Down Down Down: The Beckler Trilogy, #1

By D. M. Murphy

Step into the gritty world of Mike Beckler, a seasoned private investigator who specializes in exposing the darkest secrets of cheating spouses. But his life takes a haunting turn when a missing persons case thrusts him into a web of blood-soaked enigmas. Suddenly, the evils he once knew wear a sinister, supernatural veil.

 

Beckler finds himself entangled in a mystical quest that will forever change his destiny.

 

Down Down Down is an immersive adult novel, the first of The Beckler Trilogy, a riveting odyssey where the line between reality and fantasy blurs, and where the battle between good and evil rages all the way to hell. Prepare to be spellbound by a world steeped in demons, myth, and mystery. Will Beckler triumph or succumb to the forces that threaten him? The answers lie somewhere in the abyss, waiting for daring readers to reveal them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. M. Murphy
• Release date: Sep 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223732853

Book preview

Part One

All the Trees of Eden

I made the nations to shake at the sound of his fall when I cast him down to hell with them that descend into the pit; and all the trees of Eden, the choice and best of Lebanon, all that drink water, shall be comforted in the nether parts of the world.

—Ezekiel 31:16

Chapter 1

The Passover

Heels clicked away. Elevator doors opened and closed. Richard Kihn looked into the foyer outside his penthouse and confirmed the hall was empty. He shut the door and laid his forehead against it. He crossed to the bedroom, determined to finish the work he and Rita had started. There was very little time left, and the room was a bloody mess.

Rita Blair exited the elevator and passed the doorman into the cool autumn air. She nodded and stepped aside a pair of costumed revelers, who laughed their way into the same apartment building. When a cold wind whipped under her coat, Rita drew it closer. It would be an impossibly long evening.

A half-hour passed, a busy half-hour for Kihn, and he considered himself done. How had he come to this? Kihn, whom Fortune Magazine had dubbed Innovative Tech's meteorically successful founder, moved into the bathroom on shaky legs, nearly in a faint. Red drops trickled from his manicured fingertips into the sink. Mesmerized, Richard stared as they merged into tiny streams of scarlet. He flooded the basin with water, and it all vanished in a crimson spiral. It occurred to him that he might, after all, be insane.

Why nausea finally overtook Kihn, he didn't know. Like an overindulged frat boy, he lurched for the toilet. Vomit came in waves until he was empty and dry-heaved. He flushed, sat back on his heels, and waited. When he thought he dare stand, Kihn returned to the mirror. He saw a face as white as his marble vanity, sunken eyes rimmed in red, and — what was it? Fear? He turned away.

Soon steam billowed from the shower. Kihn entered the comfort of hot water. It poured over his head and down his lean back, buttocks, and legs. With one hand braced on the tiles, Kihn ran the other through his thick black hair. He rinsed his mouth. Then he scrubbed the dried blood from his arms. After several minutes, Kihn turned off the water and grabbed a monogrammed towel, suddenly aware that time … ticked … away.

The second wave of nausea hit him as he reentered the bedroom, saw the red-stained walls, and smelled iron. Kihn flipped the light switch off. Blindly, he crawled between his cool, satin sheets and pulled them over his nose.

Too soon, his eyes adjusted to the dim blue nightlight. The bloodied walls appeared again, transformed into black shadows that played tricks and created dreams. They were knights on horseback, flowing rivers, ebony forests, and fairies dancing. Kihn steadied himself. Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four. After surviving this one night, he reminded himself, it would be over, one way or another.

Kihn drew the sheet completely over his face and lay there listening … waiting. Perhaps a minute passed, perhaps two. A gentle creak, almost not there, grabbed his attention. Rita? he whispered. Kihn scrunched deeper under the covers. Soft padding, like footsteps on the thick blue runner in the foyer, followed. Then he heard a clicking like toenails as if an animal had left the carpet and now crossed the wood. It got louder.

Kihn melted off the side of the mattress. He crawled under the bed where he stared at the blue-cast floor with breathing so labored he knew he was discovered. The clicking got closer until a shadow appeared on the floor next to the bed, and then it stopped. Kihn waited. His hand jerked to cover his mouth. Still nothing. He backed toward the wall. Still nothing. He screamed.

