A mysterious ring is linked to a series of suicides around Chicago. Can Tom Jurgen and Rachel uncover the secret of the ring’s origin in time to prevent more deaths?
Saturday, December 19, 2020
The Alchemist's Girasol, Part One
He spots a drunk guy dozing at a bus stop long after midnight. Chubby, in a half-open raincoat and a white T-shirt, maybe 60. Balding, Snoring softly. A soiled mask hangs from one ear.
A glance up and down the street. No bus coming. One car driving in the opposite direction. No one walking toward them.
He steps under the bus shelter’s narrow roof and kicks the drunk’s foot. Twice Slowly the drunk’s eyes open, fluttering in confusion. “Wha-what?”
He takes off a leather glove and stretches his hand forward. A bright red stone glows on a silver ring around his middle finger. “Get up.”
The drunk blinks as light from the ring’s stone dances in his eyes. He lurches up, unsteady, staring at the ring. His lips tremble as if he’s trying to speak, but his throat is silent.
He points to an alley. A liquor store on one side and a Thai restaurant on the other. Both closed up and dark. “Over there.”
The drunk staggers, his face sagging, jaw loose. In a few steps the shadows surround him. The only light in the darkness comes from the ring.
Again he struggles to speak. Again the words refuse to come. He sags against a stuffed garbage dumpster.
The man reaches into his rear pocket and pulls out a switchblade knife.
The drunk’s eyes burst wide as the blade snicks. His face quivers. His mouth droops.
“Take it.” He holds the knife forward, handle first.
The drunk tries to shake his head. But after a second order, he takes the knife.
A smile. “Now push it. Into your chest.”
Spit dribbles down his lower lip. He turns the knife in his hand, his fingers trembling. Slowly he brings his hand back until the tip of the knife is pressed against his white T-shirt—now damp with sweat in the cold air.
“Push. Push it deep.” He thrusts the ring forward.
The man groans.
“Both hands. Push. Push!”
He wraps his other hand around the knife. Bites his lip. Tears drip from pleading eyes.
“Do it! Push it in! Do it!”
The blade punctures the T-shirt, pierces his skin. Blood spreads across the white fabric. Gasping, he gazes at the man in front of him, and then his eyes plant themselves on the ring. The orange fire consumed his eyes.
One last shove, and the blade slices into his heart.
He watches the drunk fall to the pavement. He breathes deep as the man rolls over and stops breathing.
One deep breath, two, his pulse warm inside his own chest. After a moment, he slips his gloves back on, hiding the glowing ring, and heads out of the alley.
Out on the street, a bus slows. A man and a woman step off. The driver glances at him, but he shakes his head and walks in the opposite direction.
A deep breath. The ring warms his finger.
“That’s an unusual ring,” I said to the bartender. “What kind of stone is it?”
The bartender, a young blond-haired man named Dustin, held out his hand. The ring on his middle finger looked like silver snakes clutching a red stone. It glowed, reflecting light from the gas fireplace at the end of the room. “It’s a fire opal. They call it a girasol. My uncle gave it to me.”
I cocked my head as the firelight danced in my eyes. “Nice.”
“Another beer?”
I hadn’t really planned on more than one. But I nodded and pulled my mask down to finish my current Heineken. “Sure.”
Dustin was masked too, but his tended to slip down from his nose. About half the handful of people around me wore some kind of face covering, but two young guys across the bar from me had theirs down around their necks as they watched a basketball game on TV, and hardly anyone was social distancing. I hid a sigh.
Dustin brought me my beer and then went to check on two young women sipping wine through straws—a cute blonde named Cheryl with a red bandanna, and a short redhead with a standard medical-type mask. I didn’t catch her name. He was flirting, and the blonde, Cheryl, was flirting back. They’d already checked out his ring.
His uncle hadn’t given it to him. He’d stolen it, and his uncle had hired me to get it back.
His name was Dustin Sailer. His uncle was Zach Staley, a retired lawyer in his 80s. Me? I’m Tom Jurgen, ex-reporter and private detective.
My client had hired me via Zoom, the way I did most of my business in the days of the COVID-19 pandemic. Staley was sure his nephew had stolen his ring weeks ago—“It was right there in the case, and he came to visit one day for no reason, and when I came back from getting some tea it was gone. Dustin too.”
Dustin had denied stealing the ring, of course, but Staley was convinced. So he dropped a retainer in my Pay{Pal account and I took the case, after reminding him that I might be able to prove that his nephew had the ring but that I couldn’t really steal it back.
The first part was easy. Dustin tended bar a few nights a week. So that night I kissed my girlfriend Rachel good-bye before heading out to the Twisted Tavern in Wicker Park for s visit. Her only comment was, “Don’t get drunk. Or COVID.” Then she went back to watching The Queen’s Gambit.
I nursed my beer for half an hour. A lonely drunk two stools down from me went through three scotches in the same period. The two guys left, pulling their masks up as they headed out the door, and three loud youngsters crowded into a corner for a pitcher of beer. Dustin managed to take care of everyone promptly without letting up on his flirting.
Around 9:10 or so a guy in a black knit cap and a leather jacket came in for a quick brandy. Dustin served him, but he didn’t pay. I thought that was unusual, but maybe he ran a tab or something. Then Dustin went back to his flirting.
Finishing my beer—and visiting the restroom—I paid and headed out to my car. I’d found a space for the Accord down the street from Twisted. Inside I took off my mask and waited.
The bar would close at 10 p.m., per the latest curfew on late-night liquor sales. It was 9:45 right now. I called Rachel to assure her I was still sober, then waited with the radio on softly to a classic rock station.
A few minutes later the redhead from the bar came out and climbed into a waiting Uber, staggering only slightly. Her blonde friend was still inside.
At 10 or so the door opened and the three loud young men came out, still loud, a little more drunk. The scotch drinker followed, staggering to the sidewalk. Then the last of the customers. But not the blonde.
