In Plain Sight

1 The Job

The sign on the frosted glass panel read Lockerby Investigations in gold painted letters. The image of a hexagon with an inverted triangle inside it and an inkwell inside that occupied the bottom right corner of the glass, indicating that runewright services were also offered within. Alexander Lockerby turned the handle smartly and walked in. His office occupied a two-room space on the fourth floor of a modest building in Manhattan’s mid-ring. Close enough to Empire Tower to have uninterrupted power, but far enough away to keep the rent low. He’d moved into these offices in the spring of 1931 and now, two years later, it felt like home. It wasn’t much, but it was his.

Beyond the door with its frosted glass panel was his waiting room, with two sofas, a row of filing cabinets, and a second door marked Private. A large window dominated the back wall, illuminating a paper-strewn desk. Atop the desk, long legs crossed and the receiver of a telephone pressed to her ear, was Leslie Tompkins, Alex’s secretary.

Leslie was in her early forties but you’d never guess it to look at her. She had long, toned legs, a slim waist, generous bust, and strawberry blonde hair that hung about her shoulders in loose rings. She’d moved to New York from Iowa where she’d been a beauty queen, married a successful salesman, then lost him in the Great War. After that, Leslie’s life became a series of jobs that she never held for more than a year. Everywhere she worked, they treated her like an ornament or a wanton. No one could look past her beautiful exterior to see the mind inside.

No one but Alex.

She’d come to work for him two years ago and had absolutely revolutionized his business. People just liked her, and that translated into work. Better still, Leslie was sharp. With a little training, she became a better interrogator than Alex, able to worm information out of virtually anyone over a simple cup of coffee.

“Okay, Dan,” she said into the mouthpiece. “I’ll send him over as soon as he gets in.” She replaced the receiver in the cradle and returned the phone to her desk.

Alex shut the door and Leslie looked up, flashing a million-dollar smile framed by deep red lipstick. She hopped off the desk and stood as Alex approached. Leslie always stood perfectly straight, a result of the beauty queen training, no doubt. With her shoulders back and a pair of high heels, Leslie turned heads wherever she went, and with the top two buttons of her blouse undone, she could make it hard to keep eye contact… if she wanted.

“Detective Pak wants you to look at a body,” she said, tearing a paper containing a mid-ring address from a notepad.

Daniel Pak was a detective with the New York Central office of the city Police. Danny and Alex had been friends ever since Alex helped him crack the case that made him a detective. Now Danny brought Alex in as a consultant whenever he could get away with it.

“Well,” Alex said, looking at the address. “If Danny wants me to have a look, it must be particularly gruesome. I’ll get my kit.”

Leslie made a face but didn’t move out of his way. “And how did the other case go?” she asked. Her tone clearly indicated that she expected Alex to have a specific answer and that she wouldn’t be happy if he didn’t.

“You mean the case of the missing wedding ring?” he asked, a disgusted look crawling across his own face. Leslie’s face grew cross.

“It’s work,” she said. “And if we don’t get more of it real soon, you’re going to have to limit our eating to once a day.”

Alex raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not that bad, is it?”

“That depends,” Leslie said. “Did your Finding Rune work?”

“Nope,” Alex admitted. He sat on the desk corner where Leslie had been before and dropped his hat onto the desk. Leslie squeezed her eyes shut and put a hand on her forehead.

“How is that even possible?” she asked, cool anger in her voice. “’Your Finding Rune is better than anyone else’s in the city.” Her hazel eyes flashed as she locked them on his. “There’s nothing lost you can’t find with that rune! Hell, if you put your mind to it, you could probably find my virginity.”

She took a breath to go on, but Alex put up a hand to silence her.

“The rune didn’t work because I didn’t have to cast it,” he said. Leslie’s hand went back to her forehead and she grimaced as if in physical pain.

“What happened?” she said with a sigh.

“When I got there, Mrs. Lola Davis showed me a picture of the missing ring,” Alex explained. “Just as I was getting ready to make with the magic, her husband Burt shows up, and he’s not happy to see me.”

Leslie shook her head.

“Don’t tell me,” she said. “He lost it in a poker game.”

That was why Alex worked so well with Leslie; nothing got by her. If she had any magical talent, Alex figured he’d be working for her, sooner or later. Deep down, he wondered if he wasn’t already.

