I wasn’t.
Frustration pressed down on my shoulders, as if someone were standing on them. The stool beneath me seemed even harder and colder. My back ached, and I wanted more than anything to talk to this man.
I also wanted to touch him, run my fingers over those pouty lips as well as through his thick, brown hair. Wow…things were getting warm in here.
“Would you like something to drink?”
I could always pop back to my body, deal with the lethargy I knew would come from back-traveling, and maybe get back here in my car in my physical body before the lieutenant left.
“Miss?”
I shifted on the stool. The smell of fried food made my stomach growl.
“Miss,” Lieutenant Frasier said, and put a hand on my right arm. Warm. Gentle. “Would you like to order a drink?”
It was all I could do not to let out the girlie scream of the century at that moment.
Not only had the pretty detective touched me, physically, but he was looking at me.
He was looking right at me!
So was the girl bartender.
And I felt the stool.
I smelled food.
I gave him a weak smile. “Guess it’s a good thing I wore clothes after all.”
7
“I recommend the Irish coffee,” Lieutenant Frasier said, and moved his stool back a few inches. It scraped against the scuffed hardwood floor.
I nodded, unsure what else to say.
Yeah, I know. Me. Speechless. Take a picture.
But everything had abruptly turned surreal. I know what being solid means—hell—that’s my natural state. But something about this seemed…wrong. I just couldn’t put my finger on it.
The bartender waited patiently on me. I looked at her and nodded. My thoughts bounced around in an erratic way. Was my hair still braided? Was I going to go invisible again if I moved? Did I put on makeup that morning? Could I go invisible if I wanted to? Wow, it’s chilly in here. Could I get back into my body like this? Does my breath smell?
Does astral breath have a smell?
The full weight of what just happened hadn’t really crashed into me yet—that was for later when I could have a full, running-around-the-apartment conniption fit.
I was visible!
The lieutenant offered me his left hand.
What did…oh! He wanted to shake my hand. Me being right-handed, I didn’t quite know what to do. And I hesitated again—I was visible—but was I really solid?
He was looking at me with those melt-in-your-mouth eyes.
I managed a smile, though I’m sure I looked goofy as hell, and slid my left hand into his. I glanced down at my arm, where I’d rolled my sleeve up. The handprint was there, no longer dark, but more of a light, bruised purple, yet the ache was gone.
Daniel’s skin was smooth, warm.
The contact made me feel nice in all the right places. “Lt. Daniel Frasier. And you are…?”
I blinked—I was still thinking with my goodie parts. “Zoë Martinique.”
He squeezed my hand before letting go. “I didn’t see you come in, Zoë. Are you okay? You look a little pale.”
Pale? I’m an astral projection of myself! I’m supposed to be pale! “I’m fine. Really. Thank you for asking.”
With a smile (what a great smile—all straight white teeth) the lieutenant did a quick, detective-take-it-all-in of my attire. “You dressed for cat-burglaring?”
I laughed. It was a stupid sound. Kinda reminded me of chalk squeaking on a just-washed chalkboard. Nervous laughter. I cringed inwardly. “Oh. No. No. I just find this more comfortable.”
“You must.” His right eyebrow arched. “It’s very flattering. Not very warm though. And I like your bunny slippers.”
Aw shit.
The bartender brought me the coffee. I could smell the warm, buttery rum mingled with the bitter bite of strong coffee. I had another instant of panic. Could I actually lift a solid object? I felt Daniel’s hand. And I could feel the stool beneath me.
Then another harrowing thought followed on the heels of that one. Could I drink it? Would it actually go into my physical stomach or would it pool on the stool and dribble down the sides to the floor, making me look like a young candidate for Depends?
I decided to tackle the actual lifting first. I’d worry about drinking it later. Though an Irish coffee sounded really good right now.
So did whiskey, vodka, or a gigantic shot of tequila. Anything to relieve the stress running up my spine.
He was watching me. I could feel his eyes boring holes into my profile. Mr. Detective was doing his investigator thing—studying me, sizing me up, checking me out.
