Darkside Blues: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 3) Read online

  The bartender had been kind enough to prepare a fresh coffee for Ulrich, who accepted it with gratitude and turned down all offers of inebriating additives. While waiting for it to cool down, he sat back and listened to Michael as he described this most recent sighting of his daughter, Vivian. He spoke less reservedly now, his face having grown a cherry red for the wine.

  “It was downtown, not so far from here. Though I hadn't seen her in years, I knew her at a glance. Do you know what I mean, Mr. Ulrich? The very sight of her struck a particular chord in my memory, and before I knew what I was doing, I was following her. She was a bit disheveled-looking, I admit, and poorly dressed for this miserable weather we're having. She rounded the corner of an old diner and started walking down the sidewalk. And I followed behind. Didn't say anything, mind you. I... I lost my voice every time I tried. It was most unexpected, you see. And hell, what could I have said to her, after all of these years? To a daughter who'd... who'd left home, without a word?” He slammed the remainder of his wine and then exhaled loudly. “So, I followed and followed. Must have been almost five minutes, but I tell you, it felt like a lifetime. And even though we were the only ones walking around in that spot, she never turned and looked at me. She must've known that I was following her. She'd have heard my footsteps or something. Well, she walked all the way to this old hotel downtown, the Prescott. You know it? It used to be a hotel. Closed down about ten years ago and has been empty ever since, as far as I know.”

  Ulrich blew at his coffee and took a sip, careful not to damage the porcelain cup as he lowered it back onto the saucer. Reaching into his memory, he found he could recall the old hotel. In his youth, the Prescott had been a pricy, well-regarded hotel, considered among the finest in northwest Ohio. “I do remember the hotel, but... what was she going to a shuttered place like that for?”

  Michael pursed his lips and toyed with the stem of his wine glass for a few moments. “I don't know,” he admitted. “Because she was there one moment and gone the next.” Blinking hard to keep tears from spilling, he wiped at his nose and sized up the bottle of wine on the table, which was very nearly empty. “What I mean to say is that I was following her along the sidewalk when she turned a corner, stepping into the shadow of that old hotel. And when I did the same some moments later, I found she was gone.”

  “Gone?” asked Ulrich. “How do you mean, gone?”

  Despite the ambient chill, Michael appeared to be sweating a bit. He dabbed at his brow with a napkin as he went on. “I mean to say that she was nowhere to be found. Like she was... spirited away.”

  The investigator sat on this account for a short while, taking a token sip of coffee and trying to picture the events as Michael had described them. He'd followed some woman on foot for nearly five minutes—a woman whom he was convinced was his estranged daughter—and then she disappeared promptly after rounding a corner near an old hotel building. “Surely she went inside, then. Did you check? The interior of the hotel, I mean.”

  Michael shook his head. “Now, look... you're not getting it. What I'm telling you is that... It was snowing that day, and she'd left footsteps in the snow. A perfect little trail. And then the minute I turned the corner, that trail stopped, right outside the hotel. There were no footsteps leading into the building, though there would've been if she'd gone inside. She'd been there one moment and was gone the next. I don't... I can't explain it.”

  She disappeared? he thought. Vanished into thin air like a... a ghost? The investigator's grip on the porcelain cup tightened. Try as he might, he couldn't keep his hands from shaking. Another sip of warm brew did nothing to steady him, and he even found himself reconsidering Michael's offer of the harder stuff. “So you're saying she just vanished?”

  “That's the best way I can describe it,” came the client's reply. In the next moment, he'd guzzled the remainder of the wine straight from the bottle.

  Well, this is no good, thought Ulrich. Though it's possible that Michael here is just a sloppy drunk with a poor memory, it's also possible that this is precisely the kind of case you've been looking to avoid.

  Recently, Ulrich had come to group his cases into two categories: natural and supernatural. After his previous forays in Moonville and Exeter House, he wasn't too keen on signing up for more of the latter. Clearing his throat, he offered a weak smile. “There has to be some sort of explanation. You probably just missed her, or maybe drifting snow covered her tracks.”

