by Dan Willis
Alex hadn’t intended to doze, but he must have, since he didn’t hear the big Lieutenant come in. He made a mental note to speak to Jessica about the power of her mentor’s sleeping draughts.
“Lieutenant,” he said, sitting up on the couch. “I was beginning to wonder if anybody worked around here?”
“Funny,” Callahan said, dropping into the chair behind his desk. “I’m not surprised you managed to get up here,” he said, shuffling papers around on his desk until he found what he was looking for. “You always manage to turn up in the damnedest places.”
Alex grinned at him and moved from the couch to one of the two chairs in front of the big man’s desk.
“You say the sweetest things, Lieutenant,” he said.
Alex hadn’t noticed it before, but up close, Callahan’s face was drawn and his eyes were bloodshot. Apparently Alex wasn’t the only one who hadn’t been sleeping well.
Till now, he reminded himself.
“Cute,” Callahan said, closing the folder he’d been looking through. “We’ll see how cute you are when Detweiler catches you skulking around. Word has it he’s offered a bounty for anything he can use to lock you up.”
“You know me, Lieutenant,” Alex said, dropping the folded-up list of names on his desk. “I love to make an impression.”
Callahan rolled his eyes as he reached for the paper.
“The only impression around here is going to Detweiler’s size nines on your butt. What’s this?”
“That’s a list of people the ghost has targeted for death.”
Callahan raised an eyebrow and perused the list.
“Okay,” he said, dropping it on his desk. “What makes you think the ghost is after these people?”
“Seth Kowalski,” Alex said.
“The first victim, so?”
“He was the County Assessor for Suffolk County from eighteen-ninety-seven through aught-nine.”
Callahan picked up the paper again and held it up.
“And that relates to these people how?”
“Everybody on that list worked for Kowalski when he ran the Assessor’s office.”
Callahan looked the list over again.
“Where did you get this?” he asked. “You sure it’s legit?”
“I got it from the current Assessor out in Suffolk County,” Alex said. “Name’s Randall Walker. He can confirm it.”
Callahan stared at the list for a long time before speaking.
“This could be a coincidence,” he said, clearly playing devil’s advocate.
Alex didn’t think for a minute that someone as sharp as Callahan believed in coincidence. He shrugged and decided to play along.
“Maybe it is,” he said. “But if I didn’t give this list to you and someone on there got bumped off, I could be up for a complicity charge. And if I gave the list to you, and you didn’t do anything and someone on that list got killed…”
“Yeah,” Callahan said after a long minute. “Remember that explanation. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”
He picked up the phone on his desk.
“Tell Detweiler I want to see him,” he growled into it.
Alex sat back in the chair, crossing his legs and lighting a cigarette. He knew he’d just delivered information that might make Detweiler’s career, but he didn’t put it past the Lieutenant to have him arrested just for spite. He took a long drag on the cigarette to calm his nerves.
The door opened behind Alex and he turned. Detweiler in his rumpled jacket stood in the doorway, the stump of a cigar clutched in his teeth. He looked like an unmade bed, with hair flying wildly and bloodshot eyes. The ghost case was clearly running him ragged.
“What is it, Callahan?” he said. “Some of us have work to…” He stopped short when he caught sight of Alex and his tired face turned red. “I thought I told you I’d arrest you if I caught you up here,” Detweiler sneered, reaching for his cuffs.
“Sit down, James,” Callahan growled.
Detweiler looked like he was about to tell Callahan exactly where to put that remark, but as he looked up at his counterpart, something made him stop.
“All right, Callahan,” he said in an easy voice. “I’ll give you one minute to convince me why I shouldn’t run in your boy here and report you to the Captain.”
“Take a look at this,” Callahan said, handing the list of names over.
“Where’d you get this?” he asked after looking it over.
“From Randall Walker,” Alex explained. “He’s the Assessor for Suffolk County.”
“And he knew all four victims?” Detweiler said. “Is he connected to these other people?”
“No,” Callahan said. “All of these people worked for Seth Kowalski back when he was the Suffolk County Assessor.”
Detweiler looked at the list again, more critically this time.
“So, you think the ghost is after these people,” he said at last. “That the fact they all worked for the first victim, Kowalski, isn’t just a coincidence.”
“That’s how I figure it,” Callahan said.
Detweiler looked up from the list with a suspicious expression and turned to Alex.
“You get this list from your friend at The Midnight Sun?”
Alex almost burst out laughing, but managed to control himself. Laughing at the exhausted Lieutenant was a surefire way to get locked up.
“No,” Alex said, being careful to keep his voice friendly and snicker free. “I dug this up myself.”
“I thought I told you to drop this case,” the portly Lieutenant sneered.
“You did,” Alex said, puffing on his cigarette. “But then I remembered that I don’t work for you.”
Detweiler’s face turned red and he reached for his cuffs again.
“It’s a good thing Alex kept digging,” Callahan interjected in his take-charge voice. “If the ghost is going after people on that list, not only can we protect them, but we’ve got a good chance to catch this maniac.”
