Dressed in Smoke: Detective Harlan Ulrich, #2

By Ambrose Ibsen

A FACE FROM THE PAST

Once upon a time, Jonathan West lost his best friend, Ansel, under horrific circumstances.

Or, at least, he thought he had.

On a warm summer night, he finds himself reunited with the dead man—and hunted by a hideous entity that occupies Ansel's body.

In his hour of need, Jonathan could have gone to the authorities, or hired an esteemed security service.

Instead, he winds up soliciting help from none other than Tanglewood's most curmudgeonly private eye.

Harlan Ulrich is on the case, for better or worse. The over-caffeinated eccentric will have to employ every tactic in his unorthodox playbook if he's to save the client—and himself.

DRESSED IN SMOKE is a novel of supernatural suspense, the second in the Detective Harlan Ulrich series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ambrose Ibsen
• Release date: Oct 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201856076

Book preview

1

It wasn't poor service, nor inclement weather, nor the first stirrings of drunkenness that left Jonathan West feeling suddenly uncomfortable. Indeed, the service had been quite good and the waitress had kept chicken wings and beer flowing with nary a pause. With the sun setting, the heat of summer had largely dissipated and the cool breeze that wound about the patio at irregular intervals proved pleasant. What's more, though he'd had a few drinks, he hadn't had so many yet as to feel clumsy or paranoid.

No, his unease had come from another source.

A face in the crowd.

Jonathan had stopped at the Stone's Throw bar and grill for some half-priced beer and chicken, and had been stationed at a table for two in the bustling outdoor seating area in the early evening. The smallish space, cluttered with tables and raucous twenty-somethings like himself in search of refreshment after the weekly grind, was penned in by a low metal railing, beyond which the sidewalks of downtown Tanglewood crawled with bar-goers.

He'd been nose-deep in a tall pilsner when, lazily studying the throngs of passersby, his wandering eye had been riveted to one particular face. The sight had dwelt on his retinas for only an instant, but the effect on him had been dramatic. At sight of that visage, his heart had begun to race and a stream of beer had trickled from his trembling lips on the back of a soupy gasp. Conscious of the mess he'd made, Jonathan had hurriedly set his glass down and mopped up the spillage, blinking hard as if to reboot his malfunctioning eyes.

The one responsible for this violent reaction had no longer been in sight when next he'd glanced over the crowd. Though he subsequently combed the sidewalks and studied a succession of faces, it did not reappear.

That face... It looked almost like...

After some minutes of dread and watchfulness, Jonathan finally relaxed and polished off the remainder of his beer. No sooner did the last drop cross his lips did the waitress come by, smiling brightly and offering to refill his glass. He thanked her, but when she brought by a fresh one, he found he'd lost his taste for the stuff and merely stared into the diminishing lace of foam atop it.

Leaning back in his chair, he took yet another survey of the crowd. His gaze bounced from head to head, person to person, chasing that far-off visage whose resemblance to something in memory had left him profoundly unsettled.

It couldn't have been him, he assured himself when further observance yielded no sign of the stranger.

That, of course, had been the problem; for one startled moment, Jonathan hadn't been so sure that the face he'd seen in the crowd had been that of a stranger at all. It had seemed eerily—and impossibly—familiar to him.

The sky was dimming; all around him, the establishment's festive patio lighting was blinking on. In combination with the neon signs in the windows, these lights bathed the exterior of the restaurant in a subtle golden glow. Smoke rose up from a table to his right, where two enthusiastic patrons had just lit cigarettes, and the scent of warm summer air came to be masked by cheap tobacco.

Just then, his mind was anywhere but the patio. Even as the smoke and the laughter of those seated close by washed over him, his thoughts were treading very softly around a sleeping memory—a memory which presently stirred and threatened to lash out like a junkyard dog.

It couldn't have been him. There's just no way.

He sat panting, with his ears tingling and his stomach in knots, and though he reviewed the sighting in his mind's eye a hundred times and meditated on its impossibility, no denial or rationalization could reassure him. Having glimpsed that face, he was now on a dismal train of thought and there would be no getting off till it reached the station. The dog had broken free of its leash.

Jonathan was quick to settle the tab. The waitress thought him extra generous when he threw down a few larger bills and told her to keep the change; in fact, he was merely too flustered to count them. Leaving behind a half-finished plate of food and an untouched beer, he strode off the premises and started down the sidewalk, hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts. Removed now from the chatter of the other diners, from the tang of cigarette smoke and over-applied cologne, he felt somehow vulnerable.

