A Breath of Life (Shadowy Solutions Book 4), page 6
“He was delirious and dying. He didn’t know what he was talking about.”
We were arguing in circles. Tallus saw a future of prosperity, and I saw the inside of a prison cell. We were not the same people.
“What if—” he started.
“No. Conversation over.”
“But—”
I growled, and Tallus pinned me with a look of contempt. “Fine. For now. You’re a big bully, you know that.”
“A big bully who is trying to keep you from being someone’s prison girlfriend.”
“Whatever.”
Without another word, I started the Jeep and took us home.
5
Tallus
Under the word stubborn in the encyclopedia was a picture of my surly boyfriend. Over the following days, Diem refused to leave the card unprotected, announcing he didn’t trust me not to run off and beg my cousin’s help in pawning it illegally. I didn’t know what his issue was. We had a gold mine on our hands, and my diva wish list grew by the second.
Instead, we browsed local lost and found listings on the internet, seeking information about a missing or recently stolen ornate playing card. I wanted to scream at the injustice of it all.
So far, we’d had no luck locating the owner, but with an item worth this much, Diem wasn’t surprised. He pointed out several times that when people came into possession of valuable items that didn’t belong to them, they usually handed them over to the police. It was a not-so-subtle hint that we should do the same. I refused to allow it and might have stamped my foot to get my point across.
Diem snarled. I sassed.
We were at an impasse.
To determine if a report had been filed, we needed to contact the police directly. Most divisions documented stolen items and those turned over as found. None of it was broadcast to the public. No official website existed that we could browse for answers. Since Diem had burned all his connections with the police department and the mere idea of talking nicely to old colleagues made his skin crawl, the job of inquiring deeper into those supposed lists fell on me.
Five days after our discovery, I raced from the apartment, late for my shift. The records department wasn’t exactly a happening place on a good day—it was especially dull on Monday mornings—so I wasn’t worried anyone would notice my tardiness. My single-minded goal for the day was to uncover what I could about a missing playing card that wasn’t a playing card at all but more of a trophy item that represented one. It beat the heck out of my usual routine of nothingness.
Since I slept in, and Diem wasn’t around to rouse me after I snoozed the alarm six times—he hit the gym daily at an ungodly hour—I barely had time to shower and dress, let alone make anything resembling coffee or breakfast.
Unable to function without a solid hit of caffeine, I made a pit stop at my favorite café a few blocks from work. Waiting in the long line, I opened a recent message from Memphis that had come through as I’d been rushing to get out of the house.
I saw Josh Sat. night. He mentioned you.
I frowned. Had the jeweler mentioned me specifically or the item we’d brought him? Diem wouldn’t be pleased with either.
I typed out a quick response. I am pretty memorable. Was it my eyes? My shirt? What did he say?
His reply didn’t surprise me. Memphis could be self-centered. Aren’t you going to ask why I saw Josh?
Wrinkling my nose, I typed, No. Obviously for sex, and your sex life doesn’t interest me.
I could practically hear his frustration through the phone. You’re just jealous because you’re tied down now. The adventure is over.
I wasn’t jealous, but there was no convincing Memphis that I was happy in my relationship. Commitment wasn’t his thing, and he couldn’t see beyond Diem’s surly façade. In all fairness, Diem hadn’t exactly been welcoming to Memphis either. The two were a bad mix.
I texted, What did sweet Joshy Woshy say about me?
Knowing my best friend, my indifference to his uncommitted and constantly changing sex life would drive him crazy. He loved sharing details. When he sent an eye roll emoji, I was not surprised. I sent several question marks, begging for a response.
It took a minute, then my phone pinged. He asked if I’d talked to you and wanted to know what you’d done with your “piece?” and if you’re okay. I don’t know what that means, and he wouldn’t elaborate, but he told me to check up on you, so I am. Piece? Doll, is that a euphemism? What exactly did you show him? I know it’s been a while, but if memory serves, your “piece” isn’t anything to write home about.
