dochermes

"The AWOL Phone"

A Trom Girl Mystery

10/15/2007

I.

As soon as the front door opened at her knock, Megan Salenger held up her leather billfold to reveal her credentials. "Porter Shimkus?" she asked.

"Yes, that's me." He peered past her at the couple standing on his porch. "Claudia? Mel? What's going on here?"

"Mr and Mrs Crosley have hired me to look into the murder of your wife," Megan said. "I am a licensed Private Investigator for the State and City of New York, as you can see. May we come?" She clapped the billfold shut and returned it to the inner breast pocket of her jacket.

"Huh? Oh, sure, sure." Shimkus stepped aside to allow the three entry into the rather cozy and cluttered living room. He was a rather too well fed man in his late fifties, wearing pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt on this Sunday morning. An unfortunately large and tuber-shaped nose did not distract from a pair of sharp analytic eyes.

Moving to flank Megan on either side, Claudia and Mel Crosley regarded Shinkus without warmth. The woman folded her arms and said, "It's been nearly a week and the police have been useless, absolutely useless. Mel and I do NOT intend to let poor JoAnna's murder become another cold case that ends up forgotten."

"Oh, I understand that," Shimkus replied. "They've been here a dozen times, looking under every piece of furniture and taking thousands of photos but for what? So I can see why you might bring someone in on this. Although to be honest, Miss Salenger, you look more like a college student than a hard-boiled detective."

"I am twenty-eight, you may see my credentials again if you wish." It was true that the Trom Girl seemed younger than her years. Only five feet three and slim, her narrow inquisitive face under a tousled shock of black hair had the alertness and intensity of youth. She moved across the living room and through the kitchen beyond to gaze out of the back door at a metal drum standing on the lawn.

Porter Shimkus had followed her and saw where she was looking. "I'm not sure what I can tell you that I haven't already told the police a thousand times over. Claudia and Mel can agree with that. Every second of that day, every word we said, every move we made, has been gone over many times."

"Yes. I spent much of yesterday discussing the case with Lt Joseph Montez of Homicide and with your in-laws," Megan said, turning away from the door. "Perhaps everyone would like to be seated. I have some tentative conclusions I wish to share."

Rearranging the scattered SUNDAY TIMES into a rough pile, Shimkus gestured for Mr and Mrs Crosley to take the couch, whil3e he settled into an overstuffed recliner and moved an empty coffee mug out of the way.

Mel Crosley spoke for the first time. "I had heard of Miss Salenger because of her work with the Kenneth Dred Foundation. My law clerk work had made me familiar with their excellent record and with hers. Claudia and I contacted her and she agreed to investigate."

Megan remained standing, moving to the center of the room where she could watch everyone. "Please correct me if my understanding of events is inaccurate. Last Tuesday at four-thirty PM, Mr and Mrs Crosley arrived here to take you and your wife to dinner. Mrs Shimkus was in the house but you were in the back yard burning leaves and stray branches in that barrel."

"Yes. Yes, that's correct. It's quite legal, you know."

"Local ordinances allow the practice between October 1st and March 31st," she replied. "You said your wife should be ready at any second. A loud woman's scream was heard coming from within this house. The three of you ran in to find Darlene Shimkus lying dead at the foot of the stairs right there. A long thin knife had been driven into her heart."

"Oh God. No matter how many times I hear the details, they still hurt," Shimkus moaned.

"Stop pretending!" snapped Claudia. "You two were miserable together. You've hated each other for years. Don't think everyone doesn't know about that bleached blonde slut you've been seeing."

"Well, Darlene didn't care. All she wanted was reach the end of still another wine bottle as soon as possible. Yes, we fought. Our marriage was a failure. But that doesn't mean I don't have feelings, for God's sake."

Megan interrupted, still restrained and analytical. "The police arrived quickly but made little progress. The cheap unremarkable knife could have purchased in any dollar store. There was almost no blood from the clean insertion, no signs of a struggle. The front door was ajar but no prints were found anywhere."

"So far, you've got everything straight," Shimkus admitted. For ten hours, the police searched the house and made us repeat our stories over and over until it was hard not to scream."

