Double Take

hunkered down in the middle of the largest room.
    Eastern mysticism to add to the mix? Truth be told, Cheney didn’t think anything much could surprise him after the trio of psychics he’d already met.
    He was wrong.
    Soldan Meissen sat in the middle of a half dozen huge silk pillows piled in front of a low, elaborately carved, red lacquered table, smoking a hookah. Smoke wreathed his bald head and fogged his rimless round glasses. He was slight, and looked swallowed up in a crimson silk robe belted at his meager waist with a wide black silk cummerbund. One narrow bare foot stuck out from the bottom of the robe. Ugly toes, Cheney thought, gnarly and bent. He realized he had seen him a couple of times on TV, but not like a little pasha in full costume. Why wasn’t he wearing a fez to complete the presentation?
    The man observed them in silence for a moment through a veil of lacy smoke, then said in a lovely deep voice, “Why did you bring these people into the house, Ancilla? You know I do not deal with clients after eight o’clock at night. It is now well after nine o’clock. Who are they?”
    “They forced their way in, Sol. One of them is a federal agent, at least that’s what he said. This person standing beside him is Julia Ransom.”
    The rheumy eyes turned toward Julia. A slight smile unseamed his tight mouth. He carefully set down the end of the tube connected to the detailed Oriental glass hookah, its cooling water bubbling and frothing. He took off his glasses and cleaned them on the sleeve of his silk robe. “Ah, you are my sainted August’s beautiful widow, yes, I recognize you now, Mrs. Ransom. Forgive me. We met once, several years ago at one of August’s soirees. Your aura was murky with grief and I believed that odd since you’d so recently married August. But then I came to understand. Still, I was glad August didn’t see auras. It would have distressed him to know the depths of your pain. Ah, do call me Soldan and I’ll call you Julia. Sit down, both of you, take your ease.”
    They made themselves as comfortable as they could on the silk cushions. Cheney could feel Julia had tightened, probably because she was thinking about her son, but she said nothing.
    “I would have thought your aura would once again be chaotic from what I heard on the news today, but it’s not. The reporter said you were with an FBI agent in a mad car chase all the way to the beach. But you survived. I’m pleased about that. Oh, I see. The little drama was well staged even though I only saw the back of you when you climbed into a police car. I myself found it very effective. If there are people who believe you murdered August, that incident will turn the tide. You looked quite heroic.”
    “You don’t think I killed August, do you, Mr. Meissen?”

CHAPTER 44
    Soldan Meissen drew deeply on his pipe, then carefully laid it down again. He frowned at his toes and tucked his feet beneath his silk robe. He built the tension around him with superb skill. He said, “To kill a man such as August Ransom would require, I believe, a phenomenal degree of enmity, the result, I would think, of a steadily building rage. I see no signs of such a rage in your aura.”
    Julia only smiled. “What you saw on TV today was not staged. The man who chased us was the same one who tried to kill me on Thursday and Saturday night. His name is Xavier Makepeace.”
    “Hmm,” Soldan said, holding the tube between his long thin fingers again and sucking in deeply. He whispered, his eyes now closed, “Did this man also kill my poor August?”
    “It’s possible,” Cheney said. He waited until Soldan opened his eyes, then showed him his shield, and offered his hand, but Soldan ignored it. He drew again on his hookah.
    Ancilla said to Cheney, “I’ll bet you were the one who couldn’t abide August, or at least your fed bosses couldn’t, and you murdered the poor man. Or had your partners do it. That’s why he’s trying to kill you, no honor among assassins.”
    “That’s a pretty good theory,” Cheney said, cocking his head at her.
    Julia said, “No, Agent Stone didn’t kill my husband.”
    “Hah, so you say. But you’re consorting with a federal assassin, aren’t you? Who can believe you?”
    “Neither you nor your sister are what I expected, sir,” Cheney said, looking around at the violent, eye-crossing array of colors and exotic fabrics that filled the smallish room, mixing in with the gently outward floating