Supernatural Born Killers

by Casey Daniels

  Yeah, that was supposed to satisfy me.

  Turns out the hotel where the convention was set to begin in just another week’s time wasn’t all that far from the police station. That was bad news for me, because it didn’t give me time to ask Quinn what the hell he was talking about. It was good news for him, because it didn’t give me time to ask Quinn what the hell he was talking about.

  Since he didn’t tell me to stay in the car, I followed him into the hotel, one of those generic places concerned more with efficiency than style that are always built close to interstates. This one had a good-sized lobby with shiny floors the color of autumn leaves, a trickling fountain outside the bar, and tan couches scattered here and there where travelers waited for the airport shuttle, their suitcases on rolling carts nearby. Across from the front revolving door was a wide corridor and a sign that pointed to the ballroom. Even from where we stood near the registration desk, I could hear the sounds of sawing and hammering coming from that direction.

  The girl behind the desk had a bright smile when she looked from me to Quinn. “Checking in?” she asked.

  It was an all-too-obvious reminder that there was a time when there wouldn’t have been any question about it. Quinn would have looked at me, I would have looked at him, and we would have scooped up the first available room and been in the sack together in record time. It said something about our relationship that these days, all he did was flash his badge.

  “Detective Quinn Harrison,” he said, oh so professional in what could have been a too-hot-to-handle personal situation. “I’m the department’s liaison with the comic book convention. You have a security guard here, Vincent Bagaletti. Is he around?”

  The girl was maybe nineteen and she either had never had to deal with cops before or she was just stunned by Quinn’s gorgeousness. Her mouth hung open for a couple seconds before she shook herself back to reality and pointed down the corridor and toward the ballroom.

  Vincent, as it turned out, wasn’t much older than the girl behind the desk. He had spotty skin, hair that hung past his collar, and a silver stud in his left earlobe. His khaki-colored uniform shirt hung from scrawny shoulders and I guess Quinn had run into similar types before, because he didn’t waste any time. He introduced himself and got right down to business.

  “You said there was something you needed to talk to me about.”

  When Vincent gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbed. He glanced over his shoulder to where a couple guys in jeans and flannel shirts were fitting together what looked to be some sort of painted backdrop of a city skyline. “Not here,” he said. “They might hear.”

  Since it was hard to hear even my own voice over the construction noises that echoed off the crystal chandeliers and glossy wallpaper, it didn’t seem likely. Still, I couldn’t help but be intrigued. “Who?” I asked Vincent before Quinn could.

  “We need to…” Vincent took another quick look around and even though none of the workers in the ballroom was paying the least bit of attention to us, he shuffled his black sneakers against the green-and-maroon plaid carpeting. “We can’t talk here. We need to…” He never finished; he was too busy scrambling for the door.

  Quinn and I followed and a minute later, we found ourselves out on the loading dock behind the hotel. There was a semi parked nearby, but no one was in it, and to our right and over by the corner of the building, a couple women in housekeeping uniforms were puffing on cigarettes and chatting in Spanish.

  “Who was going to listen to what you had to say, Vincent?” This time, Quinn asked before I could. “And why would they care?”

  “They always listen.” Vincent’s gaze darted from the door behind us to the far corners of the parking lot. “They keep an official record, you know. Of everything I say and do.”

  Quinn did not seem to think this was as interesting as I did. In fact, when he stepped back, I practically saw the starch go out of his white shirt. “They,” was all he said.

  Vincent nodded like a bobblehead on the dashboard of a car speeding over railroad tracks. Maybe I have a more trusting face than Quinn; when he lowered his voice, it was me Vincent looked at. The moment might have packed more drama if his breath hadn’t smelled like Doritos. “The ninjas,” he said.

  “Great.” Somehow, Quinn’s grumble sounded almost professional. “Then there’s really nothing you need to talk to me about, is there Mr. Bagaletti? If that changes anytime soon…”

  He’d already started to walk away when Vincent latched onto Quinn’s arm.

