Crimes by Moonlight

by Charlaine Harris

  “Randall directed you to Ernest?”

  “Yes. Of course, I did a thorough check on the Eppleworth funds. The returns are honest—the forex streak is real, just like Randall said.”

  “Hmm. How did Randall tell you all that?”

  “Writing on his shirt, like you saw last night. It took forever.”

  “I bet.” I considered. “There are a couple of really obvious questions—”

  “Yeah, I know.” Jake leaned back in his ergonomic, sleek-leather, post-Aeron chair. “Like, why not give me the tips, instead of going through Ernest?”

  “That’s one.”

  “He doesn’t want to bring too much suspicion on the firm here. You said the cops are already sniffing around—he figured, let Ernest take the heat. I can still keep the earnings.”

  “Okay.” That sort of made sense. “But how does he know? How can he read tomorrow’s box scores today?”

  “It’s an afterlife thing. Short-term time dilation, quantum tunneling effects.” Jake shrugged. “I didn’t understand his explanation, but so what? The point is, it works.”

  “Uh-huh.” I looked out Jake’s window, where a pigeon was waddling around on the ledge. “So did you double your money on those forints?”

  “No.” Jake looked annoyed again. “I wasn’t quite convinced. Stupid, huh? But Ernest expects Randall back tonight, and I’m going all in then.”

  I hit the Rolodex again.

  Jake got the two questions, all right, but there was one more he seemed not to have thought of: If it was so easy, why hadn’t it happened already?

  Like I said, with the economy hitting lows in the Mariana Trench, plenty of Wall Streeters were moving to the Great Beyond. Between stress-related cardiacs, Provigil overdoses, and wiped-out investors bursting in with semiautomatic weapons, it was a wonder the big firms still had to resort to redundancies. Anyhow, that meant a steady flow of financially savvy type A’s into the afterlife. If they really could game the day traders, you’d think some of them would have tried it before now.

  Many more phone calls, and I discovered that, in fact, they had. But no one wanted to talk about it.

  “It’s like this,” said one of my ex-colleagues from Lehman. “I have some friends, they’ll tell me stories over drinks, but they’ll never admit anything publicly.”

  “Why not? Even if it’s a ghost doing the legwork, positive returns are positive returns. The Street’ll take its alpha from anywhere—shades, vampires, flesh-eating zombies, who cares?”

  “Because it never lasts long,” my former desk mate said. “Three people told me they had, uh, visitations, I guess, but every one flamed out after just a few tips. And then what—you’re going to send a share-holder letter explaining you lost a bundle by taking advice from the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come? No way. So they keep quiet.”

  “Ah. So nobody actually made money on the advice.”

  “Nope. It was all currency trades, too, in the last few months. But the shade always screwed up after a while.”

  “One last question. Was it the same ghost each time?”

  “I didn’t ask. But everyone said he’d been murdered, so messily they couldn’t possibly identify who he’d been in real life.”

  I was too late.

  I waited until the morning to talk to Ernest. Hey, the Knicks were in the playoffs—talk about an unexplainable phenomenon—and I didn’t want to miss the game.

  Ernest, I’m sorry. Really.

  When I got to his office, there were police cars, two TV trucks, and a herd of pedestrians clicking cell phone photos as a covered gurney was lifted into the coroner’s van. I couldn’t talk my way through the uniforms standing guard behind the yellow tape, so I waited until Detective Gatling came out. When I waved, he frowned and hustled me out of the crowd.

  We stood inside the lobby, out of the way as a pair of forensic technicians in Tyvek bunny suits lugged their kits to the elevator.

  “Security cameras caught the whole thing,” said Gatling. “Video’ll probably be on the Internet by lunchtime ... Jake Tims walked into Ernest’s office, started screaming, and pulled out a Glock. Eleven rounds, eight through the torso.”

  “What were they doing?” I pointed to the armored security guards across the lobby, apparently under interrogation by another detective.

  Gatling shrugged. “There’s no metal detector here. They caught him quick enough after the shooting stopped.”

