Tangled Souls (15 page)

Alliford frowned and then nodded. “She suggested I talk to my priest. She thought that might help me cope with . . .” His voice trailed off, and he returned his attention to the machine as if the words were too painful to speak aloud.

“And have you done that?”

Alliford shook his head. “Father Davidson wouldn’t understand what is happening. He’s a bit, well . . .”

“Old-fashioned?”

Alliford nodded. “He’d be upset if he found out that Gavenia was in the house.”

Most priests would.
O’Fallon closed the notebook and returned it to his suit-coat pocket. On impulse, he pulled out another one of his business cards and penciled a name and phone number on the back. When Alliford handed him the copy, he handed him the card in return.

“This is my priest. He’s got an open mind.”

Alliford took the card and nodded. He studied the name for a moment and then stuck the card into his shirt pocket. “Thanks.”

O’Fallon folded the copy and tucked it away. “Thanks for your time.”

“Have I helped you?” Alliford asked.

Guilt rose. Alliford was a genuinely nice guy. How much hurt would he feel when he learned that the witch was only after his money? That she’d lied about hearing his dead son?

“Yes, you have.” O’Fallon hesitated, feeling the need to offer more. “Talk to Father Elliot. He’s helped me more than once.”

Alliford pulled the card out again and then nodded slowly. “I will.”

As they walked to the front entryway, O’Fallon heard a distant thumping and then laughter, as if a child were bouncing a ball inside the house. The hair on his neck rose.

He gave Alliford a startled look.

“It’s Bradley,” the father explained.

O’Fallon swallowed. It didn’t lessen the tightness in his throat. “Does he do that all the time?”

“No, only off and on.” The man took a deep breath. “We just need to find Merlin.”

O’Fallon thought for a moment and then asked, “Did you get the dog from the pound?”

“No, we bought him from a breeder. Why do you ask?”

“Does he have one of those microchips—you know, the kind they can scan if the animal gets lost?”

Alliford shook his head, an expression of deep regret covering his face. “He didn’t have one of those.”

“Well, maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“God, I hope so.” They shook hands again.

Alliford opened the front door and then paused, transfixed.

“Janet?” He took a couple of steps outside the house. “Janet?” he repeated.

A cab sat near the front of the house, a vigorous argument in progress between the driver and the passenger. Something to do with the fare.

“I’ll pay you,” she shouted. “Just wait.”

The man answered in broken English, gesturing wildly.

“Wait!” the woman said. “Just wait!”

Janet Alliford entered the house like it was the first time she’d visited, her gait uneven and her eyes darting in all directions. As she walked past O’Fallon, a frown appeared, as if she was trying to place him. Her hair was unkempt, her garments rumpled, her nail polish chipped. O’Fallon detected a fine body tremor. The tremor increased, and she hugged her arms across her chest in a protective gesture.

Coke or meth?
O’Fallon pondered. It wasn’t booze, though she probably had some of that in her system as well. He settled on cocaine as the addiction of choice.

“What are you doing here?” Alliford demanded. Outside the cabbie kept shouting in his native language, advancing toward the house, gesticulating wildly.

Janet hugged herself harder.

“I . . . need to talk to you, Greg,” she said. Another look in O’Fallon’s direction.

The cabbie was almost to the door. O’Fallon pulled a couple of twenties out of his wallet and intercepted the driver before he came inside. The couple stared at each other, oblivious, caught in their own private hell.

By the time he’d settled with the irate man and got a couple questions answered in the process, things were at a boil inside the house.

“That’s why you’re here? You need money? That’s the only reason?” Alliford shouted.

Janet nodded, looking around nervously.

“You don’t say hello, how are you; you just demand money. Well, I’ll make a deal, Janet. Tell me where Merlin is, and I’ll give you enough cash to pack your nose tonight. How’s that?”

The woman blinked in surprise. “Merlin? Why do you care about him?” she asked.

“Because of our son. You do remember Bradley, don’t you?”

Janet visibly flinched. “I don’t know where the dog is.”