"That's their way of trying to catch you in a detail that doesn't match." Megan glanced over at the rear door again. At one point, Lt Montez said that the burning leaves should not be left unattended. You went outside and placed a metal lid over the barrel to suffocate the fire. Is that right?"

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, I was in a daze at that point, shocked at everything. They had covered Darlene up at the point and EMTs were getting ready to carry her out to an ambulance."

The Trom Girl nodded. "What interests me is that your wife's phone has not been found."

"That again? The cops keep mentioning it. I don't know where she left the damn thing. What difference does a phone going AWOL matter?"

From the couch, Claudia put in, "She never let that phone get out of reach. Between Facebook and Twitter and God knows what else, she was always checking it out."

"I understand that you called your sister at four-fifteen that day?" asked Megan.

"Yes. We said we were on our way and she said she was working on her hair. That.. that was the last thing my baby sister ever said to me, such a trivial detail to be remembered by."

"As it is now stands, the police are going on the assumption that while you three were i the back yard, an unknown person entered through the front door to kill Darlene Shimkus and immediately run back outside again. None of the neighbors who have been contacted saw any such person on the street at that time."

Shimkus started to get up, but sank back down dejectedly into the chair. "I figure the killer snatched up Darlene's phone but for what reason I can't imagine."

"I agree," Megan said. "The murderer did take her phone. But he did not leave the house."

( the rest of the story )

"Dandelion Don't Tell No Lies"

8/3/2007

I.

Finding Cornell Street deep in one of the seedier neighborhoods of Queens, Dandelion parked her inconspicuous dark green Hyundai and studied Silverberg's Swap Shop. Despite how oppressive this sullen humid August evening was, she still wore a short denim jacket over her lilac blue shirt. She needed it to conceal her two small Walther P22s in holsters built into the inner lining, grips outward for access. For a few seconds, she studied the variety of items in the windows. Machetes and swords, bongo drums and guitars, stacks of CDs and DVDs, a nice olive-green tool box. An accordion and a camcorder. All had hand-lettered signs promising the items could not be found cheaper anywhere.

Even more vital than looking at the shop, though, she was scanning the street. She scrutinized the cars at their meters, the curtained windows in the buildings across the street, the young couple sauntering by and munching on hot dogs wrapped in paper napkins. All her instincts reassured her the area was safe, but she was still innately wary. Living outside the law meant trusting nobody and nothing.

Just as she had regretfully left her canary yellow Maserati garaged for this mission, Dandelion had concealed the famous shock of platinum blonde hair under a mousy brown wig. Lightly tinted sunglasses with oversized frame helped change her appearance a bit more, but she seldom wore more elaborate disguises. The wide jawline, the full delicate lips and snub nose would be recognizable to anyone who knew her.

Still glaring suspiciously in all directions, she went inside, making the bell at the top of the door tinkle as she went through. In the gloomy interior, Stan Silverberg sat on a stool behind a counter with a cash register. His round belly was bisected horizontally by a belt pulled high, and he wore a black vest over a white dress shirt. The moonface was open and friendly, with a smile that invariably won people over. Silverberg had never been good-looking but he was likeable.

To Dandelion's reassurance, Silverberg did not recognize her immediately. He raised a hand in half a wave and said, "Afternoon, miss. Anything in particular?"

"Jewelry," she replied in a huskier voice than her own. "Rings, maybe."

"Oh, rings we got and plenty of 'em. Over here." He rose with a grunt of effort and steered her toward a long glass display case toward the back of the store. "Mebbe You'd like to browse by yourself for a minute, eh?"

"I'm after a gold signet ring with an oval onyx on its top. There's a gold letter X on the gem."

That further exposure to her voice was enough. He blinked and peered more closely. "Say, this is a new look for you, isn't it?"

"A girl has to be careful these days," the most dangerous assassin of her era replied.

Silverberg let out a deep heavy sigh that was not feigned at all. "Ah, Dandy, a pretty girl like yourself playing such a dirty game..."

"I'll get my sermons in church, Stan."

"There is no such ring in my shop, I reget to say."

Dandelion allowed herself a wicked grin. "Right now, you mean. So, Stan, where's a nice view of the town where I can think things over?"

"Hmm. Well, behind Rowe's Bistro up on Prince Street. I used to park there when me and my missus went there for late meals. They don't close until eleven. From there, you can look down on the highway and count the headlights."