  Michael leaned forward on his elbows, hands cradling his face. “I'm not crazy, Mr. Ulrich. For what it's worth, I've seen her three times. Three times. And it always plays out the same way. I follow her along the same stretch, to the same place. And then she disappears.” He rubbed at his eyes and sniffed the air. “Perhaps she's staying in that old building, sure. But that's what I want you to follow her for. I want you to get to the bottom of this. Reach out to her for me. I want to speak to my daughter again, Mr. Ulrich. Can you do that for me?”

  Ulrich massaged his jaw. “And if she doesn't want to talk to you?”

  Michael gave a wave of his hand. “Then, so be it. She has that right. But... but I have to try. I have to try and speak to her again. I don't have the courage to do it myself. I'd like you to seek her out and act as a kind of intermediary.”

  From his breast pocket, Ulrich took out a crumpled Moleskine notebook and pen. “So, you've seen her three times now and you haven't called out to her? And always walking the same route?”

  Michael nodded on both counts. “I just... I just can't bring myself to speak to her. It's very difficult for me. And yes, she comes around at about 5:30 every evening, just as the sun is going down, from somewhere near Star Diner. You can't miss her. You can even park your car on the curb there and watch for her, if you want. She comes out like clockwork and starts walking towards the Prescott. I've followed her three times now, and was thinking of going there again, though my wife, Meredith, insisted I stop. She thinks it's unhealthy.”

  Licking the nib of his stubborn pen, Ulrich jotted down the pertinent details in his notebook. “Outside of Star Diner, around 5:30 in the evening, I should find her walking towards the Prescott. OK. And what does she look like? I don't want to trail the wrong person.”

  Michael fished out his wallet and rifled through it until he unearthed a timeworn photograph. Looking at it for a beat and swallowing the lump in his throat, he slid it across the table to the investigator and said, “This is the best picture I have. Ten years have passed, but she's hardly aged. You'll recognize her based on this photo.” He stashed his wallet away and then added, “When you're through with your investigation I'd like that photo back, by the way.”

  At his first glance of Vivian Poole, Ulrich was taken by the girl's smile. Though time had wreaked havoc on the picture, leaving its corners dogeared and colors somewhat faded, the energy of its subject was undeniable. Large, emotive eyes; dark brown hair; a pair of large, silvery diamond-shaped earrings. In the photograph, a piece of seemingly professional portraiture, Vivian appeared to be college-aged. Studying the picture closely, Ulrich had trouble finding any pain or strife in those bright eyes. Why did you cut ties with your father? he wondered.

  On the back side of a business card, Michael wrote down his personal phone number and address and handed it over to the investigator. “Please, call me the minute you learn anything. Day or night. I'll be more than happy to cover your usual rate, or even double it, if you can get to work on this promptly.”

  Ulrich accepted the business card and slid it into his Moleskine along with the picture of Vivian. “Well, actually, there's a contract I usually have my clients sign. The rates are--”

  “I don't care about any of that,” replied Michael, standing up. “Bring the paperwork by my place tomorrow, if you want. My address is on that card. But whatever your price, I'll take care of it when this is through. In fact, here.” From his pocket, Michael withdrew a billfold filled nearly to bursting with cash. Counting out a few hundred-dollar bills, he
reached over and tucked them into the investigator's breast pocket. “That should cover a down payment, yes?”

  Ulrich needed only to feel the weight of the cash against his breast to know it more than sufficient. “Erm... yes, I suppose it is.”

  “Fabulous.” Michael tugged on his coat and shook Ulrich's hand enthusiastically. Handing the bartender a few bills to cover their tab, and requesting that Ulrich's coffee be refilled, he started for the door. “I've got to go, Mr. Ulrich. Thank you for taking my case. I hope to hear from you by this time tomorrow.” With a wave, he threw open the door to the bar and stepped out.

  Refusing a refill of coffee, Ulrich thanked the bartender and counted the money in his pocket. It was a sizable sum, nearly a full job's worth of pay going by his usual rates. Stuffing the bills into his wallet, he stood up and straightened out his jacket. Something about the job, about Michael's insistence, was rubbing him the wrong way, but the wad of cash was thick enough to keep him from second-guessing it. Leaving the bar, Ulrich crossed the street and hiked it to a bus stop across from the museum.

