This was it. My swan song.
My name is Robert Grant.
I just turned 73 last weekend and am enjoying my mornings at Zaza’s sipping cappuccinos in my pajamas. I live in a quaint, cozy apartment in Montreal and am rarely interested in leaving the comfort of it. I’m a retired P.I. 157 cases successfully closed, 14 left cold, and dozens I never took.
But my last case is one that continues to haunt me.
One of the 14 I left cold. I often think about it while sitting at Zaza’s. It’s one I’ve never told anyone about. I haven’t been able to sleep lately and think it’d be best if I write it all out. It also happens to be the only supernatural case I worked on, one that made me a believer in many things, and one that almost killed me in more ways than I’d care to admit.
It all begins on the morning of August 12, 2019… already two years into my retirement.
“Mr. Grant! Mr. Grant!” A man yelled outside the door of Apartment 712.
I admit the noise should have woken me. It was blaring throughout the entirety of the seventh floor of the apartment complex. I had been lying on the couch either napping or daydreaming… or perhaps in a state somewhere in between. The alarm continued until my neighbor William came barreling through the front door, quickly distinguishing the smoky, near fire at the oven by waving a dish towel vigorously at the billowing smoke. I remember him pulling out a burnt, ashy black disc. I don’t quite remember putting a frozen pizza in the oven, to be honest.
“You’ve gotta be more careful, Mr. Grant,” William said to me.
“Astute observation,” I remember uttering under my breath.
“What were you doing in here anyway?”
“I was cooking. And resting my eyes.”
“You usually do that at the same time?”
“I do many things simultaneously.”
“No one was hurt, that’s all that matters. How about you come over for dinner tonight? Corrine’s making a turkey,” he finally said.
He was always unsuccessfully trying to get me to come over to their apartment. If he promised we would sit in silence and watch a movie with pizzas, I might have occasionally said yes.
“A generous offer, William. But I’m quite booked today.”
“Alright… Well, let me know if you need help with anything this weekend,” he said.
I gave William a subtle nod of feigned appreciation and showed him out. The thing about William is that he has always been an acquaintance trying to become a friend, perhaps no greater flaw in someone. I’m certainly too old now for new friends, and I was too old then as well. I will admit I did tape up a piece of paper on the front door, a makeshift sign that read:
Make Sure Oven is Off
My retirement routine then was not too different than it is now. I got dressed, made my way down the elevator, and began my morning routine across the street at Zaza’s. But the morning changed when Scott dropped off my cappuccino, scone, and newspaper. As I turned to the Arts section of the paper to look at movie reviews, I received a call that would change everything. From an old client of mine named Frankie.
“Yes?” I answered.
“Look, I know you’re retired, but I got a case that I think -“
“No, no, Frankie. I’m a content old man.”
“It’s for a client that… Listen, I think it’s a day’s work.”
“A day’s work?”
“It should be. But if it turns out to be more than that, it might be a case that’ll make you believe in God. And the Devil too.”
I remember looking at my cappuccino and scone, wondering if this silly call and my sheer curiosity would drag me away from my tranquil life.
“Details?”
Frankie laughed. He knew had me on the hook.
“Those will have to come in person. Client would prefer to discuss all of this in person. Today at 1pm.”
“Where?”
“Picnic Basket. But let’s meet at IFAR”
I remember hating that Frankie knew me so well. The Picnic Basket was a cozy sandwich shop in the arts district. Known for their beautifully delicious pastrami on rye. It also happened to be one of my favorite lunch spots in the entire city. In the afternoon, I made it over to the junction triangle, passing all the art galleries that lined the streets, showcasing local and international works of all sorts. The buildings are all independently designed by great artists, mostly covered in glass, playing with the sunlight in unique ways.
The only eyesore of the area happened to be the building I was meeting Frankie and his client at. IFAR. The International Federation of Art Research. It’s a tall, rather plain-looking building. But it also happens to be one of the most important agencies in the Art World. I stood outside of it for a few minutes before Frankie came out. Frankie is short and a bit rounder than he’d care to admit. But he’s very pleasant and always seems to know people. Walking out with him was someone I had never met or even seen before. A woman. I remember thinking she had to be between 40-55. Very distinguished looking and was wearing a fur coat. I couldn’t tell if it was real or faux. I just remember thinking it was odd since it was so warm out.