  So not a good idea, even in the best of circumstances. Coming on the heels of being shot dead the way it did, this sort of physical contact was bound to make Quinn testy.

  But then, Vincent learned that quick enough when every muscle in Quinn’s body tensed, he spun, grabbed the kid by the throat, and had him up against a wall before Vincent had a chance to catch his breath.

  “I didn’t…I couldn’t…” Vincent went as pale as a ghost—and I should know, right?—and gurgled like a swimmer who’s been under water too long. But then, Quinn’s hand was a little tight around the kid’s skinny neck. “I didn’t mean…”

  “No. Of course you didn’t.” Three cheers for Quinn; a couple seconds of staring into Vincent’s eyes as a way of sending an unmistakable message, and he backed off and backed away, giving Vincent room to shake in his shoes. “You’d better be careful, or you’re going to find yourself—”

  “What Detective Harrison means to say…” Me, the great smoother-over. “Is that you caught him by surprise. I’m sure you didn’t mean that, did you, Vincent? So why don’t you just tell us why you called us here.”

  Yes, the us was stretching the truth a tad, but this was no time to explain about my personal stake in this interview—which was pretty much that I wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible so we could eat.

  “It’s…It’s like I said, the ninjas. I heard them talking. And when the convention starts—”

  Quinn’s eyes sparked and when he took a step closer, Vincent folded himself against the wall. “What’s going to happen when the convention starts?” he asked the kid.

  Vincent ran his tongue over his lips. “I’m not supposed to know. I’m not supposed to tell. But I heard the voices. I heard them talking. The ninjas are going to break in. Through the morgue.”

  Predictably, after that, the interview wound down pretty quickly. Quinn held it together until we were all the way back to the car. Shaking his head, he unlocked the door. “The guy needs meds.”

  This was hard to dispute.

  “He’s seeing things. And hearing things.” Quinn got in the driver’s door and I opened the other. “I can’t stand it when people make things up.”

  “Make things up?” I’d already slid into the car on the other side and I patted the empty seat between me and Quinn. “You mean like this?”

  His jaw tensed. “Not you, too! You’re as bad as Vincent. Wet ghosts and wet spots and—”

  Because I knew he wouldn’t do it on his own, I took Quinn’s hand and pressed it to the empty seat between us.

  “It’s wet,” he said.

  “Yeah.” I glanced into the backseat. It was empty. “Wet spot, but no wet ghost. I wonder what that means.”

  Thank goodness the drippy ghost didn’t show up while we were in the car.

  Fake leather upholstery, remember (standard in unmarked police cars), and so not good at absorbing moisture. If that soggy spirit had popped up in that seat between me and Quinn, my schoolboy blazer might have gotten soaked, along with the rest of me.

  As it turned out, he never made his entrance until we were already at Heck’s, one of the restaurants that’s an institution in Cleveland, partly because it’s been around for practically forever and mostly because the food is so good. We’d just been seated at one of the round bistro tables in the open, airy room in the back where dozens of hanging plants and pots of flowers caught the afternoon light and the terra-cotta-tile floor gleamed.

  That�
��s when I noticed the puddle on the floor near our table.

  Quinn was reading the menu so I reached across the table and poked him.

  “He’s back,” I said.

  Since I was the one who was starving to death, Quinn shouldn’t have been the one concentrating on the menu. “He who?”

  “The ghost of course. Look.”

  He did, saw the puddle, and grimaced. “I thought this mojo of yours was some sort of magical, secret thing. Is it supposed to happen out in public?”

  “So you finally believe me, huh?” I grinned and leaned forward so he couldn’t escape my penetrating look—or my question. “You’re willing to admit I have—”

  “An overactive imagination.” He flapped his menu shut and set it down on the table. “What are you ordering?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to even look at the menu yet. Ghost, remember.”

  “Puddle,” he corrected me.

  “Puddle.” My arms crossed over my chest, I sat back. “But you know what that means. First the puddle, then the ghost. He’s bound to show up sooner or later.”

