Sia, Part Four

I dropped her off at her parent’s house. Marina Etterling was waiting, even though it was 2 a.m. “Dawne! Dawne . . .”

            They hugged and kissed. I got away as fast as I could, promising to call in the morning. At home, Rachel was still up at 2:30, watching a reality show in a T-shirt and panties. “So?” She crossed her arms, glaring at me. “Is she still hot? Did you kiss her? Answer the second question first. Or whatever.”

            I kissed her. “Yes. No. You sort it out. Let me get a beer.”

            Rachel snorted, and punched my shoulder. “Glad you’re home.”

            I opened a beer, exhausted. I’d called her before leaving, but now I told her everything. She listened with the TV on mute. Two real housewives started a catfight in a swimming pool. I tried not to be too distracted.

            “Now what?” She finally turned the TV off.

            I finished my beer. “So now I go to bed. Tomorrow I have to find Minas. Or Branden. I’m having trouble keeping names straight.”

            “What’s she like?” Rachel stood up and planted her hands on her hips. “Your old girlfriend?”

            I hesitated. But I try to tell the truth to everyone—the cops, and especially my girlfriend. “Kind of hot. But strange. She was always strange. That’s what . . .” Oops. “I mean, ordinary girls are boring.”

            “You got that right.” She grabbed my arm. “Come on, honeybunch. Let’s get you to bed.”

I slept late the next morning—8:30. After a shower and a bowl of Cheerios, I carried a mug of coffee into my office and sat down at my computer.

            A few emails from other clients. I answered them promptly—a paying client is always a priority, and most were relatively simple cases of workers comp violation, adultery, and/or embezzlement. I shot Marina Etterling a quick message to see how things were going.

Then I went looking for Branden Morris. Minas.

            Rachel staggered into the office in a short bathrobe, with her own mug of coffee. She kissed the top of my head. “You okay?”

            “Fine.” I squeezed her leg. “You?”

            She swatted my hand away. “Don’t get any ideas, jerk.”

            “Who, me?” I grinned, and went back to work as Rachel fired up her own computer.

            Minas, aka Branden Morris, wasn’t that hard to find, thanks to the internet and a few tricks of my own. He owned a house in Evanston—with a low tax rate—and had a website called Minas.com that offered “Happiness, enlightenment, and Joy” to anyone who signed up for his newsletter. Mostly it seemed to sell books and sign people up for seminars. Sample titles: “Find Your High Path,” “Reach For the Clouds,” and “Stars in Your Eyes: How to Fly Upward to your Destiny.” The books were moderately priced at $12.99 or so. The seminar cost $399. Seats were filling up soon—don’t delay!

            I finished my coffee and picked up the phone. “I have to call her. Do you want to listen in?”

            “Hell, no.” She tapped some keys without turning around. “Talk to your old girlfriends on your own time. I’ve got work to do here.”

            Mad or not? I couldn’t tell. So I took my phone and my mug into the kitchen, filled up my coffee, and called Bridget. Sia.

            The rule about cell phones had apparently been suspended. At least for Sia. “Tom?” She picked up on the first buzz.

            “How are things going up there?” 

            “Fine! Stuff getting cleaned up. People working in the garden. Everyone pretty much calmed down.” She lowered her voice. “But I need that goblet. If we can’t fly . . . everyone will leave.”

            It’s like being high, Dawne had said. I wondered how it would feel, but I wasn’t sure I could ever trust myself to try it. “So, I have an address for Minas. It’s in Evanston.”

            “Great!” She hesitated. “Will you come with me?”

            What? “Wait a minute. He had a gun.”          

            “He won’t shoot anyone with it! I don’t think it was even loaded. There was nothing up in the ceiling, no splinters on the floor. Blanks, maybe?”

            “I don’t care.” If he had blanks, he probably had real bullets. “You said he was abusive—”

            “So I can’t go there alone!” I heard a fist pounding on something. “But I have to get the goblet back. These people are all I have. Please, Tom? Come on, for old time’s sake?”

            Damn it. “Let me talk to Rachel.”

            “Thanks.” She sniffed. “Uh, who’s Rachel?”

“My girlfriend. And you really don’t want to meet her when she’s mad.” I was already nervous.

“Okay. I’m getting into my car right now. Send me the address.”

            “Wait a—” But Sia hung up.

            Great. Now I had to talk to Rachel.