“Oh sure,” Detweiler said, turning his anger on Callahan. “I notice you didn’t go to the Captain with this yourself. You want me to take charge of this so if it blows up I’ll look like a monkey.”
“What are you talking about?” Callahan said. “I gave it to you because it’s your case.”
Detweiler slammed the paper down on Callahan’s desk.
“Are you telling me that you didn’t do this because the name Nancy Sinclair is on this list?”
“Who?” Alex and Callahan said at the same time, leaning over to see the name at which Detweiler pointed.
The portly Lieutenant looked back and forth between them before throwing up his hands.
“You know, for a couple of smart guys, you dummied up pretty quick,” he growled. “Nancy Sinclair. Now called by her married name, Nancy Banes.”
“Wife of Mayor Claude Banes?” Callahan said with raised eyebrows.
“The same,” Detweiler confirmed.
“That’s why you thought the list came from that hack at the Sun,” Alex said, finally understanding. “His paper’s been trashing the Mayor’s wife for months.”
“And you expect me to believe you didn’t know?” Detweiler said, glaring at Alex. “If I run with this, we’ll have to put extra guards on the Mayor. The papers will have a field day and I’ll be public idiot number one if nothing happens.”
“Or,” Alex pointed out, “if you ignore the list, the Mayor will make sure you rot if his wife gets killed.”
Detweiler crumpled the paper in his hands.
“It’s a nice box you’ve put me in, the both of you,” he growled. “If this is a bum steer and I end up looking the fool, I’ll make sure they put you away, Lockerby. I’ll make sure they throw away the key.”
“You’re welcome, Lieutenant,” Alex said with an easy smile. “Just don’t forget to mention my help when the mayor gives you the key to the city.”
Callahan struggled to hide a smirk so hard he looked like he might pop hi
s collar button. He managed to master himself before Detweiler looked back at him.
“Callahan,” he said, nodding at the big man, then he turned toward the door but stopped. “If you find out anything else about this case, scribbler,” he growled at Alex, “I’d better be your first call. Got me?”
Alex put his hand over his heart with a wounded expression.
“Of course, Lieutenant,” he said. “My word of honor.”
Detweiler looked like he wanted to comment on what Alex’s honor was worth, but he apparently thought better of it and stormed out of the office.
“You’d better run while you can,” Callahan said to Alex once Detweiler was gone.
Alex had a sneaking suspicion he was right.
“Can’t,” Alex said. “I promised Danny to look over that list of thefts and see if anything pops.”
Callahan dug through the folders on his desk for a moment, then extracted a thick one and opened it.
“Here,” he said, handing Alex a single sheet of paper. “That’s a list of everything missing and where it was taken from,” he said. “I’ll have Danny call your office when I see him; now get going. I don’t want to have to explain to that secretary of yours why you’ve been locked up. She’s scary.”
Alex chuckled at that. Leslie had managed to get information out of cops for him before, mostly by being gorgeous. When that didn’t work, however, she’d use the force of her considerable, take-no-prisoners personality.
“Terrifying,” Alex agreed, folding up the paper and tucking it into the back of his red rune book. “I’ll make sure Danny gets this back to you.”
“Go,” Callahan said as a commotion erupted at the far end of the hall.
Alex skipped the elevator and made for the stairs, disappearing through the exit door just as Detweiler and a pair of uniforms rounded the far corner of the hallway, heading for Callahan’s office.
15
The Truck
The lobby of the Central Office of Police was still mobbed with reporters when Alex emerged from the stairwell. He didn’t want to spend any more time in the lobby than he had to; after all, he wouldn’t put it past Detweiler to come down after him. Still, he was at a dead end with all his current cases, and it was far too early to go see Jessica.
He resolved to go to Anne Watson’s house and dig through her husband’s files. It probably wouldn’t yield anything, but now that he had a list of the ghost’s potential victims, maybe he’d find a further connection.
“Hey,” a voice said, loud in his ear.
Someone grabbed his shoulder, and Alex tensed, fearing that Detweiler’s men had caught up to him. When he turned, however, he saw the face of a man in his mid-twenties. He had a broad smile under a narrow nose in the middle of a boyish face. A dimple in his left cheek increased his youthful look and his eyes were brown and inquisitive. He wore a brown suit that looked made for hard wear and a tag had been stuck into the band of his trilby hat that read, Press.
Alex suppressed a sneer when he saw the press card. He knew a couple of decent guys at the Times, but most reporters treated P.I.s like bumbling incompetents our outright competition.
“No comment,” Alex said, yanking his shoulder free and turning back toward the door.
“Wait,” the man said. “You’re that consultant, Lockerby. The runewright detective. Is it true that you’re working with the cops to find the ghost?”
“I said no comment,” Alex said.
“Aw, come on, pal,” the reporter pressed. “The whole city is scared to death over this thing. I mean, he seems to be mostly killing rich folk, but there was that one guy in Harlem. People are scared.”
Alex looked back at the man with his boyish grin.
“I was never working this case with the police,” Alex said. “I understand Lieutenant Detweiler is running the investigation. If you want information, you’ll have to take it up with him.”
With that, Alex pulled away and maneuvered through the crowd to the big glass doors at the end of the lobby.
