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(Page 3 of 6 )

CHAPTER ONE

Darkness at the break of noon

     He wore a pair of loose-fitting jeans, a white collared shirt ripped at the sleeves, scuffed up Spanish boots of leather and a matching Bolero vest. His hair, once black and straight, was curled and kinky and graying slightly at the temples. A narrow, pencil thin mustache extended across his upper lip. The mustache was slim and precise, so much so that it looked like it had been drawn on that very morning.

     In short, the man stretched across the red crushed velvet chaise looked exactly like what he had aspired to become: a vagabond, a vagrant, a drifter, a traveling troubadour for the ages. And while a few issues surrounding the cause of death still needed to be sorted out, one thing was certain: he had assumed the role perfectly.

     “My God,” Frost said, the realization finally sinking in. “How did this happen?”

     “Well, I’m no doctor, but I’d say being hit head-on by a train probably did the trick.”

     “A train?”

     “That’s right.”

     “What the hell was he doing down by the railroad tracks?”

     “You tell me, Frost. You’re his manager. I didn’t even know he was in town. Didn’t know you were in town either, for that matter,” Commissioner Tiresias said, arching his eyebrows slightly. Obviously, Jack Frost’s presence on Elysian Row was a subject to which they would be returning.

     “So who found the body?”

     “Dela Croix.”

     “You get a statement?”

     “A statement?” the Commissioner taunted.

     “Yes, a statement,” Jack Frost sniped. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you are the Chief of Police. I would imagine a statement from the person who found the body would be well within your jurisdiction—even in a shit hole like this.”

     “A shit hole?” Commissioner Tiresias said, clearly savoring Jack Frost’s ever-darkening mood. And Jack Frost wasn’t sure which irked him more: that snide, condescending Cheshire grin stretched across the Commissioner’s face or the fact that he was going to have to stand there and take it from this low-life louse. Or maybe the source of Jack Frost’s ire wasn’t ire at all. Maybe it was just the fact that it was finally sinking in that Bob Dorian wasn’t going to leap up from that chaise lounge, slap him on the back and let out a loud, boisterous guffaw at the implausibility of the whole damn situation.

     But when Dorian didn’t budge, Jack Frost realized the implausible had become inescapable. Those unmistakable pale blue eyes staring up at some unfixed point on the ceiling removed all remaining uncertainty: Bob Dorian was dead.

     “You okay, Frost,” Commissioner Tiresias said, his gruff, granular voice jarring Jack Frost back to reality.

     “I’m fine,” Jack Frost said, doing his best to contain his contempt for Commissioner Tiresias.

     “You want to throw a blanket over him or you just want to keep staring?” the Commissioner prodded. “I’m fine either way, but we got a little business we need to take care of. So make up your mind.”

     “And what kind of business could you and I possibly have?” Frost sneered.

     “Just a few loose ends,” Commissioner Tiresias said, flashing that Cheshire grin Jack Frost so abhorred.

     “Well, if it’s loose ends that need tying up,” Jack Frost said matter-of-factly, “I redirect you to a loose end you seem determined to overlook.”

     “Are we talking about Dela Croix again?” Despite the Commissioner’s attempt to feign affability, it did little to endear him to Frost. Jack Frost had long grown immune to the Commissioner’s unwarranted charms.

     “Anybody know where she is?” Frost inquired.

     “Kind of hard to track someone down when they don’t give out their address. But don’t worry,” the Commissioner said dismissively, “we’re looking for her.”

     Jack Frost didn’t buy it for a minute.

     “So you actually expect me to believe that your entire investigation hinges on whether Dela Croix comes back to Elysian Row,” he said incredulously. “I think we all know once someone leaves this place they tend not to come back.”

     “You came back—”

     Commissioner Tiresias was trying to get a rise out of him, and Jack Frost knew it. But Jack Frost had been in this business a long time. He may not have liked Commissioner Tiresias, but he knew how to handle people like him. And rule number one was never let anyone really know what you thought—or how much you really knew. If he’d learned anything from his 20-plus years with the enigmatic Bob Dorian, it was that. Keep ‘em guessing. Always keep ‘em guessing.

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