And this kind of scrutiny wouldn’t be so bad if I were actually out looking for it.
I reached out to the steaming white Fado’s mug. There was no telling how full the mug was as the whipped cream floating on top obscured the rim. I think I expected my hand to pass through the ceramic.
I gasped when my fingers actually made contact. I hissed and pulled back—damn that was hot.
Mental note: hot was hot, no matter if you were dead, living, or in between.
Wait…was that it? Had I died? And now I was a ghost like Tim and Steve?
“It helps if you take it up by the handle.”
Had Trench-Coat found a way into my condo and killed me? “Zoë, are you sure you’re okay?”
Should I try to go invisible now and get back into my body, just to make sure I wasn’t dead?
His touch on my right arm startled me. “Wha…”
He leaned in closer, his eyes bright behind his glasses. “Are you okay? You seem a bit—distracted.”
I knew I should engage him in conversation, but I was still a bit flustered. Hell, I was confused. So I experimented a few times with the mug. I touched it with my right hand, then my left. It was solid. I was solid.
“Yeah…I’m a bit upset. Just came in for a bit of company.” Not that I could tell him why I was upset or that I wanted his company. “So—humor me, Lieutenant. What case are you working on? Is this a business lunch or a moment of regrouping?”
He looked like my words had relaxed him a bit. Wish they could relax me. I was still gaping over my new condition.
How had this happened? Had I wished it to happen? Nah—that was silly.
“Call me Daniel.” The detective pointed to the newspaper on the bar and the glaring headline. “And I’m the clueless part of that.”
I pulled the paper close across the bar’s surface—still a bit surprised that I could actually touch it. “Nah—you just haven’t caught the bastard yet. But you will.”
He turned his beautiful face to me. I could see his blue eyes through the glasses. “You sound very sure, Zoë Martinique. Wish I had that kind of confidence.” He shook his head. Daniel opened his mouth, paused, then turned to face the magazine in front of him. It looked to me as if he’d been all ready to tell me his suspicion—spill it!—but then decided against it.
After all, I was a stranger in a bar wearing bunny slippers.
“Do you have any leads?” Keep him talking, keep him talking. I figured at this point I should use simple questions, direct and to the point. I wanted to know why he thought the Reverend had something to do with Tanaka’s murder. And I’m not really patient when I’m in an unfamiliar situation.
And being astral—and physical—was as unfamiliar as it gets for me. Little did I know it was gonna get a whole lot more so.
He appeared to come to a decision by lowering his shoulders. Lieutenant Frasier closed the magazine and turned it my way. I could finally see the headline. REVEREND ROLLINS FIGHTS FOR PRIVACY AGAINST CORPORATE AMERICA.
The picture was one of the more flattering ones I’d seen of old Preacher Teddy. He was a tall man, reported to stand close to six-foot-three. Big guy, with broad shoulders. I’d read once he’d played football in college at Florida State.
He was in his mid-forties and his blond trophy hair
had thinned in all the wrong places. A pronounced widow’s peak pointed down to a high forehead above thick, arched yellow eyebrows.
His nose was straight, and his mouth was a thin cut beneath handlebar mustaches.
He was one unattractive man. Or at least so to me, anyway, in comparison to the man at the bar beside me. Reverend Rollins looked like a freak’n Muppet if you asked me.
Again I was a bit surprised I could open the magazine, and I flipped to the article. It didn’t take long before I saw the printed type spelling out Visitar Incorporated in the first paragraph.
Visitar. Koba Hirokumi.
William Tanaka.
I pointed to the newspaper, indicating the murder. “You think the Reverend had something to do with that?”
Daniel nodded and took a sip of his coffee. “No one else thinks so, but I do. I haven’t got a damned bit of evidence to prove it. All I know is what’s in that article—that Visitar bought the rights to something Rollins allegedly lost in the early eighties. Doesn’t say what it was—but I’m sure it’s important.”
