His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) (19 page)

I was starting to think my plan would be a bust.

Finally, Bradley Kim moved slowly and carefully out of his house, creeping toward the package as he looked up and down the street. Today he wore a sky-blue silk shirt and white, skintight jeans.

I smiled in relief. I could clearly see his aura through the binoculars, something of which I hadn’t been sure until then.

It was still pitch black, and had shrunk to two and a half inches.

Bradley popped up suddenly, like a frightened squirrel, looking directly at the Mustang. His eyes grew wide and his skin pale. Abandoning the package, he ducked back into his house and slammed the door.

I dropped the binoculars.

“So, Michael, did you get what you needed?”

I shrugged, then shook my head slowly.

Bradley Kim had at least a day more left than Karen.

“Oh, well. What now?”

Leaning over, I pulled the folded list from the Mustang’s glove box and handed it to Karen.

“We keep looking. The assassin struck last night. My guess is he’ll strike again soon. Maybe we can find the next victim before it’s too late.”

If Bradley Kim was the next victim, it was already too late…at least for Karen.

She nodded, opening the pages to scan her own notes. “I’m sure it will take us no time at all.”

XXII

Reunion

Six hours and countless miles later, Karen looked up from the list one final time.

“This is it, Michael. The last stop.”

I’d lost count of our day’s visits as we skittered about Seattle and its surrounding neighborhoods. A parade of faces: happy, suspicious, even angry—but I saw no more auras and no further clues.

Of course, we hadn’t found everyone at home. There were a few I could go back to visit in a couple of days.

Alone.

I was exhausted and frustrated.

Karen’s smile beamed but her eyes, at the corners, tightened to betray the truth. “Well, I suppose this will just have to be the one.”

My grunt didn’t sound very encouraging, but I nodded all the same. “Do we have any information on this one?”

“Just a name,” Karen responded. “David Clarke, number 3.”

With another nod, I slipped through the driver’s door, pulling my trench coat tight against a chill in the air.

David Clarke lived a few blocks from Seattle Center, in an apartment just off Warren Avenue North. Seattle Center is the home of the world-famous Space Needle, Key Arena, the Pacific Science Center, and EMP (or the Experience Music Project, for those unlucky enough to live in other parts of the world). The area immediately surrounding the Center was heavily commercial, but the buildings faded to a mix of commercial, apartments, and single-family homes just a few blocks away.

Mr. Clarke’s building featured a locked security door. That wouldn’t prove a problem were I in a hurry, but there was no reason to play this any way but straight.

Not yet, at least.

I pressed the button for number 3 and waited.

The wait was short. A tinny voice answered only seconds later. “Uh…hello?” From the sound of his voice, he was not accustomed to unexpected visitors.

“Hello, Mr. Clarke. I’m Michael Reaper, a reporter with the Seattle Times. May I speak with you briefly?”

“Well, uh…yeah, sure.”

The door buzzed, allowing me inside.

David Clarke answered my knock quickly. The kid had shaggy red hair, bright emerald-green eyes, and what might be a perpetual five o’clock shadow. He smiled easily, and constantly twitched with the unspent energy of youth.

His aura was deep black.

Son of a bitch.

Instead of elation, I felt only anger. I’m not sure when I got old enough that early twenties became a kid. I could still remember life at his age, thinking how awesome it was to finally be an adult.

And then learning that being an adult actually just sucks in different ways than not being an adult.

It was hard to believe that David could already have enemies willing to kill him.

His age wasn’t the worst part, though it was certainly bad enough on its own. Much worse was the thickness of his aura.

I’d have to stand them side by side to be certain, but the thickness was almost identical to Karen’s.

They were going to die at roughly the same time.

And I could only be there for one of them.

I climbed the stairs to my third-floor apartment in a fog of jumbled emotion.

I’d found tomorrow’s victim. At least, if all auras ticked away at the same rate, he only had about a day left.

Just like Karen.

In her last moments, I didn’t want her to be alone. Though, if you asked Karen, she’d insist I do everything possible to catch Robert’s assassin.

Which meant not being with her.

Me? I was, well…torn.

I’d spoken with David only briefly. We had an appointment for coffee in the morning. Assuming I kept it, I’d have to avoid the mistakes I’d made with Bradley Kim.

For the time being, Mr. Clarke thought I was interviewing him for a newspaper story. He seemed like a nice enough guy, even if maybe a little too trusting.

He certainly didn’t deserve to die tomorrow.

Karen didn’t know; if she found out, my options would become severely limited. It was easy enough to lie and appear dejected.

Not much acting was necessary.

I’d gone to the waterfront after dropping Karen off.  Before I died, it was my “go to” thinking spot—sitting in the lounge at Ivar’s Acres of Clams, looking out over the sound, watching the sunset. 

It didn’t help this time.

They had to kick me out when they closed for the night, and I was no closer to a decision than when I’d arrived there.

I shook my head slowly to clear it.

The door to 3C swung open before me, revealing the dark room beyond. Everything about being a Reaper was growing more familiar, effortless. I hardly thought about opening doors anymore, or changing the cloak. Every day, Henry Richards slipped a little further away, suffocated by Michael Reaper.

I collapsed on the couch as the door closed behind me. My head was pounding, and I wanted nothing so much as to close my eyes for a few minutes.

“Hello, Michael.” The scent of mint wafted over me from the back of the couch.

“Don’t you knock?”

“I was already here. Technically, if either of us were going to knock…”

“Yeah, yeah.” I nodded, waving him off. Leaning over, I turned on the lamp. It was late, and the clouds outside completely obscured the moon.