  I shook my head. “Jake lost some money this morning, I take it.”

  “Just about every penny. He went the wrong way on, uh ... just a minute.” Gatling flipped through his notebook. ”Ringgit. Some kind of Asian money? I don’t know the details, but he blew his entire packet on the trade.”

  “Randall.” I muttered some profanities. “The ghost.” And I explained how Jake had thought his former partner was steering him to riches.

  Gatling started to catch on. “Don’t tell me.”

  “Yup. Randall seems to have been recommending up/down currency positions to traders all over the city. But none of them were talking to each other.”

  “A tip-sheet scam!”

  “I think so.”

  Gatling’s grin spread wide. “I haven’t seen one of those in decades.”

  In ancient times, long before the Internet, a grifter would mail out a newsletter to, say, a hundred sports bettors, predicting who’d win the big game on Sunday. The trick was, half the tip sheets would say one team—and half, the other. Next week, the newsletter would go out again, but only to the fifty recipients who’d gotten the correct prediction the first time—and so on down the line, half the marks falling away each week. See how it works? At the end, three gamblers would have gotten seven examples of a tip sheet with a perfect record.

  And then the grifter would send one more mailing, asking if the marks would like to subscribe. Sure, it was costly, but now that he’d proven himself ...

  The beauty was, it was even halfway legal. Oh, the good old days.

  Gatling shook his head. “Randall set Eppleworth up to fail, spectacularly. But why?”

  “Not Eppleworth. He just happened to be the last mark still making money. The target was Jake.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Jake killed Randall.”

  A pause while Gatling thought it over. “Gunshots, yeah, same as Eppleworth upstairs this morning, I could see that. But if that was true, why would Randall come back to Jake—and why in the world would Jake believe anything from the guy he’d just murdered?”

  “Because Jake must have hired the thugs who kidnapped Randall. It really happened the way he said—fingernail pulling, the bank password, the garbage scow. Only when he was on the other side did Randall have time to figure it out. He set this whole elaborate scheme up simply to ruin Jake—and Jake went along with it, because he assumed Randall didn’t know what actually happened.”

  We stood in silence for a moment. Outside, the coroner’s van finally drove away.

  “You’ll find the motive if you look,” I said. “My guess is Jake wanted the whole pie for himself—and the three mil from the sweep account was just a lagniappe.”

  “You’re probably right.” Gatling put his notebook away. “Let’s do the formal interview later, after I check into it.”

  “Sure.”

  We walked toward the door. Sunshine spilled across the lobby’s polished floor.

  “Good thing New York doesn’t have the death penalty,” Gatling said. “I’m sure your new pal Jake wants a word with you, but he’ll have to wait, oh, about forty years.”

  “Yeah.” I sighed.

  “What?”

  “Ernest,” I said. “He’ll probably be visiting me tonight.”

  Swing Shift

  By DANA CAMERON

  Jake Steuben knew it would be easy to find Harry amid the crowd at North Station. All he had to do was find the highest density of pretty girls; his friend would be within fifteen feet.

  Sure enough, there he w
as, ten feet away from a group of secretaries by the newsstand, watching as they chattered about the stars on the cover of Life. Jake picked up his valise and edged his way through the crowd. He leaned over and whispered into Harry’s ear.

  “If you get into trouble and you can’t get out, it’ll be because of a girl.”

  “There are worse reasons.” Harry startled, his morose stare gone, and stood up to shake Jake’s hand. “Train was on time. Any trouble?”

  “What trouble would there be? It was crowded but quiet; I stood in the vestibule most of the way.”

  Harry looked askance. “No doubt the conductor made you stand out there—that’s the ugliest hat I’ve seen in quite some time, my friend.”

  Jake took off his hat to look at it fondly. It was a little shiny, stretched, and the brim needed reblocking. “It’s just getting broken in.”

  They walked out of the train station, past drunken sailors staggering to Scollay Square, then a few blocks to the Boston Common.