"Hmm, interesting. But if you don't have the sort of ring I'm looking for, I will move on."

"Best of luck to you, miss." Silverberg watched the slender form exit his shop and vault lightly behind the steering wheel of the Hyundai, waiting until she had rounded the corner and was out of sight. Then he slowly turned to face a gaunt figure appearing from behind a partition at the rear of the store.

In his fifties now, Jeremy Bane had not changed much. Only a few flecks of white showed in the short black hair and the cold grey eyes were still alert. In his trademark uniform of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, he remained as ominous a figure as a hooded hangman. "Lucky I saw her pull up outside, Sam. Having that fan on in your back room helped conceal my breathing."

"What a pity. A face an angel would admire but such a cold cold heart."

Bane placed a hand on the older man's shoulder. "Don't have any illusions about Dandelion. Her looks are just another weapon."

( the rest of the story )

"When Looks Could Kill"

A Trom Girl Mystery

5/8/2007

I.

At almost four on a warm May afternoon, the sidewalks of Flanders, Long Island were heavy with sight-seers and shoppers. The center of Flanders was known as a bit of a tourist trap with rows of boutiques and used clothing and knick-knack stores lining both sides of the street, very artistic and more than a little pretentious and definitely overpriced. Here, at the end of one block, was a neat one-story white building with a wide picture window which read AUSTEN GALLERY - BY APPOINTMENT ONLY in silver script. That was where the body had been discovered that morning.

Parked in front of the Gallery was a black and white Town Police car, with a uniformed officer sitting behind the wheel and talking on the radio. As he was about to hang up, he saw a cherry red Jeep Wrangler pull up behind him and a small thin woman with a shock of thick black hair vault eagerly out of the driver's seat. "Never mind, Tony," he said into the microphone, "the famous lady genius is here now. Report to you in a minute."

Officer Aldo Caputo got out to meet the civilians he had been ordered to brief on the situation. He didn't like the set-up and saw no reason to pretend he did. An eleven year veteran, Caputo thought the public should answer questions and then stay out of the way. He squeezed his considerable bulk from behind the wheel and stepped out on the sidewalk to meet them.

Megan Salenger was twenty-four, only three inches over five feet in height, slim and fit looking in tight jeans and a red flannel shirt two sizes too large for her. As he saw the inquisitive expression on her face, he grudgingly thought that she looked pretty smart and maybe she was good at investigations. They shook hands amiably enough as she introduced herself. The 'Trom Girl' was a newer member of Manhattan's Kenneth Dred Foundation, which had built a solid reputation over the past two decades under its leader, the notorious Dire Wolf.

Her partner was more obviously impressive as he walked around to loom over her. Archie McAllister was a bearlike hulk well over six feet tall and weighing about two hundred and forty pounds. He needed a shave and a haircut at the moment, wore well-worn work clothes including motorcycle boots, and seemed even bigger than he was. But the blue eyes in the weathered face were gentle and friendly, and that gave his real nature away. "Hello, officer," he said simply.

Megan studied the building next to them. "Six years ago, there was a robbery here. An artifact that was part of the Armor of Hell was stolen. The owners said at the time that they would not longer specialize in items supposedly of an occult or supernatural nature." She turned her large dark eyes on Caputo. "Evidently they did not do so."

"Yeah, yeah, they knew what sold and what paid the bills," he answered. Taking a key from his pants pocket, he said seriously, "Now my orders are to let you take a look inside and answer your questions but you are not to touch anything. Anything at all. Understood?"

"Yes," said the Trom Girl. "Thank you."

Officer Caputo unlocked the front door and ushered her in. Archie followed but stayed back by the door, keeping out of the way. Megan glanced up at a corner of the ceiling and said, "That security camera is a dummy. It is not even hooked up."

"You got good eyes," the LI cop remarked. "Yeah, lots of stores have dummy cameras just to deter shoplifters. Too bad, we could use some footage."

The Trom Girl slowly inspected the gallery, checking the items which sat on clear plexiglass stands or along white porcelain shelves on black walls. Everything seemed spurious to her. The little Tiki statuettes and demonic faces on plaques and dreamcatchers were mere decorations. They had nothing to do with the reality of the Midnight War she knew. The shelfload of books on the occult were familiar froth as well.

