Emerald City Blues by Peter Smalley Read Free Book Online Page B

about that. I would also have to come up with enough money to eat, and figure out how I was going to put off my landlord's demands for rent. Again. But those were background noise. Gordon had found a record filed with the county by the executor of Gerd's estate, a man by the name of Heinrich von Griffe. His connection to Gerd was unknown. I'd certainly never heard of him. The files stated Gerd's heir was his next of kin, a woman by the name of Florence Zimmerman, currently a resident of New Zebedee, Michigan. From the context it seemed she was Gerd's sister. Strange. I'd never heard him talk about having family.
    But that wasn't the really strange part. The really strange part was the fact that I was mentioned in Gerd's will.
    I re-read the end of Gordon's handwritten note. There are references in Mr. Mueller's will to bequests placed in trust for both Thomas Cooke and for you. No mention is made of what your bequest is, where it might be, nor with whom; nor even under what circumstances it was to be delivered to you. I take it you were unaware of this? -G.B.
    No, I was bloody well not aware, thank you very much. The idea there was something Gerd meant me to have ten years ago was putting me very much on edge. What could it be? I racked my brain, trying to think of things I'd spent a decade trying to forget or drown with alcohol. Part of me hoped it was something I could use against the Russian tiger-woman, but Gerd was not the type to leave items of power to a half-trained apprentice, no matter how talented. No, it couldn't be that. A personal memento from a happier time, in all likelihood. Nothing to get in a twist over.
    But I was in a twist. A big one. Because a cold, ruthlessly analytical part of my brain had put a gun to the back of my head and told it that whatever the Tiger and her master were looking for, chances were it was whatever Gerd had left to me or Tommy. "Chances," by which I meant, somewhere between certain and final. And that meant Tommy's death was partially my fault. Whoever was trying to get at our bequests had killed him. But had they gotten whatever Gerd had left for him?
    I had to hope not. In the mean time, I had a few new leads to chase. I dashed off a quick letter to Gerd's next-of-kin, Ms. Zimmerman, explaining a few of the less odd things about the situation and asking her to write me back should she know anything about anything. It was vague as hell, but sometimes that gets people to tell you more than asking too many specific questions straight out.
    That left the ship from Albert King's inscrutable warning. No matter how much necromancy spooked me, I couldn't afford to ignore a potentially useful lead when it showed up with my name monogrammed on it in gold letters. Ah King was trying to tell me something, but what? The dead might have some strange ideas of what was important to the living, or so it seemed to me. I didn't know if I could take his fortune cookie warning at face value. All I knew was I couldn't ignore it.
    My apartment seemed suddenly close and confining. It was time to get back to work. I put on a trench coat and my father's fedora against the drizzle outside and left the tea col d and lonely on the windowsill.
    +++
    After posting my vague and probably useless letter to Ms. Zimmerman, I thought about catching a cab down to the waterfront. That was pleasant for exactly the three seconds it took me to remember I had almost no money left to speak of - not even enough for the trolley if I also wanted to eat tonight. Time to get a little exercise, then. I pulled down the brim of my father's fedora, turned my collar against the damp, and set off in the direction of First Avenue.
    I tried to do some figuring while I kept an eye out for suspicious black A-Models tailing me. Ah King's warning had said something about how the tiger was a stranger, but the one who sent it - her, rather - was not. I was all right with strangers. Come to think of it, I wouldn't mind meeting the Russian girl