The sound tore Kihn from sleep, bent him upright, and stole his breath. But when the lamp light broke the walls from their blue shadows into ghastlier red, it was worse. Stumbling uneasily to his feet, Kihn stood naked, trembling as the shock of the nightmare faded. How, in God's name, had he fallen asleep?!

With hands vibrating in front of him, he wanted only one thing — a drink. Yet the liquor was in a cabinet on the other side of the living room, thirty-five feet away. There's time, Kihn thought. The grandfather clock, that steady pendulum of reliability, confirmed it. There were fifteen more minutes until midnight. Fifteen minutes to put ice in a glass, pour the bourbon, and carry it back to the inner sanctum. More than enough, he thought uneasily. He grabbed his silk pajama pants from the chair.

Kihn entered the living room warily. The only light came from the city through his penthouse windows. Below, Phillip City glowed, a midwest urban panorama of old brick buildings punctuated by an occasional glass skyscraper and dreary cracked roads usually hidden by horn-blaring traffic, but now empty. It was the penthouse door, vague and dreamlike, however, that held Kihn's attention. With bare feet, he crossed the cool hardwood and found the switch. He flipped it on and flooded the room with light. The entry door was locked, the deadbolt thrown, and the chain in place.

Ice clattered into his glass. As if there were no other sounds in the world, save the ticking of the grandfather clock, which now showed thirteen minutes to midnight, Kihn listened to the splash of the bourbon. One sip before I go back, he thought. The whiskey was strong, and it flowed down his throat with calming warmth. He closed his eyes, felt the cool glass in his hands, and entered a timeless place away from fear for one glorious moment. He wished for the hundredth time he could take it all back, return the penthouse and cars, the company, the money, and fame. Go back in time and be a nobody — a nobody in love with a beautiful woman. That would be more than enough. When he opened his eyes, the room was dark.

He heard the first note of his grandfather clock’s hourly song and whispered, No. Then No!!

Conceptions of time had been shattered as easily as his conceptions of right and wrong, as easily as the glass and ice cubes that fell from Kihn's fingers and broke into pieces onto the cherry-planked floor.

With the ringing of Westminster Chimes, he bolted toward the bedroom scrambling over broken glass. Just short of the doorway, someone or something clasped his ankle. With a violent yank, he fell face-first onto the floor. The unseen fingers pulled. Kihn's manicured nails dug into the planks and bent backward, tearing from the nail bed, and leaving bloody lines in their wake.

Kihn reached for the leg of a dining chair as the tune ended and the first of twelve tolls began. Undeterred, the invisible monster ripped the chair from Kihn's hand. Tolls two and three sounded. The grip dragged him further toward the door. Kihn kicked and writhed, flipped to his back, then to his front, and the fourth chime died. Inexplicably, the grip was released at the door — a cat playing with his prey?

Another chime tolled. Blood trickled from beneath Kihn's torn fingernails and flowed from his broken nose. More chimes, more time escaping him. He crept to his knees and watched and waited. On the eighth toll, Kihn charged for the bedroom but, a mere foot from the threshold, a hand wrapped around his throat. It lifted him off his feet and threw him against the wall. The surface cracked beneath Kihn, and he slid to the floor amid a shower of plaster. Again, he lay unaccosted. Another chime, then number ten.

Kihn steeled himself. At the start of another toll, he charged for the bedroom and this time burst through and skittered like the mouse he was to the side of the bed where he cowered. Shaking, he listened as the last toll died in the air.

Once more, he waited, this time with his mouth bloody, eyes wide, and body vibrating. Kihn was, he reflected before he drifted into shock, only getting what he had bargained for.

Cynthia Harris dropped the phone to its cradle and stood stock still, her naked body folding unattractively about her. On the floor above, the screaming and commotion had stopped, but she felt no better. She tossed an orange and white candy corn into her mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. Annoyed that security wouldn't answer their phones, she considered investigating herself. Probably a nightmare, some rearranging of furniture, something common, undoubtedly, no reason to call the police. Or maybe, it was something more? Next, Kihn's phone went unanswered, and Harris popped another candy corn.

It was past midnight and a voluminous robe in pink terry hid Cynthia's round little body, and feathery slippers her feet, as she hurried to the elevator. It struck her as odd that it took a long time to arrive, but when it did, she inserted the penthouse key and pressed fourteen.

