The Jar of Nephren-Ka

Tracking Cornelius

Atlanta, Georgia: 6:21 PM, Friday, June 8th, 1984

An hour later, I was sitting in a guest parking space at Isabelle's apartment complex; my cruiser, surrounded by shiny new Mercedes's and BMWs looking like a lump of coal in a diamond pit.

I coaxed my leg back to life, then got out and took stock of the building. It was a high-rise, newly built from the looks of it, in that modern '80s style that was just a lot of glass and flat surfaces. It was pretty in a rather sterile and almost mathematical way.

I crossed the lot into the well-manicured courtyard, and from there through the imposing plate glass double-doors into the lobby of the building.

The lobby was all marble, stone, and chrome, surfaces polished and gleaming. Here and there, large, expensive looking yet generic paintings shouted their mediocrity.

A marble and glass reception desk sat in front of the door, manned by a tall, slim man dressed in a mid-range suit. His eyes rolled across me skeptically.

"Can I help you, sir?" he asked, smiling in a polite way that did not involve his eyes. I stepped forward, presenting my card. "I'm Rev Parata, a PI. I'm trying to reach one of your tenants."

He took my card and glanced at it, then handed it back. "I'm sorry, sir, but we have a strict visitation policy. You will need an invitation from a tenant to gain entry."

I heard the doors open behind me, and the sound of heels clacking on the tile floor reverberated through the room.

"I see. Well, if..." I stopped as I noticed the doorman no longer paying me attention; his eyes were locked on the spectacle behind me. I turned to look.

A tall, older woman in her mid-fifties was strolling along the lobby as if she were royalty. She was dressed in a stylish black dress and adorned with muted, if expensive, jewelry. She was handsome, but her bearing made her completely unattractive.

"Ms. DuPont, pleasure to see you this evening," the doorman called out, voice ringing through the hall with false cheer. DuPont continued walking towards the elevators, her only acknowledgment a wave of the hand without so much as turning her head in the doorman's direction.

I looked back to the doorman, noticing the dejection in his eyes as he followed her... and maybe some simmering resentment.

When he turned his gaze back to me, I dropped my voice, making it softer, conspiratorial.

"Listen," I said, "I know how it is. You got a job to do, and you are trying to do it well and get promoted. Same here. I'm not trying to bother anyone. I just want to get my card to the tenant. Just in case she knows something about the case I'm working."

He looked at me for a long moment, eyes searching my face. Finally, he asked: "Who is the tenant?"

I grinned, but only inside. "Isabelle Randolph," I said.

"Well, in that case, I can't help you. She's currently not in residence."

"I see," I said. "Do you know when she'll return?"

"I have no idea. She comes and goes as she pleases, but as a rule, she's gone more than she's here."

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"Maybe... three weeks ago?"

I nodded, then wrote the motel phone number and room number on the back of my card. I palmed a five-dollar bill and slipped it to him, along with the card. "If she returns, would you please tell her I would very much like to speak with her?"