Emerald City Blues Read online

  EMERALD CITY BLUES

  By Peter A. Smalley

  Published by Kindling Press

  Copyright 2013 - Peter A. Smalley

  Discover other titles by Peter A. Smalley:

  Full Fathom Five

  20,001: A Steampunk Odyssey

  The Burning Times

  Grimme

  Disbelief

  Ebook Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the online retailer of your choice and purchase your own personal copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this independent author.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  In the heart of every cold and common stone

  Lies magic waiting to be unleashed

  Kneel down and grasp it close, wherever it is thrown

  The secret lies within your reach

  The Author wishes to thank his editor, Bev Gelfand, who regularly performs the true magic of turning coarse manuscripts into novels. Any remaining mistakes not corrected by her are entirely my doing, and are, therefore, completely intentional.

  The author would also like to thank

  Doc Harvard, Kaarin Spier, Ren Cummins, Todd Nagle, Jennifer Nagle & Bonnie Mosley

  Their critical insights made this book a safer place for readers. I am in their debt.

  DEDICATION

  To Arwyn, for always knowing

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Writing a work of fiction like this takes much more than just time, creativity and dedication. It also requires substantial amounts of encouragement, support, hand-holding, motivation-boosting, shoulder-crying-upon, gesticulating, prognosticating, nail-biting, author-nagging, cheerleading, breast-beating, salty-tear-weeping, teeth-gnashing, hair-pulling, inebriating, sobering, direst-predictions-of-doom-ignoring, and an uncommon degree of patience with The Author.

  For all this, and much more, The Author would like to express his sincere and humble appreciation. You know who you were, are, and aren’t.

  Peter A. Smalley

  Seattle, Washington

  April 11, 2013

  ONE Every now and then, a mirror must be smashed.

  Tonight was one of the nows. I stumbled across the room to look through the cupboard for a dustpan, then belatedly remembered it was still in my father's house with the rest of the things I'd left behind after he died. Sharp, Maddie, real sharp. Some investigator I was. And some daughter. Rather than pick up the jagged shards by hand, I half-sat, half-fell back down on the davenport, raised the glass again in my off hand and took a somewhat unsteady sip.

  Cognac, for Meister Gerhardt. He would have liked that. The liquor carved a smoky, glowing track down my throat. It was thoroughly unlike the rough fire of the whiskey I had drunk for Samuel Givens. Or the bathtub gin I raised for Markus Collins. Or the pint to remember Seamus bloody MacInnes. So much for Prohibition. They had begun to blur, names and faces slippery with too much alcohol, too many cigarettes. But even if I could not name them all, I knew exactly how many empty chairs there were to drink for at this table. I just couldn't recall, at this precise moment, how many of them I'd already toasted.

  It was that night again. The night I knew they were gone forever.

  The cognac throbbed in my throat like a sullen sunset over Elliott Bay: always obscured by the clouds but never quite willing to give up. A bit like me, I suppose. Ten years. Christ, to put it like that. It was ten years since I'd seen them alive, the Meister and his Circle. Ten years since they'd gone to a war-torn Europe to do what must be done, and perished in a muddy field somewhere in France. Ten years since the Great War had swallowed them with barely a trace, down that hungry black maw along with so many other pieces of my life I would never get back. Ten years ago.

  It was not even as if I had known Meister Gerhardt - Gerd, as he preferred to be called when not teaching us - for all that long when he left. I was the oh-so talented but desperately clumsy apprentice, too strong to be left untaught but too young for the lessons he had to give. I was bright with power and stupid with youth. He should have turned me away, but he didn't. Was that my father's doing? I wondered. He knew his daughter, knew I'd get into more trouble learning on my own than I ever could making a wreckage of Gerd's Teutonic tranquility along with his sanctum. Which I did, on more than one occasion. The first year as an apprentice is often called the Year of Wonder. The real wonder was that he kept me on at all.