She emerged at 10:25, Dustin right behind her in a leather jacket. She still wore her bandanna. Dustin’s face was bare. He locked the front door, waved to someone left inside, and took her hand as they headed down the sidewalk.
I climbed out of my car quickly to follow from half a block behind.
Social distance orders or not, they walked close together, holding hands, sometimes with his arm over her shoulders. She walked on steady feet, not obviously drunk, leaning against him. I could see his mask half-stuffed into a back pocket.
They paused on the sidewalk. Dustin pulled her bandanna down to kiss her. She stuffed it into her pocket, and they stood there for a while.
A few blocks later Dustin opened the door to his apartment building. His uncle had given me the address. Dustin unlocked the door, took the blonde by the hand, and led her inside.
So someone was getting lucky tonight.
The next morning I called my client. No answer, so I left a message telling him that Dustin definitely had the ring. I sent him an email too. Then I went on to other cases.
Rachel carried a mug of coffee into our office. “Morning, jerk. What’s up for today?”
“Backgrounds to check, cheating spouses to catch, hopefully no vampires to slay, and waiting for yesterday’s client to call back—the usual. You?”
“A website redesign that’ll take me all day. Maybe all week.” Rachel’s a designer. She’s got short red hair, hazelnut eyes, and psychic powers that sometimes help my investigations. Plus, nice legs. She was in a black T-shirt and tight yoga pants that I tried not to gaze at too obviously. “So don’t bother me, okay?” She sat down and swung her chair around to face her workstation.
“Gotcha.” I went back to my computer.
My phone buzzed at 11:30. “Mr. Jurgen? I’m, uh, Alex Portland. I’m Zachary Staley’s granddaughter. He—he had a stroke last night.”
“Oh, no.” I saw Rachel glance over her shoulder, and I waved an “it’s okay” hand signal so she wouldn’t worry about an imminent disaster, like a lawsuit or a zombie uprising. “Is he all right?”
“He’s in the hospital.” She sounded calm, though. “They say he’s conscious, but I can’t see him, because of this stupid virus. He—I’m at his place now. To feed his cat and stuff.” Staley had an orange tabby who’d crawled over his lap during our Zoom call. “I listened to your message. Something about the ring Dustin stole?”
Okay. Maybe the case wasn’t over yet just because my client was in the hospital. “Could I ask you a few questions?”
“Uhh . . .” She hesitated. “I guess I don’t think grandpa would mind if I talked to you. I have his power of attorney. Let’s do a Zoom.”
We arranged a time for the afternoon. “Everything okay?” Rachel asked when I hung up.
“My client had a stroke. I’ve got a Zoom date with his granddaughter.”
She whirled around. “A date? Is she cute? Do I have to watch you?” Rachel gets a little territorial with me, even though we’ve been living together for years. I actually get a kick out of it, most of the time.
“Strictly professional. You can watch if you want to. It’s at 2:30.”
“Too much work.” Rachel turned back around and resumed pounding at her keyboard. “It’s your turn to make dinner, remember. Leftovers don’t count.”
I groaned. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Alex Portland was my age—mid 40s—with long black hair and glasses that slipped down her nose when she bent down to sip her latté. “Grandpa’s a collector. Antiques, old jewelry, teacups, china figures, stuff like that. Ever since I can remember. Keeps lists of where he got them. I guess I never really asked why. I asked about a tea set once when I was a little girl, and he said it came from a haunted house? So maybe he was interested in stuff like that.”
Haunted house? I do tend to attract cases that involve the supernatural. “What about Dustin? Do you know him well?”
She sat on a couch with a big Van Gogh print on the wall behind her. I sat at my desk with Rachel behind me, pretending not to eavesdrop. I blew on my hot coffee.
Alex pushed her glasses up. “We hung out a little when we were kids. I haven’t seen him in years. Wait—last year, Thanksgiving. At grandpa’s place. It was right after grandma died. A bunch of us came and cooked and stuff, me, my aunt Pauline—that’s Dustin’s mom, and a few others. My folks are dead.”
I cocked my head sympathetically. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, it was a long time ago. Thanks.” Alex took a quick sup of her latté. “Anyway, he disappeared for a while, a couple years back. California? Someplace like that. He showed up again a few months ago. Thanksgiving was the first time I saw him since I went to college. He’s a bartender now, I guess. Mostly to meet women, from the way he talked about it.” She rolled her eyes.
He’d done well for himself last night. But I didn’t mention that. “Thanks. I think that’s it. I hope your grandfather gets better.”
“I’m going to try visiting him later today. They say I can do it for a short time if I’ve got a face shield plus a mask, and I just bought one. I’ll tell him we talked. Does he owe you any money? I can write checks for him.”
“No, he gave me a retainer. It’s still good. I’ll be in touch if I have anything to report.”
I signed off. Now what? I’d confirmed that Dustin had the ring, but without any guidance from my client, there wasn’t much I could do.
But I was curious.
The Alchemist's Girasol, Part Two
Later that night, after dinner—angel hair pasta and broccoli with alfredo sauce from a jar—my phone buzzed while I helped Rachel load the dishwasher. Alex Portland. “Mr. Jurgen? I got a face shield, so just saw my grandfather. He’s not talking much, but I told him about the ring. And he got really upset.”
I wiped my hands on a towel. “Upset how?”
“He still can’t make words. He just started grunting, and his face got all red. The only word I could understand was ‘off.’ Like, ‘get it off,’ Maybe? I don’t know. Then the nurses made me leave because he was getting so agitated.”
“Is he all right?”
“He was okay, before I talked about the ring. Awake, and good blood pressure and all that. I can’t make any sense out of the numbers on all the stuff they have him hooked up to.”
“Right.” Staley had already been upset when he’d hired me. What was it about that ring? “Well, thanks for calling me. I hope he gets better.”
“Thank you. I’ll see him tomorrow. Maybe he won’t get mad this time.”
