Gargoyles, Part Three

The next morning I did some paperwork on other cases, then started in on the list of Long’s friends that Adrienne had sent me.

            I had to be a little careful in my approach. “Hi! Did your pal Geoffrey Long ever mention vicious killer gargoyles in your casual conversations?” probably wouldn’t get anything more than a swift hang-up. I’d have to ease into it somehow.

            Lydia Franks, the first name on the list, was an account manager at an investment bank, and she didn’t want to talk to me, mostly because it turned out she didn’t know Long as well as Adrienne thought. “I went to a gallery opening with him once,” she told me, clicking through emails as we talked. “We didn’t hit it off. Maybe he thought—I don’t know. While I’ve got you on the line, have you given any thought to your current investment portfolio?”

            The next person was more talkative. Gerald DeMann ran a small investment boutique catering to high rollers. He also collected stuff. “Yeah, Geoff was into all kinds of art and antiques. He was looking for investments, mostly. Some of the older pieces were things he really just liked, but he was always on the hunt, looking for stuff. Some of the people he talked to were pretty shady.” He chuckled.

“Shady how?”

He stopped chuckling, suddenly nervous. “Just, uh, you got the feeling they weren’t quite, uh, legal? You know? I don’t want to say they were selling stolen stuff, but the way Geoff talked, you couldn’t be sure. And he didn’t always seem like he cared, as long as it was a good piece.”

            “Did he ever mention gargoyles?” I asked.

            “Uh, no, I don’t think so. Those are those statues that spit or something? In France?”

            “Yes. Just checking.”  I thanked him for his time and moved on.

            Rachel came in at 10, kissed me, and went to her computer. “The game’s still afoot?”

            “Like a chain of shoe stores. You sleep okay?”

            “After you let me go to sleep. You animal.” She turned away and went to work. 

            The next two people didn’t have much more to add. I left a message for another one, gazed at Rachel for a while until she threatened to punch me, then refilled my coffee and went to the next to last name, Holly Downs.

            “God, I can’t stop thinking about it.” She was a model slash actress, currently working at a catering company. “I mean, we dated a little, and I liked him, and I was kind of worried about him, but I didn’t think anything like this would ever happen.”

            “What were you worried about?”

            “He was just—I saw him last weekend, and he was nervous all the time. Like, he was always watching his phone, and every time he got a call or a text he’d go into the other room. I asked him what was wrong, and he just said some guy was bothering him.”

            “Do you know who it was? Or what the problem was?”

            “He said—I thought the guy’s name was Guy, or Guy-a, or something like that. I heard him arguing, something like, ‘I don’t think I can do that,’ but he wouldn’t tell me what he was talking about. He was drinking a lot, smoking a lot of weed, couldn’t sleep. It was a pretty lousy weekend, but I was worried. And then this happens. But it couldn’t have anything to do with that, could it?”

            “I don’t know.” Actually I thought it did, but I didn’t want to scare her. “And this was just last weekend? Not before that?”

            “No. Like, a few weeks ago, he was really excited about something he bought, but he wouldn’t tell me anything about it. That was more like him, always working on the next big acquisition or deal, you know?”

“But last weekend he was different,” I said. 

“Yeah. I mean, I hadn’t seen him in a couple of weeks. We weren’t seriously dating, just hanging out sometimes. It’s not like I was his girlfriend or anything.”

            “Right.” I thanked her, left her number, and hung up.

            “Eureka moment?” Rachel asked from the other side of the office.

            “Not exactly. He was scared about something. Maybe the something that killed him, maybe something else.” 

I had one more name to call, but before I could punch in the digits, my phone buzzed. Adrienne Raymond. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “I just got a call from Galen.” She sounded out of breath. “He says he wants to return the gargoyle head if I’ll drop everything against him. He’ll hand it over to us at six o’clock.”

            That was . . . interesting. “What happened to change his mind?”

            “He wouldn’t say. But he sounded nervous about something.”

            “Huh.” I checked the time. 11:32. “Where is it now?”

            “He wouldn’t say. He said he’ll text me the location at five.”

            Yeah, he was nervous. “Okay. Do you want me there?”

            “Yeah. Mom can’t come, and I don’t want to meet him alone. I’ll send you the address when I get it.”

            “Sounds good. See you at six.” We hung up.

            Rachel swung around in her chair. “Where are you going?” 

            I told her. Her eyes narrowed.  “Is she cute?”

            I shrugged. “Reasonably.” 

