The Impostor Read online

  “Yeah, I like the Sam Spade movies, but I never much cared for that romantic tripe. That’s not my style.”

  “So you’re a tough guy, huh?”

  She took the chair opposite his. In his hand, he cuddled a steaming extra-large mug of coffee, which, she judged by the aroma and color, was a rich Sumatra blend. Liz ordered Colombian, in honor of Hector’s ghastly Cartagena earrings.

  When she spoke again, she focused on the business at hand. “You mentioned a murder.”

  He placed a finger across his lips, indicating that she should keep her voice down. “You know, precious, this is a lousy joint for a clandestine meeting.”

  “Au contraire. I think it’s very nice.”

  “Too nice,” he muttered, talking a long drag off his cigarette. “In the old days you could get an honest cup of joe and a doughnut at any greasy spoon. Not these French pastry puffs.”

  “Well, you picked the place. So if the ambience doesn’t please you, that’s too bad.”

  “Right you are, cookie.”

  “Now then, Dash,” she said, nudging him back to the subject. “Who’s going to be murdered?”

  “It’s already happened.”

  “Somebody at OrbenCorp?”

  “That’s right.”

  Her mind raced through the possibilities. Though she wasn’t closely involved with the daily business at the warehouse and processing facilities, Liz couldn’t recall any reports of violent deaths. “Who?”

  “Agatha Orben.”

  “You can’t be serious! The woman was almost eighty. She’d been ill, and she passed away from a stroke in her sleep.”

  “Take my word for it. Agatha Orben was murdered.”

  “No, I can’t believe that.” Liz shook her head in denial. All of a sudden, the idea of murder wasn’t so much fun. Quietly, she said, “I don’t want to believe that someone killed Agatha.”

  “You liked her,” he said. “I’m sorry, Liz. I’m not real good at this comforting stuff.”

  But when she glanced up from her coffee and looked into his dark eyes, she found a startling depth of compassion. At this moment, he seemed utterly sane, and he radiated an aura of sincerity, a true understanding of the deep sorrow of loss.

  Stubbing out his cigarette, he reached across the table and held her hand. His fingers massaged her knuckles, and she felt strangely at peace.

  “Tell me about Agatha,” he said.

  She hesitated. Why should she confide in him? It didn’t serve any purpose. And yet, why not?

  Liz started, “Agatha and her husband founded OrbenCorp nearly twenty years ago. That was back in the days when cappuccino and latte were considered exotic beverages. From what I understand, the start-up was difficult, but they persevered. That was Agatha’s trademark, you know. She never gave up. When she believed in a cause or in a person, she dedicated her time, her money and her efforts. She was generous but tough, unrelenting when she had a point that she wanted to make.”

  Liz had admired the old woman’s attention to detail and her perfectionism. After her husband passed away, Agatha had single-handedly built OrbenCorp into a company worth reckoning with.

  But the constant stress had taken a toll. About a year ago, Mrs. Orben’s health began to fail. She deteriorated quickly, requiring bed rest. When she died six months ago, no one had been surprised. “She died a natural death,” Liz said. “Her doctors did everything they could. Frankly, Dash, that’s why I can’t believe what you’re saying. Agatha was a wealthy woman. She had the best care money could buy.”

  “Poisoned,” he said. “Right under the doctors’ noses.”

  Liz shook her head. Murder wasn’t the sort of thing that happened to people like Agatha Orben. On the other hand, Agatha had never been ill before last year. She was vital, full of energy. “Supposing this is true—”

  “It’s true, all right. I never lie.”

  “But why? I simply can’t imagine that anyone had a reason to harm her. She was a good person. Everybody liked her.”

  “Did they?”

  Liz considered for a moment. There was the time, a couple of years ago, that Agatha had discovered her son, Jack, using company funds to finance the purchase of his new Mercedes. Agatha had chastised Jack, humiliated him in front of the executive staff and insisted that he return the car. Jack had been furious, but certainly not angry enough to kill his own mother.

  “Think about it,” Dash urged. “Even if Agatha was a saint, there are reasons for murder. Agatha was wealthy. A lot of people benefited financially from her death.”