We hung up. Rachel closed the dishwasher. “What’s up?”
I leaned against the counter. “Want to go out for a beer?”
“Hello again.” Dustin remembered me, but he spent more time checking out Rachel. I couldn’t blame him. She wore denim jacket over a black sweater and tight jeans, and she looked hot. Especially in a mask with red and black stripes.
“My girlfriend and I were just in the neighborhood.” I emphasized “girlfriend.” I can be territorial, too.
We ordered beers. Rachel watched him set bottles on the bar and said, “Wow, that’s a cool ring.”
He grinned. “Thanks.” He held his hand out.
The red stone swirled and glittered, shining in Rachel’s eyes. She blinked, leaned back, and nodded. “That’s—something. Cool.”
“Yeah.” He winked. “Anything else to go with your beer? Something special?”
Was he hitting on Rachel in front of me? I put a foot on the floor, ready to leap up and—do something.
Rachel blinked. For a moment I thought she was going to order something, but after a moment she just shook her head. Dustin moved down the bar.
The scotch drinker was back again, nursing his Dewar’s through a straw under his mask. Another couple sat close together in stools across from us, a young man and woman drinking vodka tonics and casually making out as best they could with masks mostly down. No one for Dustin to flirt with.
I looked at Rachel. “You okay?”
She rubbed her eyes. “That ring. It’s—weird. I almost—never mind.”
“Maybe. Yeah.” She pulled up her mask for a sip of beer.
I watched Dustin. Two men came in, dropped their masks, and ordered beers. A few minutes later three women came through the door and sat at table in the corner. Right after them came the guy from the other night, in the knitted cap. Dustin poured him a brandy without asking.
Then one of the women walked up to order wine and take menus back to her friends. Dustin brought the wine out and took food orders. He smiled and made sure his ring was visible. It flashed in the firelight.
Rachel went to the restroom. Duston smiled as I reached for my wallet. “Thanks for stopping by.” Then he reached down to lift the Dewar’s bottle for the scotch drinker.
Then Rachel came back, wiping her hands. She took a look at the bar next to our empty glasses, then grabbed my arm and half-dragged me to the door.
Outside she turned on me. “Why did you give him that kind of a tip?”
“What? I only . . .” I patted my wallet in my jeans. “How much?”
“We had two beers. You left forty dollars!”
My mouth dropped open. “What?” I tried to think, but my memory of the last few minutes was a blank. Rachel standing up for the restroom, Dustin smiling at me, then . . . Rachel walking toward me as Dustin served the scotch. I try to be a generous tipper, but—“The ring?”
Rachel nodded. “Yeah.”
I wondered what else he did with it.
The next morning I skimmed through the news on my laptop while eating my cereal. COVID cases in the state were up. Property taxes in the city were going up. The stock market was going down.
One short item: The body of a man had been found halfway stuffed underneath a dumpster on the city’s west side, stabbed to death. Unidentified.
There were other murders, of course. Drive-bys and gang incidents. I check out all of them. I used to be a crime reporter.
An hour later I was running employment background searches when Rachel sauntered into our office with her morning mug of coffee. “That ring last night? It’s still bothering me.”
“You too?” I crossed my arms and leaned back in my chair. “Is it evil?”
“Not exactly.” She shook her head. “That bartender, though—I mean, he was up to something with it.”
I snorted. “You think? He was up to something anyway. And I was right there.”
“Yeah, but the ring made me feel it harder. I mean, I wasn’t going to do anything about it.” She punched my shoulder. “But it wasn’t just the usual flirting—I mean, I can handle that. This was different.”
“Yeah.” Rachel knew krav maga. “Then there’s that tip.” If Dustin had used the ring to get a forty-dollar tip out of me that I couldn’t include in my expenses, I wanted to know what else he was up to. “Let me see what I can find out.”
I finished one search, recorded the data, and then I called Alex Portland, putting it on speaker so Rachel could listen in while she worked.
“I’m sorry to bother you—Is your grandfather doing better?” It seemed like a good way to start.
“They say he’s sitting up and eating. I’m going over later today. What can I do for you?”
I tried to think of a safe question. Is the ring evil? probably wasn’t the best approach. “It’s about that ring again. I was wondering—well, let me put it this way, you mentioned that one of Mr. Staley’s collection pieces was haunted?”
She laughed. “He has a tea set that came from a haunted house, he said. He wouldn’t let me touch it—I was a little girl—but it did seem sometimes like the cups changed places when I wasn’t looking.” She giggled again.
“Did he collect other . . . supernatural objects?”
Alex hesitated. “Well actually, he used to tell me stories about some of his things when I was little. Like, he had a spoon that could make water go freezing cold in one second, and a necklace that if you wore it, no one could hear you talk. But he never let me play with any of them, so I don’t know . . .” Her voice trailed off. “You think the ring is magic or something?”
Time for the truth. “It seems like it has, well, an unusual effect on people.” I explained, and waited for her to ask if I was crazy. It happens a lot.
“Okay.” Alex paused. “I don’t want to ask him about it again after last time. What can I do?”
“You said he has records of where he bought his antiques from? Maybe we could look through them?”
“Uh . . . I guess so. Why don’t you meet me at his place? Seven o’clock or so?”
I glanced over at Rachel. She gave me a thumbs up. “That’s fine. I’ll be bringing an associate, if that’s okay. Her name’s Rachel.”
“Fine. See you then.”
We hung up. Rachel finished her coffee. “Looking through files? The exciting life of a private eye.” She winked at me.
“Yeah.” I only hoped this was as exciting as it got. As long as Dustin was just using the ring to get bigger tips and seduce women—well, the last part wasn’t exactly moral, but it could be worse.
We’d see.
Rachel and I met Alex at Staley’s apartment, the top floor of a four-story walkup. We all wore masks.
The orange cat met us too. He rubbed against Rachel’s boots until Alex picked up him and set him on her shoulder. “Trumpy loves attention, don’t you, Trumpy? She’s pretty lonely without grandpa here.”
