Heart to Heart: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective by Don Pendleton Page B

it began in childhood.
    I wanted to push the thought a bit further.
"And his father's father?"
    "Yes, Shen."
    Well damn it.
    "How did you guys work this? I mean, did the
Sloanes do all the banking and other financial matters? Where do
you get your household money?"
    "All is provided, Shen," is all she was
prepared to tell me about that.
    I knew that further questioning in this vein
would not advance me beyond that blank wall, so I just dropped it
for the moment and let the beautiful Oriental enigma go on her
way.
    Which does not mean that I did not have a
thousand or so questions awaiting answers. The whole thing had
taken a decidedly ominous twist—from the mysterious to the macabre
maybe—and I was feeling entirely uncomfortable about a lot of
things, the power of attorney among them.
    Like, what the hell good was a power of
attorney for a man who should be dead these hundred or more years?
Death wipes away that power. So how did Valentinius—if I knew what
I thought I knew—intend that I use it?
    I thought of something he'd said to me at
Malibu: "You are the man for me, Ashton."
    The man to do what?
    Hai Tsu told me, "You are Shen."
    Bull shit I was Shen!
    I was Ashton Ford, think you, and intended
to stay that way. But, as I looked around me at that fabulous
master suite loaded with everything I could need or want in a home,
I knew and realized and understood that—for the moment anyway—I was
also Valentinius de Medici.
    And that understanding shivered my
bones.
    What's in a name?
    For the moment, pal...me.
     
    The law offices of Sloane, Sloane and James
occupied the musty second floor of an old office building in Santa
Ana, the county seat. The partners had evidently found no need to
put on a successful face. The furnishings, though entirely
adequate and functional, looked as old as the building. The only
modern touches were a small personal computer and a copy machine
sharing a cubbyhole with Mr. Coffee and his accessories.
    The lady at the reception desk looked like
she'd come with the furniture, but she was sweet and
hospitable—insisting that I wait with coffee for my audience with
Claire Kelly, the legal secretary and office manager.
    Ms. Kelly was about
seventy too, and obviously ran the joint. I think she'd been in the
john when I arrived, because she came in from the hallway while I
was on my second coffee and took care to replace a fobbed key on a
hook behind her desk, after which the reception sweetie glanced my
way and announced, "Mr. Ford is here to visit, Claire."
    Mr. Ford sloshed his coffee onto his slacks
while pre-
    paring to meet Claire's
enthusiastic charge-in-greeting. She cried, "Oh dear!" and went to
work on the damage with a paper towel despite my insistence that it
was okay. I think she made it worse, but I agreed with her when
finally she decided, "There, that's better. You must never let a
coffee stain set, you know."
    It took a minute or two to get around the
inauspicious beginning, to get me properly and comfortably seated
at her desk, and to get her composed at the business side and
glowing at me in expectation of who knows what. She was a sweet
lady.
    She said, "Well! Did you have a nice
conference with Mr. Sloane?"
    "Yes, I—"
    "Everything in order?"
    "Perfect order," I assured her. "I
want—"
    "It was such a shock but also such a
pleasure to see Mr. de Medici yesterday! I cannot get over that
man. I was telling Eunice, he hasn't changed a bit since the first
time I saw him, and that must have been... my goodness, all of
thirty years ago!"
    I smiled and said, "Yes, amazing man."
    "You tell him I want the name of his plastic
surgeon."
    We laughed.
    I said, "Have you heard from Jim today?"
    She sobered as she replied, "No, he hasn't
come in yet." She glanced disapprovingly at the clock. "Not that I
should be surprised. Did you have an appointment?"
    Sometimes I lie, when the cause is
right.
    I told her, "Sort of informally. I told him
I wanted to
    drop by and get a copy of the file.