I was getting tired. But why? I still had an hour or more to go, didn’t I? Before the lethargy of out-of-body fatigue set in? It was like pushing my body through peanut butter. I’d never experienced anything like this before—not after passing through someone—but then I suspected Mitsuri wasn’t in any way a normal someone. I could hear Hirokumi from somewhere in the room, speaking to Mitsuri. It was all in Japanese, and I figured I’d file it away for later.
If there was a later. I might be embracing my own mortality.
Luckily, I managed to move myself into the receiving area with the chairs and magazines before the dragon’s head came crashing down a few inches from my bunny slipper.
I watched in abject horror (abject…what a fun word) as the snout, tongue, glowing eyes, horns, and scales plunged into the carpet and through it.
The snakelike body followed it down until it disappeared. I sat very still.
Was it gone? Did the invisible barrier keeping me there not extend below? Hrm…could I try and sieve down through the floor? As an astral being, I’d always concentrated on staying above the floor—no practice at sinking. And I hadn’t had any luck at it last night while facing Trench-Coat.
Or what if it came up from beneath me—trapping me in its mouth?
I’d just pulled myself up onto my knees when I heard it. Not in the sense of hearing a sound, but hearing it with astral hearing.
The thing crashed back up through the floor, its maw open, swallowing the panel-fountain without really touching it. The thing was made of smoke after all.
I screamed.
Mitsuri screamed.
I think Hirokumi screamed too. I can’t be sure.
Because at that moment the office door came open and Lieutenant Hottie-McHot burst in, gun drawn. “Freeze! Police!”
He stopped just inside the door, legs spread wide, his face a beautiful mask of concentration.
The smoky dragon disappeared.
Poof. It was gone. And Lieutenant Frasier frowned as he looked around, his gun still drawn. “What’s going on here? I heard screaming.”
I can only imagine what it looked like to the detective. Me? I was pushing myself up to a standing position, intent on making my way to the door with the cop.
Mitsuri was on the floor in front of Hirokumi’s desk. Her dress was hiked up above her knees, just showing a pair of hot red lacy panties (ooh, Victoria’s Secret, no doubt). Hirokumi was hunched over her on all fours.
Now, I knew what’d happened. Something had passed through her and she’d probably fainted like any decent secretary would, and Mr. Hirokumi, like the good, decent man he was, had bent down to make sure she was okay.
But for the detective—well—I just watched as his imagination stole the words from his mouth. He stepped into the office and returned his gun to a belt holster.
He pursed his lips as he neared the two of them, grabbed his coat from the back of the chair where he’d left it. “I see you’re handling the danger quite well, Mr. Hirokumi. I’ll make sure to put that in my report.” With a sneer, he turned and moved back to the door.
“Detective,” Mr. Hirokumi was on his feet in an instant.
“Don’t let it escape!” Mitsuri yelled out. “A Wraith! A Wraith!”
But I was way ahead of her. I had no idea what had happened to the dragon, and I didn’t care. I was taking my one ticket out of Visitar’s offices on the coattails of a handsome detective.
And I still had no idea who’d hired me, or why. Or why the hell this faceless nutcase was calling me a Wraith.
Wraith.
That did have a sexy ring to it though.
Nuts.
6
I could tell from the way Frasier snuggled down into his coat once we were outside that the temperature had dropped even further. I checked my watch—a little under two hours out. I had two hours and some change to go before I reached my no-hurt-the-body-on-return limit.
Two choices loomed in front of me once I was out of the building, close on the detective’s trench coattails (and a nice tail it was). I could run like hell to see if Mom’s car was parked nearby and have a small nervous breakdown while she drove me home, or I could jump down my cord now and do the same, only in the safety of my own place.
Remember what I said before about Reason? Well, she wasn’t on my side that time either. But on this one, I think it was good she was out taking a pill. Because Reason would have wanted me to get back into my body and keep safe (and ask Rhonda about what the hell Mitsuri was and why she was calling me names) away from smoky dragons (yikes!) and doom-spouting Japanese businessmen (weird).