There was one exception that gave her a jolt of alarm. A white chest-high pillar stood with nothing on its flat top, but a neat tag read DARTHAN CRYSTAL SKULL- MAROCH 11TH CENTURY $1900. "This is significant," she said, "Not just because it is missing but because of its nature. How did the owners obtain a Darthan talisman? They had decided to avoid genuine mystic artifacts."

"Damn if I know," said Caputo. "There's a picture of it on their online catalog if you want to look."

"Thank you," she answered distractedly. Watching, Archie recognized the distant expression in her eyes that meant she was turning over data at a furious pace. The Trom Girl stepped over to the glass-topped counter in the rear corner which held a small cash register and a few signs. Behind the counter, a swivel chair had been pushed back on its casters against the wall.

"Here is where the body of Meredith Austen was found, I understand. Has the autopsy been performed?" she asked.

"Nope. Probably not until tomorrow, maybe the next day." Caputo shrugged, "The Medical Examiner says their office is swamped with a backlog. Poor old John Austen passed away last winter. Just as well, I'd hate to have him see his wife like this."

"No visible signs of injury, I understand." Megan crouched down and studied the floor without touching it. "No bruises, no scrapes or punctures in the skin. She was lying on her left side with one arm up on this chair."

"Yeah, there is one little thing not mentioned in the report you read," the cop told her. "You ever see the face of a heart attack victim?"

Behind him, the deep voice of Archie McAllister broke in, "They sure show they were in pain. The faces are distorted that way."

"Right. Well, Mrs Austen was seventy, had no history of cardiac problems but her face was all twisted up. She looked like she was terrified when she died... as if the last thing she saw scared her right to death."

( the rest of the story )

"Squatters In Your Brain"

A Trom Girl/Unicorn Team-Up

12/1-12/4/2007

I.

For once, Megan was not stretched out under the CORBY in an oil-stained jumpsuit, replacing parts or making upgrades in the avionics of the stealth helicopter. She had gone through her DohRa form, worked through the Nautilus weight resistance machines and just now hopped off the treadmill after a half hour run at a forty-five degree angle. Her breathing was slightly faster than normal and she was sweaty, but she felt a pleasant glow of physical well-being.

Getting a clean rag and one of the spray bottles, the Trom Girl wiped off the equipment before leaving the gym on the fifth floor. There were two shower stalls there but she wanted to use the one in her own rooms. At five foot three, Megan had the trim unobtrusive body of a gymnast. Her thick black hair was damp and her face with its pointed nose and inquisitive eyes showed how relaxed she felt for once.

Out in the hall, she trotted down the stairs to the third floor where the KDF members had their private quarters. In her rooms, she took a steamy hot shower, toweled dry and dressed in regular civilian clothes. Today was actually her day off from duty. Megan put on snug worn jeans, a loose baggy maroon sweatshirt and a pair of red sneakers. She looked quite a bit younger than her actual age of twenty-seven.

She glanced at the digital clock on her dresser. Just after one in the afternoon and she felt ravenous. The Trom Girl inspected her rooms, found them up to her strict standards of neatness and stepped out into the hall. Afternoon sunlight slanted in through the tall narrow windows. She went down the stairs again and paused at the doorway to the conference room.

Sitting curled up with a leg tucked under her, Ashley Whitaker was bent over a huge ancient book on the long oak table where the members assembled. A year younger than Megan, Ashley was noticeably smaller. Just five feet tall and barely one hundred pounds, the Unicorn was a gorgeous platinum blonde with crystal blue eyes and a piquant face with a uptilted nose and slightly cleft chin. Deeply engrossed in the book, leaning her face upon one upturned palm, she looked so much like a schoolchild doing homework that it made Megan smile to watch.

Rapping lightly on the doorjamb with her knuckles, the Trom Girl said, "Hi! What are you reading?"

Unicorn looked up, the shining hair swinging with the movement of her head, and grimaced. "The most boring long-winded dry old stuff you ever saw," she answered. "My God, it's awful. Dull dull dull. All about how King Whathisface of Whocares quarreled with the Prince of Somedamnplace and their hosts met on the field of Milesfromnowhere and smote each other hip and thigh until the grass was red and their widows wept." She slammed the book shut. "Did you have lunch, I didn't, let's run out and grab some burgers from Five Guys! What do you say?"