I had to ask. “Have you spoken to the Reverend?”
Daniel shook his head. “He’s not speaking to anyone unless they’re a reporter. And if he talks to the police, he’s sure not talking to me.”
“Why not?”
“Zoë.” Daniel gave me a slight smile, punctuated by furrowed brows. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“Yeah, and? I’m a stranger. You don’t know me. I’m here for lunch. You’re here for lunch. Talk to me. What’s the harm?” I had no idea who said those words. Wasn’t me.
I’m usually not that Rico Sauvé.
He was looking at me, sizing me up. I smiled back at him and locked his gaze in mine. I don’t know how long we sat like that, looking at each other.
And it was making me nervous. Why was he staring at me? Was I going invisible again? Could he see through me?
“So why won’t he talk to you? Because you’re not lead detective? Isn’t that how it works?”
Daniel blinked, as if coming out of a light sleep. He smiled. I really liked the smile. Brightened his whole face. “No, I’m not the lead—not really. Well, yes I am. Just not in the way you might be thinking. It’s kinda complicated.”
And I thought I was confused.
“Daniel—start over. But wait till my eyes roll back around and catch up. You made me dizzy with that statement.”
He laughed.
I liked that.
“Sorry.” He pushed his stool farther away from the bar so he could face me. “To answer the second question, I’m partner-less at the moment and my captain would rather I play desk jockey till they find someone else to work with me.”
“What happened to your partner?”
Daniel looked away from me then, and his eyes glazed, but not in the MEGO sense. More like in the remembering something he’d rather not way. “He was killed about a month ago. Walked in on a holdup at the 7-Eleven over off of Ponce de Leon and Monroe.”
I felt my own eyes widen in surprise. That wasn’t that far from my condo building on Virginia Avenue.
He rubbed at his eyes with the index finger and thumb of his right hand. I wasn’t sure if it was from frustration from the failed interview with Hirokumi or from fatigue.
At that particular moment I noticed a small, methodical pounding at the base of my skull. Damn—that was usually my first signal that I’d been out of my body too long. But that was impossible. I still had about an hour or so. I wanted to check my watch, but didn’t want to bring attention to the handprint on my forearm.
Daniel continued. “Apparently not many other officers are interested in working with me. I should have had another partner by now.”
“Were you close to the one that was killed?”
“Not really. We’d only been partners for a year—and he had a family. Three kids. I went to the funeral.” He rested his chin on his right fist, his right elbow on the bar. “I’d never really thought about the danger of my work till then—mainly because there’s never been anyone as important as a family in my background. But that afternoon…” He sighed and refocused his incredible eyes back on me. So sad. “That was tough to see those kids as they realized Daddy wasn’t ever coming home.”
I really hated that he was getting bummed. And I hated that such a nasty thing had happened to him. I also hated that this here train of thought was going to get us nowhere but further away from the topic of Visitar and Reverend Rollins.
Now I’m not a heartless bitch—not really. But the pounding in my head increased in volume, and hearing was at a premium. I glanced quickly at my watch. Forty-five minutes. I still had forty-five minutes—so why was I getting the initial headache of a gone-too-long hangover? “And the answer to why the Reverend won’t talk to you is…”
Daniel’s focus shifted back to me. He looked serious. “No great mystery there. I’m not six o’clock news material. No one knows me in this city—except as the one that keeps losing partners. I guess I’m sort of a joke in that respect.” He gestured to the paper. “I’m more the one that’ll garner that kind of bad press. Reverend Rollins always wants to smell like a rose.” He smiled to himself and took up his coffee. “With me he’d smell more like his true self.” He wiggled his eyes up and down. “Ass.”
I laughed. I’d not expected that sort of line out of this nice, soft-spoken man. He didn’t strike me as the typical detective either. But my knowledge of police procedures depended largely on my addiction to the “doink, doink” on Law & Order.
I’m a huge Orbach fan. I miss him.
“I take it you don’t care much for the good Reverend?” I gave him my best smile.