“Fuck you, bitch.” The guy in front of me in line glanced over his shoulder. “Not you.” I waved my phone. “My friend. He’s being mean. I don’t have a small penis. It’s average, but trust me, I make it work.”
The guy screwed up his face in disgust and turned around. Whatever.
I pocketed my phone, unable to respond to Memphis since the line had moved forward, and it was almost my turn to order.
With a steaming takeout coffee and a toasted bagel packed neatly in a paper bag, I weaved through the café crowd and headed outdoors. Aiming for my parked vehicle, I juggled my phone and purchases so I could read another text that had come through while I was busy paying.
You know I don’t like sharing men. Did you two flirt? Are you hooking up? What about Diem and all your talk about commitment? Don’t be a hog. I will fight you. Josh is mine.
“As if.” Chuckling, I debated how to respond. Sometimes, it was best to leave Memphis hanging. Let him think the worst. He was astoundingly dramatic when convinced I’d cheated him somehow. Besides, Diem would kill me if I told Memphis about the card. For whatever reason, he seemed exceptionally worried about people finding out we had it.
Less than ten feet from my car, while still debating how to respond, I dug through a pocket for my car keys. Not paying attention to where I was going, I collided with a man standing in the middle of the sidewalk, unbalancing everything in my arms. It was a miracle he didn’t wear the coffee. Somehow, despite the lid popping off, I managed to save us both from disaster and didn’t spill a single drop of the precious brew. Priorities.
The paper bag with my bagel, the car keys, my change from the purchase, and my phone, however, clattered to the ground. The coins clinked and rolled along the sidewalk and onto the road.
“Shit.” I immediately scrambled after the fallen items and checked that my phone screen wasn’t sporting any new cracks. The last thing I could afford was a new device. Diem would kill me. It was bad enough that I couldn’t go four months without breaking my glasses.
“I’m so sorry,” I stammered to the person I’d bumped into. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“Clearly,” said the low thrum of a deep voice. The man squatted and helped to collect the loose change.
Upright, phone safely tucked away, I noted the man’s appearance for the first time. He was taller than me by several inches, broader, and with dark brown skin and hard amber eyes. Their dispassionate expression was at odds with his austere clothing. The man wore black from head to toe: a buttoned dress shirt, trousers, and polished shoes. A Roman collar sat snug against his throat, indicating he was clergy.
Although my father had dragged me to church on plenty of occasions as a child—he a stringent Catholic—I wasn’t religious. I suspected those long-ago Sundays warming a pew were a test to see if I would burst into flames and confirm his suspicions about my sexuality. Alas, I survived.
The man studied me for a long moment as though seeking… something. His mouth sat in a flat line, his wrinkled nose conveying disgust. Apparently, I’d been weighed and found wanting. He held out my change, and I accepted it.
“Wealth you get by dishonesty will do you no good, but honesty can save your life.”
“Huh?” I glanced at the few quarters and dimes in my palm. “These are mine. From my coffee. I didn’t steal them.”
“Proverbs 10:2.” Then he tipped his head in a nod and headed off down the street.
“The fuck was that all about? Weirdo.”
I expected a man of God to be more repentant or concerned—perhaps friendlier—after an unexpected collision on the sidewalk, but I didn’t have time to ponder his accusations further. I was late for work.
At the office, I flicked on the lights and turned on the computer before checking if Kitty had left any messages. With my move to part-time, I didn’t work with the quirky older woman anymore. She came in on the two days I worked the PI business with Diem. I covered the remaining three.
My days were long and quiet with her absence. I missed doing crossword puzzles and listening to endless chatter about her granddaughter and the knitting group. I missed her witchiness and freakishly talented ways of knowing all the gossip while giving the impression she was nothing more than a withered old lady who couldn’t see beyond the end of her glasses. If something suspicious happened in the building, whether among detectives or with a case, Kitty always had the details. Knowing everyone’s business gave me life, so without her around, the records department was a sad place.
