Rafi glanced at McPherson in the rearview mirror. “We are being followed.”
“Since we left Iobairt.”
“I did not notice until after the funeral.”
“You’re getting better at this, Rafi.” He took this as the compliment the analyst intended. “Why don’t you find us a place to get coffee. It’s a long way back to Slakterquay.”
Rafi located a cafe on a corner near the small district that passed for Urquhart’s downtown. The car following them, a 2-door coupe with no grill and tinted windows, predictably followed his turns until they arrived.
The inside of the coffee shop contained the typical crowd; a tired mother, nursing a massive coffee and small baby, a queue of jittery addicts waiting for refills, a number of individuals working on laptops. Rafi breathed in the American privilege, then stepped into his place in line. Moments behind, a man followed him in, speaking loudly and obnoxiously into a mobile. He was a gora in t-shirt, fleece, cargo khakis, and spotless trainers. From his association with the analyst, Rafi could tell these items were expensive, which highlighted the bucket hat that did not fit with the rest of his outfit.
A short wait and conversation with a tattooed barista later, Rafi was leaving with a black coffee. Before he reached the exit, though, he heard the phone caller end his conversation with, “I’ll call you right back,” followed by a, “Can I speak to you for a moment?” Rafi took a few extra steps to make sure he conveyed a surprise he did not feel.
Years of politeness ingrained in him through threats of violence, first from his grandfather then from countless corrupt officials, informed Rafi’s, “Yes?”
Towering over Rafi, the man had the pudgy exterior of someone who was once thin, but had lost that to a sedentary lifestyle. Sitting in a cab much of the time almost resulted in Rafi sharing the same fate. Only his love for Delilah and their children kept him in the exercise regime that he barely had time for. This man, perhaps, had no one to love him.
The man extended a large hand, “Chet Busey.”
Rafi glanced at the extended appendage and said, “Pardon my rudeness, Mr. Busey, but I have a fare waiting.”
Chet smiled. “I understand. I’m an entrepreneur myself.” He continued as if Rafi had not just told him he was busy, “Could I speak to you and your passenger?”
“They are quite eager to be on with their business.”
Chet pulled off his bucket hat, revealing an unruly mop of light brown hair. “Isn’t that them?”
Rafi heard the small, tinny noise of the coffee house bell and looked to see the analyst step in. No longer wearing her unnecessarily large sunglasses, McPherson’s violet eyes flitted between Rafi and Chet, dancing in a way that suggested there was a surprise birthday party afoot. “Who’s your friend, Rafi?”
“This is Chet.” He resisted the urge to correct the analyst. This man was not his friend. “He wishes to speak with us.”
McPherson stepped away from the entry, then smiled at the brown-haired giant. “Nice to meet you, Chet. How did you know we were going to be here?”
The big man became flustered. “I, uh, may have followed you.”
Rafi heard the inhalation that marked McPherson biting back ridicule. “Oh? From the funeral?”
“Well, nearby. I don’t think any of the funeral attendants would have appreciated my appearance.” Chet put his hat back on and Rafi realized it was meant to act as a low-key disguise.
McPherson eyed the tall man, up and down. “I can understand that. Your sartorial choices leave a lot to be desired.”
The big man’s lips curled back. “What? No. I mean they wouldn’t have liked me being there.”
“Why is that?”
“Could we talk outside?”
“I’d prefer not.” McPherson headed into a room off the main service area. The wooden mosaic of the floor was relatively without blemish, suggesting that most of the establishment’s patrons took their coffee to go. The room was empty.
McPherson sat at a table and Chet immediately joined her, dispelling any pretense that he was here to speak with Rafi. Whether this was from knowledge of the analyst’s occupation or that she was his fare, he couldn’t say. He sat at a nearby table where he could listen to the conversation and watch the room’s entrance.
“So why not speak to us at the funeral, Mr. Busey?”
“Well, like I said, I didn’t,” Chet stopped, avoiding the trap of McPherson’s wit. “I didn’t want anyone to know I was there.”
“Why is that?”
“I had bought a home here in Urquhart before the Shangri-La fire, during the pandemic. I tried to hold onto the land after, but the town council took it back claiming eminent domain.” Chet could have looked unhappier, but Rafi wasn’t sure how. “I fought them. In the legal sense, I mean, but it was swatted down by a local judge. I launched an appeal, but they started building anyway. It’s been tied up in court since.”
“I can understand why that would be upsetting. Hardly seems fair.”
“Fair is for children,” Chet pronounced in a somewhat childish way. “I want what’s rightfully mine. Are you here to investigate the fire?”
“I’m here to look into an arson death.” If Chet noticed the verbal legerdemain, the analyst rode over that with, “Why did the town seize your land?”
“They said the land needed to be used for community purposes, citing the deaths and destruction of the fire as an emotional wound to Urquhart. One that out-of-town homeowners wouldn’t be able to heal.
“Which is rich. I lost friends in that fire.” Chet did not appear saddened by his statement, but his anger continued to rise. “Important people, guys who make fortunes, change the world.”
McPherson’s eyes became like pools, opaque as her sunglasses. “There wasn’t an evacuation?”
“The fire moved fast. I was headed to San Jose when it started. By the time I got turned around, the fire had already burned through most of our houses.” Chet gritted his teeth.