But—there was a really cute cop beside me, so I chose option three and followed Lieutenant Frasier into a cab.
Why was a cop taking a cab?
“Fado’s, Buckhead.” Lieutenant Frasier shut the door and leaned back into the seat as I scrambled in ahead of him. I watched him remove a small flip phone from his trench coat pocket and hit a speed dial button. The ache in my arm flared, and I rubbed at it again.
“Ken? It’s me.” He paused and gave the passing traffic a scowl. “No, it was a total waste of time. Asshole blew me off so he could hump his secretary. Real piece of work.”
I noticed how he avoided telling whoever was on the other side about Hirokumi’s warning of bad juju. I’m not so sure I’d have mentioned the warnings of bad spirits myself. Bring up stories of ghosts and goblins to the police, and you’ll see a whole new level of MEGO.
I guarantee it.
Sitting on the backseat with him, I had a chance to watch him close-up. He was indeed one of the prettiest men I’d seen in a long time. But he was attractive in an almost geeky sort of way.
I liked the way he ran his fingers through his hair while he spoke. “No, I’ll be back in after lunch. My car’s not going to be ready till two, so I’m gonna take an hour or so at Fado’s. No… no…I want an hour or so alone on this one. I’ve got a few ideas, but I want to sort it out for a bit.”
Well, that explained where the cop’s car was.
He nodded (as if this Ken could see him), then closed the phone. Lieutenant Frasier stuck the forefinger and thumb of his left hand under his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose.
I was so gone with a schoolgirl crush at that moment that butterflies—no make that 747s—circled in my stomach. Watching him was enough therapy to take my mind off of my near capture by a faceless Charlie’s Angel double-armed with a Mortal Kombat prop.
Wow. Hello pop culture.
Buckhead was a slightly triangular area of North Atlanta that extended from around Piedmont Circle and toward East Paces Ferry Road. From the west it started around Northside Drive to Cheshire Bridge. Four major interstates run north to south, south to north through it: Interstates 85, 19, 400, and 75.
Most visitors to Atlanta travel to Buckhead because of its elegant homes, legendary shops, and nightclubs.
For me it was the food.
All manner of food can be found in Buckhead. Want something to just wet the whistle—maybe a good tapas restaurant? Try Café Tu Tu Tango. Got a sweet tooth just aching for a variety of desserts? Settle on in at the Cheesecake Factory. All you can eat Brazilian? Hey, try the enormous slabs of meat at Fogo de Chao.
Or if you’re like me, and love seafood, there’s always the Atlanta Fish Market—well-known for the sixty-five-foot copper-and-steel fish sculpture in front of the door. Rocking seafood—freaky outside décor. I don’t think I’ve ever passed by that place when there wasn’t some goofy family or couple taking their picture at its feet.
Or should I say flippers.
And then there are the more subtle places like the Buckhead Diner for a variety of Greek favorites and for a little Cajun there’s Voodoo.
There are shops too, for those who can afford it. I’m not one of them. I might cruise around on Sunday afternoon after a meal of appetizers, but to actually buy something?
Uh-uh.
But don’t think this area’
s residents are entirely happy about their predicament. Most of those who live in Buckhead are from old money, yet it’s the young money that keeps the bars open way past midnight on weekends.
Rowdy. Young. Rich.
There’s always some story on the news, some disturbance, some nasty thing that happened over the weekend in one of the Buckhead clubs. And the images shown on the late-night news are always streets crowded with young people.
No one drives in Buckhead on a Friday or Saturday night. Mainly because the streets are parking lots.
Fado’s is an Irish pub that sits on the corner of Peachtree Road and Buckhead Avenue. A beige, rustic-looking building that boasts live music on some weekends and professionally drawn pints of Guinness beer. I liked the place for brunch on Sundays—meeting up with Rhonda there for a feast of fish ‘n’ chips and a black-and-tan after a night of too many beers.
Today was the quietest I’d seen the place, being a weekend patron myself. I scooted out of the cab behind Frasier and followed him inside. The place is usually dark, giving privacy to cozy nooks and crannies all throughout the building, unless a soccer game was the preference. And then there was always a crowd of young men and a few women in the bar, pints in hand, their attention riveted to the oversized projection television.