“Do you have something important to say, or are you just planning to annoy me?”

Elliott nodded once, smirking. “Must I really choose one or the other?”

The cat’s mood changed suddenly, becoming far more alert. His head snapped around, eyes focusing on our front door. The fur along his spine stood straight up. When he spoke, the words were whispered so quietly I strained to hear them, though I sat only a few inches from his face.

“Michael, are we expecting company?”

“No, why?”

“Someone is here.”

After a few seconds of tense silence, a loud knock echoed through our tiny apartment. It wasn’t a casual sound, but rather the three heavy, evenly spaced impacts generally reserved for official business.

This probably wouldn’t be good.

“Mr. Reaper,” a voice called through the door, “Seattle Police. I have a few questions.”

My blood turned to ice.

In general, I have no problem with cops. I’ve always been a law-abiding citizen. Heck, I don’t even jaywalk.

Unless, of course, I have a good reason.

Or I’m in a hurry.

Okay, fine, I
do
jaywalk—but I don’t do anything worse.

The cop at the door, though—I recognized his voice. This officer in particular was going to be a problem.

I crossed the room slowly, hoping the whole way that it was no more than my imagination. A lot of voices sound alike, after all, and this one was muffled by two inches of solid wood.

It could be almost anyone.

Except that it wasn’t. This was a voice I knew
very
well.

With a deep breath, I swung the door open.

On the other side stood Detective Steve Richards.

My brother.

Or rather, the man in the hallway was a poor, watered-down version of my brother. Steve was always a polished, well-dressed, impressively attractive man. This person had disheveled hair, a rumpled gray suit, breath heavy with alcohol, and a shadow from 5 o’clock the day before yesterday.

Large dark bags sat beneath haunted eyes which darted about my small apartment. The months since my passing had not been kind to my brother. I knew with sudden certainty that my unsolved murder would drive him like little else could.

We’d lost our father to an unknown gunman; that single fact was ultimately enough to push Steve into Dad’s footsteps—into the Seattle PD.

And then, in January, he’d lost me the same way.

I should have contacted him before now.

Of course, that would mean convincing him that I was actually Henry Richards, his murdered brother—with a new voice, body and face. At the best of times, he would be…
skeptical
, to say the least.

Clearly, these were not the best of times for Detective Steve Richards.

And, well, Joshua had been unequivocal that my old life was best left dead…that the truth would put Steve’s life in danger. And, according to Elliott, telling him would put my own in jeopardy. With so many swirling changes, I’d accepted both without much argument.

Without
enough
argument.

Not that it mattered; that die was cast, now.

Steve held his credentials before him in plain sight. He wasn’t here to tearfully reunite with long-lost family. On the job, my brother intended to question a stranger.

I made a show of examining the badge and identification, though there was no need. If I didn’t behave as expected he’d get suspicious; for now, I didn’t know what his suspicion would mean.

“Detective Richards.” I nodded. “How can I assist the Seattle PD?”

“Are you Michael Reaper?” Steve’s tone was crisp and abrupt. None of his usually jovial nature was evident. To be fair, I’ve seldom seen him in his official capacity, but I knew him well enough to read the mood nonetheless.

I’d been wrong. My brother wasn’t here just to question a stranger.

“Yes, sir, I am.”

Steve leaned forward, his eyes searching the apartment with undisguised caution. “I heard…voices. Who else is here?”

“No one, Detective. It’s just me and the cat.”

On cue, Elliott meowed loudly from the back of the couch before bounding past Steve into the hallway. I’m not sure who was more shocked: my brother at seeing what could nearly pass for a small black lion, or me for hearing Elliott sound just like a normal house cat.

Only after he vanished down the stairway did the conversation continue. “May I come in, Mr. Reaper? This should be quick.”

My brother’s presence made me nervous. I felt suddenly on the defensive, as if there was something to hide. It didn’t help that he glowered at me from the hallway.

“Yes, of course. Can I offer you something to drink?”

Steve closed the door as he entered. Walking a slow circle, he examined my apartment thoroughly, paying particular attention to the single bedroom. Pulling a notebook from his pocket, he stopped at the center of the living room, facing me.

“No thank you, Mr. Reaper.”

“Please, call me Michael.”

My brother’s head tilted to one side as he examined my face. “Have we met before, Mr. Reaper? You look familiar.”

I shook my head, swallowing.

Steve shrugged, dismissing it. With exaggerated care, he thumbed through the notebook’s pages until he found what was, apparently, the right one. “You were in the apartment of Miss Michelle Harris yesterday, Mr. Reaper?”

“Yes.”

“
Inside
the apartment.”

I cringed before responding, but a lie would be pointless. No doubt he’d spoken at length with a certain nosy neighbor of Michelle’s. “As I said, yes.”

Steve nodded while flipping to the next page. “And, Mr. Reaper, why exactly
were
you there?”

“I’ve been out of town. I stopped by to visit.”

“I see.” Steve pulled a pen from the same jackpot pocket, making a quick notation. “Out of town…on business?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Since…January?”

“Yes, Detective.”

Nodding again, Steve made a second notation and flipped the page. “Haven’t been back to visit in all that time?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“And yet, you felt it appropriate to enter Miss Harris’s locked apartment, uninvited, when she wasn’t at home?”

There wasn’t a good excuse, at least not one I could share. “I knocked; there was no answer. I let myself in.”

Steve made another notation with melodramatic care. “With a key?”

“Correct,” I answered, swallowing the building lump in my throat.