"It sounds like a good idea," the Trom Girl said. "But we should check in with Sable first."

"Yeah, yeah, tell the captain where we're going and when we'll be back and if we'll be talking to boys we don't know," Unicorn scoffed. She hopped to her feet and stretched her slim curvy figure, dressed all in white as usual.

As they went down to the ground floor and the wide front hall, Ashley asked, "Say, isn't this your off-duty day? What are you doing hanging around headquarters?"

"I'm idle. Archie is working and we have no plans for later. We don't see each other every single day."

"Yeah, you guys have been together a few years now," Unicorn said. "Everyone is so tickled for you, Megan, seriously. At first, we were worried being raised by the Trom would leave you like a cold emotionless robot or something."

"People are full of surprises," the Trom Girl replied just as the doorbell rang.

"There goes our quiet day!" squeaked Ashley as she rushed to the front door. She thumbed the button to the speaker outside. "Just a second, I'll be right with you." As Megan stood watching behind her, the Unicorn slid open a wall panel to reveal a control panel and a monitor which showed 38th Street right outside. An older man in a neat business suit with a tan topcoat stood peering up up at the camera.

"Never saw him before," Unicorn said.

"I don't recognize him, either. Are you going to let him in?"

"Sure, might be something huge! Or, who knows, he might just be at the wrong address." Ashley pressed the control that opened the street door and announced, "Please, come right in."

The stranger stepped up into a tiny foyer as the door closed behind him. Trom-designed sensors more advanced than anything available to medical centers or security agencies probed and analyzed the man in depth. There was no positive ID available on him, which meant he was not in the NYPD or FBI files; if they chose, they could have done a facial recognition scan from the Department of Motor Vehicles to try to identify him but that didn't seem necessary.

The man was at a biological age of sixty-two, five feet eleven inches tall and two hundred eight pounds. Blood pressure, respiration and heartbeat all were within normal range. Chemical analysis of trace perspiration showed normal adrenalin levels and no signs of exotic drugs in his system. He had nothing metal on him other than his keys and a standard cell phone.

Silently, Sable had come up behind them to see who was at the door. Lauren Sable Reilly was captain of their team of Tel Shai knights and of the KDF. She was a few years older than they were, a bit taller, very serious and responsible. "He seems harmless enough," she said.

Unicorn turned her head to smile at her leader. "I vote we hear what he has to say." She reached out to open the inner door and greeted the visitor. "Hello. Can we help you?"

The man blinked and smiled despite himself at being met by three attractive young women at the same time. "Oh, I hope so. Is this the Kenneth Dred Foundation?"

"Right the first time," Ashley sang out as she stepped inside. "Come on in. This is our boss, Lauren Reilly. Do you want to hang your coat on one of those hooks there?"

"Yes, thank you. My name is Arthur Lown. I work as a chaffeur and assistant to Dr Konrad Ebelheiser, or rather I did until today..."

"Please, let's be seated in the office so you can fill us in," Sable said. They escorted Lown across the hall and got him into a chair in front of the desk. Sable went around to seat herself behind the desk, placing a stack of papers off to one side. Ashley and Megan brought over two more of the plain wooden chairs and arranged themselves so their visitor could see everyone at the same time without having to constantly swing his head.

As Sable gestured for him to continue, Lown said, "Dr Ebelheiser discharged me this morning. It was quite sudden, he gave me pay for the next two weeks but told me I did have to leave his estate. This is in Massachusets, by Endicott. I had worked for the doctor more than eight years now. But it is the strange, even bizarre circumstances, that happened before that which led me to come here to see what you think. I know a little about the KDF. Dr Ebelheiser is an authority on the occult and the supernatural, he wrote a book about the Preincarnators and many articles for historical journals. He has been on the edges of the Midnight War for decades."

When Arthur Lown paused and seemed hesitant to continue, Sable prompted him, "Please go on, sir, we are very interested."