“I don’t like any form of legalized proselytization.”
Ooh. School word. Was that like prostitution?
“And I just find it interesting that a week after this magazine is published”—he picked up the Atlanta Magazine and held it out where I could see it. “Tanaka is dead.”
The pictures and words blurred. Yow…
He dropped the magazine back to the bar. “Rollins killed Tanaka. And soon, he’s going to come after Hirokumi. And I suspect Hirokumi knows this.” Daniel’s jaw worked back and forth for a few seconds. The light from the windows reflected from his glasses again, the glare blocking my view of his eyes. “And he’s not going to cooperate with police.”
Well, first off, I knew Rollins hadn’t killed Tanaka—not unless he moonlighted as a bald-demon-ghosty-guy. Or hired one—which wasn’t such a far-out idea when I thought about my own situation.
I mean, I’m an astral Traveler, and I pretty much rent myself out to learn things for other people. I thought again of Mitsuri—did Hirokumi know his little Japanese seer combo secretary was more than meets the eyes? And what was up with her accusing me of being a Wraith? What the hell did that mean?
So maybe the Reverend did the same—as in astral traveled? Only on the astral plane he looked like Vin Diesel?
Nahhhhh… That was just wrong.
“Zoë, is something wrong with your arm? You keep rubbing it.”
I hadn’t realized I’d been doing that, so I nearly protested, until I looked down and the mark was deep red again. The shape of the handprint was even more visible against my very pale skin.
That’s when several things clicked (including the stress of the wooden stool beneath me). For six years I’d traveled in the astral and never managed to become corporeal. Now, less than twenty-four hours after I’m astrally touched by some überspook with dark shades, I’m visible in a bar in Buckhead.
And as I looked at Daniel, then at the bar and bartender, at my cooling coffee, and finally when I turned to look at the other patrons scattered about the room, I realized what had been niggling at me since I realized I was solid.
There were shadows everywhere. Misty, dark, slight wisps of something like the smoke that curls up after snuffing a candle. I knew this look, I saw it when I was out of body. But never when I was p
hysical.
Christ. What did Trench-Coat do to me?
I should go home, drink a lot of Coke, burp, and call Rhonda. For some reason I’d reached my usual out-of-body limit quicker. Had he mucked with that as well?
Better not waste time and find out.
“No, no. I’m fine.”
But he reached out and caught my wrist just above the very visible mark.
He turned a serious (but cute!) look to me. “Zoë, are you being abused? Who did this to you? That’s a very nasty bruise. Christ—it’s a handprint.”
I managed to pull my arm back. “Uh, no one. Really. I’m fine.”
The pounding at the back of my head moved forward, crawled through my brain, and settled behind my eyes. The beautiful—if not misled lieutenant—was losing sharpness for me.
I also became aware of a weight pressing down not only on my shoulders, but on my chest.
I didn’t know what was happening—and there sure as hell wasn’t anyone in the bar I could ask. Oh, excuse me. Can you help me a moment? I seem to have gone all corporeal, but I’m not sure if this is good for my body, which, of course, I left back at my condo.
I blinked several times at Daniel, trying to bring him into sharper focus—but my body—what there was of it—wasn’t cooperating.
“What…” I shook my head, and as I looked down at my hand, I found I could see the bar through it. Oh hell! “Let’s get back to Rollins and Hirokumi…” An ocean crested in my ears.
Oh damn…I felt the tug of my body calling. This wasn’t going to be pretty. I was gonna be sucked back whether I wanted to be or not. And by the hazy dial on my watch, I still had forty minutes!
Luckily, Daniel had looked inside his suit jacket and pulled out a card. He wasn’t looking at me. “Zoë, I work with battered women and volunteer at one of the shelters downtown. If you’d like, we could continue this discussion tonight over dinner, and maybe I could introduce you to the shelter’s—” But it was too late. Daniel looked up from his coffee to look at me—and stopped. His eyes widened, and I felt my heart sink when he looked through me.
Wraith Page 8