  Turns out sooner was a little too soon. Because no sooner had Manny, our way-cute waiter, arrived to ask what we wanted to drink than the ghost was standing right next to him.

  “Water,” I said, pointing to the ever-growing puddle so that Quinn couldn’t ignore it.

  “With or without lemon?” Manny asked.

  “No. I mean…I’ll have iced tea.”

  “With or without lemon?” Manny asked.

  I went with the lemon, waited while Quinn ordered the same, then when Manny left to get our drinks, I tipped my head to my left to where the ghost was waiting—and dripping.

  “He’s here now,” I told Quinn. “Not just the puddle. All of him.”

  He glanced from the puddle on the floor to the row of windows set high up on the wall and beyond that to the ceiling. “Or the construction here is lousy, and the roof has a hole in it. It is a pretty old building.”

  A passing busboy caught sight of the puddle, grabbed a rag, and sopped up the water, shivering when he stood. Mumbling, “It’s cold in here,” he disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Did you hear that?” I leaned my elbows on the table. “The kid said it was cold.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Or it is. Because he felt the chill from the ghost.”

  “Or he’s coming down with something and we better hope he doesn’t touch our food.”

  I grumbled and plunked back in my chair. “You just won’t stop being stubborn, will you? Why don’t you just—”

  Manny slipped up to our table and deposited our glasses of tea. “Ready to order?”

  “Yes,” Quinn said, at the same time I said, “No,” offered Manny a sleek smile and told him to give us a couple more minutes.

  “I thought you were hungry.”

  “I am,” I told Quinn. I snapped open my menu. “If you’d quit interrupting me—”

  “Which I’m not.”

  “Like right now.” I gave him one telling glance and went back to studying the menu.

  I was just reading the description of the chargrilled chicken breast (it came with spicy blue cheese sauce, crunchy potato wedges, and asparagus—yum) and my stomach was growling when—

  Drip, drip, drip.

  “Oh, come on!” I groaned.

  From across the table, Quinn gave me a vacant look. “Come on where?”

  “Not you. The ghost.” I tipped my menu in Quinn’s direction so he could see the spots of water on it. “He leaned over my shoulder when I was reading about the chicken with blue cheese sauce and—”

  “She’ll have the chicken with the blue cheese sauce.” Quinn nabbed Manny just as he buzzed by. “I’ll have the Cajun burger.”

  “Maybe I didn’t want the chicken with blue cheese sauce,” I pointed out at the same time Manny scooped up our menus and walked away.

  “Sure you did. That explains how your menu got all wet. You were drooling on it.”

  Not so hilarious that it deserved such a big laugh from him.

  “So…” Still grinning, Quinn took a sip of tea and sat back. “What does the ghost want?”

  I looked at the apparition. “You heard the man. What’s shakin’? And what do you want?”

  “Hmhm Mmm. Mmmmnm,” the ghost replied.

  I grumbled a word best not used in public. “This isn’t going to work.”

  “He wants us to know what’s not going to work?”. Quinn asked.

  “He doesn’t want us to know anything’s not going to work. This…” I motioned back and forth between me and the ghost as a way of signaling communication that really didn’t communicate very clearly.

  Manny thought I was calling him and hurried over to refill our iced teas.

  I waited until he slipped back into the kitchen. “This trying to talk to the ghost,” I said, continuing right back where I’d left off. “He can’t talk, remember. He’s got duct tape over his mouth.”

  “Hmhm Mmm. Mmmmnm,” the ghost said.

  I decided it meant that he agreed with me.

  “So how am I going to figure out what you want?” I asked him.

  He shrugged as much as he was able, which wasn’t much since his hands were tied behind his back.

  Thinking, I drummed my fingers against the table. “I could ask questions,” I said, sliding a look at the ghost. “And you can answer them.”

  He nodded.

  Feeling a little more in control, I sat up. “We know you were murdered. Am I right?”

  The ghost nodded.

  I rubbed my hands together. “He says yes. Now we’re getting somewhere. And you came to me because you want me to figure out who killed you.”

  “Does he?” Quinn asked.

  The ghost shook his head.