  I'd studied under the Meister's exacting tutelage for not quite two years when he left for war-torn France. He was no soldier, at least not the kind one normally pictured, huddled yet heroic, in the frigid trenches of Europe. He was more like a college professor, old and wizened and more comfortable in his tweed suit than in ritual robes. But his role in the conflict was one no doughboy could have performed: he had taken his Circle into the hell of the Great War in order to oppose his estranged former brethren, the occult masters of die Orden. And so they had gone, and served. And died.

  Two years. Not so very long to be an apprentice, and yet his impact on my life could not have been more profound. The shards of the mirror on my living room floor were testament to that, if anyone could hear their sharp-edged, reflective whispers. I might have been capable of it, once. Not tonight. Tonight was for breaking mirrors, not enchanting them. Even though it had been years since I’d used the Art, I had already had enough of that to last me a lifetime.

  I raised my left hand and stared at the traces of liquor remaining on the inside of the glass like the raindrops clinging to my apartment window. My father would have had stern words for me, seeing me like this. He was no teetotaler, no Prohibitionist. Michael Sheehan liked to raise a pint on a warm summer evening, so he did, but unlike many of his fellow Irish cops I never once saw him staggering drunk, nor even hung over. I was certain he drank more often than I knew, but he never showed a trace of it. Iron Mike, his fellow police officers called him. His only daughter called him that too. She was a weaker alloy than he, but she loved him regardless of her own brittle imperfections. I pictured his expression across the room, on the other side of the fireplace, his black eyebrows lowered in a scowl of disapproval and concern. Maddie, he'd say in that coppery brogue he'd learned at Grandmother Sheehan's knee. Maddie, you shouldn't do this to yourself.

  True. It would have been different if he were here now, instead of buried up at Lake View. He'd have set me straight, or held me close and made it all better. Somehow. He'd have made me believe it even though I knew it was just the kind of thing a father tells his daughter when the liquor makes her clumsy and honest. Honest enough not to ignore the truths we all know but don't like to stare in the face on dark, rainy nights when the clouds hang low over the city and try to wash away what won't ever come clean. The truth was, it would never get better. Gerd was gone. Police captains who die heroic deaths are still dead. Brilliant apprentices without a master to teach them don’t get any better on their own. Women who try to be private investigators have a hard time making rent and staying fed. Some mirrors would always remain in pieces.

  The knock on the door interrupted both my brooding and my drink. I didn't want any company. Not tonight. I let the silence drag out, hoping whoever it was would go back into the rainy darkness of a cold Seattle night. Instead, there was another rap. "Miss Sheehan? Madison, are you at home? It's Thomas Cooke. I need your help. Please."

  I set down the shot glass and got to my feet, grimacing as my right hand bumped the floor. Tommy. It would have to be hi
m, of all people, on a night like this. I wanted more than anything to stumble towards my bed and let this day be a blurry memory of pain and loss, but I couldn't say no. Not to another Circle orphan. I wondered if Tommy drank on this night, the way I did. Probably not. I'd heard he was a doctor nowadays, with a steady practice downtown and a fancy house his father had left him up on Capitol Hill. I walked over to the door with exaggerated care and made myself look steadier than I felt. Then I opened the door with my left hand and looked out at him. "Tommy. What is it?"

  "May I come in?" His awkward smile tore at my heart. I knew he liked me, had done for years. Ever since I had been Gerd’s apprentice, really. Just as he knew I'd never like him, not the way he wanted. It was uncomfortable for both of us, but there it was. "It's important. I don't want to talk about it on your doorstep. Please?"

  I relented. He walked through the door, still sodden from the rain. I saw him do a double-take when he saw what was left of the mirror that had once hung over the mantle. He said nothing about it, pretended it wasn't there as he took off his hat and mashed it nervously between his hands. Smart man. "What's this about, Tommy?" Was I slurring my words? I couldn’t be sure, so I let him do the talking while I reminded my tongue who was in charge around here.

