Fatally Haunted

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  Mrs. Ashcroft had accepted the information Jarnac had given her with solemn understanding. The remains of a young woman wearing a gold ankle bracelet with the initials V.A. inscribed on it had been found at a construction site in San Francisco. The medical examiner estimated her body had been in the ground for approximately forty years. X-rays revealed a broken right femur bone and a fractured big toe on her right foot, injuries that had occurred years before her death.

  Jarnac had checked old missing person’s files and found one young woman with the initials V.A.—Valerie Ashcroft, who had been reported missing by her father, George Ashcroft, a Hollywood studio mogul who had died eight years ago. He’d located Janine Ashcroft’s current address through motor vehicle records. She was no longer licensed to drive but she did have a DMV ID card.

  Janine Ashcroft’s long-term memory was excellent. She remembered Valerie had been eleven years old when she’d been bouncing on the diving board of their home swimming pool and injured her right leg. She even remembered the color of the swimsuit Valerie had worn, the names of her playmates, and the name of the treating doctor.

  Her short-term memory was poor. Several times during their conversation she gotten confused and asked, “Who did you say you were?”

  She’d signed the medical release forms Jarnac had brought along with a shaky hand. “I hope these help, Inspector.”

  They had indeed. The treating doctor had since passed away; however, a call to the state medical board revealed that his medical records were stored in Los Angeles. The X-rays matched perfectly, which was a relief to Jarnac. Somehow asking an eighty-six-year-old woman for a DNA sample rubbed him the wrong way.

  Jarnac approached Janine Ashcroft slowly, so that she could get a good look at him. She’d changed from the pearl gray slacks and sweater she’d worn in the morning. She was sporting a large white straw hat and a flowing pink ankle-length dress. At first, he got a blank stare, and then she recognized him. She sat up straight, tilted her head upwards and said simply, “Bad news, I assume.”

  “I’m afraid so, Mrs. Ashcroft.”

  Perla, a diminutive Filipino woman in nurse’s whites, hurried over to them, carrying a wicker chair. Jarnac had met her that morning.

  “Can I get you something, Inspector?” Perla asked, after setting the chair alongside Mrs. Ashcroft.

  Janine Ashcroft waved her glass at the nurse. “Bring two more of these, dear.”

  “These” turned out to be vodka tonics.

  They sat in silence until Perla returned with the drinks, Janine Ashcroft’s head down, staring at the well-clipped grass. She took a deep sip of the fresh drink, and it seemed to restore her energy.

  “Thankfully, the cocktail hour is a daily ritual, though they do water the drinks down something awful. So, Mr. Policemen. You found my girl.”

  “Yes, ma’am. The remains discovered in San Francisco are definitely those of your daughter.”

  Ashcroft grunted something under her breath, and then said, “San Francisco. I always felt that she was there. My husband spent an absolute fortune searching for Valerie. There were alleged sightings in Mexico, New York, Los Angeles and Reno.” She smiled ruefully. “I thought it was all bogus; schemes made up by people trying to cash in on our grief.”

  She set her drink down on the table and her right hand crabbed over and grabbed Jarnac’s wrist. Her hands were knob-knuckled, the nails yellowed like old ivory. “What was your name again?”

  “Jarnac. Inspector Rick Jarnac.”

  “Is that French? I seem to remember George and I taking a wine tasting cruise on a small river in France shortly before he died. We visited a town by that name. It’s where they make cognac, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. The Charente River. It’s very beautiful.”

  “You’re going to find the man who did this to my Valerie, aren’t you, Inspector Jarnac?”

  “I’m going to try ma’am.”

  “Promise me,” Janine Ashcroft said in a husky, sobbing voice. “Promise me you’ll find him.”

  “I promise,” Jarnac said, freeing her hand and seeing that her fingernails had dug in deep enough to leave indentations.

  It wasn’t the first time that he’d made a promise to a grieving family member that he knew he was going to have a hard time fulfilling.

  San Francisco

  Two black-and-whites were parked side-by-side, nearly rubbing fenders, their light bars turning the fog-slick street into a kaleidoscope of red and blue patterns.

  Homicide Inspector Paul Ellis nosed the unmarked car within inches of the patrol cars. His face was a mere silhouette in the dashboard lighting. He took a deep puff on his cigarette, opened the window an inch to let the smoke out, and then climbed stiffly out of the vehicle.

  Ellis was a thick-set man with hulking shoulders. He’d been an excellent athlete in his youth, making All-City in high school football and had excelled in water polo at U.C. Davis. Now he had a beer-barrel stomach that he claimed was “slipped muscle.” His stiff, bristly gray hair was in disarray and in need of a trim. He had watery blue eyes and a tobacco-stained mustache.

  Ellis stumbled briefly, and then regained his balance—his untied rubber-soled shoes making slapping noises as he made his way over to a line of day-glow yellow plastic crime tape that stretched from the street to a storefront with windows opaque from condensation.

  A young uniformed patrolman hurried over to Ellis. “The medical examiner hasn’t arrived yet. The body’s over here.”

  “Have we got a name?” Ellis asked, sizing up the patrolman: young, tall, clean-shaven, hat squared, badge polished. An eager beaver, like I used to be, Ellis thought.