When the elevator doors opened, Harris held her hand before her eyes to shield them from an intense red light. At first, she thought there was a fire and her first reflex was to hit the close button. Just as quickly though, she realized there was no heat. On the contrary, it was chillingly cold in the hallway outside Kihn's apartment, Suite 1401. She pressed emergency hold and stepped carefully from the elevator.

Chapter 2

The Archangel

At noon, Mike Beckler watched through binoculars as Gloria Danby, five-foot-three, green eyes, overweight, with straight black hair, held aloft an oversized pair of white panties in the underwear aisle of the Woolworths. She inspected them, and Beckler inspected her, the sixth stop since his day of voyeurism began. Parallel parked outside a downtown remnant from another era of merchant and consumer, a lone blip in an area of Phillip City where the EKG had otherwise gone flat, he leaned his head against the headrest and listened to the traffic.

Another day, another dollar.

The Williamson Building and its eighteen stories stretched before Beckler like a historic behemoth. It was all faded bricks and hung sash windows too small and dirty to reflect anything. Its lobby fared slightly better — white and black tile floor buffed, security guard attired in a crisp beige uniform seated behind a brand new laminate desk. Still, the walls wore graying white paint, and the care taken with the floors was not reflected in the copper elevator doors dressed in fingerprints or the grimy up-button Beckler pressed.

The ride to the eighth floor was swift and lonely. Beckler entered the office without a hello. He dropped his equipment in a heap on Dorea's desk and made an A-line for his in the inner office. In the bottom right drawer were two bottles of whiskey. The Johnnie Walker scotch, he thought, would make a pretty good lunch.

Beckler’s desk was a battered walnut affair, piled with so many papers and black-and-white photographs from recent surveillance that the blotter was invisible. In the center of the mess was a black leather ledger, opened to the middle, and labeled Nov. 10, 1987. Next to it was a Rubik's cube with not even one side all the same color. Beckler plopped into his chair. It rolled back and settled a few inches lower than it had in earlier years. Beckler ran a pencil through his thinning brown hair. Two fingers of whiskey splashed into his glass.

After he took a slow, eyes-closed sip, he examined the ledger. At the bottom of a column of figures, he scribbled a number and then tossed the pencil down on a hazy photo of a naked woman kneeling before a half-clothed man. Beckler wrapped his hand around his forehead and rubbed both temples at once.

Hello. Dorea stood in the doorway with her round hips resting against the dark wood frame. You snuck in while I was visiting the little girl's room. Bad morning, darlin'? she said with a warm drawl as she picked up the Rubik's cube and twisted it mindlessly. You want an aspirin?

No darlin'. I'll show you what I want, he said, mocking the Southern accent that was so delightfully out of place in this rust belt. Sit down. From the bottom drawer, Beckler pulled out another glass. I always get a headache when I look at our books.

Don't look at them then; that's my job, and we're doin' fine. Dorea tossed the puzzle onto the ledger.

Are we all? he asked. Sit down. It's almost noon; we're allowed.

Dorea smirked and reached for one of the glasses. Like you need a clock to give you permission. She took a small sip and slipped into a big, worn-out client chair that rested before Beckler's desk, the soft brown leather melting to her soft brown form. She looked small when compared with the six-foot-two inches of her boss. After leaning back, Dorea crossed her legs and began swinging the top one. Beckler eyed her with admiration. He drained his glass with one swallow and added some more.

You need to let me put those books on the computer.

Beckler made the face he always made when Dorea suggested it and she shrugged. I never should have retired, Beckler said, returning to the conversation he wanted to pursue. If I have to follow one more fucking woman, and I mean that literally, I'm gonna cash in my chips.

Very poetic. Thank you for sharing that, Mr. Beckler.

It's been one long slide into a bucket of slime.

Dorea grinned. Ah yes, nothin' more poetic than self-pity.

Beckler emptied his second glass and put the bottle back on the only paper-free space on his desk. Self-loathing, he corrected. I always wanted to be a detective, but not like this morning … not like this. A photo frisbeed onto Dorea's lap. She caught it before it slipped to the floor and looked at a hazy picture of a … As soon as the image registered, she threw it back. Not snooping around motels, making divorces. I shouldn't have retired from the force. His temples throbbed again.

You already said that Mike, but they didn't give you much choice, did they? Hey, you don't look so good, really, let me get you that aspirin.