  He swallowed and cleared his throat. He looked nervous, now that he was in the light. More than nervous. Sleepless. Terrified, even. "I think someone might be trying to kill me." His voice trembled. So did his hands. His eyes were hollow, sunken. He looked the way I felt: like hell. “That probably sounds difficult to believe, but I’m telling you the honest truth. I’m afraid, and I don’t know who else I can turn to with something like this. The police wouldn’t believe me, and of all my father’s colleagues you’re the only one who-” I saw him stumble, not wanting to say it. Even if he’d forgotten what night it was, he knew I was all that was left of the Circle. “You’re the only one who might understand. I’m in fear for my life, Madison.”

  "What? That's ridiculous. Tommy, you’re imagining things." I sounded more confident than I felt. The only thing I was confident of was the need to fall down and sleep somewhere until this night was over and I could go back to being grouchy about having to work while still suffering from tonight's one-woman wake. "Why would anyone want to kill you?"

  "I don't know." He mashed his hat a bit more, hands jerking and tense. "I've had this feeling of being watched for the last month, especially in the last week or two. Since the end of October, it’s felt like almost every minute. Then, this morning, I found this slipped under my door." He pulled aside his overcoat, reached into a vest pocket, and fished out an envelope. He swallowed again, then handed it to me uncertainly.

  I took the letter and awkwardly wrangled it open one-handed. Inside was a single postcard of stiff, creamy stationery. On it, someone had written a single word in dark red ink: Veniam.

  A gust of wind rattled the window, cold rain battering against it with sudden vigor. "Who's coming, Tommy?" I’d bet a C-note he could read the Latin as well as I could, if not better. His father, William, had been one of Meister Gerd's journeymen. William Cooke was probably a better scholar a decade ago than I would ever be.

  "I don't know. That's what worries me. It sounds like a threat, and I can't get the feeling of being watched out of my head. I've even started to dream about it, nightmares where I'm running from something I can't see. Something watching me from the shadows." He licked his lips. "Please, Madison. I know this is something like what my father used to be into, I know it. You're the Meister's last apprentice, and you’re a private investigator now. There's no one else I can turn to."

  "Go home, Tommy." I hated the sound of my voice, thick with drink and my own darkness. "I stopped doing that sort of thing a long time ago. I was never any good at it, anyway." Lies are poor comfort, but they're better than a jagged truth. "I'm just an investigator now, a flatfoot gumshoe, tracking down bail jumpers and husbands who run off to San Francisco with their secretaries. That letter is just someone's bad joke. It's probably just a prank. Go home and quit worrying so much over nothing."

  "It's not nothing, Madison, I know it isn't. Even if it's not something like... like that, though - you're an investigator. A detective, like your father was." He must have seen my expression darken, he pressed on so quickly. "I mean, even if it has nothing occult about it, somebody is trying to get to me. And they have. I'm… spooked. I can't sleep, can't keep food down. I'd go to the police but they'd never understand. You're all I've got, Madison. Please, won't you help me?" He took an anxious step toward me and I held up a hand to stop him. The wrong hand. He looked at my bleeding fingers and his eyes widened.

  "My god, Maddie, what have you-" He shot a glance down at the shattered mirror on the floor near the wall, then back at me. "Oh. Oh, it's that night, isn't it? I'm so very sorry, Madison, I had no idea. I would never have bothered you if I'd known-"

  Christ. "All right, Tommy. You win. I'll look into it. Just...go home. I'll come by in the morning and you can tell me the rest of it then. After we both get some sleep." I turned away before any more words could slip out of his open mouth and pulled the door open for him. Gentleman that he was, he could hardly say no when a lady asked him to leave. Even so dubious a lady as me.

  "In the morning, Tommy." He inclined his head and pulled his hat back on as he stepped uncertainly past me onto the landing. He looked as if he wanted to say something else. I spared him that by closing the door and leaning against it heavily so I wouldn't stagger.