  How hard can it be? I'll scope out the diner tomorrow evening and have a talk with the girl. If she doesn't want to talk with her old man, then that's that. Shuddering at the lonesome bus stop, buffeted by razor-sharp cold, Ulrich looked up and down the street in the hopes of glimpsing the bus. He'd probably be stuck waiting for twenty or thirty minutes in the cold, with only a frost-coated bench for a companion.

  “Screw it,” he muttered, pulling his phone out. “I'm dialing a cab.” Thanks to Michael, he could afford it, after all.

  3

  Stepping into the warm apartment, Ulrich kicked his shoes off and started into the living room. His new place had something of an open floor plan. The front door opened up into the living room, and his bedroom could be accessed directly to the left through a wide doorway. To the right was the kitchen, where--

  He stood bolt upright, slowly setting his coat down across the back of his new sofa. The light over the kitchen sink was on, the way he'd left it, but from somewhere behind the kitchen island he heard a loud scraping sound. The hairs on the back of his neck bristling, the investigator rolled up his sleeves and crept across the living room.

  The cat was at it again.

  Beardsley dug his claws into the wooden cabinetry, scraping long, thin grooves into the handsome hardwood. Glancing up at his owner with that utter disinterest particular to felines, the little fellow gave the cabinet one last scrape before dashing out of the kitchen and scrambling onto the sofa.

  “You ass!” blurted Ulrich, appraising the damage. “They're going to take that out of my deposit, you know. I don't suppose you're going to reimburse the landlord, are you?” He glanced back at the cat, whose ears twitched and eyes reflected the low glow of the kitchen light.

  With a sigh, Ulrich made his way to the turntable in the living room. He loaded up a record of Sinatra Christmas classics he'd found used at Grounds for Thought and then stopped by the refrigerator, where a plastic container of leftover lasagna awaited him. Prying off the lid, he carried it over to the sofa and took to eating it cold, propping his ankles up on the ottoman. As he did so, Beardsley wandered over and looked pensively into the container. Of yet greater interest to the cat was the photograph of Vivian Poole, which Ulrich eased out of his breast pocket to study.

  “She ran away from her father ten years ago,” said the investigator to no one in particular. “And now he wants me to find her. He wants to reconnect.” Shoveling a forkful of lasagna in, he held out the photo and let the cat sniff at it. “She's a lovely girl, and her father seems like a nice enough man. I wonder why they had a falling out.”

  Setting the photograph aside, Ulrich worked over his food for some time, basking in the warmth coming from the nearby vent and reflecting on his meeting with Michael. Probably it was just the Sinatra making him nostalgic, but he couldn't help but reflect on his own upbringing; on his relationship with his own father.

  Suddenly the lasagna wasn't tasting so good.

  Much like Vivian, Ulrich had had troubles with his father. Though, in the investigator's case, his father had been the one to do the running away. A drunk intent on self-destruction, Ulrich's father had spent years blasting his liver with cheap booze and spending his nights wandering town in a drunken haze. Raised mainly by his mother, Ulrich had few memories of his father as anything but a mess, and his relationship with his mother, though civil, hadn't been the warmest.

  Maggie Ulrich had been a hard worker, had provided for the young Harlan everything he needed, but the stresses of single parenthood had turned her into something of an authoritarian. It was only around the holidays, he recalled, that her strict manner would thaw. The music of Frank Sinatra, in particular, had been her drug of choice, and on those evenings when she was overwhelmed by her lot or dealing with financial stress, she'd put one of his records on the player and sway with it. Over a cup of hot tea, well into the night, she'd often fall asleep in her chair listening to Ol' Blue Eyes. His rendition of “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” had always been her favorite, and as it came on in his apartment, Ulrich couldn't help but shudder as though his mother's ghost had just materialized before him.