When we were first dating, Rachel would deny she was my girlfriend, then get suddenly territorial around any attractive women I met. I didn’t exactly resist it. Now that we’d been living together for a few years, her instincts still sprang up sometimes. “I’m coming with you.”

            “If you want.” If nothing else, her psychic skills might come in handy. “We can go out to dinner afterward.”

            “Okay. It doesn’t count as a date, though.” She turned back to her computer.

            “Whatever you say, my queen.” I went back to work. 

 

A few hours later my phone buzzed again. This time it was the police. Not the Chicago police, but the Skokie version. Rachel was in the living room doing some yoga to relax. Usually I like to watch, but she gets mad at me, so I was stuck in the office.

            “Mr. Jurgen, this is Detective Parker in Skokie, we’re handling Geoffrey Long’s death.” The cop was female, talked fast, and sounded annoyed. “You’re a private detective?”

            “That’s right. How can I help you?”

            “What was your business with Geoff Long yesterday?”

            I explained that I’d been hired by Lawrence Raymond’s wife, that Geoffrey Long had sent an email to Raymond the night before his murder, and that I’d gone up there to ask him some questions. 

            “Thought you’d solve the murder all by yourself?” Her annoyance actually faded; she sounded more amused. “You’re Hercule Poirot or something?”

            “More like Inspector Gadget, without any of the cool gadgets. No, I didn’t expect to solve the murder, I just wanted to ask him about the email. But I did find that knife on the floor—has it been tested?”

            “Turned over to Chicago PD. Haven’t heard back yet.”

            “Lawrence Raymond was stabbed. Maybe I did solve the murder?”

            “Couldn’t say.” But she sounded like she thought the same thing, only she didn’t want to admit it. Certainly not to a P.I. from downtown.”Look, there were a couple messages on his machine from a guy named, uh, Geer. Or maybe Gi-er, something like that. Does that name mean anything to you?”

            I thought of Holly Downs. “Do you know how that’s spelled?”

            “No idea. He was vaguely threatening. No specifics. Older male, foreign accent. Ring any bells, Inspector?”

            “Sounds like the guy I saw. I didn’t get his name.”

            “Did you go anywhere in the house except the living room?”

            “No. I didn’t follow the old man, if that’s what you mean.”

            “In the kitchen we found some boxes lying around with packing material. And tape, and  shipping labels, that kind that peel off, you know? Like he was in a hurry to send something out of the country.”

            “Why out of the country? Not just across town?”

            “One of the labels was messed up, and he tore it up, but they put it together, and we could see ‘Mexico’ on it.”

            Interesting, but it could mean anything. “I know he collected a lot of art. Maybe he was selling it to someone.”

            “Maybe.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Okay, call me if you think of anything.” She gave me her number, then hung up.

            Rachel was still in the living room. I called Adrienne Raymond. “The police out in the suburbs just called me. They found a threatening voicemail on Long’s machine. It might be the same person who called Galen Harvey.”

            “Oh, God.” I heard her swallow. “Do you think the same person’s after him?”

            “It’s possible. I’m bringing a friend when we meet him.”

            “I better call him. Move it up, maybe.”

            “Good idea. Let me know.”

            Rachel, warm and sweaty, came in as I hung up. “What’s going on?”

            “The cops found a voicemail from someone threatening Long, and it might be the old man I saw in the house, and he might be the same person who called Harvey to demand he give up the gargoyle head he stole from Raymond.” I was working the internet, trying variations on the name Geer or Guyer, but I paused to gaze at her legs for a moment until she rolled her eyes at me, then turned back to my computer. “She’s seeing if we can meet Harvey before six.”

            “Okay. I’m going to go change.” She left.

            Adrienne called me five minutes later. “One hour. It’s a neighbor’s house.” She gave me the address. 

            “Okay, we’ll be there.” I hung up and headed for the bedroom.

            Rachel was pulling on a pair of jeans. “What?”

            “It’s on right now.” I opened the closet and reached up for the box on the top shelf.

            “Donald?” Rachel cocked an eyebrow.

            “If you saw that thing, you’d know why we need this.” I pulled the box down.

            “Not fighting you on it. Bring plenty of bullets.”

            I unlocked the box and removed Donald Duck, our nickname for the Glock we keep stored there. I loaded it carefully, checked the safety, picked up the extra magazine, then slipped into the very cool shoulder holster I bought when we got the handgun. 

            It was a heavy bulge under my arm, like a tumor. I hated carrying it, but after one particularly disturbing case we’d agreed I needed one. If I was going to face that gargoyle again, I wanted to find out if a bullet would stop it before it ripped my face off.