“Thanks for nothing, mac,” the reported called after him.
Ten minutes and a short crawler ride later, Alex pushed open the gate to the Watson home. He was surprised to find it locked and empty. There wasn’t even a squad car on the street.
Detweiler must have called off the investigation into Anne when Paul Lundstrom was murdered.
Alex hadn’t anticipated being locked out of the house, but he came prepared. Taking out his rune book, Alex paged to the back. He passed a green and gold rune that would open the lock magically, but the components of that rune cost forty dollars. Alex preferred a much cheaper method of entry.
He tore out a vault rune and, taking a bit of chalk from his jacket pocket, drew a chalk door on the wall of the porch. A moment later he was back on the porch with the beat-up leather doctor’s bag that held his kit.
Alex paused for a moment to wipe away the chalk outline before he opened his kit. Anne Watson was his client after all; no sense in leaving her porch untidy. He took out an ornate pencil case that held the various writing instruments he might need on the job. The case was made of wood with a slender, mahogany tray and a cherry cover. Turning it upside down, Alex pushed his thumb along the bottom of the mahogany tray and a concealed panel slid sideways, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside were several tools for picking locks.
The Watsons’ lock was the newer kind that took a small key with multiple teeth. Setting his kit and the pencil case aside, Alex selected a slim tool with an undulating end and an L-shaped tension tool. It had been a while since he’d been forced to pick a lock, but Iggy kept saying it was like riding a bike. Alex had never ridden a bike, so he wasn’t sure that was true, but the lock clicked open after only a few moments of manipulation.
Feeling quite self-satisfied, Alex replaced the tools inside the hidden compartment of the wooden case, picked up his kit, and went inside.
Two hours later, Alex sat at David Watson’s enormous desk. It was no longer a shrine to neatness and order. Piles of file folders were stacked from one end to the other and his immaculately organized file cabinets stood open and mostly empty.
With a sigh of disgust, Alex closed the file he’d been reviewing and dropped it on a stack to his left. He’d been through almost every land deal for which David Watson had records, and none of them involved anybody on the ghost’s list. There were many records from Suffolk County, mostly houses David had built.
Alex stood up and went to the wet bar he’d found concealed behind a folding door. Locating a bottle of single malt scotch, Alex poured himself two fingers in a shot glass and sipped it.
It was exquisite.
He closed his eyes and enjoyed the aroma and the taste of the liquor. On his budget, the best he could do was bourbon. Occasionally Iggy would break out the good stuff from his liquor cabinet, but that was a rarity. He reserved that for important conversations and deep contemplation.
“I could get used to this,” Alex said, taking another sip. He looked around the office at the wall with the glass-enclosed shelves. Watson’s old surveyor’s transit and other equipment were there, showing his humble beginnings. The next case held blueprints and photographs of houses, detailing the man’s years as a builder and finally a developer. According to the files, Watson had built some of the biggest houses on the north shore.
Alex took another sip of the whiskey, but it didn’t go down as smoothly this time. Something about Watson’s wall bothered him.
Setting the drink aside, Alex moved back to the desk. Each of the folders had a label on it listing the date of whatever transaction the files detailed. He began staking them up by year and returning them to the file cabinets where he’d gotten them. After an hour of this, the clock on the wall read one o’clock; he was ravenously hungry, but he had a small stack of folders left on the desk.
These folders represented Watson’s work as a surveyor. None of the files detailed his work for the Assessor’s office; those records would be
in storage in Suffolk County. The files on the desk represented Watson’s independent work. There were seventeen of them. The eighteenth file, in chronological order, had been the first building Watson had ever built, a glassed-in tennis court for a wealthy family.
As far as Alex could tell, David Watson had only been a surveyor for two years after he started working for himself. Alex had no idea when Watson had quit working for the assessor’s office, but he felt sure it was before the man started in the building trade.
Alex went back to the wet bar and refilled the empty shot glass with single-malt.
Watson had kept meticulous records. That was what was bothering Alex. In two years he went from being a surveyor to being a builder, but there was no record of his ever learning the building trade. He hadn’t apprenticed or gone to school, he just stopped surveying and started building for some of New York’s richest families. All in the space of two years.
Alex knew enough about building to know that Watson could never have pulled off a glassed-in tennis court with his surveyor’s knowledge. That meant he’d hired someone who did have the experience to run his crew. Add to that all the materials he would have to buy up front and it added up to a tidy sum. Watson would have needed that money before he put up the first glass panel in that tennis court.
“Where did he get the money?” Alex asked the stack of folders.
It was possible, of course, that someone had fronted him. A silent partner who believed in Watson enough to set him up.
Alex shook his head. That wouldn’t work. The folders contained every detail about the builds Watson did, and there was no payout to any partner. All the expenses were listed and catalogued.
“So where did the money come from?” he asked again. “There’s no way he saved that kind of scratch on a county surveyor’s salary.”
Alex’s stomach rumbled, and he sighed. If he wanted to make any more progress on this, he was going to need something to eat.
He picked up the telephone on Watson’s desk and gave the operator his office number. A few moments later, Leslie answered.
