“Somebody’s sending postcards. Come on, Quinn.” Since he was doing his best to ignore this incredible deduction, I whacked him on the knee. “It’s been staring us right in the face and we haven’t seen it. Jack is dead. And somebody’s—”
“Trying to cover it up by sending those postcards and making us think that Jack has left town. Which means—”
“That maybe he didn’t have anything to do with that murder you’re investigating. Maybe he was a victim, too.”
He scraped a hand over his jaw. “But no one reported Jack missing. And you don’t know…you don’t know Jack. He’s a real tough guy. Street-smart and savvy. The ghost…” I guess the word must have tasted funny in his mouth, because Quinn had to take another sip of wine to wash it down. “The ghost you talked about was obviously murdered. No way. Jack is a larger-than-life character. No way he ended up dead.”
While he’d been working his way through this little mental exercise, I’d taken the chance to look around the loft again. I gave Quinn another poke and pointed across the room. “If Jack’s not dead,” I said, “explain that.”
Certain instincts are impossible to resist. Even for a hardheaded detective. Quinn looked toward the fireplace. “There’s a puddle on the floor.”
“Uh-huh. And a ghost standing right in the middle of it.”
He finished his glass of wine.
Me? I wasn’t about to waste any time. I hopped to my feet and closed in on the ghost. “You’re Jack Haggarty,” I said.
It wasn’t a question, but Jack nodded.
“He says he is,” I told Quinn. “And maybe he’ll tell us—”
“Ask him how long we were partners.”
Oh, I knew what was going on here. I was being tested. By a man who should have taken my word for this whole woo-woo thing. I was just about to point this out to him when I remembered something Jean had said earlier in the day. It took some time to get used to being dead, and—thank goodness—time wasn’t what Quinn had on the Other Side.
I turned to Jack. “Quinn’s having a little trouble,” I said, even though I suspected Jack already knew it. After all, cops are a perceptive bunch. “He doesn’t believe you’re here. He doesn’t believe I can talk to you, either.”
Behind the duct tape, Jack’s mouth pulled into a smirk.
“I think Jack is saying that he’s not surprised,” I said. “I bet in the time you worked with him—”
“And how long was that?”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to Jack. “Let’s make Mr. Skeptical happy. How long?”
Jack jumped up and down three times.
“Three,” I told Quinn. “I’m guessing that means three years.”
He got up from the couch.
“How many times was Jack married?” he asked.
Jack jumped up and down four times and I told Quinn that, too.
“And divorced?”
Another four jumps. Along with a look that was as bitter as unsweetened chocolate.
“Four,” I told Quinn. “And my guess is he got taken to the cleaners each and every time.”
I looked over my shoulder to where he still stood near the couch, his arms loose at his sides, his head cocked, as if he was listening for something. Or trying to think through everything I was telling him and decide if I was Gifted. Or just one lucky guesser.
I threw my hands in the air. “You still don’t believe me, do you?”
Quinn crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s my job to ask questions.”
“Yeah, when you’re dealing with scumbags. But this is me.”
“And there is such a thing as the Internet.”
As if he’d punched me in the stomach, I sucked in a sharp breath. “You don’t think I—”
“I didn’t say you did. I just said it’s possible.”
“That I would do research about Jack Haggarty and then try to get you to believe I was talking to his ghost? Why?” I took one step in his direction before I realized my hands were already curled into fists and I’d better stop right where I was, or I was going to do something I’d regret. Like smack that gorgeous face of his. “Why would I do that?”
As if it would somehow deflect the anger coming off me in waves, Quinn put his hands out. “I don’t know why. I only know—”
“That this is for real. You know that, Quinn, because you were part of it. You were a ghost. That’s pretty powerful. At least it would be if you were anybody else. But you’re you, and you’re stubborn and afraid to admit to something that makes you seem weaker than you really are. News flash, Detective, being dead doesn’t make you weak, it just makes you dead. And just because some creep shot you—”
“I never should have given him the chance.” Quinn’s voice ricocheted against the hardwood floors, and maybe the passion in it surprised him as much as it did me. Maybe that’s why he turned away, and left me with a view of his shoulders (too rigid) and his head (too high).
“I was in that warehouse and I knew I was tracking a killer. I never should have let him get the drop on me. I should have been more careful. I should have been smarter. I should have been less—”
“What? Less human? Is that what this is all about? You’re not afraid to admit you were dead. But you sure as hell hate to admit somebody got the best of you. Don’t you see, Quinn, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you’re here. Now. That they were able to bring you back. And even if they weren’t…” It was one of those things I hated to think about, mostly because every time I did, my knees buckled and I couldn’t catch my breath. “Nobody ever would have said it happened because you were sloppy or stupid, because you’re not. And I’ll bet the same thing is true as far as Jack is concerned. He didn’t die because he did something wrong. He died because he caught a bad break, and now he’s a ghost and if you don’t start believing that, somebody else is going to die. If we don’t help—” My voice shook so much, I had to pull in a breath and give it another try. “If we don’t help keep that person alive, that’s something you can feel guilty about. You dying, not so much.”