The apartment was long and narrow and dark, like a cave. The living room was filled with bookcases stuffed with dusty hardcovers, as if he collected rare books too. No TV.
Alex took us into a study where Staley kept his antiques. The cat dropped from her shoulder and jumped up on a sofa, and immediately fell asleep, purring softly. More tall wooden bookcases lined the room, most of the antiques locked behind glass doors. Rachel and I peered at the collection.
A copper bell . . . a crystal figurine of a princess . . . a silver bowl . . . the tea set Alex had told us about . . . and lots more. Each piece was numbered. “Quite a haul.”
“He’s been collecting for years. All his life.” Alex sat down at a desk where several large leather-bound ledgers were stacked next to a laptop. I recognized the bookcases behind her from my Zoom meeting with Staley. She pushed her glasses up. “I had to ask him—grandpa—about letting you look at this stuff.”
“How’s he doing?” Rachel asked.
“About the same. He’s sleepy.” She yawned. “Me too. It’s been a long couple days.” She pulled a ledger from the top of the pile. “Let’s take a look. He uses the computer all the time, but he started recording everything in these books, so I guess he kept it up.”
I thought the numbering would make looking up the ring simple, but Staley had bought and sold items over the years, which made things a little more complicated. I peered over Alex’s shoulder while Rachel examined the shelves.
“This is where the ring was?” Rachel pointed at a bare space behind the glass. “How did Dustin get into it?”
“He forgets to lock it all the time.” Alex shook her head, turning yellowed pages.
Rachel pulled on the door. “Yep.”
I walked over to her. “Are you getting anything?”
She snorted. “It’s all over the place.”
Alex looked up. “What?”
“I’m psychic. A little” She shrugged. “And yeah, lots of these things are magical.”
“Wow.” Alex looked up and down the cases. “I always kind of wondered about all this stuff.” Then she looked at Rachel. “You’re really psychic?” She didn’t seem skeptical, just curious, as if Rachel had told her she was Buddhist. “What’s that like?”
“Like . . .” She looked at me. “Like wondering why everyone can’t see all the stuff I see.” Then she winked. “Sometimes.”
“Okay, here it is. Or was.” Alex pushed her glasses up again and slid the book toward me.
ITEM# 511 (31), silver ring, fire opal stone (orange). Purchased 2-12-19. Hogarth Antiquities & Curios, Boston.
Alex opened a smaller notebook. “Contacts. Some of this is on the computer if it’s not here, but—yeah, here’s Samuel Hogarth. Address, phone number.”
I pulled out my phone. What time was it in Boston?
The phone buzzed four times. Then I got an outgoing message from a chirpy young female voice. Hogarth Antiquities & Curios was closed for the day, but I could leave a message. So I did.
Alex closed the ledger and stood up. “Is that it?”
I nodded. “Thanks for your help. Sorry to bother you with this.”
“No, I’m curious now.” She led us to the front door, Trumpy pawing at her heels. “Let me know what you find out.”
“Let us know how Mr. Staley is doing.” I wished we could talk to him.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.” She picked up the cat. “Say good night, Trumpy.”
The lock on the park gate is broken. The streetlight on the corner is dark. Perfect for them, even if it’s cold tonight.
Mario leads his girlfriend up a hill into a cluster of trees. Leesa giggles. “What if someone comes up here?”
“Nobody does. Especially at night.” It’s 11:30. Maybe later.
“Unless they’re doing the same thing,” She squeezes Mario’s hand.
He yanks his mask to kiss her, then lightly pushes her down into a pile of leaves next to a tree. He digs into his pocket. “Okay, here.”
Leesa takes the joint with a grin, then fumbles with her lighter. Once it’s lit, she plants it between her lips and inhales deeply.
Mario watches her lips, watches the smoke flow from her nostrils. Leesa hands the joint over, smiling. He licks his own rough lips and then takes a deep drag, enjoying the sweet fragrance drifting through the air.
Leesa laughs and kisses his cheek. It’s too cold out tonight to do anything more than smoke, but maybe—
Footsteps rustle leaves on the grass.
“Shit!” Leesa jumps up, ready to run.
He’s tall, in a leather jacket and gloves. Mario watches him slide one glove off. The guy points his hand at them. A ring glows red on his finger.
“Who the hell are you, Green Lantern?” Mario lurches to his feet.
“Stand still.” His voice is low and taut.
Mario and Leesa both freeze. Mario’s heart thuds. He hears Leesa breathing, see the steam of her breath drifting from her lips.
The man points the ring at her. “Go home.”
Without a word or a look back, Leesa runs down the hill. Mario’s eyes follow her until she disappears in the dark.
The guy reaches into a back pocket. A blade snicks out, jutting forward. He steps forward. “Take it. Press it against your chest.”
Mario can’t even blink. As if from a yard away, he watches his hand reach out and close on the knife handle. Brings it close. Feels it poke at his T-shirt. What?
“Push it in.” The guy smiles. He holds the ring forward, the orange light dazzling in Mario’s eyes. “All the way.”
No. It hurts, but he can’t scream. No. He feels blood on his chest, but he can’t look down. No. His heartbeat fills his chest, pounding pounding pounding. No. The blade is so cold. No . . .
The Alchemist's Girasol, Part Three
My phone buzzed at 8:37 the next morning. Alex Portland was inviting me to FaceTime. I hit “accept” and her face popped onto the small screen.
She was wearing a mask and also a face shield that made her eyes look bigger without her glasses, and pushed her hair flat. I could see medical monitors behind her. “Tom?” Her voice was a whisper. “I’m with grandpa right now. He wants to talk to you.” She turned away for a second. Then—“I mean, he can’t really talk much but he was saying your name over and over again. And ‘ring.’ We have to be quiet.”
“Okay.” I leaned the phone next to my monitor.