"Well. Dr Ebelheiser is seventy-one and has more than the usual arthritis and loss of mobility one might expect. He has recently hired a physical trainer and therapist to live at the house. This is a young man named Chad Lipton, and he is qualified to do this, I did check his credentials. This morning, quite unexpectedly, Dr Ebelheiser showed an extraorinary delusion. He began claiming he was actually this youth Lipton. He spoke in such a different manner and with so much conviction that I was distressed. I went to phone for an ambulance. I thought perhaps the doctor had suffered a stroke or something. Lipton prevented me. He is a physically fit young man and quite imposing. Against my objections, he brought the doctor to bed and made him lie down... rather against his will, I thought. They closed the door and shut me out. The doctor was still ranting about being trapped in an old man's body."

"This IS interesting," Sable said. "Dr Ebelheiser's speech patterns changed, you say."

"Yes. His voice was the same but you would swear from the way he spoke that he was a young man from California. I was understandably upset. Then, a half hour later, Lipton came down to the parlor to give me a handwritten note from the doctor. I was being discharged from employment immediately and required to gather my effects at once. The enclosed check was generous but that was no comfort." He reached into the inner pocket of his suit and extracted a folded piece of paper which he handed to Sable. "Here. I also have a few memos from the doctor about errands and such so you can compare them."

The KDF leader spread the papers out in front of her and took her time studying them. "This is unusual," she said finally. "I have studied graphology. The handwriting on the letter and on the memos is very close but not absolutely identical. There is no forgery involved. The handwriting on the letter is free and unforced, indicating it was written without effort. But it does not quite match."

"What could that mean?" demanded Lown plaintively. "I just don't understand."

"My first conclusion would be that Dr Ebelheiser had indeed suffered some affliction, a TIA or minor heart attack. But there is something else. You'll have to take my word for it, Mr Lown, but traces of skin oil left on the letter do not match those on the memos."

"Would you please explain?" Lown asked, getting more uncomfortable by the second.

"It doesn't make sense," Sable told him. "But it seems to me that this letter was indeed written by Dr Ebelheiser... except that the hands holding the paper and the pen were not his. They were those of a younger man."

( the rest of the story )

"Beneath the Cities of Men"


11/16-11/17/2007

I.

Two women stepped out an alley in a bad part of town. Zarithen was well into middle age, a bit bent, a bit grey. She wore loose pants and long-sleeved blouse of tan cloth, with a wide-brimmed hat. Over one shoulder was slung a small knapsack and a leather purse was tied to her waist sash. Few observers would have noticed her, though, simply because she was standing next to Valera.

Her bright blue uniform of snug tunic and pants, with its white trim and red boots was striking in itself but Valera would have caught the eye no matter what she wore. The Melgar princess was tall, just under six feet, and slim but athletic in build. She had rich yellow hair loose around her shoulders, and sky-blue eyes in a beautiful face. Valera carried a large trunk in one hand and a duffel bag in the other, and strapped across her back was a leather sheath holding something longer than she was tall. As they stepped from the alley into the morning sunlight, Valera flashed her dazzling smile at her companion.

"Welcome to the Human world," she said. "You have not been here before, my dear, it is larger than all the adjacent realms combined."

Zarithen took a good look before answering. "Busy it is, and noisy. You told me of these carriages that roll without horses to pull them. And you told me I would see Humans of every color and size, so these do not surprise me. But why do these folk hurry so?"

"It is their nature," Valera answered. "Come. Follow me."

"Yes, princess." Zarithen tagged along behind the boldly striding Valera as they walked east along 34th Street. They paused before the Hotel Lanchester, a modest establishment that stood opposite the Empire State Building. "This will do," Valera decided, marching through the double glass doors and across a lobby of white tile and marble. At the desk, a smiling young man greeted them, eyeing Valera with appreciation he could not quite hide.

"We shall need rooms for a few days. Say, one week." Valera put down the trunk she was carrying and reached inside her leather belt to take out a small billfold. In it was an American Express Card and driver's license made to "Valerie Androval." She had been in the world often before and came prepared. Also in that billfold was five hundred dollars in fifties and twenties, a Visa card and an ID for an account at the Chase Manhattan bank.

