by Meg Benjamin
Dominguez nodded. “They’re dead. Both of them. And Bradford collected.”
“Are you saying you think he had something to do with their deaths?” Evan paused at the street corner.
“Not that we can tell. Natural causes in both cases, and the family in one case actually asked for an autopsy.” He shrugged. “It didn’t turn up anything.”
“So we’re back to the basic problem again.” Evan turned up the block toward Commerce and the nearest bar. “Bradford may have gotten them to turn over their money, but all the families can do is sue him. And try to prove he played dirty with emotionally fragile elderly people.” Evan blew out a breath. He’d so much rather be having a beer somewhere than having this conversation. “What’s your plan, Harry? I assume you have one.”
“To get you a private appointment with Bradford.”
Evan shook his head. “Won’t work. Even if he’s never heard of me, he’s got people who check everything. By now, my name’s on their ‘Do Not Fly’ list. They know the kind of stuff I write.”
“You can make the appointment under an assumed name.”
“That won’t work, either. Somebody like Bradford would do detailed research on anybody he wants to fleece—that’s standard operating procedure for a medium. Unless you’ve got the resources to create a completely new identity for me, I’ll never get in.”
Dominguez looked like he was grinding his teeth. “Goddamnit, Evan.”
Evan sighed. “Look, Harry, I wouldn’t mind taking him down. But the best I can probably do is expose his methods. I’ll try to get an appointment with him once I hire my research assistant. Maybe he’ll go for an interview.”
“Better than nothing, I guess,” Dominguez growled.
“Let’s hope so.” Evan sighed again. “You want a beer?”
Dominguez blew out a long breath. “Sure. Might as well get something out of the night.”
Evan turned back up Commerce again as Dominguez fell into step beside him. “I’ll even pay for once.”
Dominguez’s grin flashed in the streetlight. “So what did you think of Bradford’s performance overall.”
Evan shrugged. “Standard stuff. Cold readings. He did move things right along, though.”
“Seemed to have a lot of people who recognized the names he was throwing out.”
“That’s because they were helping him. He says a letter, they tell him he’s right. He says a name, they come up with something close. Manny/Manuel. That’s what cold reading’s all about.”
“Still. There wasn’t much fumbling around, you know, like calling out letters nobody recognized. Seemed like he was hitting more than he missed.” Dominguez nodded toward a bar up the street. “The Elite. Good place. At least the beer is cold.”
“Right.” Evan followed him to the bar, trying not to frown. Seemed like he was hitting more than he missed. Bradford didn’t hit any more than any other phony medium. He just knew how to work the crowd.
Right?
***
Rose grimaced at herself in the bathroom mirror. She’d managed to wipe off most of the gray makeup, except along her hairline. The eggplant-colored shadow above and below her eyes needed to go next. Then the gray powder in her hair. The latex patches from her eyes and forehead lay on the side of the lavatory, looking a little like dried apricots.
She sighed. She wanted a shower and she needed a shampoo desperately. Her head itched. If only she could put this conversation off until tomorrow.
“What did you think of him?” Skag’s impatient voice echoed from the living room.
Rose pretended she hadn’t heard him. At least William Bradford had gotten to go off and have a drink somewhere after he’d changed out of that cheesy suit. She’d seen him on talk shows—she knew he owned at least one Hugo Boss. Maybe he sat around and snickered about the suckers. She, on the other hand, got to spend the next hour or so being interrogated by an impatient spook.
“Rose?” Skag bellowed.
“Give me a minute, for Pete’s sake,” Rose called back. She gritted her teeth. Being ordered around by the spectral host sucked.
She leaned over the bathroom sink again, brushing her hair until a cloud of powder filled the air. Looking in the mirror, she estimated she’d managed to knock off ten years or so. A shower would knock off thirty more, but then she’d have to listen to Skag whine about being kept waiting. She pulled her robe on over her bra and panties, tying it around her waist as she walked out of her bedroom and headed back up the hall.