“Close,” he said. “When I shook his hand he winced, so I slapped him on the back. You know, friendly like.”

“And?” Leslie said, clearly impatient for this story to be over.

“And he damn near passed out. Somebody worked him over good. A pro who knew not to leave bruises on his face or arms.”

“What did his wife think happened?”

“He told her he fell down the stairs,” Alex said, shrugging. “She bought it, too.”

“It was awful nice of those stairs not to mess up his face,” Leslie pointed out.

“Give the girl a break,” Alex said, offering Leslie a cigarette. “Anyway, I had the story out of Burt in two seconds. He’d been running a tab with his bookie.”

“Slow ponies?” Leslie said, taking the cigarette between her ruby lips and lighting it with the touch-tip on the desk.

“Worse. He’s a Washington Senators fan.”

Leslie dropped the metal match back in the lighter and smirked.

“Ouch,” she said. She’d put the match away before Alex could light his own cigarette, so he leaned close and pressed the tip of his cigarette to Leslie’s. Her perfume washed over him, lavender and amber oil. He was suddenly very aware of her, and he pulled away. It would have been easy to fall for her, despite her being almost ten years his senior, and that would be bad for business.

“Anyway, Burt hocked the ring to pay off the bookie,” Alex finished the story.

“How did the wife take it?” Leslie asked. “More importantly, did you get paid?”

“Wife took it bad,” Alex said. “It was her grandmother’s ring.”

“That bastard.” Leslie looked shocked.

“Anyway, he’d cleaned them out, even the cash she had stashed away.”

Leslie groaned and put her head in her hand again.

“So no money?” She looked up sharply when Alex crinkled two crisp bills, a twenty and a five, under her nose. “How?” she gasped, snatching the money and holding it up to the light.

“Lola didn’t want to stay with her husband anymore, so I took her over to her mother’s place. She lives in the inner-ring, right up against the core.”

“Ooh,” Leslie purred. “Fancy.”

“Apparently mother dear had been trying to convince Lola that Burt was a bum for years. She was overjoyed to have her back. Paid my fee and the cab fare.”

Leslie smiled and nodded at Alex.

“You did good, kid,” she said. “I’m so happy that I’m not even going to ask you where you got the cigarettes.”

“Oh, those were Burt’s,” Alex said with a grin. She took a puff, then held out the cigarette at arm’s length.

“Thanks, Burt,” she said with mock sincerity. “Now, let’s take care of this.” Circling the desk, she opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a heavy steel box, dropping it on the table with a clank. The top of the box was plain, with the exception of an engraving depicting an elaborate geometric shape.

“It’s me,” she said, leaning close to the lid. “Open up.”

The rune on the lid glowed with a purple light and an audible click sounded from inside. Alex watched as the rune’s light faded. The edges of the engraving were already getting fuzzy and indistinct. Runes were a temporary form of magic, after all. Most disappeared immediately after being used. A talented runewright could make them last longer by using more expensive materials when making the rune, and even engraving it into something. Eventually, though, the rune would lose its magic and disappear, needing to be rewritten by the runewright.

This was what made runewrights the poor cousins of magic. Sorcerers could cast real spells, laying powerful and near-permanent enchantments on whatever they chose. They were rare, of course. Only big cities would have a sorcerer, and most were required by law to serve their governments. America, however, gave sorcerers the same rights as anyone else, so there were more sorcerers in the US than anywhere else. New York had six, each soaring high above the city in their flying castles. If Alex had been born a sorcerer instead of a runewright, he’d never have wanted for cash.

The other branch of magic was alchemy. Alchemists brewed their magic slowly into potions and elixirs. Sorcerers and runewrights mostly dealt with enchantments, making objects magical. Alchemists dealt with people, with their bodies and health. A good alchemist always had work, customers with ready money who needed remedies for everything from gout to baldness. Like runewrights, alchemists kept their recipes secret, passing them from master to apprentice. That meant that some alchemists were quacks and frauds, possessing only a few weak recipes, while others could brew miracle cures in a bottle.

This was the same reason Alex’s Finding Rune was so much better than anyone else’s. His book of runes had come to him from his father and his grandfather and his great-grandfather. When his father died, Alex’s training had been picked up by a British Doctor, Ignatius Bell. Between his family book and the doctor’s training, Alex knew some very good runes.