No. Leave me in pain. It'll remind me I'm alive.

Dorea grimaced. She put her half-filled glass on the desk and left for the reception room. With her back to him, she said, Tell me when you're off this same ol' merry-go-round, detective.

Yeah. Cold day in hell, he mumbled.

Dorea stopped and faced him. You could be more selective in choosing your cases, you know.

Beckler sneered and rapped a stiff finger on the bottom line in his ledger. Miss Dorea, we have to eat.

Amoral.

What?

A-moral. That's you. No morals.

Bullshit, I have morals. If I didn't, I wouldn't feel like shit right now. But I'm a realist, too. He returned his attention to the disagreeable numbers.

Oh, now I understand, you're a realistic moralist. Dorea stared at him for a moment, and then grunted, No such thing, and turned and left.

You're a different woman since you met the Preacher Man, Beckler called after her. He saw the back of Dorea's head shake as he picked up the phone and dialed.

Hello? Third City Federal Bank.

Mr. Danby, please.

This is Harrison Danby.

Beckler here. I spent the morning tailing your wife.

Oh, yes, Mr. Beckler. What did you find out?

Well, I certainly have a few things to report. We should meet.

A minute later Beckler cradled the phone intending to return his attention to the ledger full-time. Instead, the door to the outer office opened and Beckler groaned. Probably another spineless, suspicious husband — a man who only needed a detective to prove what he already knew, that his wife had found something better. Or worse, a woman hoping to discover the opposite, that her scumbag husband was faithful. But the door's squeak was the sound of money, so Beckler cleared his desk, cinched his tie, and tucked in the shirt around his sagging stomach. The scotch stayed where it was.

Dorea walked in with a newspaper, paper cup, and aspirin. Mr. Beckler, there is a Mr. Kihn here to see you. He doesn't have an appointment, but I told him you might make an exception. Crossing within whispering distance, she dropped her cargo and said, Darlin', he may as well be wrapped in money.

Beckler craned to see through the windowed wall that separated the reception area from his office. In front of Dorea's desk stood a man almost six feet tall with salt and pepper hair slicked back and just barely touching a crisp light blue collar that stuck stiffly out of a dark pin-striped suit. Dorea winked and Beckler screwed his jowly face up tight. He popped the aspirin, ignored the water, and chased it with Dorea's unfinished drink. Send him in.

A good-looking man entered, probably in his late forties, and Beckler now got to see his polished shoes. His nails were manicured, and Beckler would have bet the scotch his toes were pedicured too. Beckler glared as his visitor held Dorea's hand a moment too long, then walked around the desk to extend his own.

Gorgeous woman … Mike, you don't remember me.

Beckler hesitated then took the manicured fingers and shook them. Dan Kihn? I'll be damned. I don't think I've seen you in person in twenty years! The last high school reunion I went to! Damn, you look good.

Not good, just rich.

Beckler laughed and self-consciously straightened his tie again. I see your name in the news off and on; you've done well. Stockbroker.

Kihn sighed. Investment advisor. I guess I have done well, but it could always be better, huh?

I suppose, Beckler agreed, thinking of his ledger. What brings you here, Dan?

I need a detective, and I need you in particular.

Sure. Sit down.

Kihn sat in the chair Dorea had recently vacated. He placed a black leather attache between his feet on the tiled floor. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the file cabinet the top of which was stacked with folders, the plate glass 1940s-era windows that backed Beckler's desk, and the framed detective's license hung on the slat-and-plaster wall, then wandered back toward Dorea. Beautiful woman, he said.

Beckler forced a laugh. What seems to be the problem? Is your wife—

My wife? Oh! No. I'm not married. Kihn nodded toward Dorea through the glass divider. Your secretary married?

Yeah, Beckler lied.

Kihn's eyebrows lifted but he continued to watch Dorea. You get a lot of those? Divorce cases?

Enough.

Are YOU married?

No, I'm not. But, as they say, I'm not on trial here.

Kihn finally turned to face Beckler and laughed politely. Yes, well, this is nothing like that. I wish it were. After leaning back in the chair, his face became somber. It's a missing person case, possibly a murder. Do you remember my brother?

Of course, graduated high school a couple of years after us.

A few years, yes.

I've read about him, too. Chairman for some corporation?