“You took him!” Alliford advanced a step, and she staggered backward in response.

O’Fallon grew more uncomfortable. This had all the makings of a domestic brawl in the making.

“I just . . . wanted company. He . . . ran away,” Janet said.

She wasn’t a good liar.

“If you could give us a general idea where he got . . . lost,” O’Fallon said, throwing his voice into the fray.

“Who are you?” she asked, squinting in his direction. He winced—he’d seen corpses with nicer eyes.

“Douglas O’Fallon,” he said.

A strange look came to her face. “You’re the investigator my mother hired, aren’t you?” she charged.

O’Fallon gave a short nod.
Oh, damn.

Alliford’s fury refocused. “You lied to me,” he fumed, pointing his finger at the PI.

“No, I just didn’t tell you who my client was. The rest was on the money.”

“Why the hell does she want to know about Gavenia?”

O’Fallon mentally tossed a coin and opted for the truth. “She thinks Ms. Kingsgrave’s trying to run a scam on you using your son as the bait.”

“That’s ridiculous! Gavenia’s not after my money.”

“Then why is she here?” Janet demanded.

Alliford smirked at his wife. “Not for what you think, either. She’s here to help Bradley.”

“Then Mother needs to stay out of this,” Janet said, switching sides with astonishing speed—no doubt a move designed to score some cash off her husband when the shouting ended.

O’Fallon felt the tide turning.
Just like a domestic.
The battling couple unites against a common enemy, usually the cop.
In this case the enemy was Mrs. Pearce. But since she was safely in Palm Springs and he was her proxy . . .

As if on cue, Alliford turned on O’Fallon. “Get the hell out of my house before I have your license revoked.”

O’Fallon accepted both his dismissal and the threat graciously. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Alliford.”

He waited outside the house, leaning against the car. Janet Alliford appeared a few minutes later, shouting abuse. The front door slammed behind her, and he could hear the sound of locks engaging from twenty feet away. Janet stumbled into the driveway and then jerked her eyes around, bewildered. Apparently, she hadn’t realized he’d dismissed the cab.

The shakes overwhelmed her as she teetered against a concrete planter, her face mottled and tearstained.

“I’ll give you a ride,” O’Fallon said.

“Why?”

“Because your husband’s not going to change his mind.”

“He’s fucking crazy,” she said.

“It must be going around.” O’Fallon gestured, and she stumbled toward the car. He made no effort to help her.

As he pulled onto the street, she sniffled and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “I’m not that bad.”

“You’re that bad and then some.” She hadn’t specified a destination, but given what the cabbie had told him, it would be someplace downtown, the heart of Skid Row. He turned toward the freeway.

“I don’t give a damn what you think,” she retorted. He thought he could hear a bit of her mother’s arrogance in the words.

“Fine by me.” He stopped talking. People hated silence and often they’d babble just to fill the void. Janet Alliford didn’t. For a time he thought she’d fallen asleep. She roused as he took the exit off the 110 toward the heart of LA.

“Where are we going?” she asked, staring out the passenger window.

“Downtown.”

She eyed him. “Why?”

“Where else would you be? You can’t go back to Palm Springs, and Gregory has cut you off. Skid Row knows your kind.”

“It’s because of . . .”

“Go on.”

“Because of Bradley.”

Righteous indignation flared within him. “That story might play with the other addicts, but not with me. You were coking up way before your son’s death.”

The blow on his arm surprised him, as did the second one. He was in no position to fend her off, so he drove on, sensing her anger would run out of steam. The third strike was lighter.

“I’m not a good substitute for your mother,” he said.

“You son of a bitch.”

He glared at her. “Leave my sainted mother out of this.”

“If she’s like mine, she’s no saint.” Janet’s hands twisted in her lap, and her body twitched to its own rhythm.

“No, she was nothing like yours.”

She gave him an odd expression. “Mother’s to blame for this. I’m not strong, not like my sister, Emily. Mother always said so.”