When she entered the living room, Skag pounced, figuratively speaking. It was hard for a being who floated to pounce literally. “Did you see him? What happened?”
She sighed. She could lecture him about his lack of manners, but it wouldn’t do any good. “Yes, I saw him. He’s a fraud.”
“Of course he is.” Skag waved a faintly glowing hand. “That’s not the issue. We already knew that. Did you see anyone from the local psychic community? Did anyone recognize you?”
“No and no. Not that the ‘psychic community’ would recognize me anyway. I was just another credulous little old lady. And if we already knew Bradford was a fake, then why exactly was I there this evening?”
“We knew the performances were fake,” Skag corrected. “But we need to know if Bradford himself is fake or if he has some element of true ability.” He blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling.
Rose’s jaw tightened. “Skag, I’ve told you not to smoke in here.”
He ignored her, as usual. “How did he strike you? What kind of thing did he do?”
“Mostly cold reading. You know, he calls out a letter then asks leading questions to get someone in the audience to respond, throws out a name, finds somebody with a close match. Like that.”
Skag nodded. “How many misses did he have?”
“Misses?” She frowned. “You mean when he threw out a name or a letter and got nothing?”
“Precisely.”
“Some. I didn’t count. He wasn’t a hundred percent.”
“No, he wouldn’t be. Approximately.”
She closed her eyes, trying to remember. “Maybe a quarter or so were misses. Maybe a third.” She opened her eyes again. “He did keep things moving. I’ll say that for him.”
“Interesting.”
She scratched at her powdery scalp. “Why are we checking out William Bradford, Skag? You still haven’t explained the whole thing. What does he have to do with us?”
Skag shrugged. “It’s always good to know the competition. Even if he is going after a somewhat different audience.”
“He’s not our competition. I’m not going to be doing stage shows anytime soon.”
“Thank God for that,” he muttered.
“The real question is, why do you need me to check up on him? Can’t you ask someone on the Other Side?”
Skag’s expression grew watchful. “I’ve already asked. There’s an odd lack of information concerning Mr. Bradford. In fact, if it were possible for spirits to be frightened, I’d say Mr. Bradford’s name inspires a certain amount of fear. Which should be a source of curiosity at least.”
Rose frowned. The idea of ghosts being afraid of the living wasn’t particularly comforting. “Actually there was someone there who could pose more serious problems for us. More than William Bradford, anyway. A couple of someones, as it turned out.”
Skag elevated an eyebrow. “Explain.”
“Lieutenant Harry Dominguez, the cop who investigated Locators, Ltd. last year, was there. Along with his good friend, Mr. Evan Delwin.”
Skag’s eyebrow stayed up. “Delwin? The author?”
She nodded. “Mr. Expose-Psychic-Fraud himself.”
“Well, well.” Skag gave her one of his Cheshire cat smiles. “I’d heard Delwin was in town, but I didn’t realize he was consulting with the police. Do
minguez must feel there’s some kind of case to be made against Bradford. This may work out even better than I’d thought.”
Rose had the customary sinking feeling in her stomach. “What should work out? What are you planning now?”
“To annihilate two birds with a single stone. You’re going to apply for a job, Rose, drawing upon all those tiresome skills you developed as a librarian.”
“I’m not applying for anything until I know what you’re up to. And quite possibly not even then.”
“You can apply to become Delwin’s research assistant. I found his advertisement just today so he may not have many applicants as yet. Then you can use your position with him to investigate Bradford since I assume that’s what Delwin will be doing. In addition, you can keep an eye on Lieutenant Dominguez, should his interest inexplicably turn our way once again. He didn’t find your connection to Locators when he did his first investigation.”
Rose gritted her teeth. “No.”
“No?”
