Paradigms Lost (7 page)

“This isn’t the end; it’s the beginning.”

PART II

Lawyers, Ghouls, and Mummies

May 1999

CHAPTER 8

New Client, Closed Case

For some reason, Syl’s words echoed back to me at odd hours in the next few weeks. I did find myself glancing at shadows out of the corner of my eye more often, looking at mist-fogged streets with a different perception, but for quite a while nothing of any note happened.

The only real reminder of the strangeness in my life was the lack of strangeness when I talked to Renee Reisman. She had volunteered to forget the truth—it would make the deception easier and more convincing—but that meant that she had literally no recollection of the most frightening and bizarre episode in both our lives. It was difficult, at first, to go to our usual Thursday bowling night without expecting the subject to come up, and to not
bring
it up. But after a couple of weeks I adapted to it, and things were back on track.

I glanced at the clock.
Four-fifteen.
I keep WIS open until five every day, but a lot of the time no one comes in for hours. More than half my clients I hardly ever see, just hear over a telephone or get e-mail or faxes from. I had just looked back down to the package I was preparing for IntraScience Technologies—prior art research on a patent they thought they could get, but probably wouldn’t if they couldn’t get around the prior art I’d found—when the door chimed.

The boy coming in looked vaguely familiar; about five-foot-seven, maybe fifteen, skin with the dark complexion of the Middle East, a narrow face that Syl would have described as hawklike, a slender build, and eyes of a startlingly clear gray I could see from my desk.

I could also see even darker circles under his eyes, and he was walking with the heaviness I associated with someone near the limit of exhaustion. “Mr. Wood?” he asked.

“That’s me, yes. Welcome to Wood’s Information Service, Mr. . . . ?”

“Ross. Xavier Ross.”

Oh, that poor kid
. Once he said his name, I knew who he was. I’d actually seen him a couple of times in the news before the lastest disaster—he was a star of the local martial arts scene and had just come back from an overseas tournament of some kind with medals. But the big news hadn’t been nearly so cheery. “My sympathies, Mr. Ross. I was familiar with a lot of your brother’s work.”

“Th . . . thanks.” He hesitated, then sat down on the red leather chair I had in front of my desk for clients. “Um . . . how much would it cost me to have you do something for me?”

I grinned. “Depends on the something, I’d say. What do you want me to do?”

He looked embarrassed. “Sorry, that
was
stupid. I . . .” Xavier sighed, looked down. “You work with the cops, right?”

“Sometimes. I can’t talk about or give you any information on whatever they give me to do. Just to warn you.”

“Oh, no, I don’t want that. But you’re not part of the police
yourself
?”

Well, this is an interesting conversation already.
“No. But if you want me to do anything criminal, I don’t do that.”

He shook his head violently, long black hair twitching in the ponytail he wore. “No, no, I wouldn’t ask you to do anything like that, Mr. Wood. I just . . . you know they’ve closed the case?”

I started to get some idea of what he might want. “I’d heard. Drug-related killing. Your brother was a freelance investigative reporter and photographer; he must have seen the wrong thing at the wrong time.”

“I don’t
think
so,” Xavier said, and I was startled by the
venom
in his voice. The conviction in those words was also impressive. “Sorry. Not your fault. But . . . they sent back my brother’s laptop.” He reached into a bag he was carrying and brought out a Lumiere ToughScreen 97E—a
very
nice computer for anyone on the go. “I’d like you to check it out for me.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure the police went over all the files, and if it boots it should be in good shape. What do you want me to check?”

He looked suspiciously at me, then his gaze dropped. “For anything that might have been wiped. I’ve heard you’re really good.” He rolled his eyes, obviously annoyed with himself. “Okay, look, I’m not . . . I’ve never done this kind of thing before. My brother, M . . . Michael, he used this to take notes. He took notes on everything he did and kept it in a very exact format. Like this.” He opened the laptop and showed me a series of files with names that told me the location and date. “The cops didn’t find anything that showed he was in any kind of . . .” he hesitated.

I decided to wait, see what he had to say.