The lid of the strongbox popped open and Leslie inserted the bills in a small stack of cash, in proper numerical order of course. She counted them twice, then made a note of the amount on a pad in the bottom of the box.

“That’s rent and my salary for this month,” she said with a satisfied grin.

“Wait. What about me?” Alex protested with only the trace of a grin. Leslie picked up the paper that Alex had set aside on her desk and handed it back to him.

“You have a date with the Police and a dead guy. Do a good job and maybe you can buy your own cigarettes.”

Alex took the paper and sighed. The police didn’t like consultants, and they especially didn’t like paying them. They almost never allowed him to cast an expensive rune and he had to give them a hefty discount on his hourly rate if he wanted to work with them at all. Leslie scowled at him when he looked up from the paper, daring him to complain, so he put on a smile.

“It’s better than looking for lost wedding rings, I suppose,” he said. He turned toward his office, but Leslie put her hand on his shoulder in a firm grip.

“Don’t worry, kid,” she said, her hard shell melting away into one of her rare, genuine smiles. “We’ll catch a break one of these days.”

“I know,” Alex said, and sighed. “One big case would do it. Get my name in the papers and then real clients would start piling up.”

“So many that we’ll have to start turning them away,” Leslie agreed, her smile somehow managing to show more teeth. Then her face became serious. “It’ll happen,” she said. “I believe in you.”

“Thanks, doll.” Alex smiled back at her. “And thanks for keeping this place in the black. Even if it is with lost dog jobs.”

Her face slid back into the sardonic smile he knew so well. The mask that hid the real her from the world. “Work is work,” she said.

“Work is work,” he agreed.

Alex made his way to his office while Leslie returned the strong box to its drawer.

The inner office was just a smaller version of the outer. Alex’s desk sat across from the door, facing it, with a large window behind. A row of filing cabinets stood against the right wall, leaving the opposite wall bare, and two overstuffed chairs sat facing the desk. The chalk outline of a door, complete with a keyhole, adorned the blank wall, exactly in the center.

Alex pulled a pasteboard notebook with a red cover from his jacket pocket and began flipping through the pages. The paper was thin and fine, like tissue paper, so he had to be careful. Each page had a rune carefully inscribed on it. Some were simple, only a few lines drawn in pencil. Other were intricate, delicate even, their lines glistening in inks infused with gold, silver, or powdered gemstones. Some had taken Alex a few minutes, while others took days of careful work. All had been infused with magic, waiting patiently for him to release it.

He found the rune he wanted, a triangle with a circle on each point, drawn in silver ink, and tore it from the book. Alex unceremoniously licked the back of the paper and stuck it on the wall in the middle of the chalk door. He touched the paper with the glowing tip of his cigarette and it erupted in flame, vanishing almost instantly. The rune hung in the air, gleaming silver now that the paper was gone, then vanished as well, melting into the wall. As soon as it was gone, a door of polished metal appeared where the chalk outline had been. No hinges were visible, just a brass plate with a keyhole in its exact center.

Alex produced an ornate steel skeleton key from a ring that also held his apartment key and the one to his office. Sliding it in the keyhole, he turned it smartly and pushed the door open. There wasn’t anything particularly special beyond Alex’s wall, just the neighboring office. But beyond the door was a good-sized room with workbenches, cabinets, shelves, and all manner of glassware and equipment. This was Alex’s vault, an extra-dimensional workspace he could summon whenever and wherever he needed it. The rune to make a vault wasn’t that complex but a runewright could only have one vault at a time. If he made a new one, the old one and all its contents would vanish. Such was the nature of magic.

Alex flipped a switch on the wall and magelights throughout the space warmed up to a bright light.

Leaving the door open, Alex crossed to a large secretary cabinet. He could shut and bar the vault door if he wanted, but if it were locked from the outside, he’d be trapped in the vault forever. Only the runewright who created a vault could open it from the outside.

He pulled the secretary cabinet’s foldaway table down, then opened the upper doors. Inside were a row of three leather bags resembling a doctor’s valise, and rows and rows of stoppered bottles above them, containing every imaginable substance. Below the bags were pigeonholes filled with stacks of varying papers, and drawers that held pens and pencils. These were the tools of his trade.