“No. Not unless you tell me what’s going on. I’m not your assistant, Skag, I’m your partner.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then shrugged. “I don’t have anything concrete yet, Rose. But something is happening. There’s some kind of trouble coming. I can feel it. And it’s centered on Bradford. It may be a threat to our enterprise. Or possibly to the family itself.”
Rose stared at him for a long moment. “A threat to the family? What kind of threat?”
“You remember your brother’s problem with the haunted carriage house?”
She frowned. “The demonic ghost who wanted to suck up his soul? Yeah, I remember that pretty well. Are you saying we’ve got another one?”
“Not precisely the same, no. But perhaps another ancient ghost is involved. It’s certainly a possibility.”
“But what does that mean? Is it coming after us directly? How is it related to Bradford?”
Skag shook his head impatiently. “As I said, it’s nothing concrete yet—just a feeling. That’s why we need more information. Human information this time, since my spiritual sources aren’t proving helpful.”
Rose sighed. “And who exactly will run Locators, Ltd. while I’m off playing research assistant with Evan Delwin? Since that’s my sole source of income now, I’m not inclined to let it slide.”
Skag waved an impatient hand. “You can catch up in the evening. I assume Delwin won’t want more than eight hours of your time per day.”
“Wonderful. So I end up having even less of a life than I have currently. I didn’t think that was possible.”
“It’s only a temporary situation. Delwin will undoubtedly return to his home base once he’s finished this current project.”
“I’ll discuss it with you tomorrow.” She marched toward the stairs, turning back at the door. “Did I mention Delwin looks a lot like the Prince of Darkness himself? He’s got a nose that would have made the Medicis proud.”
Skag raised an eyebrow. “I had no idea his appearance would matter. Isn’t that rather shallow of you?”
“Right, I forgot, only men are allowed to be shallow.” She blew out an irritated breath. “Look, Skag, I’m tired. I just spent the evening pretending to be an old lady so I could watch William Bradford run a confidence game on the bereaved, not to mention I’ve got powder in my hair. I need to take a shower. Then I’ll check Delwin’s ad. Then I’m off duty for the rest of the night. Don’t even try to call me.”
“Your Great-great-great-grandmother Maura also behaved the way you’re behaving,” Skag mused. “Testy. Easily annoyed.”
“So it runs in the family. Sue me. Good night, Skag.”
“Testy,” he murmured, his feet becoming transparent. “Definitely testy.”
Rose watched him fade completely into the darkness before heading back upstairs. “Trust me, my see-through cousin,” she muttered, “you haven’t begun to see testy yet.”
Chapter 3
Alana DuBois peered up into the opaque San Antonio sky, trying to get her bearings. When she’d gone into the storefront before the séance, the weather had been mostly clear and muggy, just a little drizzle. Now mist obscured the buildings on both sides of the street. Somehow it turned everything around—she couldn’t get her sense of direction to work.
She flexed her shoulders, shaking off the niggling sense of uneasiness. Just fog. In a few moments, she’d figure out where she was. She peered toward some distant streetlights, considering which way she should turn at the intersection. The street signs were too dark to read.
Her red velvet cloak tangled briefly around her ankles. Normally, she loved the sweeping contour the cloak created, but it could be a pain in the neck, particularly on a warm wet night. The hood started to slip again, and Alana jerked it back up, shivering.
She wished she’d been able to drive to the storefront where the séance had taken place. But downtown San Antonio didn’t offer a lot of parking, even on a weeknight. She headed toward the bus stop.
For a moment, she thought she heard the scrape of footsteps behind her, echoing up the street. Her chest tightened uncomfortably.
“Oh, grow up,” she muttered. “What do you think it is? Ghosts?”
Her shoulders relaxed slightly as she chuckled. Ghosts. Oh yes, that would certainly make her night. Her first real ghost after years in the business.
Get a grip. She tucked her purse more firmly under her arm. Muggers or rapists were much more likely than ghosts, particularly when she was dressed like Little Red Riding Hood. What thief could resist?