It's been more than a year. Why can't you let it go? His therapist had more or less asked him the same question during their last session a few months previous, albeit in more professional language. He still lacked an answer. Memories of the events of eighteen months ago were evergreen; no matter how he hacked them down, they invariably sprang back up like hateful weeds, their roots only spreading deeper into his psyche with each successive culling.

He picked up the pace and struggled to divert his thoughts. I could see a movie, maybe go shopping... Or, if I head home now, maybe I could catch a baseball game on TV. Baseball... I should see about buying tickets for a local game one of these days. Thinking on it, he realized it'd been years since he'd gone to see a game in-person. The last time he'd done so, Ansel had come with him, and—

His stomach lurched at the mere thought of that name, and he halted on the sidewalk, squeezing his eyes shut. A passerby bumped up against him as he paused, and a woman across the street loosed an obnoxious laugh. None of it registered.

Ansel...

As if in answer to that thought, in answer to the name itself, the face of that stranger in the crowd loomed up behind Jonathan's eyelids again. His dinner did a jig in his gut and it was all he could do to keep from vomiting.

Palming fresh sweat from his brow, Jonathan continued his trek down the road, staggering past clusters of pedestrians like a man trapped in a dream. The flashing lights of shops and restaurants all but blinded him, and the incessant mumblings of evening bar-goers filled his ears like the buzzing of so many flies.

Dude, did you see the last episode? The writers totally lost the plot, said one voice, faceless and transient.

"The Stones are way better than the Beatles. It's no contest!" insisted another.

Still another voice cut through the young night. "It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

Jonathan nearly lost his footing at this last. For starters, this latest voice had come from close-by, and the words had almost seemed directed at him. More than that, this voice wasn't unfamiliar like the others. Though he hadn't heard it in some time, he felt strongly he could put a face to it—it was a voice he knew well, a memory made manifest.

He whipped around as a pair of young women darted past and glimpsed the form of a man standing beside a lamppost some ten feet away. The light in the fixture hadn't come on yet, and in the building dusk the figure was, at best, unclear. He had his back turned to Jonathan, and at first glance looked like a part of the scenery—just like any other evening wanderer.

But there was something in the cut of this figure—something about the light hair, the squareness of his shoulders, the voice...

His body seized. He thought to stammer out a, W-Who are you? but could only mouth the words. If he was being honest with himself, he already knew. When the figure began to turn around—threatened to face him and thus answer that unvoiced question—the path forward became clear.

Jonathan turned and ran down the street.

He watched the water pool in the slow-draining basin. The light over the sink flickered a little as he wiped his face down with a paper towel. The convenience store bathroom had been recently cleaned, and the scent of bleach in the air was almost overwhelming. Panting, Jonathan studied his pale face in the mirror.

He'd run for something like ten minutes at full-tilt. He hadn't pushed himself that hard since he'd done track in high school. When his strength had finally given out, he'd found himself near a busy convenience store and had stopped in for a breather. Now that he'd finished hyperventilating and had wiped the sweat from his face, he felt almost normal. What's more, his reason had made a sudden comeback.

That couldn't have been Ansel. You spooked yourself and overreacted, but... there's simply no way it was him. After all, he's...

Jonathan stretched, tugging at the damp collar of his t-shirt. The bathroom felt claustrophobic; the tiled walls and single stall fronted by a stainless steel door were like fixtures in a dollhouse. Having huffed as much of the bleach fumes as he could stand, he prepared to exit.

Reaching for the door, he pulled out his phone, intending to check the time. In doing so, he caught sight of something interesting on the glossy, unlit screen that gave him pause. A reflection. In it, he got a look at the water-stained drop ceiling, and couldn't help noticing that one of the porous tiles, directly above the stall, was sitting out of place. The cobwebbed cranny, filled with a sour, humid air, gave him the creeps. He felt watched from within that dark square, monitored from above by unseen eyes.

Now you're really being paranoid, he thought, turning to exit.

But no sooner had he wrapped his hand around the door handle did Jonathan stop a second time. A sudden noise, as of something flopping gingerly into the stall from above, saw him freeze in place. The fluorescent lights over the sink dimmed with a low buzz. He turned very slowly, wondering if he hadn't misheard. The stall, to the best of his knowledge, had been unoccupied since he'd stepped in to wash his face.

This, it turned out, was no longer the case.

"How long has it been now?" asked the dweller in the stall. The voice was calm, masculine—and, above all, familiar.

Bumping the sink with his back, Jonathan stared at the stall door, slack-jawed. The question hung in the air awhile before he finally managed to utter, W-Who's there? Peering under the edge of the door, he could see the backs of two sneakers firmly planted on the grimy tiles, pointed toward the toilet.