“Robert!” Frankie yelled. “How are you, my friend?”
We shook hands.
“Famished. You guys?” I joked, trying to lighten the mood, waiting for the introduction.
“Of course, of course,” Frankie continued. “This is Marla Chandler. My client.’
More handshakes.
“Robert Grant. Pleasure to meet you.”
“I’ve heard so much about you already, Mr. Grant,” she said extra politely. “I look forward to working together.”
“You two go to have lunch, talk about the case, and let me know if you’re taking the case. I have a meeting I can’t miss,” Frankie explained, looking at me as he delivered the last bit.
So Marla and I walked to The Picnic Basket.
We didn’t talk much until we had ordered and sat across from each other in a small booth in the back. At first, we just made small talk. She was visiting from New York. She knew Frankie through connections in the art world. She was an art historian. Then our lunch specials came and we enjoyed those for a few minutes. The pastrami on rye was as perfect as ever. And finally, after all of the small talk about Frankie and IFAR, she seemed to get a more serious tone, way more serious than I was ever expecting. She leaned in closely, almost as if she was afraid someone was eavesdropping on us, and began a conversation I could have never been prepared for.
“Are you a man of faith?” She asked me.
“I grew up Catholic,” I shrugged. “But I don’t practice.”
“Have you followed the Montreal Police’s investigation into the missing children cases over the past year? There have been two here in the city recently. Ages 5 and 7.”
“I can’t say I have. Did they find them?”
“No. You haven’t heard about the investigation because there isn’t one.”
“Oh.”
“There’s been a handful more in Albany and Buffalo. I believe they’re all connected.”
“Were those on the news?” I asked her, genuinely curious.
I always feel terrible that I don’t pay more attention to the news outside of the arts and entertainment. But Marla didn’t seemed bothered by my lack of knowledge. In fact, she grew much quieter all of a sudden, almost disappearing into herself.
“It’s alright,” I said. “I think I’m tracking with you. Missing kids, a handful of them. And no one is reporting on it.”
There was a long bit of silence as she contemplated if she was going to continue.
“I’m going to sound crazy. It took me four hours to convince Frankie I wasn’t crazy.”
I laughed. I thought she was joking at first, but I quickly realized she wasn’t.
“I believe the missing children… that they’re all connected. There is a man I believe is running a sort of trafficking ring. He’s calling himself Osvaldo.”
“Jesus.”
“No…” She said softly. “Osvaldo is a fallen angel and I believe he is on Earth collecting children for Satan. Osvaldo is acting as an advisor to the wealthy. He’s posing as an art dealer and has made himself completely invaluable to the rich and powerful. The media is looking the other way.”
I sat there speechless. I remember thinking I couldn’t wait to slap Frankie for setting up this lunch. I think Marla could tell she was losing me.
“You must believe me. I’ve studied him by many names in art. That’s my background. There are stories of collectors of innocent souls who work for the devil.”
“Look, I think I could maybe help you out… if you had some sort of proof… Maybe…”
A lightbulb went off for her.
“Of course!” She nearly yelled, frantically looking through her purse for something.
I have to admit, the hair on my arms started standing up. She was so confident. Then she stopped rummaging through her purse and turned back towards me, now holding two things in her hands. Her phone and a small, gold lighter.
She passed me the lighter and began pulling up something on her phone.
“What am I looking at here?” I asked her.
“Osvaldo’s lighter.”
I noticed the odd markings on the case. An outline of an archaic serpent.
“Here,” she said, holding up her phone.
It was a picture of a painting, a renaissance style painting of what looked to me to be angels and demons fighting outside a farmhouse. All had various weapons.
“Are you following?” she asked. “Gold lighter with those markings.”
“A bit,” I said.
She used her fingertips to zoom in on her phone on one of the angels in particular, who seemed to be on neither side of the battle but was simply there watching. Based on appearances, you would guess he was on the side of the angels. But as she kept zooming in, you could see a small gold scepter in his right hand. It had that same archaic serpent symbol etched on the side.
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(END OF PART 1)
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