  “Jack inherited the company. And, of course, there’s Sarah. She inherited big.” Sarah Orben Pachen, the niece who had lived with Agatha, had been left the house and most of the furnishings. At the time, it seemed right. Sarah had cared for her aunt when Agatha was ill. “But I always had the impression that Sarah liked Agatha and was grateful to her.”

  “And they never argued?”

  “Well, of course they did. Agatha was difficult at times.” Reluctantly, Liz admitted, “Maybe she wasn’t a sweet little old lady with homemade cookies and doilies. But murder? Who would do such a thing?”

  “Don’t know, precious.” He squeezed her hand and released it. “That’s why I need your help.”

  Slowly, Liz lifted her mug and took a sip. The brew was fresh and excellent, another fine Orben coffee. “Why are you interested in this, Dash? Who told you Agatha was poisoned? Where are you getting your information?”

  “You might say that a little birdie told me.” Dash shifted uncomfortably in his cane-bottomed chair. He was avoiding the truth, stretching the boundaries of angelic behavior. But he couldn’t risk losing her attention at this point, and that was exactly what would happen if he laid it out straight and true as the road map to hell.

  Besides, Dash knew he was right, dead right, about the fact that Agatha had been murdered. The old lady herself had relayed her story—complete with enough detail to merit consideration—to the Denver Branch of Avenging Angels.

  Newly deceased and in the process of earning her halo, Agatha had stormed into the office demanding that their best operative take on her case. Dash was the best. That wasn’t pride talking, just fact. He got the assignment.

  “Why do you care?” Liz demanded.

  “It’s my job. I don’t take it personal, if you know what I mean. All I care about is justice.”

  “That’s rather abstract.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Justice?”

  “The scales of justice.” He held out both hands, palms up, to illustrate. “You gotta have balance. You can’t let the evil in the world outweigh the good. Or else—” He dropped his left hand below the tabletop and shot the right hand up. “Evil reigns supreme. Humanity takes a nosedive, plunges into chaos. Got it?”

  “Colorful metaphor,” she said. “And so, I assume, you’re here to bring justice to the world. Like Superman?”

  He’d told her before that he was an angel, an Avenging Angel who did his bit to keep the balance, but she wasn’t buying that line. He shrugged and said, “It’s my job.”

  When she confronted him directly, he saw a disturbing glitter of excitement in her blue eyes. That eagerness worried him. All he wanted from her was an introduction to the main suspects and some of the history of OrbenCorp.

  “Your job, eh?” Her voice was cool but challenging. “So let me get this straight. First you tell me that you’re an angel. Now you seem to be hinting that you’re some kind of cop or detective.”

  He neither confirmed nor denied. He wasn’t misleading her on purpose, just allowing her to draw her own conclusions.

  “You are, aren’t you?” She smiled too broadly. “A real private eye. I’ll be damned!”

  “I hope not.”

  “Well, that explains everything. That’s how you knew who I was and where I worked. You’re investigating the death of Agatha Orben.”

  “You got that right. I’m investigating. And I need your help, precious.”

  �
��Who hired you? Was it Jack? I know he was broken up by his mother’s death, but I never would have thought Jack had the gumption to hire a private eye. So, who?” She waved her hands as if to erase her question. “Never mind. That was a silly question. I know you can’t tell me. Client confidentiality, right?”

  “I’d rather not spill the beans. The less you know, the better.”

  She took another taste of her coffee and studied him across the rim of her mug. “I can’t believe I’m talking to a P.I. named Dash. This is like something out of a pulp novel.”

  “There’s a dinner party tonight,” he said. “At the former home of Agatha Orben, which was inherited by Sarah Orben Pachen, a niece of the dead woman. I want you to take me to the party as your date.”

  “Okay,” she agreed readily. “What else?”

  “That’s it. You introduce me around, and I’ll do the rest.”

  “But I could really help.” She leaned forward, avid and confidential at the same time. “I’ve been around these people for ten years, Dash. I’ve seen them argue and make up. I’ve seen them get divorced. If you’re looking for someone to investigate from the inside, I’m your woman.”