There was no immediate reply, but new noises began to escape the stall shortly thereafter—a series of pops and creaks not unlike the cracking of knuckles or the snapping of dry branches. These strange sounds went on for some moments, and all that while the sneakers remained stationary. When finally they ceased, the top of a head poked out unexpectedly from beneath the lowest edge of the stall door.

Wild eyes stared up at him from down below. The man in the stall had not turned to peer beneath the door, nor had he knelt down—instead, he had bent over backwards till the top of his head hovered just above the floor and his shoulders were pressed nearly against his calves. The popping that had sounded only moments before had apparently come from his spine, the column of vertebrae creaking and groaning to accommodate this impossible posture.

The straining black eyes that bore into him from beneath the door were those of Ansel Mulligan; he was certain. The calm voice that called out right then as if to dispel any lingering doubt was a perfect match, too. "I know you haven't forgotten me."

Feeling as though he might collapse, and startled by a jostling of the bathroom door on the other side by another customer, Jonathan threw it open and barreled out, nearly knocking a young woman to the ground. Those idling in the convenience store watched in confusion and amusement as he fled from the building, whimpering.

With his once-tired legs reinvigorated by terror, he ran all the way home. And when he got there, he spent a good hour barricading his doors and windows with furniture. He spent the rest of the night pacing the floors with a kitchen knife clutched in his fist.

In his short life, Jonathan West had never known a better friend than Ansel Mulligan. The two of them had first met in junior high, and had maintained a close friendship even into adulthood.

But there was a problem.

A year and a half ago, he had watched Ansel Mulligan die.

2

The cluttered office was warm, the air slightly sour. A single oscillating fan stood below the window, pushing the warmth from corner to corner. It was the only thing keeping the space from becoming a full-on sauna. Harlan Ulrich unbuttoned the top of his shirt and occasionally dabbed the sweat from his face with paper towels he'd filched from the bathroom down the hall. Meanwhile, Emma squatted beside him, hammering furiously at his laptop.

OK, this is what I've come up with. She stood and set the computer before him. Taking a step back, arms akimbo, Emma donned a proud smile. I think you're really going to like it.

The old laptop display featured numerous dead pixels, and as he adjusted his view, the thing dimmed precariously. Thermos in hand, the detective leaned forward and inspected the screen, his fingers mashing the glitchy trackpad. "Hmm."

The website on display was to be his own, and its header boasted his name in neat typeface: HARLAN ULRICH, PRIVATE INVESTIGATION SERVICES. He scrolled down the length of the webpage. The address to the Otterbein building was given, along with his cell phone number and a new email address that Emma had helped him set up. The beige background was easy on the eyes, and the details were all nested within little grey triangles in an elegant font. There was little to click on or interact with; the page was purely referential.

Insisting that he needed to keep up with the times and connect with prospective clients online, Emma had designed the site for him during her lunch breaks. Studying the final product, Ulrich found it a very tidy design.

And a boring one.

The detective sat back on his stool and took a pull from his thermos, the steam of the coffee within burning his lips as he did so. "It's... nice," he managed.

Noting his lack of enthusiasm, Emma tucked her hands into her pockets and walked around the desk to look at the screen alongside him. What's the matter with it? Don't you like it? It's the 21st century, Mr. Ulrich. If you're running a business then you need to have an online presence, that's all there is to it. I decided to go with something nice and neat—this way it's easy to navigate. Plus, even an old computer like yours will be able to access it. There aren't any bells and whistles to slow it down, just the important stuff. She removed her reading glasses and stuck them in the breast pocket of her blouse.

Ulrich nodded, scrolling up and down the page idly until the laptop seemed on the verge of having a stroke. Right, but when we discussed this earlier... Emma had done him a great kindness in taking on this project—in fact, she hadn't even asked for payment. Still, Ulrich had expected a very different look for the final product and couldn't hide his disappointment. I don't know, I just imagined something a little more...

What? she demanded.

"It's... so plain. It looks like a tapas menu. What about the graphics? I mentioned including some of that good clipart, didn't I? The little swiveling magnifying glass? Or what about some jazzy background music? Ulrich sulked, arms hanging at his sides. How will they know I'm a detective if there's no image to clue them in?"

Emma kneaded the bridge of her tiny nose. No one running a business has used clipart like that on their website since 1997, Mr. Ulrich. Trust me, this is perfect for your brand. She jabbed a finger at the header. If we put that clipart of the wiener dog in the Sherlock Holmes outfit here, like you insisted, it would drive away serious customers!

Over the past few days Ulrich had become rather fond of that particular wiener dog graphic; her refusal to use it left him baffled and distraught. Agree to disagree, he finally conceded with a sigh. So, is this thing live? He shut the laptop and set it on an unopened box of printer paper.

