The Mysteries Read Free Page A

dared open my bank statement; guilt because what kind of forty-year-old man still needs handouts from his mother?
    Just a loser like me.
    I was converting dollars to pounds in my head and trying to figure out how much would be left after I'd paid this month's bills, when a small sound made me look up.
    Through the frosted glass of the top half of the door I glimpsed a diminutive figure in green. The door handle rattled again.
    I had a disorienting flash of
déjà vu,
the shadow of a shade, like the memory of a dream. I stared at the door unmoving, trying to remember.
    There was a tapping sound, tentative at first, becoming a firmer knock against the glass. The little person outside wanted in.
    Finally, still feeling as if I'd slipped back into a dream, I got up and went to open the door.
    The woman on the doorstep was small, barely five feet tall, slim and lightly built. She wore a leaf-green linen dress. Her hair, just covering her ears, was a dark blond sifted with silver. She tilted up a heart-shaped face and looked at me out of golden brown eyes that reminded me, for one heart-stopping instant, of Jenny Macedo, the love of my life.
    I knew that this woman was a stranger, but for a moment, ambushed by memory, I couldn't speak or move, couldn't do anything but stare at this vision, seized by the irrational idea that Jenny had finally come back to me.
    My silence made her nervous. I saw her pupils dilate, and she leaned away from me. “Excuse me, I was looking for Ian Kennedy. Do I have the right address?” She spoke with an American accent, with a faint Texas twang—again, like Jenny's.
    Her eyes shifted away from my too-intense gaze. She looked past me, into my front room. With its book-lined walls and stacks of books and box files everywhere, it looked more like the abode of a particularly messy academic, or even a small secondhand bookshop, than anyone's idea of a private investigator's office.
    Finally, I saw that apart from her height and the light brown eyes, she was nothing like Jenny. And although she was still attractive, she had to be nearer fifty than forty.
    “Yes! You're in the right place. I'm Ian Kennedy.” Trying to make up for my slowness, I spoke too heartily.
    “I'm Laura Lensky?”
    I didn't understand the rising inflection, but she was obviously still wary of me.
    I took a step back, gesturing to her to come in. “Please. I'm sorry the door was still locked; I've been at my desk for an hour already, but I'm a bit slow this morning. Please, take a seat.”
    I shut the door behind her, then moved to open the blinds, letting daylight flood through the big front window. When I looked back, my visitor was still standing because there was nowhere to sit: the couch was littered with old newspapers and junk mail waiting for recycling, and even the chair that's supposed to be kept free for clients had a copy of the
Fortean Times
on it. I swept it away as quickly as I could, embarrassed by the garish cover.
    “There. I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting anyone. Never mind. How can I help you?”
    She took a step backward, nearer the door. “I thought we had an appointment?”
    Finally, it clicked. I groaned and screwed up my face. How could I have forgotten? It wasn't like I had that many potential clients these days . . . I couldn't afford to alienate this one.
    “Laura Lensky, of course. Forgive me—you booked by e-mail. Said you'd be in between eight-thirty and nine. I'm really not with it this morning—I'm sorry. I'm not usually this bad, I promise. I just had some bad news . . .” I waved my hand at the computer monitor. “To do with an old case. I was thinking so hard about the past, I'm afraid I kind of lost track of the present.”
    My babbling seemed to reassure her. Some of the tension eased out of her posture, and when I invited her again to sit down, she sat.
    I started for my side of the desk, then stopped. “I've made some coffee—”
    “No, thank you.”
    “Tea?”
    She gave a brief