            I found a jacket to wear over the handgun, and Rachel put on a sweater. “Let’s roll.”

            The house was two blocks from Harvey’s own dwelling, a small ranch house with a flower garden in front. We got there in 40 minutes, waited 15, and then Adrienne pulled up behind us. She got out, a purse slung over one shoulder, and slid into our back seat.

            I introduced her to Rachel. “She’s my associate on—”

            “And his girlfriend,” she cut in. “But not his assistant.”

            “Plus, she’s psychic,” I added. 

            Adrienne seemed confused, but just nodded. Then she pointed. “There he is now.”

            Galen Harvey was walking down the sidewalk. He wore a warmup jacket and sneakers, as if about to go out for a run. We got out.

            He nodded to Adrienne, said hello to me, and checked out Rachel as I introduced her. Then he sighed and glanced at the house. “In back.”

            Harvey led us to the back yard. “They’re not home right now,” he told us as we walked past more flowers. “They’re in France, actually. But they let me store some things in here. It’s very secure.”

            He stopped in front of a shed. The red aluminum siding felt solid as I rapped my knuckles on it, and instead of a padlock, it had a panel where Harvey punched in a passcode with at least 10 numbers and letters. I figured it held more than garden tools.

            We heard a click, and the red light on top of the panel turned green. Harvey turned to us.

            “I’m not conceding anything.” His voice was firm. “I’m not going to sign anything. I just want this out of here. Understood?”

            “That’s all we wanted,” Adrienne said. “Thank you.”

            He reached for the door handle. 

Then Rachel grabbed my arm. “Wait!” 

He didn’t. Harvey pulled on the handle, opening the door—

And then a gargoyle leaped from the top of the shed, roaring in rage.

I glimpsed a swift shadow at the doorway as the creature landed on Harvey, knocking him to the grass. I bent down and clamped its jaws on his shoulder, the fangs digging into his skin. Harvey shrieked in pain and hammered at the thing with his fist, rolling and twisting as he tried to push it off his body.

Adrienne jumped back, her mouth open as she stared at the creature in shock, but she stayed rooted place, her legs trembling as she dug into her purse.

The creature looked up, Harvey’s blood dripping from its fangs, and Adrienne pointed a bottle of pepper spray at it. She blasted it into its face.

Rachel had her own spray out—she carries it everywhere—and sprayed it at the beast’s eyes along with Adrienne, keeping an eye on its long arms as she stepped toward it.

The gargoyle howled and reared up, waving its arms, clawing at Adrienne, who was closer. She jumped back, tripped, and fell on her butt, cursing, but Rachel kept up her spraying until the creature turned on her, growling with menace.

That’s when I shot it.

I’d never actually fired the Glock at anything more than a target, or into the air to scare someone. I held it with both hands, bit my lip, and squeezed the trigger like the trainer told me.

I hit its shoulder. Black blood spurted out. Its red eyes glowed with fire as it turned to look at me, as if it hadn’t noticed me before. I hunched down, gritted my teeth, and shot it again, straight in the chest this time. 

The gargoyle staggered, more black blood streaming down its body. Rachel scrambled away, helping Adrienne get up, and Harvey rolled over, moaning and clutching his shoulder.

The creature lumbered toward me. I backed away, ready to fire again.

Instead, a voice from inside the shed froze it. The gargoyle turned slowly, breathing in heavy gasps.

The old man stood in the doorway, half-hidden by the shadows inside. Almost bald, he wore a long black coat and boots, and he had a backpack slung over one shoulder. 

He spoke again—it sounded like “Paltar,” Ringo’s real name—and lifted one hand. Glaring at all of us, but mostly me, he waved a hand, and the gargoyle turned and disappeared  into the shed.

I didn’t want to follow them, but I was working up my nerve to. Then Rachel was beside me, a hand on my arm. “It’s okay. They’re gone.”

“What the hell was that?” Harvey demanded from the ground.

Adrienne crouched next to him, her phone in her hand to call 911. I looked down at the black blood spattering the grass. “This is going to be tough to explain.”

Rachel headed for the shed. I reset the safety and slid the Glock back into its holster, my hands trembling, but before I could follow her she was back outside again, holding a plastic square box. “Is this where you kept the gargoyle head?”

Harvey blinked. “Y-yeah. It’s—how did he get in?”

“When the gargoyle jumped down.” Rachel dropped the box. “He was—shadowy. And fast.”

“I saw him too,” I said. “I was just a little distracted.”

“Sure you did.” Rachel patted my arm. “I believe you.”

“I did!” But this was no time to argue. We could already hear the sirens approaching.