It is. And maybe we'll be able to find something more to add to it later. Just... nothing cheesy. You want people to take you seriously, don't you? Emma started for the door. I really think this design is going to do the trick. You'll have more customers than you know what to do with!

At that moment, there was a loud crash in the hall outside. Racing footfalls sounded soon thereafter and the door to the office suddenly flew open, nearly smacking Emma on the back. She jumped aside, clearing the way for a young man in a green, sweat-stained t-shirt and cargo shorts. He didn't stop in the doorway, but rushed further in, accidentally wandering into a tangle of extension cords and kicking over a tub of hand sanitizer. Catching himself on the edge of Ulrich's desk—and nearly toppling the thing—he glanced around nervously and then met the detective's wide gaze. You're the detective, right? Harlan Ulrich? he panted.

Ulrich spared Emma a little nod, urging her out of the office, and when she'd backed out the door, he stood to meet the man. Nearly a foot taller than this interloper, Ulrich cleared his throat and sized him up with a withering look. "That's right. And you are?"

The young man wiped his brow and then nodded a few times, backing away from the desk. Without bothering to clear the nearby metal folding chair of its junk mail cushion, he plopped down and grasped at his knees, struggling to catch his breath. Good. Good.

Emma peeked in through the doorway suspiciously. Will you be all right, Mr. Ulrich? she whispered. Should I close the door?

If you would, replied the detective. He offered her a little smile as she backed out and eased the door shut. He then turned to the newcomer. That's quite an entrance you made. What brings you in today, mister...?

Sighing, the man ran a hand through his short, brown hair. His bare cheeks were flushed; this, coupled with his thinness and less-than-average height, gave him the look of a young boy who'd been out playing in the summer heat. My name is Jonathan West. He looked around the cluttered office confusedly, as though he were just now calm enough to make out his surroundings. I, uh... I want to hire you. You see, I need protection...

Ulrich's shaggy brows arched in unison as he returned to his seat. Tenting his fingers, he put his elbows on the desktop. You need... protection? When the man nodded, Ulrich returned with a nod of his own, continuing, See, that's a problem, because that's not really what a private investigator does. I'm a PI, sir, not a bodyguard.

This response sent the young man into a fit. Teeth grit and eyes widening to the point of bursting he gripped the edge of Ulrich's desk and tugged at it with evident desperation. "I'm not asking you to take a bullet for me, OK? It's not like that! I just... I need... I need someone to protect me, OK? I need... to find out how to disappear, to get away from someone. Know what I mean?"

The detective was not sure he understood, but not wishing to prompt the man into further hysterics he put on a soothing tone and suggested, Sure, but if someone is bothering you—that is, if you feel you're in danger—I think that the police might be a better fit for this job. Have you called them to discuss this matter?

"No way. Jonathan shook his head fervently, a bead of sweat dripping from one of his ruby-red ears. I don't want them involved. No cops."

Nine times out of ten, that was a very bad sign, and an indication that Ulrich was going to be asked to do something illegal. Before he could politely refuse service to this man and order him out of the office, he was interrupted however.

Just hear me out. You're going to think I'm insane, but listen to what I have to say and you'll understand why the cops can't be a part of this. Sensing Ulrich's reticence, he added, I'll... I'll pay you double your going rate, whatever, as long as you can help me. Please!

At this, Ulrich quickly plucked a legal pad from his desk and pulled the cap off a fresh pen with his teeth. Sitting at attention, he motioned to the client. From the very top, please.

Jonathan took a deep breath, dropping his hands into his lap. "I'm being followed by someone. An old friend of mine—best friend. His name is Ansel Mulligan."

Ulrich wrote down the name carefully. Ah. So, this friend of yours has been too clingy lately?

Biting down on his lower lip, Jonathan loosed a nervous laugh. Well, there's a problem. See... Ansel shouldn't be able to follow me at all. He gulped. I know you'll call me crazy, but... Ansel has been dead for about a year and a half. He paused to gauge the detective's reaction.

Ulrich didn't laugh, didn't gasp; except for a sudden tension that froze his upper body, he didn't react at all. He dropped his pen onto the desk and tongued his molars pensively for a time. "Your friend is dead?"

That's right, said Jonathan. "I watched him die a year and a half ago. Officially, he's 'missing', but I know the truth. I know what really happened to him. It keeps me up at night. Sometimes, I still see him in my dreams. I went to therapy for over a year to try and deal with this, and.... He pawed at his face, stifling a shudder. You wouldn't believe who I ran into last night."

Ulrich peered into his thermos