Poltergeist

"Phoebe, you do know Solis is investigating this as a homicide?”

She flapped a hand at me. "Of course I do. Didn't he say so? Someone broke into the apartment and killed poor Mark.”

"Is that what he told you?”

"Of course it is! That's what happened! Poor, poor Mark. Poor Mark…" She began crying, her round, dark face dipping into the light as she lowered it into her hands.

"Oh, Phoebe, I'm so sorry," I said, getting up to put my arm over her shoulder. "So very, very sorry.”

She shuddered and gulped air, heaving in a huge breath, then howled a bellow of deep red agony. I clenched my eyes shut and shook with it.

Phoebe cried like a hurricane for over an hour. I finally got her into my Land Rover and took her to her parents' place. Most of the clan was down in the restaurant, already prepping for Friday night rush, but her brother Hugh was at the house, behind it. He took Phoebe inside, asking me to stay a moment, until he got her settled.

He came back down a few minutes later and I told him what had happened. He nodded, looking grave. "We'll look after her, don't worry." Hugh had a soft voice for a man with a chest as broad as a Buick. "She's got a big heart, my sister. It's got a little hole in it right now, but we've got the love to patch it up with. She's go

I gave him a smile. "You certainly know your sister's soft spots.”

He laughed in warm billows. "I should—she was bossing me from way back. I had to learn to defend myself." He put a hand on my shoulder. "Now, you take care of yourself, Harper—and you know what I mean.”

"Yes, Hugh," I replied with mock exasperation, gri

He laughed again and waved me off and I smiled and laughed as I left.

Once I was back in the Rover, the grim feeling of trouble returned. It was a good thing I was already heading to Solis's office. The business of the accident couldn't wait.

The police department offices in the glass-and-granite tower of the new justice center were much nicer than the aging lino and fifty-year-old paint of the old public safety building, but Sous still did not have an office. Like most of the crime investigators, he had a large cubicle with walls high enough and thick enough to cut the noise down to an acceptable degree for phone conversations but not private enough to encourage isolation. As a result, he preferred to have meetings almost anywhere else. He met me in the lobby with a folder in his hand and we walked down the steep pitch of Cherry Street to the SBC coffeehouse above the Seattle Mystery Bookshop.

SBC was only a block from my office, and I wished he'd thought to tell me to meet him there in the first place. At least I'd be able to have a decent cup of coffee, at last. Solis chose a small table in the corner farthest from the door.

I spoke first. "I haven't had much chance to meet with the project members yet. So far the only person I've talked to you'd have any interest in is Phoebe from Old Possum's, and I understand you've already talked to her.”

"Yes.”

"Have you talked to Amanda Leaman yet?”

Solis cocked his head and raised an eyebrow a little. "For a short while, yes.”

"Did she mention an accident on Monday?”

Solis said nothing.

"I was talking to Phoebe a little while ago and she said that there had been an accident in the shop on Monday when Mark and Amanda were alone with a single customer. Phoebe didn't witness this. She only reported the story she got from either Amanda or Mark, so this is hearsay, but might be important.”

"Go on.”

"According to Phoebe, Mark was shelving books near the coffee equipment in the back of the shop and talking to a customer while Amanda was at the cash desk. Supposedly, one of those cat-gargoyles on the mantel was flung against the bookshelf Mark was stocking and dislodged a very heavy book, which hit Mark in the chest and knocked him to the floor. The customer left the shop immediately. I've seen the gargoyle and it has been chipped on the base recently.”

"So your conclusion is that the customer threw the gargoyle at Lupoldi?”

"Phoebe claims that the gargoyle levitated by itself—that's what she was told—and that the customer left in fear.”

His mouth twitched with amusement. "Flying gargoyles? Not a very convincing story.”

"No, it's not, is it? Did the medical examiner find any bruising on Mark's chest that might be consistent with the falling book?”

Solis tapped the folder in front of him thoughtfully. I stole a gulp of my coffee as he deliberated.

"Yes, he did. At first we thought it might indicate something about whatever mechanism was used to kill him, but it was several days older than the fatal injuries. Now I shall have to ask Miss Leaman about that accident.”

"And go looking for the customer.”

He gave half a nod and looked into his coffee cup. "If there is such a person.”

"If there isn't, then you have two possibilities—Amanda threw the gargoyle at Mark, or the gargoyle threw itself.”

Solis shook his head. "Or the book simply fell.”

"Then why make up the story about the gargoyle?”

Solis considered. "It is an interesting question. Would you consider Amanda Leaman capable of such a cold-blooded murder?”

I squinted, trying to remember the exact conditions of Mark's apartment. My instinct agreed, but I wanted to know Solis's reasoning. "Why murder?" I asked. "Why not an accident? Mark was notorious for playing elaborate jokes on people. If it was Amanda, maybe she was paying him back.”

Solis was quiet for a while and I noticed that he had no bright corona around him this time, only a sort of cold blankness—an absence more than a presence—that constrained his emotions. Then he picked up the folder and looked into it. He closed it again and put it down on the table. He was very still as he spoke. "Mark Lupoldi was lifted and flung about five feet with enough force to crush the back of his skull and fracture his spine and most of his ribs. But there is no sign of a fight with an attacker. He was surprised and killed very quickly. He was in excellent health and condition and it would take a lot of force to pick up a young man of his size and throw him. It's what you expect in an explosion. But there was no explosion. Amanda Leaman could not have the strength to throw him like that—a single very large man perhaps could, but only perhaps. If she were responsible, she would have had to use some kind of machine. To assemble the machine and disassemble it afterward, leaving no discernible trace, would take nerve. If Amanda Leaman harbored such malice toward Lupoldi after their relationship was over, her facade of friendship for so many months while she plotted his murder would require very cold blood.

"This is a thing that bothers me. A well-liked young man is found dead in his apartment. If it were an explosion in the steam pipes or an overdose, it would be an accident. Had it been a gang killing or a quarrel, it would be a tragedy, but quickly resolved. There is nothing to account for the force it would take to kill him like this, and yet he's dead. It's a mystery. I don't like mysteries. They belong in books and TV shows. We had thirty-four murders in Seattle last year—a bad year. Half of them were cleared within a few days by the simplest police work, the rest within months—perpetrators bragged, confessed, or were ratted on by friends. None of them were mysteries. Now I have this." He glared at the folder and tapped it with his fingertips.