"Owner of a tech firm.

Millionaire, right? Beckler said with a giggle that translated to Imagine that, one of us a millionaire.

Kihn stiffened perceptibly. He didn't do much to earn it, but there he is.

Luckiest man on earth, until his luck ran out. He's missing? Beckler asked. I didn't see it in the papers.

Kihn nodded. They only published one small article the day after it happened. The police are playing it down, keeping the details confidential, and, miracle of miracles, the media's cooperating. They bungled that recent kidnapping so badly, I can certainly understand why … Well, anyway, the facts of the case are rather sensational, Mike, and Rich may still be alive. The investigation is ongoing.

Still alive? What exactly did the police find?

Kihn sighed. A lot of blood. He reached for the scotch bottle. Do you mind?

Beckler handed him the last glass from his drawer. Kihn poured himself a whiskey and took a slow, gentlemanly sip. Last Thursday, the management of my brother's apartment building called the police. The cleaning people were hysterical because of what they found in his penthouse.

Blood.

Not just blood, but blood everywhere — on the bedroom walls, in the bathroom, on the living room floor. A lot of it.

Beckler considered that a moment. But not your brother.

No. His clothes were all still there, no suitcases missing, nothing stolen— A long pause. No corpse. He leaned in toward Beckler, who was processing the use of the word corpse in reference to one's brother, and the detective smelled the subtle fragrance of men's cologne. They may have more, but they're not sharing it. He sat back. Which is why I'm here, Mike — my connection with you, and your connection with the police.

Was the blood your brother's?

I'm not sure. They haven't said. You can’t imagine what I'm going through.

You're likely a suspect, Beckler said, poised for some reaction. There was none.

I'm sure I am. I'm probably in my brother's will. And he's not married. Of course, I won't know until they find the corpse.

The word choice again struck Beckler, so this time he glanced at Dorea who had the useful habit of listening in on the intercom. She made a face.

I want you to find out what the police have and brief me on it, Kihn said.

Why not wait and see?

Well, I have waited, too long, I think. If my brother's still alive, I want to move more expeditiously than the police have.

So you're thinking someone kidnapped Richard.

I don't know what I'm thinking, Mike. Honestly. I guess I'm hoping so. The blood throws me. I didn't know Rich was into anything, anything strange, but I think the police may know what's going on.

What do you mean strange?

Well, the blood. There was some on the sink and the floor, but most of it was on the bedroom walls and not spattered.

I don't understand. If it wasn't spattered then what?

Kihn took another sip of scotch. Painted.

Chapter 3

Revelations

Beckler inspected his pencil like it was under a microscope. Why the hell would anyone paint someone's walls with blood? he wondered.

As I said, they're not telling me much, Kihn said reading Beckler's mind.

Dan, if it was a kidnapping for ransom, someone would likely have made contact by now. You said Richard isn't married?

Kihn shook his head. He never did.

Any other immediate family?

Kihn shook his head again.

I know this is going to be hard to hear, but if someone took your brother, by now, with ten days gone by and no ransom request, there's a good possibility he isn't alive anymore. The police have a leg up on me. By the time I catch up, I may not be looking for anything.

Kihn leaned into Beckler again, and again the scent of musk floated not unpleasantly into Beckler's nostrils. I'd still like you to take the case. I want to find Richard either way. He finished and rested back in the chair. Even if my brother is … well, even then, sooner is better than later. Beckler resisted looking at Dorea.

Why is that?

My brother's estate is sizable, Mike. Kihn's eyes opened innocently. I want to find Rich alive and well but if he is dead, God help me, I want to recover his body for burial and facilitate a prompt settling of the will. There are investments and properties and a timely transition will be paramount to maintaining the estate.

I'm sure he didn't manage his finances himself.

On the contrary, he did.

How much are we talking about?

Approximately $60 million.

Beckler tried not to let his jaw drop.

So, I've come to you, Mike. I need to know what the police have in the way of fingerprints, suspects, witnesses, whatever — the whole nine yards. Unlike them, I know I didn't do it which means they're wasting time investigating me. I'll pay you well for your connections, Mike. Very well. Kihn pulled a slim gray envelope from his attache. This is a retainer.

Beckler glanced at Dorea and then into the envelope. His face was inscrutable as he turned back to Kihn. Do you have a picture of your brother?