“Any kind of . . . strange investigation,” he finally finished. “Something different than the ordinary. They didn’t find anything
specifically
about drug running either, but they figured he’d run into his problem while on one of the other jobs. But I
knew
Mike, you know?” I nodded when he looked at me. “So I knew what his workload was like and how he did things. It just doesn’t look like there’s enough on the computer for those weeks.”

“All right. You want me to see if there’s anything showing that someone erased files in this format, and recover anything I can. Is that it?”

“Yes! That’s exactly it.”

I frowned. Lumiere PCs were pretty good about their erasure procedures, and bringing up stuff someone tried to delete . . . Maybe. But it’d be a bear. “That’s going to be very expensive, Xavier, and I don’t know if I should be doing this at all. Who owns this?”

“I do. Once they released Michael’s stuff, my mom gave me pretty much everything.” His tone wavered and I could see the effort it took for him to not begin crying.

Well, if the cops closed the case there’s nothing stopping me from poking around in it.
“You want this done the way I’d do it for a top police investigation, I’m going to have to charge you what I would charge them. That’s about three thousand dollars, Xavier.” Actually, for an official investigation it’d be about
six
thousand, but I was willing to cut him a break—just not too much of a break, because this
would
take some work.

He didn’t hesitate; his eyes might have widened a bit, but he reached into another pocket of the backpack and pulled out a debit card. “You take Virtuoso cards?”

Man, I wish
I’d
had that much money to spend when I was his age
. “You’re allowed to do this?”

“Mom said I can spend the money in that account any way I want.”

“If you say so.” I worked up the job on one of my standard forms with a clear, short statement of work, had him sign it, and ran the card. It cleared that amount without a problem. “All right, Mr. Ross, I’ll get to work on this. It will take some time, and I have other clients, but you can expect to hear something back from me no later than two weeks from now, and possibly as early as one week.”

He stood stiffly and nodded. “Okay.” Xavier stuck out his hand and we shook hands. “Thanks, Mr. Wood.”

I watched him leave, wondering. Then I took the laptop and put it back in my main work area.

“Time to start closing up,” I said to myself.

CHAPTER 9

Join Me for a Bite?

It is an immutable law of nature in any business that
just
as you go to hang up the
CLOSED
sign, the phone will ring or a customer walk in. It gets to the point that you automatically hesitate for a few seconds before finally turning the lock and setting the security system, not because you’ve forgotten anything, but because you’re giving the inevitable a chance to make its appearance less painful through preparation.

This does not fool the gods, however, so just as I stopped hesitating and turned the key, the phone rang. I gave my usual mild curse and picked up the phone. “Wood’s Information Service, Jason Wood speaking.”

“Ah, Mr. Wood. It is good to hear your voice again.”

There was no way I could forget that deep, resonant voice with its undefinable accent.

“Mr. Domingo! This is . . . a surprise.”

I hadn’t heard from Domingo in several weeks, ever since we’d finished the Great Vampire Coverup, and hadn’t expected to ever hear from the blood-drinking gentleman again.

“No doubt. I was wondering if you would do me the honor of joining me for dinner—in the purely normal sense—sometime this week.”

Well, now, there was a poser of a question. And given that he had more than enough people to arrange his schedule, it must be important, especially if he was calling me personally. “Ummm,” I said smoothly. “Might I ask why?”

To my surprise, he also hesitated for a moment. “There are several matters I would like to discuss, but at least one of them was touched on during your first visit to my home. In a sense, you might consider this a business meeting.”

“I’m aware of certain elements of your business, Mr. Domingo,” I said, trying not to sound overly cold despite my distaste for drug-runners. “Without meaning any undue offense, I don’t think that I could be of much assistance, given certain preconditions of my own.” Such as wanting to stay on the right side of the law, for instance.

I was startled to hear a soft chuckle. “Would you be willing to take my word for it that you will find any business proposal I make to be neither overly onerous nor morally reprehensible to you?”

I considered that. “As a matter of fact . . . yes, I guess I would. All other things aside, you strike me as a man who takes his word very seriously.”

“Your perceptions are accurate. Can I take that to mean you will accept my invitation?”

