve
it. Ten days maximum, or all is lost."

Alvarez was listening attentively. He waited
a couple of beats after I'd finished, then said, "And... ?"

"That's it," I replied. "That's all he said
to me."

"That's all he said."

"That's right."

"So on the basis of that—no more than
that—you dropped everything and rushed down to Laguna?"

I said, "Well... that's
all he
said
,
but..."

"But what?"

"It was the way he said it. The way he
looked. The way he appeared and disappeared. I don't fight the
angels, pal."

“
You
assumed this was an
angel
?”

I shrugged. "How many humans have
materialized and dematerialized in your presence?"

He was still giving me the
fish-eye. “But you assumed
angel
. Why not
devil?”

I said, "I've never met the devil."

He said, "But of course you have met
angels."

I said, "Sure...frequently. It's a rather
common experience."

"Wings and halos and the whole bit,
huh?"

I explained, "Wings and
halos are no more than artistic representation of certain angelic
attributes; that is, the ability to move freely through the air
without machinery, and the body of light."

"Body of what?"

"Light. The light body. Also referred to as
the astral body, the ethereal body, the spiritual body."

"But this guy Valentinius..."

"Some angels can materialize very dense
bodies, much like yours and mine. You'd never know you were talking
to an angel. Or—"

"Or what?"

I said, "Or making love to one."

He grinned. "Come on!"

I said, "It happens."

The grin broadened. "Maybe I had one the
other night. How can you tell for sure?"

I replied—just joking, really, "Thrice is
nice but there are seven levels to heaven."

He took it seriously. "Yeah?"

So I took it on. "Sure. The seventh heaven
is orgasmic infinity."

Then I chuckled, and he chuckled, and the
ice between us was broken forever. He said, "Fix me up
sometime."

I said, "Sure."

"How d'you do that total recall thing? Is
that for real?"

"It's for real, yeah. The brain records it
all—even background sounds and odors—it's all there. Just have to
know how to access it."

He said, "Like computer memory."

"Sort of like that, yeah."

"Could you show me how to do that?"

I said, "Probably. Some
day when you have an hour or so free."

He said, "I'm holding you to that. Do you
really get five hundred a day?"

I told him, "Well, that's negotiable. More
often than not I work for good company and interesting
experiences."

"Do I qualify for that rate?"

I said, "So far, sure. Just don't go weird
on me."

He chuckled, said, "Look who's talking."

That office was becoming intensely busy,
with the homicide technicians doing their thing and the medical
examiner preparing to transport the body. They were having a hell
of a time because that body was frozen into the seated position. I
asked Alvarez to walk me to my car, where I showed him the file
from Sloane's office. He flipped through it interestedly, remarked,
"I'd like to have a copy of this." So we went back inside and found
a coin-operated copier.

As we were parting, the cop told me, "Want
you to know that I appreciate your cooperation. I'd like to think
that it will continue."

I assured him that I would keep him informed
of all developments in my investigation.

He said, "Thanks," and then, following a
brief and almost embarrassed pause asked, "Is Miss Amalie an
angel?"