Poltergeist

Ken's record was a little worse: minor possession, minor violence, lots of stupidity, an assault charge that had been dismissed, and note of a sealed psychiatric evaluation that didn't seem to be related to anything—I was guessing some more serious charge had been expunged from his sheet. I couldn't find a record of whatever it had been, even in our notoriously nosy newspapers, though it had been embarrassing enough to someone to rate a cleanup. His family also had no comment, though they waved it away, saying it was in the past and best forgotten.

Dale and Cara Stahlqvist both got rave reviews as backstabbing hard-asses, though most of their associates found Dale the sneakier of the two and referred to Cara as «honest» in her ambitions and intentions—they preferred to know who had the knives and where they meant to stick them. But Cara had not been honest in her application to the Rainier Club. She'd made her claim of relation to Bertha Landes—one of their earliest female members—but the membership secretary had discovered a flaw in her story. Cara's application to the venerable business club had been refused. As amusing as I found it, the fact led me nowhere relevant. Neither Stahlqvist seemed to have any history of paranormal contact or abnormal behavior, however.

Wayne Hopke yielded no surprises. An occasional overindulgence in drink since his retirement seemed to be the worst of his sins. Nothing strange or unca

Ana Choi was also not shaping up as paranormal femme fatale material. She was finishing her degree in graphics and working both freelance and part-time in the field as well as helping her parents. She didn't have time or energy for skullduggery—I doubted she slept more than five hours a night and generally not that much. What free time she had was spent with friends from work or school and a procession of manipulative boyfriends. She'd given the previous one the boot in Harborview ER after he'd broken her wrist—she sure couldn't pick 'em.

Which left Terry Dornier and Denise Francisco, both of whom seemed to have no Grey co

The glaring blank in Ken's record reminded me of his weird isolation in the Grey. I didn't know if it was relevant, but I wanted that hole filled in, especially if it would shed any light on why he had those shifting Grey walls around him. That phenomenon might make him less likely to have access to power in the Grey, but I couldn't be sure and it was the only real lead I seemed to have.

Sitting at my desk, playing with a pencil and pushing paper around on the blotter, I decided I'd have to bite the bullet. I called Sous.

He sounded wary and tired. I was still feeling a bit worn-down myself, but I knew he wouldn't appreciate sympathy or offer any. I came straight to my request.

"There are a couple of sealed police files related to two of the project members. I'd like to see them.”

"No.”

"I haven't told you whose files.”

"I know whose.”

"Can you at least give me an idea what the files were about?”

"No.”

"Not even broadly? Markine's is a juvenile record, so I suppose that's standard procedure. What about the George file? What was that about?”

He paused before answering, sounding irritated. "It was an unfortunate circumstance that is none of your business. Foolishness and bad attitudes made everyone wish it had never happened. Mr. George overpaid for his part in it. It should be allowed to die quietly.”

I was as baffled as ever about what had happened, but if it had been so embarrassing that the SPD and the county court wanted to make it go away, maybe Ken had reason to hide himself in some psychic way. "All right. I'll assume it's of no interest to me.”

"Assume so. What's of interest to me is your impressions of these people.”

My automatic urge was to stonewall—he hadn't been of much help to me in return for my information so far—but as a cop investigating a homicide, he had legal recourse to pressure me and he wasn't asking for the files, only for my impressions—which weren't my client's property. And I'd said I would tell him what I knew. I'd have to edit a bit, though. I sucked in a breath and let it out in a gust, tapping my pencil on the blotter.

"Where do you want to start?" I asked. "This is a messed-up bunch of people.”

"Are they?”

"Have you interviewed any of them yet?" I asked.

"I have.”

"Who?”

"I won't tell you that.”

"All right," I conceded. "They seem like pretty normal people individually but as a group they have a lot of sexual tension and control conflicts, weird instabilities. I'm not sure that Tuckman didn't engineer that into the group dynamic deliberately.”

Solis grunted.

"None of them were completely honest with me," I continued, "but then, I'm not investigating a murder and that might make a difference.”

"Possibly. Mrs. Stahlqvist claims to be related to Bertha Landes.”

I found myself parroting the words of Bertha Landes when I'd met her in the theater. "It's not true. She's no relation.”

"How are you sure?”

"Standard background check.”

"I'd appreciate it if you could be specific as to why you are so certain.”

Well, I wasn't going to say a ghost told me so. And I'd had adequate confirmation elsewhere. "The membership secretary of the Rainier Club told me the Knight family Carolyn Knight-Stahlqvist is descended from moved to Seattle before Bertha Landes came here from Indiana.

Carolyn didn't seem to know this when she made up her story or she'd actually have had a better claim. But because she lied, Mrs. Stahlqvist didn't pass muster and the secretary didn't mind telling me so.”

Solis's quiet had a speculating quality. I could almost see the sleepy-eyed expression he got when the wheels were turning.

"Here's something you might like to chew on," I offered. "A few days ago Mrs. Stahlqvist told me she'd lost a brooch that belonged to Bertha Landes—an heirloom as spurious as her background. She eventually told me she thought she'd left it at Mark Lupoldi's the day he was killed. It turned up at a project session Sunday and Mrs. Stahlqvist accidentally cut her cheek on it.”

"Then she had not left it? Why would she say she had?”

"It appeared rather dramatically and Mrs. Stahlqvist claimed one of the other project members must have thrown it at her, which implies one of them stole it from Lupoldi's apartment. If she really did leave it there. Since she's a liar about her past, maybe she lied about that, too. Maybe she never left it at all, but used the story to try and cover her own presence at the scene or to cast suspicion on one of the other members of the group.”

"Hm. Very much like an Agatha Christie novel.”

"Yeah, it is, isn't it?”

"If she had left it behind and it was picked up by someone else…”

I gri

Silence. I should have been embarrassed at the amusement I took in his a

"Solis, was anything missing from Lupoldi's apartment?”

"It is difficult to say, since we don't know what he owned.”

"Would you even tell me?”

There was that down-draining silence again. Then he replied with great care, "If you asked after a specific item, I might have to say no.”

My mind raced. Solis was offering a hell of a favor. The brooch information must have piqued his interest enough to feel he owed me something in return, but being Solis, he could only bend himself so far and he'd already bent a lot with the information about Ken— paltry as it was. I would have to ask the right question—Solis might not even know it was important himself. There was something… I just knew it.