“Grandpa? It’s Tom Jurgen—” The view swung around, and now I saw Zach Staley. Thin gray hair, pale forehead and cheeks, a blue-and-white hospital gown loose around his neck.
“Hello, Mr. Staley.” I waved a hand. “How are you feeling?”
He sat forward, his head trembling on his thin, veiny neck. “R-inn,” he grunted. “Rin. Ring? Ring! Ring!”
“Shh.” Alex’s shush quivered. “Stay quiet, grandpa.”
“Ring.” He lifted a hand and pressed two fingers around his ring finger. “Ring!”
“Ring.” I nodded. “Dustin has it. What about it?”
He gasped for breath and lay back, his eyes fluttering. For a second I thought he’d dropped off to sleep—or worse. Then Staley lurched forward. “Bad,” he whispered. “B-baddd.”
“The ring is bad?”
His face bobbed up and down. “Bad. Baa . . .” He lay back again, and then his hand rose again. This time he swung it up and down, his fist clenched, in a stabbing motion. He did it three times, then slouched back and closed his eyes.
“Uh-oh.” Alex sounded nervous. “I’d better—” She hung up.
Okay. I set my phone next to the keyboard. Probably a nurse coming into the room. Maybe Alex would call back.
“What was that?” Rachel sauntered into the office in sweatpants and a T-shirt, a mug of coffee in her hand.
“My client and Alex. Something about the ring, but he wasn’t very clear.” I pantomimed the stabbing motion. “That, and ‘bad.’”
“Whoa.” She sipped her coffee. “Like I said, I got vibe from it. Or him. But it didn’t feel like anything dangerous.”
The phone buzzed. Alex. “Is he all right?” I put it on speaker so Rachel could hear.
“He fell asleep. But his heart monitor brought the nurse, and I got kicked out. I hope they let me back.”
“So what do you think he was trying to say?”
“I don’t know.” She sighed. “When I came in, he was watching the news. Channel Seven? Just the usual stuff. Politics, and COVID, and a fire on the south side. Then something about a murder came on, and right at the end he jumped up and pointed at the TV. Then he started saying, “jur,’ ‘jur,’ and I figured out he meant you.”
“It was the murder that set him off?”
“Seemed like. I don’t know how much he’s really aware of, you know?”
“Yeah.” I looked at Rachel. She shrugged. “Well, thanks for calling. I’ll let you know if I find anything more out.”
“Thanks. Oh, I forgot to tell you—I was looking through some of Grandpa’s stuff last night after you left? And he had a file about the ring, who made it, where it came from, like that. Some stuff he dug up from the Internet and other places, I guess. I’ve got it, so I’ll send it over to you. Maybe it’ll help?”
“More information is always better. Thanks.” I gave her the address, and we hung up.
“What now, shamus?” Rachel cocked her head.
I turned to my computer. “Stabbing murder? Guess I’ll check the news.”
She went to her desk and put on her noise-cancelling headphones. I got myself some more coffee and hit the news sites. It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for—a 22-year-old man had been found stabbed to death in a park on the northwest side. Police were looking for his girlfriend.
Most of the stories were brief. The victim’s name was Mario Long. He’d been found by a Parks District worker early this morning. The cops had ID’d him easily enough, and his family said he’d been out with his girlfriend last night. Her name was Leesa Angsten, but she wasn’t home when they went to her address.
Other details about the killing were sparse. The story was only a few hours old, of course, but I figured the police were withholding some stuff to hit the suspect with, once they found him—or her.
Why did this set Staley off?
I found the TV story. Less than two minutes long, just a shot of the entrance to the park and a path maybe leading to the site of the death, and then a CPD officer quickly laying out the facts. “—And we’re not necessarily looking at the girlfriend as a murder suspect,” the woman said at the end. “We just have some questions for her.” She turned away.
A reporter shouted, “Is it true that the switchblade was in the victim’s hand? Could he have—” The spokesperson waved a hand, but before the report cut off I could the reporter asking, “—done it himself?”
Done it himself? I noticed that, despite what Alex had said, neither the Channel Seven reporter nor the spokesperson had actually said the word “murder.”
I needed more coffee.
My phone buzzed a few hours later as I was running another background check. This guy had at least two drug convictions, so chances were he wasn’t going to get a job offer, but I wanted to be thorough. I put down my coffee and answered the phone. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”
“Mr. Jurgen? This is Sam Hogarth.” The voice was hoarse and raspy, as if someone smoked a lot of cigars “They forwarded your message. I’m retired. My son-in-law runs the business now.”
“Thanks for calling me back.” I glanced over my shoulder. Rachel was at work. “It’s about an item you sold to Zachary Staley in 2019, a fire opal ring?”
“Right. I looked it up. Just because I’m retired doesn’t mean I don’t keep my hands in. Don’t get me wrong, Elliot’s smart, but I still . . .” He coughed. “Okay. I bought it at an estate sale in 2012. It was part of collection the estate—Harkness—purchased from a French collector in 1996. .I kept stuff on and off display for a couple of years until Staley bought some of it. The ring was part of a lot supposedly from Rulcanetti, an Italian alchemist in the 18th century.”
An alchemist? Interesting. “Do you know anything about this, uh, Rulcanetti?”
“The estate had a pamphlet. Let me . . .” Another cough. “No one knows his real name, or when he was born, or much about him. He lived in Florence for 10 years until he disappeared in 1799, and he left behind a bunch of unfinished manuscripts that his son burned because he thought they were blasphemous. But there was a bunch of other stuff too, rings and necklaces, bracelets and tiaras and stuff, and the son sold them. Some of them got picked up by a Frenchman, and they stayed in the same family until a collector bought them in 1956. He named it the Alchemist’s Girasol, and engraved Rulcanneti’s name inside the band for provenance.”
“Anything unusual about the ring?”