As a bellboy hurried up to help, he grunted in surprise at how heavy the trunk was that Valera had been carrying with one hand. She let him struggle with it. It was best not to give away just how powerful she really was. They made their way to the bank of elevators, rode up to the 18th floor and were shown into a luxurious suite with tall windows that let in the morning light. Valera thanked the boy and gave him a tip, while Zarithen looked over the rooms.

"This is suitable for one of your station, princess," she conceded almost grudgingly.

Valera smiled and wandered about. "Ah, I have camped in deserts and jungles and barren mountains in my day. Many a night I had no blanket to pull over me and my forearm was my pillow." She showed her old nurse the bathroom and demonstrated how the toilet and shower worked.

"I am impressed with Human ingenuity," Zarithen said, almost to herself. "But I do wonder why we do not bring such devices to our own realm."

"It is not the Melgar way. To be frank, we are slow to change our customs and we have not changed much since the Darthan Age." Valera picked up the remote and turned on the TV to CNN. As Zarithen stared hypnotized at the screen, Valera put away their luggage. She glanced over and smiled at her nurse watching the dancing candy bars during a commercial.

"Zarithen!" Valera said sharply. "These are my words. You are not to leave these room except in extreme emergency such as fire. Do you hear and obey?"

The older Melgar bowed her head. "Yes, my princess."

"Here in this mechanical icebox I have placed fruit, bread and cheese. This is dried meat and here are bottles of wine. The water from this sink is fit to drink. I do not plan to be gone long but if I am, pick up this instrument" and here she demonstrated with the phone by the bed, "and ask for 'room service.' Order what food you want, it will be charged. Do you understand?"

"I do, princess. But may I not go with you?"

"No. I want you here. I may call this phone if I have instructions or if I need help. It is important that you stand by and do your part." Valera's tone softened. "I count on you as I always have, my friend and comrade."

Zarithen bowed low and went to sit on the low couch, Despite herself, her eyes went to the TV which now showed a singing couple in front of three judges. Valera smiled, and took a white topcoat from her baggage. Removing the scabbard from her back, she put on the coat and strapped the seven foot sheath over one shoulder again. Long years of practice let her move about without awkwardness from the weapon she carried always. Valera tied her long blonde hair in a ponytail with a twist of blue silk, patted her pockets and glanced in the mirror. At the door, she waved to Zarithen and went out toward the elevator.

Out on the street, the Melgar woman got her bearings and headed east. She did not feel out of place anymore, having traveled in the real world in her time, and she strode confidently toward Third Avenue, then swung left up to 44th Street. Here was the building she had been told to find. It was only four stories high, of yellow brick, with a sign on a stand listing the businesses within. Between "EMERGENCY ONE- WALK-IN CLINIC" and "SPA HIGHLAND" was "DIRE WOLF AGENCY." Valera nodded and headed toward the glass doors but hesitated. Long decades of adventure had given her a sense when things were amiss. She walked past the building and peered into the narrow alley between it and the next, taller structure.

There was the man she had come to see, his arms raised as he faced three men with guns in their hands.

( the rest of the story )

"Pardon My Whistling"

1/23-1/24/2007

I.

Ten to five on a boring January day. Jeremy Bane had cleaned his office, even straightening the scrapbooks and box of newspaper clippings. He had written out every check due and put them in envelopes, he had gone through all his messages. He had called Bleak and a few other sources to see if anything was up in the Midnight War. Nothing. The supernatural seemed to be taking a week off. He had even phoned Lt Montez down on 20th Street and asked if there were any weird and puzzling crimes that needed a hand. Montez had said no and wondered if Bane was going to go out and start trouble just for something to do. The Dire Wolf denied that he would do that, but actually he was considering it. He had been known to prowl the city at night hoping for trouble. Maybe as soon as it got dark.

Bane was standing by the couch, holding the heavy curtains aside to gaze out at Third Avenue. It sure seemed cold, judging by the way the few people on the sidewalks hurried past with their shoulders up and their heads down. Not much snow this year. As Bane watched, a black SUV with tinted windows pulled up at the corner. The passenger got out, a big man in a dark suit and white topcoat and the SUV pulled away. The man headed for the front door of the yellow-brick building where Bane's office was located. The Dire Wolf perked up. A few seconds later, his doorbell rang. Finally! He went through the tiny reception room just big enough for two chairs and a coffee table with old magazines, and checked out the image on the monitor.