She started walking again, more quickly this time, wrapping her hand tightly around the pepper spray attached to her keychain. She’d never used it, but there was always a first time. She only hoped she could remember which way to spray it so she didn’t get a face full of pepper oil.
At the next corner she turned right, listening for footsteps but hearing nothing. She breathed a small sigh of relief. Overactive imagination. She took a deep breath. No one else was out walking on the street. She was just on her way home from work, like an average person.
“Sylvia?”
The voice seemed to come from directly behind her, a thin rasping whisper, like dry leaves skittering across a gravel road.
Alana froze for a moment, swallowing hard, then picked up her pace. “I’m not Sylvia,” she muttered.
No Sylvia here. No, siree. No Sylvia for several years now. She stumbled slightly on a crack in the sidewalk, holding herself firmly in check to keep from running, her leg muscles tightening with the strain. Just keep walking. Everything’s fine.
“Sylvia?” the voice seemed to scrape across her skin like sandpaper. Ancient, desiccated. “Sylvia Morris?”
Alana caught her breath. No. She’d never used that name in San Antonio. Sylvia was long gone—nobody knew her here. She was Alana DuBois. “You’ve got the wrong person,” she snapped, keeping her eyes straight ahead. “I’m not the one you’re looking for.”
“Sylvia?”
Alana swallowed hard again, beginning to trot. “I don’t know you,” she squeaked.
“Sylvia? Sylvia? Sylvia?” The raspy singsong followed her down the street, enveloping her like an icy wind.
Alana whirled at the corner, glaring behind her as she pushed the hood back from her face, trying to see where the voice was coming from. “I don’t know you,” she screamed. “Leave me alone.”
She opened her mouth to scream again and suddenly her throat was filled with jagged light. She felt it burning against her skin, slicing into her ears, her nose, her eyes. A great wave of light, turning her into light herself. She became a shimmering candle burning with cold fire in the middle of the street.
The red velvet cloak disintegrated into ashes at her feet. Her body clenched in silent spasms, organs, bones, and skin melding together into a small dried husk.
After
a few moments, the wind caught the ashes that were all that remained of Alana DuBois, bearing them away into the empty spaces that lined the street.
***
Rose paused at her computer, a shiver snaking up her spine. “What the hell?”
“Something unexpected?” Skag appeared at her shoulder, staring at the screen.
She shook her head. “I felt something weird. Just . . . someone walked across my grave, I guess.”
Skag snorted. “What a very unfortunate turn of phrase you have sometimes, Rose.” He disappeared again.
“Oh, bite me,” she muttered. But after a moment she clicked on another lamp at the other end of the desk. All of a sudden the room seemed way too dark.
Chapter 4
Evan studied the stack of résumés on his desk and felt like sighing. His requirements for a research assistant weren’t exactly stiff—just someone who knew his way around a library and an online search and who maybe had the smarts to do a few interviews. He’d hoped the tight job market might throw out a few hungry grad students or maybe an out-of-work reporter. Instead he’d gotten a lot of people who didn’t seem to have a clue about what the word research meant. The one kid who’d seemed promising had turned out to be a devout believer in UFO’s and ghost hunters. Evan had a feeling the boy wouldn’t be exactly unbiased in digging for facts on William Bradford.
Now he glanced down at the other promising résumé and back up at the woman who went along with it. Rose Ramos didn’t exactly look Latina. She did, however, look a lot like the librarian she’d apparently once been. Or at least like the librarians he’d known when he was a kid. Her hair was pulled back tightly in the kind of low ponytail that made his forehead ache in sympathy. Her formidable black-rimmed glasses took up half her face. Her loose cotton blouse and knee-length black skirt gave no hint of what her figure might be like.
Which was, of course, none of his business anyway and certainly not relevant to the present situation. Evan grimaced. He needed to focus. Based on Ramos’s résumé, she might be his last best hope for a competent research assistant.