Without a pause, Alex pulled down a battered, brown valise. The top opened down the middle and had a hinge so it would fold out ninety degrees. Under one side, his oculus and breathing mask were held in place by elastic straps. The other side held smaller versions of the stoppered bottles, just not so many. In the bottom of the case were his multi-lamp, pencil box, a tube with a selection of papers, a few other odds and ends, and a Colt 1911 semi-automatic pistol in a shoulder holster. He stripped off his jacket and slung the holster in place, settling the weight of the gun just under his left arm, and checked the magazine.

Full.

He put on his jacket again, making sure it hung so that the bulge underneath his left arm could not be seen, then picked up the bag and exited the vault.

“See ya,” he said to Leslie as he put on his hat and headed for the door.

“Try to talk them into letting you use an expensive rune or two,” she called after him. “I need a new pair of stockings.”

Alex rode the elevator down to the street. A steady rain fell and it seemed dark, even though it was only early afternoon. The glow of neon signs in storefronts cast halos of color through the downpour.

Tearing another page from his rune book, Alex stuck it to the brim of his hat, then lit it with his cigarette. A tingly sensation washed over him from his head to his feet and then he stepped out into the rain. The drops bent and danced as they reached him, moved aside by the magic. The barrier rune would only last an hour, but that was more than enough time for him to catch a cab to the south side mid-ring.

The rings provided power to the entire island of Manhattan, from the south side docks all the way up to the Bronx. The rings were physically centered on Empire Tower, the former Empire State Building. These days Empire Tower held a magical capacitor, created by Andrew Barton, one of New York’s resident sorcerers. Once charged, the Tower radiated power over the entire island. Since the Tower was so far south on the island, the field wasn’t round, but oval, putting the actual center of the power projection somewhere over Central Park. The farther you were away from the center, the worse your power reception got. This inspired the wealthier of New York’s citizens to build luxury buildings all around the Tower in an area known as the Core. Those closest to the Core were in the inner-ring, the high rent district. Mid-ring were businesses and middle-class folk, and everyone else was in the outer-ring.

The south side was actually pretty close to Empire Tower as the crow flew, but since the center was shifted north, the bands were thinner at that end. Most of the harbor and its environs were decidedly outer-ring, but just a few blocks away were nicer, mid-ring apartments.

Alex exited his cab thirty-five minutes later and made his way toward the cluster of police cars parked in front of a neat, three-story brick building. He got a few curious glances when people on the street realized the rain was avoiding him, but he was used to that.

“What do you want?” the officer at the door said in his best “go away” voice. He had a pug nose, close-set eyes and a scar on his cheek that made him look all business. Definitely the right man to put on the door.

“I’m Alex Lockerby,” Alex said, handing the officer a business card. “Detective Pak is expecting me.”

A surge of emotions warred across the cop’s face. He’d seen that Alex was a private investigator from his card, and Pak was the only Japanese on the force. Most Americans didn’t think much of Asians, but Pak had proved himself a good detective, and that made him family to the NYPD. Finally the cop decided that his dislike of private dicks and foreigners was less than his respect for his job and fellow officers.

“Third floor on the right,” he said, handing back the card. “Room 323.”

When Alex reached the room, he knew immediately why Pak had called him. The charred remains of a man lay in a recliner. The easy chair was blackened and burned, revealing the wire frame that supported it, but the walls and floor were fine, apart from some smoke damage. A round side table stood next to the chair containing a pulp novel, an empty shot glass, a pack of cigarettes, and a book of matches.

“Alex,” Detective Pak said, noticing his arrival. Danny was about five-foot-ten, three inches shorter than Alex himself, and wore a brown suit with suede patches on the elbows and a gold shield attached to the breast pocket of his suit coat. He had brownish skin, short hair the color of midnight, and dark, almond shaped eyes. An infectious grin spread across his face as he shook Alex’s hand. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

“Good to see you too,” Alex said, returning the handshake. “I was wondering why you called me,” he said, nodding at the charred corpse.

“I know it looks like an open and shut case,” Pak said, “but something’s wrong.”

“I’ll say. Whoever this guy was, he was murdered.”