Another cough. I hoped he didn’t have the virus. “I do remember one thing—there was Rulcanetti’s name, but there was another word engraved on the other side that looked older, harder to see, engraved on the other side. Latin—obedio. I looked it up. It means ‘obey,’ or ‘comply.’”
Huh. “Do you know why Mr. Staley was interested in it?”
“He liked stuff associated with the supernatural. I’ve sold stuff to him off and on before. I don’t know how much he believes in the stuff, but he’s always after it. He just bought it online. We’ve got a great website, you should check it out. I mean, the description of the ring had most of what I just told you, so if he was interested in alchemists or Rulcanetti or opals from Italy, that might have been it.” He coughed again.
“Right.” Lots of these things are magical, Rachel had said. “Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Hogarth. You should, uh, maybe get that cough checked out.”
His chuckle was gravelly. “Got tested yesterday, I’m waiting for the answer. That’s why I called you back, something to take my mind off stuff.”
“I hope everything turns out okay.”
We hung up. Rachel took off her headphones and rubbed her ears. “Anything going on?”
“That was Hogarth. The ring came from a 17th-century alchemist named Rulcanetti.”
She snorted. “Sounds like a pasta dish.”
“Yeah. But someone engraved the Latin word for ‘Obey’ inside the band.”
“Hmm.” Her eyebrows rose. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking I need to know more about Rulcanetti.”
“Delivery!” The voice was clear and sharp through my phone.
Alex’s package, probably. “Leave it there, I’ll be right down.” I stood up. “Be right back.”
“Don’t forget your mask!” Rachel called.
“I never forget my mask!” I grabbed one from the table next to the front door. Almost never.
It was Alex Portland’s package. A thin envelope with my name and address on it, and a manila file folder inside. The tab was marked “Fire opal ring.” I dropped it in front of my computer.
“Lunch?” Rachel stood up. “I didn’t eat breakfast.”
“Most important meal of the day. Maybe later.”
I started leafing through the file. Some of it was printed from a Wikipedia page, of course: “Rulcanetti (fl. 1790s) was the name used by an Italian alchemist and esoteric author whose identity is unknown and still debated.” It described him as educated in the ways of alchemy, architecture, science, and languages, a collector of rare jewels, and author of at least two published books, one on the Catholic church the other on the Kabbalah. Neither existed today in print or online. The article speculated on his real identity, sketched out a few possible encounters with notable Europeans after his 1799 vanishing act, and noted that other manuscripts he’d left behind were burned by his family, like Hogarth had said.
Other documents had been photocopied or scanned from books and articles. A few pages supposedly translated from his book on the Kabbalah, but it could have been in the original Italian for any sense it made to me. Some short biographical sketches that mostly rehashed what Wikipedia had said, or been the source for the piece. A few pages from a graphic novel that appeared to be a pornographic fanfic about Rulcanetti and other alchemists, which I didn’t investigate.
When Rachel came back 20 minutes later I was staring at the last document. Not a photocopy or scan—it looked like it had been ripped from a book with a library stamp at the bottom of the page. Tsk, tsk. “What’s that?”
I leaned back. “Around the time he disappeared, there was a string of stabbings in Florence, and a couple of suicides. Some of the people who died were Rulcanetti’s rivals. And this one guy—” I leaned forward to peer at the name, which I couldn’t pronounce—“a history professor at the University of Florence, has a letter from an 18th-century doctor who claims he saw Rulcanetti order a man to tie a hangman’s noose around his neck and step off a balcony.”
Rachel leaned forward to read the letter, translated from 18th-century Italian. “Wow. That’s—not even the weirdest thing we’ve ever heard of. If it’s right.” She grimaced. “But what does it mean? Like you said, Dustin’s just using the ring to get laid and bigger tips—”
“This is what I’m afraid of.” I pulled up a list of articles about recent unsolved stabbings in the city. The kind last night from the news today. The guy under the dumpster a few days ago. And two more in the last three weeks—a man in a locked car, and a woman in a parking lot.
With a sigh, Rachel pulled her chair from her desk on the other side of the office and skimmed the stories. “Okay. Okay. You think Dustin’s a serial killer?”
I shook my head. “It could be a coincidence. I could be reaching at straws. It could be we’ve just been through so many supernatural shenanigans that I’m seeing them everywhere. But Staley knew all this, and maybe that’s why he got so upset this morning at the hospital over that news story about the stabbing. I don’t know.”
Rachel slugged my shoulder. Gently. “Looks like you’ve got some work to do.”
I moved toward the computer. “Starting with Dustin.”
I spent the early part of the afternoon digging into Dustin Sailer’s background, which maybe I should have done that first. Alex had mentioned that he’d “disappeared.” Actually, he’d done four years in a California jail for assault, and two years’ probation on an unrelated drug charge. Neither of which proved he was a serial killer, of course.
I finally ate lunch at 2 p.m. after Rachel nagged me. “You always get cranky when you’re hungry.” So I ate a sandwich, trying to think of my next step. Actually, hoping I could think of some way to avoid it. But nothing came.
So back in the office I tapped Rachel on the shoulder. “I’m going to call Sharpe. You want to listen?”
She sighed and hung her headphones over her shoulders. “Sure.”
Detective Anita Sharpe and I worked together mostly on cases involving Chicago’s vampire community. Fortunately, the vamps were laying low during the pandemic, so we didn’t have too many problems there. She tolerates me more than most cops do, which doesn’t mean she’s happy to hear my voice on the phone.
“Jurgen? What now?” She sounded more tired than impatient. Being a Chicago cop can wear you out.
“Lovely to hear your voice as always, detective. Are you staying safe from the virus?”
“Safer than you if you’re wasting my time. What the hell do you want?”
I took a deep, calming breath. “Stabbings. Kid in a park, Mario? Guy under a dumpster, guy in a locked car, a few more—”
“What about it? Get to the point.”
“Did they kill themselves?”
I imagined her blinking in confusion. “All of them? How should I know? What’s going on?”