I’m not sure what I expected Quinn to say. Or maybe I am sure. I expected him to slap his forehead, admit he’d never thought about it this way before, and tell me I was right. When all he did is stand there, his shoulders heaving with each deep breath he took, I lost it.
“You want proof that Jack’s here?” This time, my voice, too, echoed through the loft.
“You don’t believe the stuff about how long you were partners or how many times he was married? That isn’t good enough for you? Then tell me something else about Jack, something I couldn’t find on the Internet because it wouldn’t be in a newspaper article.”
He made a small motion with his right hand. “No. You don’t need to—”
“Oh yes, I do.” I closed in on him, and when he still didn’t turn around, I did an end run and came up at him from the other direction. He’s taller than me, and I had to tilt my chin to glare at him. “Did Jack have a scar? A tattoo?”
I didn’t expect him to answer. Not now. Not ever.
“A tattoo.” Quinn’s voice was no more than a whisper. “Yeah. Jack had a tattoo on his right upper arm. But—”
By the time he made a grab for me, I was already on my way to the other side of the room.
Quinn was only a couple steps behind me. “How do you expect to prove that?” he demanded. “You said he was wearing a golf shirt and you told me once that you can’t touch a ghost.”
“Wanna bet?” I’d already reached out for Jack so even if I’d stopped to think about what was about to happen to me, it wouldn’t have mattered. The way it was, thinking was something I was way beyond doing. I was working on instinct, along with a big ol’ dose of mad as hell. Before I could stop myself, I had one hand on Jack’s arm and with the other, I was pulling up the right sleeve of his shirt.
I guess if I’d thought about it, I would have expected the cold to hit in waves. But that’s not how it happened. The sensation
crashed over me in one quick burst. Icy. Complete. Terrible.
Along with the freezing cold, a pain shot through my fingers and up my arm. I didn’t let even that stop me.
“It’s…” My voice sounded as if it had been folded into a Jell-O mold, the words suspended and thick. “It’s a hula dancer,” I said in between the chattering of my teeth. “She’s wearing a blue flower lei and it has the name Estelle written under it. And…and…”
Somehow, my brain finally connected to my hands. Maybe it was the frigid pain that prickled through my body and made my bones ache. Or the frostbite that nipped my skin. By the time I realized I’d made a terrible mistake, it was too late. The cold flowed from my arms into my torso. It hit my heart like a hammer. Slowed it down. Froze it.
When Quinn yelled, “You told me once if you touched a ghost, it would freeze you,” I wanted to say no duh, but the words, too, were frozen inside me.
I couldn’t move. Or blink. Or breathe.
I stood suspended in some boundless, arctic place where the seconds ticked by like hours and as each one passed, another cell in my body turned icy and died.
“Pepper? Pepper?”
Quinn’s voice. Far away.
“Pepper!”
It wasn’t until he wrapped both his arms around me and dragged me as far away from the fireplace as he was able that I realized what had happened.
Quinn pulled me close and chafed his hands up and down my arms. “You’re frozen.”
Another no duh moment, but I couldn’t point it out. I couldn’t do anything but stand there and savor the heat of Quinn’s body, chasing away the cold inch by inch.
“Come on.” He lifted me into his arms and carried me across the living room. “I’m going to run a lukewarm shower and get you in there. That’s the only thing that’s going to help.”
There was a master bath just beyond his bedroom, and in the doorway between the two rooms, he stripped off my black suit jacket and unbuttoned my shirt.
“It’s going to be okay,” he crooned, his hands slipping inside my shirt and playing over my ribs. He skimmed them down to my waist and back up again. “I promise you, Pepper, you’re going to be all right.”
He left me long enough to start the shower and little curls of steam tickled my skin. Slowly, the heat penetrated. I blinked back to consciousness and that’s when I started to shiver.
“Okay, just a couple more seconds.” Quinn darted out of the bathroom and folded me into an embrace. “We’ll get you warmed up and tuck you in bed under some blankets. I’ll make you some tea and—”
“Just hold me.” I settled my head against his chest. “You’re nice and warm.”
I didn’t exactly see him smile (head to chest, after all), but I felt some of the tension go out of his shoulders at the same time his arms tightened around me.
“How’s that?” Quinn rested his chin on my head. “You ready to get into the shower?”
I shook my head and when he put a finger under my chin so he could lift my face to his, I smiled. It hurt a little. But then, I was pretty sure there were ice crystals on my lips. “I think I need a kiss first,” I said.
Here’s the thing about Quinn: he can be a royal pain in the butt, and as pigheaded as anyone I’d ever met, but when he’s willing to oblige…
I melted into the kiss, savoring not just the warmth but the taste of Quinn’s lips against mine. This was something that had been missing in my life for too long, and now that it was back, I decided right then and there that I wasn’t going to move. Not ever again.
Which meant when Quinn pulled away, I started shivering all over again. He looked over my shoulder and out the door. “Is Jack still there?” he asked.
I had to bend a little backward to see. “Yup.”
Quinn didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. His arms still around me, he back-stepped me across the room and closed the bedroom door.
Quinn made tea, all right. But not until after he made sure—personally—that I was warmed through and through.
He’s that kind of guy.
