When the Dead Speak

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Guests sat at circular tables placed randomly in the ballroom. Some stood near the buffet table snatching bits of caviar or grabbing glasses of champagne from the trays offered by roving waiters.

Wandering through the crowded ballroom, Jake Mitchell and Frank Travis studied the artwork lining the walls, the heavy burgundy drapes framing the windows, and the marble floor glistening under crystal chandeliers. Preston had hired Jake as a security guard for the reception. Jake had asked Frank to tag along.

"They could fit ten precincts in this place," Frank said, his deep, soft-spoken voice resembling a television evangelist's pulpit tone.

"I doubt he loses any sleep worrying about where his next meal is coming from," Jake said. He eyed the guests in their expensive dresses, tuxes, jewelry. The women gave him more than a passing glance back and tried to give Frank their empty glasses as if he were the butler.

"See. Bring a black man to a party and they immediately want you to clean up," Frank quipped. "And this is the best I could do on a Saturday night?"

"What the hell does Preston have here? A harem? I've seen very few men."

Frank studied the portraits hanging like a family tree. "What's the story on Preston?"

"From what I've heard, old man Byron was the CEO of a rather lucrative import/export company. Byron was going to be the next Howard Hughes. But a boating accident brought those plans to a screeching halt."

"Wife, too?"

Jake nodded, adding, "And there were no other living relatives."

They made their way into the foyer with its cathedral-type ceiling painted with a scene of plump, winged angels. The staircase was wide and winding.

Frank struggled with the top button on his shirt. "I would have never agreed to this if I had known I'd have to wear a tux. I haven't been in one of these since my wedding."

"It becomes you, Frank. You look like one of the Four Tops."

They stepped outside the front entrance for a breath of fresh air. A valet had just pulled up in a black Lexus. Two guests were making an early departure.

The night air was cool for June and dew was already forming on the grass. They watched the tail lights as the Lexus headed down the long driveway.

Jake lit a cigarette. Behind the glow of the match, his thick eyebrows furrowed. The soft wind riffled through his short hair revealing a two-inch long scar near the scalp.

Twisting the cap off a bottle of spring water, Frank said, "I thought you gave those up."

Jake blew the smoke out slowly. "I love giving them up so much, I do it every day. Besides, I only have two cigarettes a day."

Jake peered past Frank's shoulder, watching the security guard inside the door. A man of about thirty in blue jeans and a sportcoat was slipping something to the guard, who then nodded for him to pass.

"Hold it," Jake said through the screen door, motioning for both the guard and the guest to step outside.

"He's okay. I checked him out." The guard's uniform was strained around his midsection.

Jake flipped open the guest's sportcoat to reveal a camera. "Give him his money back," he said to the guard. Reluctantly, the guard handed the folded money back to the reporter.

"First Amendment rights," the reporter muttered under his breath as he walked away.

"By invitation only," Jake yelled at the reporter's back.