“It’s just a theory I’m working on right now. Has anyone been arrested? Did you find Mario’s girlfriend?”
She groaned. “None of my cases. But okay, you hear things. Just not from me.”
“Not a chance.” I waited.
“They found the girl. She doesn’t remember anything. It’s weird, like everything’s a blank between going out with Mario and then coming home at 1:00 a.m. The others? The only thing—and you didn’t get this from me, remember?—is that all the knives were switchblades, and when they could get prints, all they got were the victims. It’s only on two cases, though. The rest of them couldn’t lift anything.”
Not surprising. Prints are harder to lift in real life than on TV. “That’s interesting. Okay, thanks for—”
“Hang on a goddamn minute! What’s going on?”
I hesitated. “If I told you it’s a serial killer, you wouldn’t believe me, would you?”
“What? First you’re saying it’s suicides, now you tell me it’s a serial killer? Make up your mind, Jurgen.”
“That’s the problem.” I rubbed my eyes. “It’s both.”
Another groan. “I’m going to stop answering when I see your name.”
I almost couldn’t blame her. “Look, I’ll tell you when I have anything concrete. Or I won’t find anything and then I won’t bother you again.”
“Works either way for me. Hi to Rachel.” Sharpe hung up.
“Hi!” Rachel called. “Nuts. You could have told her I was here.” She punched my shoulder.
“Sorry.” Sharpe liked Rachel a lot more than she liked me. Which wasn’t unusual. “What do you think?”
“You’re asking me? I’m a psychic, not a hotshot P.I.” She hit my shoulder again. “What are you going to do?”
I rubbed my shoulder. “First put an ice pack on my arm. Then . . .” I wasn’t sure. I knew I should call Alex Portland. Maybe she’d ask her grandfather—my client—what I should do. But the way he’d gotten upset this morning, I wasn’t sure that was a good idea.
It’s just that my other idea was worse.
The Alchemist's Girasol, Part Four
So naturally I went with the bad idea.
“Seriously?” Rachel crossed her arms to glare at me. “You’re just going to ask him?”
“It’s what I do.” I shrugged. “Reporter? Detective? It’s all about asking questions. And sometimes running away.”
“Yeah.” She dropped her arms. “Okay. I’m coming with you. He can’t zap both of us with his ring at once. I hope.”
I’ve learned not to argue with Rachel about stuff like this. Or anything, really. “At least you can stop me from leaving any more $40 tips.”
Which was how we ended up back at the Twisted Tavern again that night.
We went early, before it got too crowded on a Thursday night. Dustin wore a Chicago Bulls sweatshirt, and we spotted the ring on his finger as he set beers in front of us. “Good to see you guys again.” He gave Rachel a wink.
“Yeah.” I set some cash on the bar—for our beers, and a reasonable tip. “Got a minute to talk?”
Puzzled, he glanced down at two guys at the other end. “Let me check. Just a minute.”
We watched Dustin refill their glasses. Then he returned. “What can I do for you?”
“That ring.” I pointed. “Your uncle didn’t give it to you. You stole it.”
“And we know what it does,” Rachel added.
Dustin blinked. “Damn it.” Then he yanked the ring from his finger and slammed it on the bar. “All right. Take it. Zach’s an asshole anyway.”
Wait, what? This was too easy “You’re just giving it back?”
“Why not?” He rubbed his finger. “I mean, it was fun for a while, but it’s not worth any trouble. Do you guys want another beer or something?”
“Hang on.” Rachel cut in. “How did you figure out what the ring could do?”
He leaned back, thinking. “I asked the manager for a night off. I think I said something like, ‘Can you give me tomorrow night off?’ and she just said yeah. It was weird. Then a customer started leaving me a lousy tip, and I said, ‘Come on, give me a little bit more,’ and he did.” He glanced up and down the bar and lowered his voice. “It was a couple days before I tried it on a girl.”
I was surprised—and a little impressed—that Rachel didn’t reach across the bar to break his fingers right then. Instead she grabbed the ring, slipped it on a finger, and smiled. “Ooh. Feels warm. Okay.” She pointed it at Dustin. “Tell us what you used it for.”
His eyes grew blank, and he spoke slowly. “A night off from work. A bigger tip from a jerk. A girl named Trish. Free tacos from Taco Joe. A girl named Ellen. A free cab ride—”
“Wait a minute. What about . . .” I held Rachel’s arm. “What did you do with it last night?”
“A big tip.”
“Nothing else?” No murder?
“I gave it to Rick.”
Huh? “Who’s Rick?”
Again, slowly. “My friend. Rick Vance.”
Rachel and I looked at each other. Then Rachel took the ring off, and I stuffed it into my pocket. “Who’s Rick Vance?”
Dustin rubbed his head. “What? Uh, he’s a waiter down the street. He comes in every night or so for a brandy. I never charge him.”
Brandy. I’d seen him. “He wears a black cap? Knit? Leather jacket?”
Dustin nodded, puzzled. “That’s him.”
“So you lend him the ring sometimes?”
“Yeah. How do you—” He hesitated, looking at Rachel. “Oh. Right. Yeah, I let him take it sometimes. So what? He always gives it back.”
I didn’t exactly want to tell him his friend was a serial killer. Especially since it was still mostly speculation. Okay, more than a little, but nothing I could take to the cops or to court.
“Don’t tell him about this when he comes in.” I stood up, my beer untouched. “Come on.”
Rachel got up as Dustin spread his hands apologetically. “Tell Zach I said sorry.”
“He’s in the hospital. Stroke.”
“Oh. Nuts.” Dustin sighed. “Well, have a good night.”
In the car Rachel buckled her belt. “Now what?”
I planted my hands on the wheel, but didn’t strap in. “We wait for Vance.”
Rachel argued. Then she stopped talking to me, which was worse. We sat next to each other, watching the bar’s entrance, for an hour and a half.
“How long?” Rachel scratched her nose.
I checked the car’s clock. “Just until closing time.” Another 20 minutes.