Yes, and a biography. Some articles. Kihn dug into the briefcase and handed Beckler a file.

After flipping it open, Beckler saw a color eight-by-ten of Richard Kihn that could have been a publicity still for a movie star except for the Innovative Technology logo in the lower left corner.

The officer on the case is Lieutenant Stanley Wolfe, Kihn said.

I know him. Do you have a more recent photo?

That one is only a few months old. Now how soon can you begin?

Right away.

Good. Kihn smiled, lifted his briefcase from the floor, and reached for Beckler's hand. I'll triple that, plus expenses, if you find my brother. In the outer office, he added, There's a lot at stake here. He glanced at Dorea, his eyes lingering a moment too long in Beckler's opinion, and smiled sadly at Beckler. My poor brother's life, he said and exited.

After the door floated shut, Beckler snarked, More like the sizable estate.

I'm not puttin' him on my Christmas list, Dorea said.

Judge ye not. Check on Richard Kihn's finances.

Right.

Nobody I grew up with could have that much money and if he does, I want to know how he got it. Run a check on the loving brother, too, and see what's going on with his books. Dig up the real numbers if you can and get me a recent photo; this guy's supposed to be in his fifties.

What if the loving brother turns out to be a sleaze? Dorea asked.

Beckler threw up his palms. What?

Will you still take the case?

Beckler waved the envelope in front of her. Of course we will. I'll just wash the money before we spend it. He backed into his office and then went to the coat tree, where Dorea appeared behind him.

I see you're pulling yourself out of that slime bucket with both hands.

Beckler squeezed past her, jacket in hand. I'm going to Homicide, he said. I'm halfway out of the bucket, see? A real detective job! I'll climb out the rest of the way next week. He shoved the gray envelope into Dorea's hands. In the meantime, don't take any new divorce cases. For now, I'm Beckler, finder of missing persons.

Missing person, Dorea corrected.

Don't be a Gloomy Gus. This has to beat the hell out of what we've been doing. Deposit that, he said. With the door floating shut behind him, Beckler paused to hear Dorea gasp, and he grinned like the carved pumpkin on his stoop at home. Twenty thousand dollars? Good lord, Beckler, Beck! This check is for $20,000!

Beckler left the elevator and noticed an invitingly curved young woman in front of the building directory. After he adjusted his coat lapels, he made his approach. Within inches, he cleared his throat, but the face that turned to him was pale moonlight with Monday morning blue eyes enfolded by wavy brown hair. Words atypically abandoned him.

She looked up into his startled face. Do I know you?

I don't think so, he muttered helplessly. Mike Beckler. He extended his hand and she took it — a delicate butterfly perched on a bear paw.

Rita Blair, she said and smiled. The smile was the kicker. Beckler's stomach turned into a flock of birds. Not a single word popped into his mind so he released her hand, nodded, turned, and left — so unlike him the action hurt.

Blair returned her attention to the building directory and the eighth-floor listings: Ascot Realty; DBH Associates; Lassiter, Hanes & Jameson; Poke & Harwell PLC; Beckler Investiga—. Blair turned in time to see Beckler exit through the revolving doors. He's the one, she thought. He must be the one.

Chapter 4

Evidence of Things Not Seen

I 'm trusting you on this one, Beckler, and only because I'm expecting a return on investment, Detective Stanley Wolfe said. His voice always sounded like a blender full of gravel. Please keep it quiet and give me that damn thing.

Without hesitation, Beckler reached into his pocket, pulled out a miniature recorder, and handed it to Wolfe, who clicked it off and shook his head. Wolfe stood six-foot-three and had the benefit of being able to look Beckler in the eyes. He'd been on the force for thirty-plus years, having joined in the same rookie class as Beckler.

I can't believe you tried that on me, he growled.

Beckler grinned. When are you and Laurie gonna ask me over for dinner?

How do you know we're still together?

Cause the sun rose this morning. How are the kids?

Christy is still in New York. And Holly graduates this year. Then law school.

Are you serious? It seems like she just graduated high school. Beckler dug through a box marked evidence on a large walnut table. Holy shit! He jumped backward.

What?

Beckler pointed at a small red cockroach scurrying off the cardboard. It fell onto the table running. Wolfe cuffed it to the ground and stamped at it, but it rushed between two file cabinets.

