Pleasing the Dead by Deborah Turrell Atkinson Page A

owns Blue Marine.”

Chapter Eleven
    The address for Paradise Consortium was located a few blocks from the Property Assessment offices, and Storm drove right by it the first time. It was one of those multi-story storage units that were springing up throughout the state. Big, expensive buildings on prime real estate. She pulled into the nearly empty parking lot and checked the street number again. This was an office for a conglomerate that owned millions of dollars of real estate? Her curiosity was piqued.
    A front office with a wide, open window was just inside the front door. A bell to get attention sat on the countertop, along with a lineup of Plexiglas business card holders. It looked like there were a number of businesses located here.
    In the office, a man with a cell phone pressed to his ear paced back and forth on the industrial carpeting. He spoke loudly in Japanese-accented English and gesticulated with his free hand. Storm didn’t want to interrupt, so she took a step back and looked around.
    Doors appeared at regular intervals down a long corridor, which was lit by caged light bulbs dangling on long wires. The concrete floor was clean, but lacked any pretense of comfort or luxury, and the hall ended in a steel door that was stenciled with a sign, “Exit Stair.” Perhaps there was an elevator down there, too, but Storm couldn’t tell because the ceiling light at the end of the passageway had burned out. If light hadn’t spilled from one of the unit doors, it would be quite dark.
    The clerk hadn’t acknowledged her presence, so Storm ambled toward the open unit. She was about halfway down the corridor when the man in the office noticed.
    â€œHey, stop!” He slammed the office door and dashed down the hallway. “No entry without authorization.”
    Storm turned around. “Sorry, you were busy. I’m interested in renting a unit.”
    â€œWe protect the privacy of our clients,” he panted. “Come to the office. I’ll show you rates.” Sweat trickled from his hairline. “What are you storing?”
    â€œAntiques,” Storm said. “My mother left me some very nice pieces. I’m going to open a shop.”
    â€œOur security is excellent.”
    â€œObviously.”
    â€œLet me show you some available units.” They were back at the office and the man let himself in while Storm waited at the counter.
    â€œWhat size unit do you need?” he asked from the other side of the counter.
    â€œSome of the furniture is quite large. I’ll need at least seventy or eighty square feet.”
    â€œWe have units that size.”
    â€œI may need a phone line, too. Is that possible?”
    â€œYes, we can set up phone and fax facilities. For a fee, you can have wireless internet access.”
    â€œHow about a mailing address?” Storm asked.
    â€œYes, of course. You would pick up mail here.” He gestured to a series of cubbyholes at the back of the office. “Let me get our rate list and floor plan for you.”
    He slapped a document on the counter and turned it for her to see. It was a diagram of units, but what drew her attention were his hands. Both pinkies were chopped off at the first knuckle.
    â€œCould I see an ID, please?” he asked.
    Storm dragged her attention from the missing fingers. “Um, I don’t want to move furniture to the second floor. Do you have something on the first floor?”
    â€œMaybe. The ID?”
    Storm dug around in her bag. “I must have left it in the car.” She dumped a hairbrush, a compact, and two lipsticks on the counter.
    He looked doubtful. “Security. I must see ID.”
    Storm had heard stories about missing fingers as a sign of allegiance to the Yakuza. Ten or fifteen years ago, the organization had been quite active in the islands, particularly in real estate adventures, as it was an effective way to launder large amounts of cash.
    She eyed the guy.