O’Fallon frowned. “Your mother is a coldhearted, self-centered bitch, Mrs. Alliford. That’s the truth of it. Either you suck up and deal, or you’re going to martyr yourself on her altar. And trust me, she’ll guilt you every step of the way.”

The woman’s mouth fell open. He wondered if anyone had ever been that blunt about her mother. If she ratted him out to Mrs. Pierce his job would vanish.

So be it.
“Your dead son needs your help. Where’s Merlin?”

She shook her head. “I just . . . dumped him on the street.”

He could hear the lie. “Try that again.”

“I left him on the street,” she insisted.

“How could you do that?”

Janet shook her head, refusing to answer.

“Why did you take him in the first place?” he probed.

“Like I said, I wanted—”

“No! Tell me the truth.”

Janet bit her lip and then shook her head in a pathetic gesture. “I wanted somebody who liked me,” she said in a childlike voice.

He drove the length of Main and, at her request, stopped in front of the old Los Angeles Children’s Museum.

She stared out the window for a time.

“I always wanted to come here as a kid, but
she
would never bring me.” A shuddering breath. “Now it’s closed.”

As the woman exited the car, he slipped her a twenty though it would, no doubt, go up her nose.

She gave him a wan smile. “Thank you.”

“Good luck,” he said. The words felt empty. Deep in his heart, he knew that luck had very little to do with Janet Alliford’s future.

* * *

“How ya doing?” Viv asked, kneeling at Gavenia’s side.

“Better,” Gavenia replied, and then took another sip of Moonbeam tea. She’d retreated to Crystal Horizons seeking sanctuary. The moment she’d entered the building she’d headed for the hidden fairy behind the books. Touching her had helped.

“I can’t believe he’d just say something like that,” Viv muttered under her breath while keeping an eye on a browsing customer. “Was Winston . . . married?”

There was the problem. In the first few minutes after O’Fallon had unloaded on her, Gavenia fell into deep denial. By the time Bart had calmed her down, the truth had seeped into her pores like raw acid.

“It’s possible,” she said. Now that she thought about it, she remembered he had a roving eye and spent a lot of time on the phone to his “secretary.” “Yeah, definitely possible.”

Viv wisely didn’t comment, but headed toward her customer. As she helped the lady pick out an appropriate quartz crystal, Bart appeared at Gavenia’s side, concerned.

“Winston knew I wouldn’t date married guys. Why did he lie to me?” she whispered.

You’ll have to ask him.

Gavenia shook her head instantly. She took a sip of the tea and then asked, “Why did the PI tell me something like that?”

Because you hurt him.

“What do you mean?” she asked, furrowing her brows.

Think about it.
He promptly vanished. She took a long sip of the tea, inhaling the aroma while Viv showed the customer her selection of amethyst clusters.

Gavenia replayed the encounter between her and O’Fallon and then groaned. She’d dinged him on his failed marriages—gloated about them—and then he’d struck back with Winston. They kept drawing blood each time they squared off.

“He’s an ally, not an enemy,” Viv said. The customer was gone, and now Gavenia vaguely remembered the sound of the cash register and then the triple chime of the front door. Apparently Viv had decided a tarot reading was in order. Sorry; I was off in my own world,” Gavenia said.

“I figured.” Viv held up a card. “Your PI is a questing knight, always in search of the truth. He’s a good guy, despite his lack of manners.”

Gavenia opened her mouth to protest and then abandoned the effort. Viv and the cards were right—O’Fallon wasn’t the enemy.

“So what are we in for?”

Viv held up another card. Gavenia’s mouth dropped open.

“Not a chance.”

Viv ignored her protest. “The Lovers—either you two are going to become hot and heavy or you’re going form a partnership.”

Gavenia scrunched her face. “Maybe a partnership, because I can’t imagine . . .” She paused, thinking of what it would be like to kiss the Irish guy. Still, every time they’d met, he’d been an ass, and after the con game Winston had played on her . . . “Partnership,” she announced firmly, as if that would settle the issue. “What else?”

Viv whistled and held up the Tower card—a horrific vision of lightning striking a tall tower as figures tumbled to their deaths on the rocks below.