  “He says he doesn’t,” I reported. “Which is weird, because that’s usually what they want. You know, justice.”

  “And you’re the one they pick to get it for them.”

  I might have taken offense at Quinn’s comment if there wasn’t a green spark in his eyes that made me think that maybe—if he actually believed I talked to the dead—he’d be impressed.

  Just in case that wasn’t what the look meant, I made it clear. “Yes, I get justice for them. Only this time…” I took another look at the ghost and at the water already puddling around his feet. “You don’t want me to find out who killed you?”

  He nodded.

  “You do want me to find out who killed you?”

  He shook his head.

  I grumbled some more.

  “Let’s start again,” I suggested because I was getting confused. “You got murdered.”

  “Are you talking to me or the ghost?” Quinn asked.

  “I’m talking to the ghost because you didn’t…” Another groan. “Of course you did. You got murdered, too,” I said to Quinn. “But I’m not talking about you getting murdered…” I swung back toward the ghost. “I’m talking about you getting murdered. You…” Another look at Quinn. “You were brought back. This guy…” I took another gander at the apparition, at the way his hands were tied and his mouth was covered, at the gash on his jaw and the blood on his shirt. “This guy stayed dead.”

  The ghost nodded.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to find out who did it?” I asked again. I know, I was being a little obsessive-compulsive, but it never hurts to get things straight with ghosts. Or with cops, so I added for Quinn’s benefit, “That’s what they all want.”

  The ghost shook his head.

  Manny showed up with our lunches and Quinn took a bite of his burger and wiped juice from his chin. “Maybe he doesn’t need you to find out who killed him because he already knows who killed him.”

  I looked toward the ghost, who nodded enthusiastically.

  “He says he does. I can’t tell you how much easier that makes this for me. If he knows who killed him—”

  “Just tell him to get me some suspec
ts,” Quinn suggested, “a motive, and oh yeah, evidence, and I’ll be happy to take care of it for him.”

  “Not so easy since he can’t talk.”

  Quinn thought this over while he took another bite of burger. “Why doesn’t he take the duct tape off?”

  “His hands are tied, remember.”

  “Then why don’t you take it off for him?”

  I bit back my irritation at having to explain this most basic of ghostly concepts, but only because I remembered that when it came to ghosts, Quinn hadn’t been dead long enough to learn the rules. “They can’t touch stuff,” I explained. “Not like we can. That’s why they need me to do things for them. And I can’t take it off,” I added, because I knew that’s what he was going to bring up next. “Because if I do, I’ll get frozen to the bone.” I did not point out that I knew this for a fact because I’d once made the mistake of kissing a ghost. Instant lip freeze, and I talked like Elmer Fudd for hours.

  It was kind of hard to tell if Quinn was buying any of this or not, what with him munching on french fries and all.

  “Do you believe me?” I asked him.

  “I believe you believe it.”

  “Not what I asked.” I was suddenly not as hungry as I was irritated by his attitude. I poked at a crunchy potato wedge with the tip of my fork. “I shouldn’t have to prove it. If you were any other guy—”

  “Like that cop in New Mexico?”

  Yes, there had been some phone calls between me and Quinn while I was visiting the great Southwest, mostly in regard to the case I was working that involved the kidnaping of a friend. Yes, Jesse had been in the room a time or two and no doubt, Quinn had heard his voice in the background. As for him jumping to the conclusion that there was something going on between me and Jesse…

  Even though I hadn’t eaten the first one, I stabbed another potato wedge. Hard. “That’s old news.”

  “Love ’em and leave ’em, huh?”

  “Oh no!” With my fork and the potato wedges stuck on it, I pointed at Quinn. “You’re the one who did that. You’re the one who walked out when—”

  “Hmhm Mmm. Mmmmnm,” the ghost said.

  I swallowed the rest of my accusation along with those potatoes. They were as delicious as advertised, but one taste and I knew my lunch was getting cold fast, so I got to work on the chicken. “It’s bad form to fight in front of strangers,” I told Quinn between bites.