Fado’s kept up with all the soccer games and tournaments year-round.
Today there wasn’t a game, and the bar had been decorated with a garland of silver, draped in large waves beneath the outside front. A small tree twinkled on top of one end of the bar, standing perhaps as tall as a portable poker machine. It was decorated in tiny little mugs of Guinness beer.
Aw, how cute.
The detective took a seat at the bar near the tree and removed his coat. He set it on the empty stool to his right, so I took up a position on the stool to his left. Quick check of my watch. Two hours left on the nose.
“Hey, Danny-boy,” the bartender said as he set a round cardboard coaster advertising Bass Ale on the bar in front of him. “Coffee?”
“Yeah.” Lieutenant Frasier nodded as he placed his elbows on the surface. “And just black.”
“Rough morning?” The bartender was nice on the eyes, and not one I remembered seeing there before. He was average height—or at least as far as I could tell from his position behind the dark wood bar. He had long dark hair, pulled neatly back into a silver band, and dark eyes that matched the mischievous dimple that appeared when he smiled.
He wore a simple green-and-white-striped, long-sleeved tee and had a ring on his right hand.
“Oh, you could say that,” Lieutenant Frasier said. “How was it over the weekend?”
“Oh.” The bartender turned and poured up a steaming mug of coffee from a set of perking carafes behind him. “Here? I don’t know. Had an early Christmas party to work up at the Public House.” He set the cup in front of the detective.
“See any ghosts, Dags? Or evil spirits?”
Okay. First off—Dags? What kind of name is that?
Sounded like something I’d name my—well—what would you name Dags?
Second—evil spirits. Got my attention. I raised an eyebrow at the bartender. The Public House was one of a chain of nice, five-star restaurants in the Atlanta area. The interesting tidbit I knew about the Public House was its former occupation as a mortuary, and a general store before that during the Civil War.
Allegedly two ghosts haunted the loft of the restaurant, where guests were served drinks and desserts. I’d always wanted to try out the place but never made the time.
There was a slight hesitation, and—did he just glance at me? “Nah.” Dags shook his head and braced his hands, palms down, on the bar’s surface. I noticed the ring again—silver with a simple light blue stone. “But I’ve only been doing the weekend gig here and there. Some of the staff insist they’ve had a few run-ins with ghosts.” He lifted his hands shoulder height and wiggled his fingers.
I grinned. The detective grinned. I liked this bartender. I’d never taken the time to get know a server of tasty beverages before. Might need to make a start with this one.
That is, when he could see me.
He’s probably gay.
Dags leaned forward, his hands again on the bar. “I’m willing to bet the long face you’re pulling is from that killing downtown last night.” He turned and produced an Atlanta Journal and Constitution from beneath the bar.
It was the same one Steve had been reading earlier. Only I’d not seen the actual front-page header.
LOCAL BUSINESSMAN SHOT; POLICE CLUELESS.
“Ouch,” I said, and quickly covered my mouth. The outburst wasn’t exactly for the headline as much as the sharp pain that came from the handprint on my arm. I looked down and pulled my black sleeve away.
Trench-Coat’s handprint was darkening like black ink on my white skin. Red and then black. It was red when I was being attacked—and black when I wasn’t. What did this mean? And if it didn’t go away, maybe I could say it was a tattoo?
I’d swear the bartender glared at me before nodding to the lieutenant. “Yeah, ouch is right. Looks like Heather Noir, Brenda Starr of the South, is still holding that grudge against the APD. Or is she still holding it against you?”
Frowning, Lieutenant Frasier looked to his left—right through me—then behind him. He’d heard me say ouch. And I was beginning to suspect there was more to this bartender than met the eye. His astral colors all seemed normal, though there were lots of purple spots around his head. Either way, I have got to learn to keep my mouth shut, or I’m going to get myself in some deep kaka one day.
The detective continued to look a bit confused but didn’t comment on the disembodied ouch.