“Now that you’ve piqued my curiosity, you’d have a hard time keeping me away. I can’t manage it tonight, but tomorrow night or Friday would do.”

“Excellent. Tomorrow night it is, then. I shall tell Morgan to expect you at eight o’clock. Have you a preference for a menu?”

What the hell, I knew he wasn’t hurting for money. “Since you’re buying, I have a fondness for fresh lobster and shrimp.”

“Noted. My chef rarely has a chance to show off; I shall let him know someone will be coming who can appreciate his work, as he has himself a preference for seafood dishes.”

“Great. Um, should I bring anything with me, this being partly business?”

“For this meeting, I think just your mind will suffice. If we reach a significant agreement, then we shall go into the more formal details.”

“Gotcha. Okay, see you at eight then.”

“I shall be looking forward to it. Good-bye, Mr. Wood.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Domingo.”

I stared at the phone for several minutes afterwards. “It appears I have an interview with a vampire.”

CHAPTER 10

Career Counseling

It was somewhat more comforting to be pulling into the huge, curving driveway in my own car under my own control.

The door opened as I reached the landing, and I saw the impeccably elegant butler/majordomo I remembered from the last visit. “Thank you . . . um, Morgan, wasn’t it?”

“Indeed, sir,” Morgan replied, with a small bow. “Your coat, sir? Thank you.” I handed him my overcoat, which he took and handed to another servant. “If you will be good enough to follow me, sir, Master Verne is waiting for you in the dining room.”

The manners in the Domingo household, I had to admit, had never given me room for complaint, at least aside from the initial threats. I followed Morgan to an absolutely magnificent dining room, with a genuine cut-crystal chandelier that shed a sparkling light over a huge elongated dinner table which could have easily seated fifty people. The paneling was elegant, real wood I was sure, and there were small oil paintings tastefully set along the walls.

Verne Domingo, resplendent in an archaic outfit, rose upon my entry and bowed. “Welcome to my home, Mr. Wood. Enter freely and of your own will.”

I couldn’t manage to keep a straight face, though I tried. After I stopped laughing, I spread my hands. “Okay, okay, enough. I see you have a sense of humor, too. At least you have the looks to carry it off.”

“I thank you. Please, sit down and tell me how my chef has done his work. Alas, I am unable to directly appreciate such talents anymore.”

It was a shellfish dream—seven different dishes, small enough that I could eat something of each of them without feeling like I was going to put a large number of crustaceans to waste. As it turned out, small enough so that if I felt like a pig—and I did—I could make sure no crustacean went untouched. I sat back finally, realizing I’d overeaten and not regretting it one bit. “Magnificent, sir. I haven’t eaten that well since . . . um . . . I don’t think I’ve ever eaten that well, actually. Seven dishes, four cuisines, the spices perfect, neither over- nor underdone . . . I’m going to miss this when I go home, I can tell you that.”

Domingo smiled broadly, giving a view of slightly-too-long canines. “Excellent!” He glanced to the side. “Did you hear that, Hitoshi?”

A middle-aged Japanese man came in and bowed. “I did. Many thanks for your kind words, Mr. Wood.”

“Jason—may I call you Jason?—this is Hitoshi Mori. He has been my chef for several decades now, but rarely has he had a chance for a personal command performance. I am sure he finds it good to know his skills have not faded.”

“They certainly haven’t.
Domo arigato
, Mori-
san
.” That was admittedly the limit of my Japanese, and I suspected that both Verne and Chef Mori knew it, because the chef simply bowed and thanked me again.

I glanced at Verne. “I’d guess then that your entire staff isn’t made up of vampires? I mean, Hitoshi-
san
must have people to cook for?”

Hitoshi bowed. “It is true that, aside from Domingo-
sama
, his household needs to eat. But it is also unfortunately true that a man can become too accustomed to a routine—either the chef to the tastes of the household, or the household to the work of the chef. Only one who is new can truly permit the chef to measure his skill.”

“Well, you have my vote. I’ve eaten in top-flight restaurants that served far worse. And I’m sure that at least one—the grilled lobster with the citrus and soy sauce—was an original.”