  “I don’t work with a partner.”

  “But this is perfect. Nobody notices me. Around OrbenCorp, I’m invisible.”

  He shook his head. He couldn’t believe that a longstemmed beauty like Liz could fade into the woodwork. Even in those trousers, she was an eye-stopper. She was the kind of dame that kept herself wrapped so tight a man couldn’t help but want to untie the ribbon and open the package.

  A man, a human, earthbound man, would feel like that, Dash reminded himself. He had no right to even be thinking what he was thinking. He wasn’t a man. Lust wasn’t in his repertoire. “How’s the leg?” he asked.

  She raised her leg. Carefully, she stretched it, pointed her toe and flexed her knee. There was only a twinge of pain. “It’s a lot better.” It hadn’t bothered her since she’d left the building. Sheepishly, she thought, all she needed was some sympathetic attention and her injury went away. “Thanks, Dash.”

  “For what?”

  “Being kind enough to ask.”

  “Don’t peg me wrong. I’m not a nice guy.”

  “Maybe you’re more gentle than you think.” She rose to her feet. “I should get back to the office now.”

  “Tonight,” he said, tossing back the dregs of his coffee. “I’ll stop by your place at six-thirty. You drive.”

  “Sure. I’ll be ready.”

  “Wear a dress, sweetheart. It’s a shame to cover up those legs.”

  Liz smiled. Wear a dress? That was the second unwanted fashion tip she’d heard today. First Hector and his awful earrings. Now Dash. “Tell you what, I’ll wear a dress, if you’ll do something for me.”

  “Shoot.”

  “When you’re around me, I’d like for you to cut back on your smoking.”

  He grumbled, “Yeah, yeah, okay.”

  “Also, I’d appreciate if you’d drop all this ‘sweetheart’ and ‘precious’ business. I do have a name, you know.”

  Wryly, he said, “And you’d appreciate that.”

  Though his expression was impassive and calm, she sensed his intensity. It was as if he was playing along with her, allowing her to have her way. Yet his arrogance was perfectly natural—he was just like a private eye ought to be.

  “I’d like to be called by my own name,” she repeated. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. I can’t promise that I won’t slip from time to time, but I’ll try to call you…Elizabeth.”

  His voice seemed to echo. His tone had as much substance as a physical caress. The way he spoke her name in his smoky baritone sent a shiver up and down her spine.

  “Elizabeth,” he repeated. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  She nodded once and left Chez Muffin. Outside, the sun seemed brighter in the skies. Though she solemnly regretted that the investigation would center around the death of someone she had cared about, the idea of sleuthing was undeniably exciting. Detective stories were among her favorite fantasies, and she couldn’t wait to get started.

  She walked briskly. Her limp was gone, and she knew that she was taking the first long strides toward an adventure that would change her life forever.

  DASH PAID for their coffees and left the bakeshop. Outside, he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Cut back on his smoking? Who did she think she was? He’d been sucking down unfiltered Camels since he took on the duties of an Avenging Angel in the 1930s. He didn’t need to worry about addiction. And hazardous to his health? That was a laugh and a half.

  He was an angel. His health was always perfect. Though he was capable of sensory feeling, his physical body required zero maintenance. He needed neither food nor drink to stay alive.

  There were benefits to being a celestial entity, and he liked his work as an avenger. He was good at it. He had an aptitude. His instincts perfectly suited the job. When he’d been assigned, he took to detective work like a bloodhound to the scent, like a priest to his prayers, like a moth to a flame.

  Nobody—with the exception of St. Michael himself— told Dash what to do. Until now.

  And now, in one conversation, he’d agreed without a struggle to cut back on his Camels and to make his vocabulary more politically correct.

  Because of Elizabeth. What was it about her that got to him? First time he saw her, she’d kicked his butt.

  He stood on the street corner, smoking, and considered. He liked the way she looked, the way she was put together. Dash had always been a connoisseur of the female form. He admired women, their shape and form and the way they moved. Women intrigued him, but he never got involved. Lovely as they were, dames were trouble. With a flick of their pinkie or a flutter of their eyelashes, they could send a guy spinning. Dash had always kept his distance.