She sighed. “Glad I didn’t drink any of that beer.”
At least she was talking to me again. After a minute she asked, “So what’s your plan?”
That’s what we’d been arguing about. “Like I said, I just have to know.”
“Then what?”
This time I didn’t answer. Mostly because I didn’t know.
A few minutes later I spotted him—leather jacket, black knit cap, black mask. This time I saw he was wearing gloves.
I opened my door and pulled up my mask. “You can wait here—”
“Like hell.” She pushed her door open. “I have to go to the bathroom now.”
The bar was more crowded. I hoped that meant no one would overhear us. Vance sat at a corner, his gloves next to his brandy, his mask down, talking to Dustin. Who was shaking his head and looking nervous.
“Rick Vance?” I eased between him and a guy chatting with friends while watching TV.
He turned his head. “Yeah?”
“I’d like to talk to you about the ring.”
Dustin backed away.
Vance picked up his brandy. “What ring?”
I held my hand up. “This.”
The ring was on my finger. Rachel was right—it felt warm. Powerful.
Vance blinked. Rachel stood behind him, a hand in her jacket pocket on her stun gun. In case something went wrong.
The ring pulsed on my finger. I licked my lips under my mask. “What did you do last night?”
He looked into my eyes. “I made a guy stab himself to death.”
“How many people have you done it to?”
His eyes clouded for a moment. “Five.”
“Why?”
Vance’s lips slowly curled into a vampiric smile, while his eyes stayed dead. “Try it yourself.”
The ring seemed to tighten around my finger, burning against my skin. My heart started rising, faster and harder. I shivered.
Then Rachel leaned around Vance and punched me. Hard. I jostled the guy behind me, then jerked forward, catching my breath. “Sorry.” I twisted the ring off my finger and nodded to Rachel. “Thanks.”
“I thought I’d have to hit him, not you.” She crossed her arms. “You okay?”
“Hey!” Vance grabbed for my hand. “That’s mine! Give it back—”
Rachel yanked at her pocket. He froze as the stun gun pressed against his butt. I guess she didn’t think the electrodes would penetrate his leather jacket. “What the hell?”
“Don’t make me press the stud on this.” Rachel grinned. “I’m not sure how much it hurts.”
Dustin came up. “Hey, settle down. Don’t make me call the cops.”
The guy behind me, and his friends, were looking at us, along with a few other people. “Yeah, let’s go.” I slapped some money on the bar for Vance’s brandy.
Outside we waited as a car rolled by. With a deep breath I slid the ring on again. Rachel moved away from Vance, next to me. Probably in case she had to stun my ass.
Vance glared. “Now what?”
I held the ring out. Again it seemed to wrap itself around my finger with a warm pulse. I cleared my throat. “You got a knife on you?”
He reached around for his back pocket. I winced as the switchblade snicked open.
“No. Put it away.” Another deep breath as I tried to focus. “Go home. Call the police. Tell them what you did. All of it.”
He stepped away. Without a word he turned and headed up the street.
I pulled the ring off and resisted the urge to hurl it into the shadows. Someone might find it. Instead I handed it to Rachel. “You keep it. Until we can give it back.”
“Or throw it into the fires of Mt. Doom.” She watched Vance until he crossed the street. “You really think the cops will do anything to him?”
I shook my head. “I’ll call Sharpe, but even if his knife matches the other ones . . . I can’t see a way for them to make any serious trouble for him. But I had to do something. Get it on the record. If he goes on and kills someone else . . .” I shuddered at the thought. Maybe the ring had given him a taste for blood? Or sparked an urge he already had? Would I be responsible for any murders he committed on his own from here on out?
Rachel took my hand. She can’t read minds, but she could see my face. “At least you didn’t make him do it himself.”
“It crossed my mind.” I’d staked vampires and sent demons back to hell. And yeah, I was indirectly responsible for some human deaths, which kept me awake too often. “Cold-blooded murder, though? Not my style.”
“I would have had to zap you.” She patted her jacket.
“You would have enjoyed it, right?”
I could see her smirk through the mask. “You know me too well.”
“It’s why we haven’t killed each other.”
“Yet.” She turned to the car. “Let’s go home. I’ve got two more episodes of The Queen’s Gambit to watch.”
Rachel and I watched Alex put the ring back into the case and lock it. “Safe and sound.” She sighed through her mask. “Thank you.”
I’d worked on Staley’s invoice this morning, but in the end he owed me so little after the retainer than I marked it “paid’ before emailing it. I hoped Rachel didn’t find out—although she does the same thing with her clients sometimes.
“How’s Mr. Staley?” Rachel asked.
“Better today. Especially when I told him you got the ring back.” She held up a thumb.
“Did you tell him, uh, everything?”
Alex shook her head. “Just that Dustin gave it back without any trouble. He closed his eyes for a minute or two, and I thought he feel asleep, but then he looked up and said something like, ‘Good.’”
I sighed with relief. “Yeah. Well, thanks for your help.”
“No problem.” She began to reach a hand out, then stopped and laughed. The three of us awkwardly bumped elbows.
I lingered in the room while Rachel and Alex chatted in the hall. The cat walked around my feet, sniffing at my legs. My eyes drifted down the shelves—the bell, the bowl, the tea set, along with a small bronze horse, a wooden cup, a silver thimble—but my eyes went relentlessly back to the ring. Locked behind the glass.
My hand trembled. My fingers twitched. I lifted my arm without thinking about it and pressed my hand against the glass, staring at the ring.
“Tom?” Rachel in the doorway. “You coming?”
I jerked my hand back. “Y-yeah. Coming.” Trumpy followed me to the door.
She held my hand as we walked to the car. “I saw that. Was it calling to you? Your preciousss?”
“Shut up.” I squeezed her fingers. “But . . . yeah. Good thing you’re here.”
“You got that right.” She kissed my cheek.
I smiled. Still thinking about the ring.
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