I located a handwritten note in the center of the counter addressed to me. I left chicken casserole in the fridge-freezer. There’s enough to share with my cuddle bear. Take it home for dinner.
I pffed as I crumpled the note and tossed it into the garbage. “As if. Since when do I share food? Come on, Kitty, you know me better than that. Cuddle bear can make his own damn dinner. I’m a growing boy.”
My mother’s voice inside my head told me I was a bottomless pit. A fair assessment.
I spent the first part of my shift logging and updating the department’s website, as well as reviewing emails to determine if there were any requests for files that needed to be retrieved from the crypts, dusted off, and delivered to a specific detective. Documenting retired cases took time, and since Kitty didn’t do those jobs anymore, the accumulation of folders in the intake bin meant a couple of hours of work.
Once that was taken care of, it was midday. While eating Kitty’s delicious chicken casserole, I compiled a list of the sixteen divisions that covered the Greater Toronto Area and located extensions I would need to call when querying about lost or stolen goods.
Diem and I had discussed how I might approach the situation and agreed there was no harm in making specific inquiries by describing the card exactly. Either it would ping on someone’s radar, or it wouldn’t. No one had to know that we possessed the card or if they did, how we got it. It was always possible that a civilian had come in off the street and handed it over. I was simply trying to find its owner.
By mid-afternoon, my efforts proved fruitless. No one had reported an eloquently crafted ace of spades made of titanium, gold, and platinum. As much as the results excited me—if no one was looking for the card, then, by default, it was ours, right?—I knew in my heart that Diem would not be as easily swayed. Possessing it bothered him in a way I couldn’t understand.
I needed to devise a plan to convince Diem to find a buyer. We’d done our due diligence. It had been several days, and no one was missing the card. Fuck that noise about trying to return it to the man from the alley. That guy didn’t want it. Besides, we didn’t know the man’s name or where they had taken him. Hell, maybe he hadn’t survived and was lying dead in a morgue.
With that thought in mind, I pulled up the website for my favorite clothing boutique, the one I could never afford, and decided to make a new wish list of all the items I would buy if I came into a significant windfall. The day zipped by after that, and before I knew it, it was time to lock up.
***
The new office for Shadowy Solutions was located on the second floor of a squat building a few blocks from St. Lawrence Market. On nice days, I strolled there for lunch, taking advantage of the various stalls of delectables. Diem never complained when I brought back tasty treats from the bakery. On occasion, he ventured there in the early mornings and showed up at the records department with a bag of warm peanut butter cookies and specialty coffees.
I decided that these random acts of kindness from my surly boyfriend were his unspoken means of reminding me that he loved me. He might not say it often, but there were signs.
The new office had a moderate lobby we used as a reception area, a bathroom off the main room, and a separate office down a short hall that was barely big enough for Diem’s new desk. It wasn’t luxurious, but we made it work. It was a huge upgrade from the old office.
The painting and decorating were solely my doing. I’d repurposed some gently used furniture from a secondhand store and used the generous payment from a past client to furnish the rest. Plants, wall hangings, and functional area rugs helped give it a welcoming vibe that the old office had sorely lacked.
If I had left decorating up to Diem, we would have been steeped in misery like before—orange plastic waiting chairs included. Those suckers had gone into a dumpster. I would have none of it. Not if I was a partner. Not if I had to spend two days a week working at the office. I might not be able to live the classy lifestyle I dreamed of, but I was good at faking it, and the new space was pleasant and inviting.
Our client retention had improved, the two- and three-star ratings had diminished, and things were getting better. We weren’t making a killing, but the business was no longer drowning. Investigating cheating husbands and wives kept us in the green.
We didn’t have a receptionist—that job fell to me most days—so when I entered shortly before six, and a chime announced my arrival, Diem shouted from down the hall. “Give me a minute. Have a seat.”
“It’s me.”