  She'd passed away almost twenty years ago, and was buried beside her husband, who'd died on a frigid night in winter in the grip of an alcoholic fit during Ulrich's adolescence. Ever since, his holidays had been spent alone, and he'd always chosen to bury himself in whatever work he could find to beat back the memories. This year, he planned to do just that.

  Beardsley looked up at him curiously from the sofa armrest as he stood up and shut off the music. “I don't know why I picked this record up in the first place. I've never really cared for Christmas music, actually,” said the investigator, returning to the kitchen for a bottle of water.

  Through with his moping, Ulrich centered his thoughts on the case at hand. By all appearances, Michael Poole was a loving and concerned father. With Vivian, he only had a photograph to go off of, however in it he saw a lovely and bright-eyed young woman. It was true that a picture could only tell him so much, but in it he could spy no sign of discord. What had driven this woman away from her family ten years ago?

  Yawning, Ulrich unbuttoned his shirt and put out the light in the living room. Tomorrow, the real work would begin. “Time for bed,” he said, eyeing the cat suspiciously. “Don't get up to any mischief tonight. I need to be on the top of my game tomorrow. This client wants me to handle his case quickly, and he pays damn well.”

  On his way to the bedroom, he caught himself absentmindedly humming “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”, and chuckled. Though cynical about the holidays due to his own experiences, he thought it might be nice if his work could reunite a family in time for Christmas. The big day was less than a week away. Bringing Vivian home for the holidays would make a fine gift for this family, he thought.

  Beardsley flopped over against the sofa cushion and purred loudly as Ulrich changed into his pajamas. Settling down into his bed and pulling the covers tight, he was off to sleep within minutes.

  It wasn't like him to be up before eight in the morning, but for once Harlan Ulrich beat his alarm and headed into the shower. Standing in the hot water until the sleep had left his eyes, he toweled off, applied a palm's worth of Old Spice to his chest and neck, and then put on a crisp dress shirt and slacks. Michael had told him the previous day that he looked the part of a detective, and Ulrich figured there was no harm in striving towards the look of a professional gumshoe.

  When that was through, he found his way to the kitchen, where Beardsley awaited him expectantly near his empty food bowl. After filling the cat's bowl with kibble, he set about preparing his morning coffee; a daily ritual that he relished.

  Careful not to repeat past mistakes, Ulrich had decided upon allotting a portion of his monthly earnings to the purchase of fine coffee. It'd been his lack of budgeting that had seen him evicted from his previous apartment for a b
ounced check, and that experience had taught him fiscal responsibility. Still, he'd used up the bulk of the month's allotment on a five-pound sack of medium-roast Kona beans. Roasted locally, the coffee was as precious as gold to him, and every morning he measured out a careful portion from the sack, which he kept in a large plastic container to deter the cat, and ground it in his handheld Hario grinder.

  Once the Chemex was full of piping hot coffee, he served himself a cup and peered outside his window. Thankfully, it hadn't snowed very much overnight, with only a touch of white marring the sidewalks and roadways. This was good news, as winter driving was one of the investigator's pet peeves. The one thing he hadn't gotten around to upgrading yet was his car. The rickety old Passat he drove didn't handle the winter weather particularly well. It was known to stall out when the temperatures dropped below the 20's, and because it sat quite low to the ground, it couldn't navigate more than a couple inches of snow without getting marooned. He'd considered putting new tires on the thing to replace the bald rubber it currently boasted, but hated the thought of pouring any more money into the beater.

  Reading the day's headlines on his phone, Ulrich polished off the entire carafe of coffee before it could fully cool and then threw on his jacket. “Don't go fouling up the place,” he warned the cat as he stepped into his shoes. “Else I'm going to start charging you rent.”

  Before starting his day's work, he needed to get a decent meal in him. After a moment's thought, he realized he knew just the place.

  4

  The Star Diner, situated beside an empty alley and not a five minute walk from the old Prescott Hotel, was a twenty-four hour restaurant specializing in greasy American favorites. Though he'd never eaten there before, Ulrich knew exactly what to expect before he'd even walked in, and upon picking out a table, he found his predictions rang true.