  “Yes, sir. The bartender at the Casbar, there on the corner, knew him. Kurt Thorsen. He lives just a couple of blocks away.”

  The body was spread out between the front bumper of a metallic-gray shark-jawed Porsche and a gnarled tree trunk that had buckled the sidewalk.

  His head was resting on the curb—a frozen look of surprise on his features.

  “I think I know this guy,” Ellis said. “He was a construction engineer at the place where they found all of those Indian bones.” He turned to face the patrolman. “What’s your name?”

  “Chacones. Ken Chacones, Inspector. I took the promotion test for the Bureau. I’d sure like to work Homicide.”

  “Would you now?” Ellis asked, as he bent over the corpse. Thorsen had been right there when the bones turned up—a bunch of scrawny little buggers that were quickly identified as American Indians, and the remains of a single young woman who’d been shot in the head years ago according to the information that his partner Rick Jarnac had come up with. Jarnac was in Beverly Hills now, trying to make a positive ID.

  There was a pear-shaped blood stain on the front of Thorsen’s chest.

  “Knife job is my guess,” Officer Chacones said. “We had a similar case a few weeks ago down on Mission Street. Gang killing.”

  “Which gang?” Ellis asked.

  “Sureños. Punks. Pants hanging below the crack of their asses, flannel shirts, and no matter what kind of shoes they wear, the laces have to be blue.”

  Ellis scanned the area. There was a small island of onlookers, ten or twelve older white guys, hanging out behind the crime tape. Losers from the bar, he figured.

  “Did you check his pockets, Chacones?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well do it, now. Good training for you.” And it saved Ellis from kneeling down on that wet sidewalk.

  The officer squatted down and performed the search just like they had taught him to do at the academy.

  “Nothing, sir,” he said as he bounced back up to his feet. “Stripped clean. No watch or ring, either. Pockets all empty.”

  “Okay. We’ll wait for the medical examiner. What’s the bartender’s name?”

  “Herb.”

  “Tell Herb not to go anywhere until I talk to him.”

  Ellis made hi
s way back to the unmarked car, dropped into the driver’s seat, breathing hard and grimacing.

  Fucking back, he said to himself as he struggled to pull his wallet out of his pants pocket. He searched for Henry Chung’s business card. Chung was the head honcho at Cinco, the outfit running the building project. Thorsen had barely said a word at the construction site, nor had his foreman, a big, ugly Mexican named Benny. Chung had been something else: jumpy, on edge, moving from one leg to another as if he was about to wet his pants.

  Chung had invited Ellis into his on-site office for a drink. Expensive single malt Scotch. Chung was worried that the find would shut down the job site for a long time—and made it plain that he’d be thankful for anything that Ellis could do to make sure that didn’t happen, and he would appreciate being updated on the investigation.

  So thankful that he’d invited Ellis to his house twice, the last time not more than eight hours earlier—a mansion on Jackson Street, complete with an indoor swimming pool. There’d been more Scotch, and Ellis had ended up in the shallow end of the pool with Tina, a Barbie-doll blonde, bobbing her beautiful head between his legs while Chung and his hot-looking whore Becky watched.

  The medical examiner’s wagon arrived as Ellis punched the number in his cell. Chung answered after the fourth ring.

  “Henry, I’ve got some bad news for you. One of your employees, Kurt Thorsen, who I spoke to briefly at your job site, was stabbed to death a couple of hours ago.”

  “My, God,” Chung said. “That’s awful. I hope you don’t…don’t think that it has anything to do with Cinco, Paul.”

  “No. Looks like a gang killing. Some punks nailed him on the street and took everything he had.”

  “Kurt was a valued employee. He’s going to be hard to replace. If there’s any consolation, it’s that Kurt wasn’t married, and had no children. He was devoted to his work. Tell me, the remains of the woman with the ankle bracelet, is there anything new on that investigation?”

  “I think we’ve got a positive ID. Someone who disappeared a long time ago. I talked it over with my boss. An old case like this isn’t worth wasting the manpower. We’ve got more work than we can handle now.”

  “Once again, I am most grateful. Could I see you again? Tomorrow? At my home. Say around noon. I have a proposition you may find of interest.”

  “You bet,” Ellis said, before breaking the connection. Maybe the cards were finally turning in his favor. Running into a rich guy like Chung, doing him a small favor, and now this—one of his employees murdered. A lucky break for him, not Thorsen. He could milk it along—more booze, more Tina. More of everything.

  Ellis’s back started to throb again as he struggled out of the car. The pain was getting worse every day. He’d found an attorney that thought he could wrangle a disability pension for him. Depending on what Chung’s proposition turned out to be, this could be his last case.

  He tapped the young patrolman on the shoulder.

  “What did you say the bartender’s name was, kid?”

  “Herb, sir. Do you want to speak to the medical technicians?”

  Ellis watched the two men in white coveralls examining Thorsen’s body. “No. You do that. I’ll talk to Herb.”

  Click here to learn more about Silent Remains by Jerry Kennealy.

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  Here is a preview from Swann’s Down, the fifth Henry Swann mystery by Charles Salzberg.