He grunted in acknowledgment as I flopped into a semi-luxurious faux leather chair and hiked my feet onto the desk, dragging my phone from a pocket to resume the ongoing text conversation I’d been having with Memphis.
We’d chatted about Jeweler Joshua most of the day, and as much as Memphis had tried bleeding me for details about my need for the appraiser and the elusive piece, I’d dodged his questions, redirecting to his renewed infatuation with the guy, suffering through details I wanted no part of. Sacrifices.
Memphis was a bit of a slut. If it wasn’t Antoine at the shoe store warming his bed, it was Phoenix or Ralph or Donny or Calvin or whoever else held the title of Flavor of the Month. Joshua was a recurring fling. He came and went like the tide, like Memphis’s mood. I wasn’t sure my best friend would ever settle down.
Diem appeared with Echo obediently at his side and tossed a printout at my feet. “Any luck?”
I set my phone aside. “Nope. No one within the Greater Toronto Area has reported a missing trophy card or whatever the fuck you want to call it. It’s been days, D. Can we agree the likelihood of it being stolen is slim?”
He made a noncommittal noise and gestured to the paper he’d tossed on the desk. I snapped it up and skimmed it. “What is this?”
“I did research surrounding the card in general to see if there might be an underlying message or meaning. Playing cards date back as far as the ninth century, originating in China during the Tang Dynasty. They didn’t show up in Europe until the thirteenth or fourteenth century. It wasn’t until the sixteenth century that the fifty-two-card deck was presented. The suits themselves seemed to differ, depending on the region, but it was the French who simplified it to what we know today as hearts, clubs, spades, and diamonds.”
“I’m growing bored. Get to the point.” I stared from the printed form to Diem and back. He’d typed up a concise list of the same information, breaking down a detailed history of the playing card. Halfway down the page, his research zeroed in on symbolism, breaking down the suits and what they have been known to represent.
I didn’t have to read it since Diem continued with his lesson. “Some say the suits represent the phases of the moon. The four seasons. The four elements. Human energies. Others claim they denote classes of society. The spade can symbolize all kinds of things. It’s often paired with nobility, military, warrior status, conflict, power, intellect, or action.”
I waved the paper between us. “What does any of this matter?”
Diem removed the leather pouch from his pocket and tugged the card from within. He held it up, showing me. “Ace of spades is significant in and of itself.”
“How?” I didn’t bother referencing the form.
“It represents death. Sometimes referred to as Spadille or Old Frizzle.” He moved the card so it caught the light, refracting the engraved image on the platinum spade in the center. “And what has been embossed in the metal?”
“A skull.”
“And where did we get the card?”
“From a guy who was dying in an alley.”
“A guy who had been attacked. I suspect with the intent to kill. And what was the man’s biggest concern as he suffocated from a swollen throat and with a knife lodged in his stomach?”
“Getting rid of the card.” I set the paper down. “So, what do you make of all this?”
“I have no fucking idea. All I know is I don’t want anything to do with it. Since we can’t find its owner, I say we either hand it over to the police or toss it in a fucking dumpster like I wanted to do five days ago. Take your pick.”
“But it’s worth—”
“Tallus, I don’t fucking care what it’s worth.” Echo whined and nuzzled Diem’s leg, peering up at his charge with concern. Diem automatically moderated his temper and volume. “Something tells me that trying to sell it would somehow come back and bite us in the ass. Therefore—”
“I don’t agree. I think whatever we do with it should be a mutual decision, and I don’t like either of your options.”
Diem sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face before taking back the paper and crumpling it. The wad landed in the garbage pail beside the desk. Motioning for Echo to precede him to the office, he said, “Check your inbox. I emailed you with details for a new case. That attorney we worked for last month, Oliver Hill. He has more work for us. He needs sources verified, research validated, and evidence organized in a clear and concise manner. You can start by calling him tomorrow. I’m still tracking those two teens and finalizing the infidelity case. Gimme ten minutes, and I’ll be ready to go.”