  But Liz was different. She was like a rosebud about to blossom. When he touched her hand in the bakeshop, he had felt life, vibrant life, pulsing beneath the surface of her skin. She could turn out to be a really great broad. All it would take was a small bit of nurturing.

  But that wasn’t his job. He wasn’t a Ministering Angel or a Guardian. He was a warrior, an Avenger.

  “Hey, handsome.”

  He turned and spotted Cherie, the sleazy Guardian Angel, sitting in a parked convertible with the top down. She crooked her index finger and beckoned to him.

  He sauntered over to her and leaned against the shiny red fender of the car. Though Cherie was invisible to everyone but him, she looked right at home in the passenger seat of the classy automobile. Her fake leopard-skin trim contrasted nicely with the sleek black leather interior.

  “A word of advice,” she said. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “I saw how you were looking at her. I’ve been around the block more times than the St. Patrick’s Day parade. And I know carnal sin when I see it.”

  “You’re wrong.” He took a drag on his cigarette. Mindful of the fact that there were people all around who couldn’t see Cherie, he spoke in a low voice from the corner of his mouth. “I don’t lust.”

  “Come on, baby. You can’t fool me. I was a hooker. I know what lust looks like. And what it sounds like. You couldn’t keep it out of your voice when you spoke her name.” In a mocking tone, she whispered, “Elizabeth.”

  “Don’t worry about me.” Dash pushed himself from the car and strolled away from her. “See you around.”

  Cherie fell into step beside him. “What’s it like, Dash? What’s it like to have a physical body again? I mean, have you ever, you know, done it?”

  “Done what?”

  “Made love, you idiot.”

  “No way,” Dash informed her. “You know the rules. We’re angels. We don’t swear. We don’t lie. We don’t lust.”

  “But you avenging types have gotten around one very big restriction. The biggest, in fact. You guys get away with murder.”

  “Yo
u’re wrong, doll. It’s not murder. We take vengeance. It’s exactly precise. We follow orders from the higher authority.”

  “Have you ever wreaked vengeance? Ever killed a person?”

  He didn’t reply. For him there was no pleasure in death.

  “Have you?” Cherie demanded.

  Dash had been on assignment in Nazi Germany, at the heart of darkness where evil raged virulent and strong, corrupting good men and abetting those whose souls were already lost. He shook off the dark memories of those days when the light of justice shone so dimly that the flame was almost extinguished. “Not much call for the flaming sword these days. We get justice the usual way, through the legal system.”

  “And how do you get satisfaction? A manly satisfaction?” She gazed at him with knowing eyes. “What do you do about that yearning? You’ve got a body. You’ve got to be feeling it. But you’d better not try anything with Liz.”

  “Some Guardian Angel you are! I thought you wanted her to try out some earthly pleasures. You were upset because she hadn’t been with a man in three years.”

  “A man, Dash. Not an angel. I don’t even know what happens when an angel and a human do it.” Her full lips pouted. “It’s an interesting thought, but I really don’t want Liz to get hurt.”

  “Neither do I.” But he felt a strange tension when he thought of Liz. These were sensations that were better forgotten or suppressed. He knew the rules. Still…maybe he ought to take himself off this case.

  As soon as the thought crossed his mind, the beeper in his pocket went off. He was being called to the office.

  He waved to Cherie. “See you around, babe.”

  Faster than the speed of light, he flew to the Denver Branch of Avenging Angels. In his wake, Dash left rustling autumn leaves and a softly swirling cloud of dust. He touched down outside an old brown brick building on Logan Street. Dash tipped back the brim of his fedora and sauntered inside. No matter what turmoil he felt inside, he kept his cool. He was Dashiell, the best detective of all the Avengers.

  Inside the offices, the decor reflected a genteel, slightly worn charm. The dark wood wainscoting and antique furniture were cozy, but Dash tried to spend as little time here as possible. He was an old-fashioned man of action, not a desk jockey who did his investigations on a computer screen. Dash preferred to work on gut instinct.