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  1

  The Age of Aquarius

  “We’re partners, right?”

  Nothing good can come from that question when it comes from the mouth of Goldblatt.

  “I mean, all for one and one for all, am I right?” he quickly added in an attempt, I was sure, to seal the deal.

  “I think you’re confusing us with the three musketeers. May I point out there are only two of us, and I’m afraid that’s not the only fallacy in your declaration. But you might as well finish what you’ve started.”

  We were having our weekly Friday lunchtime sit-down to discuss what Goldblatt likes to refer to as “business.” I have another name for it: waste of time.

  Our venue changes from week to week but the concept is always pretty much the same: a cheap diner-slash-coffee shop somewhere on the island of Manhattan. Today’s eatery of choice (Goldblatt’s choice, my destiny) is the Utopia Diner, on Amsterdam, near Seventy-second Street. And as for the business we’d just finished discussing, well, to be honest, there never is much actual business to discuss and today was no exception.

  At this particular moment, we were going through a bit of a dry spell, which always makes me a little nervous because no matter how much I banish it from my mind, the rent is due the first of every month and at least three times a day I seem to develop a hunger that must be quenched. Still, a good fifteen, twenty years away from Social Security, and with precious little dough in the bank—okay, let’s be honest, no dough in the bank—and no 401(k) to fall back on, I need to keep working. And, as much as I don’t like to admit it, lately it’s been my “partner,” as he likes to refer to himself, as opposed to my preferred “albatross,” who’s brought in the bulk of our clients.

  We’d already finished eating—though technically, Goldblatt never actually finishes eating which means a meal can easily turn into an all-day affair if I don’t apply the brakes—and we were just waiting for the check to arrive. This is a crucial point of any meal with Goldblatt because it is the opening gambit in what has become our weekly routine of watching the check sit there in no-man’s land somewhere between us until I inevitably give in, pick it up, and pay. Otherwise, I risk one of two things: either we’d be there all afternoon or, worst-case scenario, Goldblatt will decide he’s still hungry and threaten to order something else. Neither of these options is the least bit appealing.

  “I’ll get right to the point,” he said.

  Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the waiter, like a white knight, approaching with our check in hand. If I acted quick enough I might be able to get out of there before being sucked into something I don’t want to have anything to do with.

  “That would be nice,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “What is your point?”

  “I need to hire you.”

  I was stopped in my tracks before I got my wallet halfway out of my back pocket.

  “Really? To do what?”

  “I want you to find someone for me. Well, to be more precise, it’s not really for me. It’s for my ex-wife.”

  Wait a minute! Goldblatt married? Goldblatt with a wife? Goldblatt a husband? This was a new one on me, something I’d never even considered.

  “You…you’ve been married?” I stammered.

  Truth is, I never pictured Goldblatt being in any relationship other than with, yes, as irritating as it might be, me. I mean the guy isn’t exactly anyone’s idea of Don Juan, although I suppose in theory there are women who might find him if not attractive in the conventional way, at least interesting in a specimen-under-glass way. Or maybe as a project. Women love a project. They love a challenge. They love the idea that they have the opportunity to remake a man in their image. Maybe that was it. But whatever it was, my world was shaken to the core. And what would shake it even more would be to find that he was a father, too. But one shock per meal is more than enough, so there was no chance I was going to pursue that line of questioning.

  “Unfortunately, the answer is yes. More than once, in fact.”

  “Holy cow,” I blurted out, channeling the Scooter. “You’re kidding me?”

  At this point the same bald, squat waiter who seemed to serve us in every diner we patronized, reached our table and dropped the check right in front of me.

  “This is not something a man usually kids about.”

  “How many times?”

  He held up three fingers.

 
“Three times! You’ve been married three times?”

  “Yeah.”

  I gulped.

  “Are you married now?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. I’m kinda between wives. Giving it a rest, if you know what I mean. But chances are I’ll be back in the saddle again soon enough.”

  “Okay, so let me get this straight. You’ve been married three times and now you’re single but you would consider getting married again?”

  “Man is not meant to be alone, Swannie. You might consider the possibility that your life would be enriched if you found your soul mate.”

  You’re fortunate if you find one soul mate in life and I’d already had mine. She was yanked from my life as a result of a freak accident, a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I didn’t know if Goldblatt knew the circumstances of her bizarre accidental death, but I wouldn’t have been surprised because he seemed to know a lot of things he had no business knowing.

  “Some men are meant to be alone, Goldblatt. I’m one of them and after three failed marriages, maybe you should consider the possibility you are, too.”

  He smiled and puffed out his chest. “What can I say, Swann? I’m a friggin’ babe magnet.”

  I would have laughed, should have laughed, but I was still processing the scary fact that he’d been married three times. That meant there were three women in the world who not only were willing to marry him but did marry him. I wanted to know more. Much more. Everything, in fact. But this was not the time and certainly not the place to delve into Goldblatt’s mysterious, sordid past. Nevertheless, I promised myself I would revisit this topic in the not too distant future.

  Still in shock, I avoided our weekly “who’s paying for this meal” tango, grabbed the check and reached for my wallet…again.