I hate those things, Beckler said, and he smoothed down the hairs on the back of his neck before he reached in again. He cautiously pulled out a photo of scratches on a wood floor. What's this?

Claw marks.

Jesus Christ.

At least that's what I think. Ten scratches, ten fingernails, like someone was being dragged away and tried to hold onto the floorboards. The cop laughed without humor. Blood in the grooves.

Fuck sake. What drags a grown man like that? A bear?

The homicide cop laughed again. Hard to tell — nothing left behind, but I think I can definitively say it wasn't a bear. He shook his head and shaggy blonde hair fell into his gray-green eyes before he combed it back with his fingers. Check these out, Wolfe said. He dragged more photos from the box and fanned them before Beckler. One showed a foot-wide black streak on a white wall. Wolfe's thick finger poked. Like that on all the bedroom walls. Blood here, too. He pointed at another photo. Above the entrance to the bedroom and traces in those claw marks.

What's this?

A bucket, remnants of blood in it, and two paintbrushes.

So, Dan Kihn had been right.

Wolfe dug in the box and pulled out a sealed plastic bag through which Beckler observed what appeared to be bloody clothing. The second bag Wolfe took out contained two house painter's brushes, black bristled, thick with scarcely visible maroon stains on their handles.

Beckler raised his eyes to Wolfe and then returned to the color photos. Whose blood?

This could be Kihn's, here, from the scratches. Wolfe held up an envelope. It matches his blood type. We sent it to a lab in New York for analysis. You heard of DNA profiling?

Tommy Lee Andrews trial. Just convicted of multiple rapes.

Right. It gives us possibilities. They'll analyze the blood and hair we took from Kihn's hairbrush. Now look at this photo — the blood on the walls and the clothes — here's where it gets weird, Beck.

Where it GETS weird?

Uh-huh. It's not human.

Wait, don't tell me. It's the blood of a Tasmanian Wombat. Bum-bum-bum!

Closer than you think. Animal blood. In the pail and on the walls. A little around the toilet, with Kihn's prints in it.

Animal? I don't get it.

Get a load of this, Wolfe said.

Beckler shrugged. Okay, the drywall's cracked.

Like someone threw someone into it.

So someone threw Kihn against the wall?

Doubtful, Wolfe answered. The dent is way above his head. And—

So someone hoisted Kihn into the air for the throw? Somebody big.

Your bear again.

Did you find any fingerprints?

None unexplained.

Bloody footprints?

None and no sign of breaking and entering. Plus, the elevator is keyed. Wolfe started to stack up his photos. He continued, Even so, someone else was there. Add it to my list of things I don't get.

What else?

Well, the vomit. The initial analysis tells us there was an overdose of benzodiazepine in it mixed with alcohol. We're waiting on DNA.

Suicide?

Well, where's the body? Maybe it started as a suicide attempt and Kihn was interrupted. Could be he dropped his glass of bourbon. We found his print on one of the bigger broken pieces. Here's another riddle: We ran a background check on Kihn and there's no money trail.

What do you mean?

Well, there are investments, and supposedly trips to Atlantic City, but this guy is … I mean, Mike, he's filthy rich. Filthy. Rich. Where'd it all come from?

His tech company?

It isn't even public yet.

Dirty money?

Wolfe sighed and opened his hands into the air. No evidence of it … so far. He sat down and relaxed. Who knows? My job is to be suspicious. Maybe he was the luckiest SOB that ever lived. Ten years ago he's worth jack shit, nearly bankrupt, makes me look like Warren Buffett. Lo and behold, he starts this firm basically from nothing, invests his money, visits Atlantic City a few times, and bam! Wolfe slammed his palm on the table. Like he's got a guardian angel feeding him tips.

I heard 60 million.

Wolf whistled in awe.

Tax problems? Beckler asked.

Not that we can tell.

Insider trading, Mafia, drug trafficking?

Well, the investigation just started, but no mob connections so far — aside from a crime scene so devoid of intruder evidence it smacks of being a professional hit. No narcotics trail and the only insider tips we have evidence of are from Katie McGrew. Wolfe smiled broadly, his mustache curving up with his lips. Remember her?

Bunko. The Marrying Game.

"Yeah. She's a psychic now. Oh, brother!