What sucked more than me not keeping my mouth shut was that I knew who—uh—what—no—I’d seen the murder. I knew what the murderer looked like. I didn’t know what it was, but I could point him out in a lineup. Though I doubted this detective, much less anyone else on Atlanta’s Finest, was going to find Trench-Coat and haul his ass downtown.
I gave an uncontrolled shudder as I had a flash of Lieutenant Frasier caught in Trench-Coat’s red beam.
“I don’t want to talk about Heather. That’s long-dead history.” Oooh. Gossip? Old lover? Ex-wife?
The lieutenant grabbed up his coat and pulled a rolled magazine from the inside pocket (Isn’t it kinda a mystery as to the measurable space inside a trench coat? I mean the things are mysteries of quantum physics. I’ve seen movies where they’ve kept entire swords in those things—and no one’s noticed!). I watched him unroll it and spread it flat on top of the bar.
It was the same issue of Atlanta Magazine I’d seen in Hirokumi’s office. Only this one still had its cover intact.
Lieutenant Frasier pinned the magazine to the bar with the index finger of his left hand. “This guy’s the key, Dags. And Hirokumi didn’t even mention him. I never said a word about him either—not wanting to color anything he said.”
I wanted to inch closer and get a good look at the cover, but the bartender reached out and spun the magazine around so he could see it. But I did manage to catch a glimpse at the pic and the name in bold white-and-black type. “Reverend Rollins?” The incredulousness was so very present in my now-loud voice.
“Damnit!”
Both men looked at each other, and then around their immediate area.
Keep your mouth, shut, Zoë!
“Did you say…”
That time I was sure Dags looked at me with a dark eyebrow raised in that same face my mother gave me when she was getting annoyed with me. Then he looked away, and his face cracked into a foot-wide grin as he looked at Lieutenant Frasier. “How in the hell are you going to connect a televangelist to the shooting of a corporate vice president?”
I was glad Dags asked that question because that was what I was burning to know. I knew who Reverend Theodore Rollins was—top Southern televangelist. He had ratings that would make any of the top three networks drool with envy. Popular on the
religious channels (the ones I skipped over on my TV) and on some of those early-morning church services from Mount Paran.
But that’s about as far as my knowledge reached.
I had to agree with the bartender here. How were the two related? And so I turned where I sat to face the cute detective and leaned on the bar.
Lieutenant Frasier smiled. It was one of those knowing kinds of smiles. He had the answer. And he was about to say it when—“Hey, Dags!”
The bartender turned to his right. A woman in a white shirt and black pants waved a red-and-white-checkered towel at him. “Yeah?”
“Need you and your muscles in the back.” She wiggled her eyebrows up and down before disappearing into the bowels of the bar.
Dags put up a finger at Lieutenant Frasier. “Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.” And he was gone, quickly replaced by a female bartender. Though adequate with a new coffee for the detective, not as good-looking.
Damnit, damnit, damnit. I wanted to know the connection. Mainly because I knew who killed Tanaka and wondered how this detective, a man who is paid to find the unfindable, was going to link up a televangelist to the bald überspook in the trench coat?
Ow, ow, ow. The arm burned. I set it on the bar and stared at it, wishing it to just stop. What was happening? Was my physical arm going to fall off? Why did it hurt?
Maybe I should get back to my body. I checked my watch. Two and a half hours out or so. One and a half left.
Lieutenant Frasier pursed his lips (full lips I noticed) and lowered his head to the magazine. He opened the cover and began flipping through.
I sighed. My curiosity is a dangerous thing—in case you hadn’t already noticed that. It’s what kept me glued to that hard wooden stool. I knew he could hear me, and I toyed with the idea of asking him outright about the connection. But then he’d probably freak out or think the lady bartender had asked.
For the first time since my learning how to astral project, I wanted more than anything to be visible, for him to see me. But wishing this was hopeless. In the six years I’d been at this, I’d never learned how to become corporeal. If it could even be done. Tim and Steve could do it but only for very short bursts. But they were ghosts.
Wraith Page 7