“‘So the other owners were also from out of town?”
“More like out of state. A number of us who wanted to keep working together during the pandemic bought second homes here. We wanted our own quarantine bubble.”
McPherson was about to reply when a tall employee, cheeks nearly as red as their hair, poked their head in the room. “Excuse me, but if you’re going to stay, please make a purchase.”
Rafi cooly sipped his coffee as he watched Busey turn to the barista. “Look, this is very important. Please just give us a few minutes.” He added sharply, “A few uninterrupted minutes.” Under his withering stare, the employee disappeared back through the doorframe.
Busey blinked and shook his head before returning to face McPherson. “As I was saying – “
McPherson interrupted him with a cool smirk. “Go buy us a cup of coffee.”
“What?”
“Mr. Busey, I’m not working for you. I’m listening to you out of courtesy. If you want to keep talking, then – please – go buy us a cup of coffee.” McPherson placed the tip of her right finger on the table as if something in front of her had gone missing.
“I don’t understand.” Busey hooked a thumb at Rafi. “What about him?”
“He has coffee.”
“Yeah, but he works for you. Can’t he – ?”
McPherson moved to stand. “Well, Chet, have a day.”
“Wait.” Busey held up his hands. “OK, give me a minute.” With an expression like a hurt puppy, Busey got up from his chair and departed into the other room. When he returned with two cups of coffee, Rafi hid his smile behind sipping his own.
“There.” Busey set one of the coffees he was carrying in front of McPherson.
Without touching the beverage, McPherson prompted. “You were saying?”
Busey collected himself, then, “As some of us from the Valley – “
“The Valley?”
“Silicon Valley?” Chet asked, tone questioning McPherson’s intelligence for not knowing this. “Anyway, we bought homes out here during the pandemic. We wanted our own quarantine bubble, a place where we could collaborate together.”
“Is that all?”
“Well, there were social reasons.”
“Social reasons,” McPherson echoed, staring as if the words created some invisible construct between her and Chet that she examined before continuing. “So you bought up a bunch of homes and changed the town dynamics when it up-ended the housing market. Not to mention increasing rents for everyone who didn’t own their home.”
If McPherson aimed any guilt at Busey, he swatted it away with an easy, “Hey now. I didn’t drive up rents for anyone. I just bought a house.”
“So why don’t the people of Urquhart want you at Randall Waynes’s funeral?”
“They don’t want me around at all. Particularly the police chief and his pet preacher. They don’t like that I’ve been fighting them on the redevelopment of Shangri-La into Iobairt.” Chet leaned back in his chair. “I met Randall Wayne one time. It was right after I had driven all the way from California to tell the city council to stop building, that what they were doing was illegal.”
“Ah,” McPherson said, smiling at the alleviation of her own ignorance. “So that’s when you met Wayne?”
“Yeah. In the city hall parking lot. He tried to intimidate me into leaving town.” Busey puffed up his chest. “He made a lot of not so subtle threats. I nearly clobbered him.” Having seen Wayne before his incineration, Rafi seriously doubted that Busey could have done much against him.
“I see.” McPherson’s gaze pierced Busey, the tall man slowly deflating under it. “Did he ever do anything that was actionable? That you could take to the police?”
“No. But I got the feeling things were headed that way.”
“And yet you’re still here. Very commendable.” Busey sat up a bit straighter at the inspector’s praise. “Yet the fire was quite some time ago. Why would you think I was here to investigate that?”
“Well, I mean, you said you so.”
“No, I said I was here to investigate an arson death. Randall Wayne and several of his companions died traveling here from the coast. The car they were in burst into flames.” McPherson watched Busey very carefully as she made the last statement.
“I knew he died but,” he stopped, sipped his coffee. “Well, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.” He shrugged. “When you were driving around Iobrait I guess I thought you were from an insurance company. I’ve been trying to get someone out here to look into the fire, but you’re the first person I’ve seen from out of town.”
“So that’s the nearby you followed us from.” McPherson shook her head. “I’m afraid that we aren’t insurance inspectors, Chet.”
Busey crinkled his brow, seemingly unable to accept that a reason that he hadn’t thought of could exist. “Then who do you work for?”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential.” McPherson stood up. “But I wouldn’t count on getting your land back from the town.”
Busey’s confusion upgraded to alarm, his features coming together in an angry pucker. “What? Why not?”
“I’m not sure there’s going to be a town left when I’m done.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” The dull entitlement that had been in Busey’s eyes turned into a blaze of indignation. “Who are you?”
McPherson stood up, coffee untouched. “My name is Aggie McPherson. I’m a spectral analyst.”
Busey’s eyes narrowed and he grinned at the analyst, as if he finally understood her game. “Then can I hire you?”
“I only take on one client at a time, Chet” McPherson buttoned her jacket. “But I could recommend a colleague. Or perhaps a sympathetic member of law enforcement?”
Busey moved to stand, but the mention of police paused him in his chair. “Uh, no, I don’t think that will be necessary.”
McPherson hid her eyes behind her round sunglasses. “That’s what I thought.” The analyst’s smile broadened. “Good luck, Chet. But I’d head back to the Valley if I were you.”
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