  A job investigating non-specific, possibly arcane threats against Tommy Cooke was the last thing I wanted to think about right now. I was done with the Art. I was done with detective work. I was done with everything that reminded me how much I had lost. And just when I thought I was done with that part of my life forever, something came out of the rain and the darkness to drag me right back into it.

  I slid down the door until I reached the floor and couldn't slide any farther. I thought about lying down and falling asleep then and there. It would not have been the first time. Instead, I lifted my left hand to look at Tommy's letter again. Veniam. The Latin meant I come. A chill went through me. I knew that handwriting. A memory flashed through my clouded mind like quicksilver and vanished just as quickly into a fog of alcohol. Where had I seen it before? I pounded my right hand against my forehead and then winced as my bloodied knuckles screamed at me. It was gone. And tomorrow I'd have to figure out what I was going to tell Tommy when he looked at me with those innocent blue eyes and pleaded for help. Help that only I could give, or so he would tell me. What could I say to that?

  My glass was too far away to reach, and it was empty. Unacceptable.

  That made me realize I had not yet drunk a toast for William Cooke. Damn Tommy anyway. And to hell with the glass. I reached for the bottle of Cutty Sark. William Cooke had favored Prohibition. He and the rest of the Circle would all have to make do with Scotch.

  TWO

  Grey light pierced the Seattle fog and imprinted itself directly onto my brain.

  Groaning, I hauled myself up. It appeared that I'd made it to the couch before passing out last night. That was something, even if I couldn't remember doing it. My drunken foresight must be improving. Judging by the light filtering weakly through the overcast sky it was still before noon. Bully for me. I might still be able to keep my promise of meeting Tommy this morning while it was still morning. Would wonders never cease?

  There wasn't time to eat anything. That was good, because there was nothing even vaguely food-like in my cupboards just now. I'd been meaning to do something about that, but hadn't quite figured out how when I was flat broke and almost two months behind on rent. I needed a case to work. Much as I hated the idea of taking Tommy's money for a job that would turn out to be nothing, I had to eat. Time to suit up and get on with it. I shrugged into a white blouse that might still be clean enough, attempted to make my hair look decent, and rapidly decided I would have to wear something over both blouse and hair
if I was going to be even halfway presentable. I put on a hat and coat, avoided looking at the mantle where the mirror had hung until the night before. As if it was actually important what I looked like. I was about to tell Tommy how much of his money he would have to part with for me to spend a week or two looking into something that was really nothing. Looking attractive might even make that harder on both of us rather than easier.

  I pushed out onto the sodden street and trudged down Jackson, then turned up the collar of my trench coat against the breeze off Elliott Bay as I turned onto Second Avenue by the Savoy. My father's favorite fedora, once black but now faded with age and wear, rode low on my forehead to keep out even the weak sunlight that stole through the steely overcast. No amount of overcast would protect me from the throbbing pain of a hangover I had so richly earned. I made a mental note to eat something at the diner down on Third, then a second note to do that as soon as I had a few dollars of per diem from Tommy in hand. With that still in mind, I turned off Second and caught the trolley as it passed by the Hotel Seattle. It was a long climb up James Street, and I was in rough shape after last night.

  I thought about Tommy's letter as the trolley chugged and jolted its way up Capitol Hill. One drunken flash of insight aside, I had almost nothing to go on besides the standard human failings that lay behind veiled threats and harassment. Had dear, innocent Tommy managed to make an enemy somehow? He didn’t seem the type to make enemies. He also didn't seem the type to have gambling debts or any vices more serious than holding a torch for someone who would never be able to return his unrequited affections. The thought made my head throb even more than the jolting of the trolley car did. Tommy was a doctor, well-to-do and probably loaded. Was someone after his money and that nice house he had inherited up on top of the hill? Maybe there was a former patient with a grudge out there looking for revenge? I mentally walked around the case from a few different angles, looking for something that added up. Nothing solid came to mind. There was no obvious reason for someone to be gunning for Tommy, at least not that I could figure without talking to him to find out more.