He is also the kind of guy who when we were done with all that warming up, served the tea in bed along with gooey grilled cheese sandwiches. By the time we were finished (with dinner and with everything else), I was feeling pretty much back to normal.
With a sigh of satisfaction, I burrowed down under the sheets and the extra blankets Quinn had piled on top of me and watched him clear away the dishes. On a personal level, all was right with the world. When it came to my investigation, though, there was plenty bothering me, and it all started with—
“Candy bars.”
Quinn had just come back into the room. He’d put on his jeans but not his T-shirt, and hey, I wasn’t complaining. In the light of the single lamp next to the bed, his skin was burnished, and his muscles were as well-defined as if they’d been sculpted by an artist with a really good eye whose sole purpose in life was to make me crazy.
“You still hungry? I don’t have any candy bars. But we can pick up some when we go out.”
“I don’t want any candy bars. You said candy bars.”
He left his T-shirt where I’d tossed it when I took it off (okay, ripped it off was more like it) of him, and he got a collared shirt out of the closet and slipped it on. “Hey, I’ve missed being with you,” he said. “And I might have gotten a little carried away. But I’m pretty sure I didn’t say anything about—”
“Candy bars.” My clothes were on the bed and I sat up and tugged them on. Not that I’m psychic or anything, but even before he said something about going out, I figured something was up. Smart girl that I am, I knew if we were headed out at this time of the night, it had something to do with our case, and with Jack’s murder. I was comfy. I was content. I was very, very satisfied. As much as I would have liked to stay exactly where I was, there was no way I was going to miss out.
“Not today,” I said, buttoning my shirt. “The other day when I asked you why the cops thought Jack was involved in Dingo’s murder, you said candy bars.”
Quinn reached for his shoes. “Jack’s second wife was a woman named Margo. She was a Brit, and she got him hooked on these English candy bars. Topic, they’re called. As far as I know they’re not sold in this country. Jack used to have them shipped from some shop in London.”
I zipped my pants. “And buying English candy bars means Jack killed somebody?”
“No.” When he hurried past me, Quinn dropped a kiss on the top of my head. If he’d stopped and lingered for a while, I wouldn’t have objected, but he kept right on, got his weapon out of the gun safe in his closet, and strapped on his shoulder holster.
Like I said, psychic had nothing to do with it.
We were definitely heading out.
When that was all set, he put on a jacket to cover up the gun. Yeah, like anybody with half a brain couldn’t take one look at Quinn and know he was a cop. “There was a candy bar wrapper found with Dingo’s body.”
“A Topic candy bar wrapper.”
He nodded.
“But Jack can’t be the only one who—”
“Obviously.” Quinn walked out of the bedroom and by the time I found my shoes and caught up to him, he was waiting for me at the door. “There are plenty of people in the department think it does, and they’re talking trash about Jack.” Quinn opened the door and let me walk out ahead of him. “He was my partner, Pepper, and now he’s dead. I owe it to him to find out what really happened, just like I owe it to him to make sure whoever killed him pays for it.”
We started at Jack’s house.
Since it was already after ten at night, I was a little afraid we’d bother whoever might be home, but Quinn told me we didn’t have to worry. For one thing, after four marriages, four divorces, and countless girlfriends (some of the girlfriends overlapped the marriages, hence the divorces), Jack had learned his lesson; he lived alone. For another, seeing that it was late, Quinn’s plan was to get into—and out of—the house before any of
the neighbors saw us nosing around.
On the way over, he told me that Jack had joined the force back in the day when Cleveland police officers were required to live within city limits. Then again, so had Quinn himself. But one look, and I knew Jack’s neighborhood was about as far from Quinn’s—aesthetically speaking—as the Earth is from the moon.
We parked about a block away from our destination, in front of a house with an overgrown lawn and boarded windows, and we walked up a sidewalk that was cracked and heaving thanks to the roots of the trees that someone with more of an artistic streak than good sense had once decided to plant on every tree lawn. The houses were planted close together, too, on mini-lots with just a driveway between each. Lucky for us, it was a cool night. Otherwise, I suspected the neighbors might have been out on their front porches watching the world go by, and keeping under the radar would have been a lot harder.
“That’s the house.” We’d already walked by the burgundy-colored bungalow with a squat front stoop and white shutters when Quinn tipped his head back and to the left to point it out. Before I had a chance to ask—nicely, of course—why, if we were going to Jack’s, we’d passed it up, I realized what he had in mind. We strolled past five more houses, crossed the street and came back the other way to Jack’s. Just so we could take a good look around and make sure no one was paying any attention to us.
At the house opposite, he poked me as a way of telling me to get a move on, and I darted across the pitted blacktop, up Jack’s driveway, and into his backyard.
“I’m not in the mood to get arrested.” I knew better than to talk too loud, so when Quinn joined me, I kept my voice to a whisper. “We’re not going to break in, are we?”
“We don’t have to.” While I stood near the back door, Quinn covered the ten feet or so over to the garage. “Jack always kept an extra key out here.” He reached around a withered plant that might have once been a geranium and into a flowerpot, and when he was done rooting around, he came up smiling and flashed the key.
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