>He had mixed reactions to what he saw. White male maybe thirty-five, thirty-six. Two inches over six feet tall, trim and fit-looking. Short dark brown hair, brown eyes, nothing really to aid identifying him by a description. It was the body language that made Bane frown. The man had some signs of hostilty but his face was placid. Not that there was any doubt that Bane was going to let the man in. On a day like this, he would have opened his door to a starving tiger.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Mr Bane?" said the man in a neutral accent.

"I'm Bane, can I help you?"

"I hope so. I'm from an organization known as INTERCEPT. You met our chief, Mr Davenport, last year."

"Sure. Come on in." Bane stepped aside and followed the man to the inner office, the door being left open. He motioned for the man to take a seat in front of the desk and went around to sit down in his own chair. "Naturally, I'd like to see some ID. Your gold badge?"

"Sorry? We don't carry badges." He held out his wallet. "Here's my ID card, complete with photo and Mr Davenport's signature. Field Agent 0706. Karl Vogel."

Bane studied it. "That's an old trick asking for the wrong ID, but it's always worth trying. Okay, Karl Vogel. What brings you to the Dire Wolf Agency today?"

"Last August, you worked with our Nicholas Pryshepa. He and Mr Davenport were extremely pleased with the results you obtained. Currently, there is a situation in Manhattan we feel you might be interested in resolving. INTERCEPT is overextended at the moment dealing with a new criminal network code-named MARABUNTA. Anarchists, difficult to predict what they'll do."


The Dire Wolf nodded politely. "And what is going on that I might able to help with?"



"You remember STIGMA, of course. A loose alliance of several criminal empires. They are more like an association than a conspiracy. The John Grim branch is active in Manhattan right now."

"Really. Grim has been dead for fifteen years. I examined his corpse myself."

"His organization kept the name for its recognition value. They concern themselves with industrial espionage, computer hacking, financial frauds, white collar crimes. But we believe they have a new leader, the son of John Grim himself, Alexander Grim. Quite young and ambitious. They seemed to be acting more violently and ruthless than before and the body count in their crimes has increased dramatically."

Bane was frowning. "I haven't heard any of this in the area."

"Oh, they have been operating mostly in Eastern Europe. Former Soviet countries. It is just within the past few days that we have reports of known STIGMA agents sighted within Manhattan. A robbery at a pharmaceutical lab on Staten Island, Progressive Medical Products of America. Some new compounds were taken, two security guards shot dead and a lab technician wounded. We believe they plan to combine the compounds to synthesize a new poison, Isopromine-9. Its creation was proposed but declined because of expense and the dangers of working with it."

The grey eyes were gleaming now as Bane leaned forward. "I'm interested."



"Here," Vogel said as he reached inside his jacket and took some a few 4x5 glossy photos. "They missed destroying one security camera."



Bane looked at images of three men in dark clothing, holding assault rifles and running down a corridor. They wore bright yellow vests, open in the front, and each had a full-face yellow cloth mask with a black skull over the face. One photo showed that the back of the vests also had a large black skull design.

"What's with the Halloween outfits?" Bane said.



"Oh, that's a new STIGMA trademark. Supposed to terrify victims and make witnesses reluctant to talk. Like the old pirate flag, the Jolly Roger. Mr Bane, do you think you want to help us?"



The Dire Wolf allowed the faintest predatory smile. "I'm on the case, Mr Vogel."



"There's not much more information to give you, I'm afraid. Our agent Winchester will brief you as much as possible."



Bane sighed almost inaudibly. "I worked with Pryshepa last time but frankly, I'm best on my own. I suppose if I say I don't want a partner, this Winchester will just shadow me any way?"



"I wouldn't be surprised. Perhaps that would hamper your style more. In any case, at 7:15 Winchester will be standing in Bryant Park with a folded magazine."



"Spies. Do I have a phrase I have to say?"



Vogel stood up. "Oh no. You're distinctive, Winchester will approach you. Thank you, Mr Bane. I do want to say that Mr Davenport has expressed regrets you wouldn't want to be a regular associate of INTERCEPT, perhaps an agent yourself."


"It's nice to be appreciated," Bane said and escorted the man to the hall.

( the rest of the story )