  Harry said, “How’s the wife?”

  “Sophia is fine, thanks. How’s the war effort in Washingt—?”

  “And the baby’s doing well?”

  Jake couldn’t help smiling. “Cutting his first tooth, so he’s a handful. Say, Harry, what is it you—?”

  “Good, glad to hear it. And everyone in Salem?”

  Jake looked around. There was no one to overhear their conversation, so why did Harry keep interrupting? Politeness was all well and good, but he had come to Boston on the double. “Real good,” he said slowly. “Thanks for asking.”

  They settled on a bench on the Common. The leaves on the trees were starting to turn and would soon fall, but for now, the sun was warm and high.

  Harry looked around carefully, then sighed. He shoved his hat back, mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. He sat forward, clapped his hands together, but didn’t say anything.

  Jake had had enough of waiting. “So, what’s the problem you couldn’t wire me about?”

  Harry shifted uneasily. “I got a case I can’t crack. It’s a doozy. You’ve got a knack for getting into the tough ones, seeing angles I don’t.”

  “Tell me.” They’d worked occasionally as deputies for the Essex County sheriff until Harry started with the Bureau, and Jake inherited his family’s farm near Salem.

  Harry hesitated. “It’s not easy. You know I deal with ... government secrets.”

  “Are you sure you should tell me, then?” Jake enjoyed the sun on his face. His feet ached inside his shoes. The grass of the Common looked inviting.

  “It’s okay,” Harry said, a little impatiently. “I cleared it upstairs. And got you clearance, too.” He took a deep breath. “It’s one of the research facilities, over in Cambridge. There’s a bad leak. I can’t pin it down.”

  “And what do you think I can do that the FBI can’t?”

  “I ... I think I’m too close to it. You’re outside.” Harry looked up. “Like I said, you see angles no one else would. Remember the Beverly Slasher, how you knew he was the guy who found the first body? I wouldn’t ask, but we got two strikes, two outs, bottom of the ninth. I don’t find a DiMaggio soon, it’s gonna be my fat in the fire.”

  “Sure, Harry. You know, I’ll do whatever I can.”

  “Thanks, Jake.” Harry smiled for the first time since Jake had gotten off the train, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The security is tight enough, I’ve been watching for weeks. I just don’t know how the information is getting out.”

  “What do you think’s going on? They’ve somehow learned to walk through walls? Use magic to whisk the secrets away?”

  “Stop razzin’ me, Jake.” Harry shook his head, dead serious. “You know the Krauts are involved with some pretty unsavory investigations into the paranormal and mystical. The trips to Tibet, the archaeology, their obsession with skulls ... don’t even joke about it. My boss, Mr. Roundtree, has stories that would curl your hair.” Harry shuddered. “Nope, I’m hoping like heck it’s good old human sneakiness and greed. I want you to get in there, see what I’m not seeing.”

  Harry pulled an envelope out of his jacket and handed it to Jake. “Your credentials, the location of a boardinghouse, description of your job. And a new name; we’re not going to suddenly introduce a new guy with a German name. No offense.”

  Jake nodded. “Where will I be, and what will I be doing?”

  “Janitor at a computational research lab. We want someone who will blend in, who no one will take too seriously. It’s all in the file.” He stood up, began to pace. “I should get going.”

  Jake was surprised. He wondered when his friend last slept through the night, ate a square meal, or bathed: his aftershave was faintly, nauseatingly sweet. “Hey, wait a minute! What do you think will happen, someone will go ‘Psst, hey bud, want some government secrets?’ You’re gonna have to give me a few more—”

  “Look, it’s all in the file!” Harry said. “Wise up! I called you in because I need help. I can’t sit around babysitting you; I got a job to do, an important job. There’s a war on.”

  He mopped his face again. “Sorry, Jake. The pressure’s killing me. I’ll stop by your room in a couple of days. We can talk then. Okay?” Harry stood and held out his hand. Jake stared at his friend, nodded slowly, and shook. He was genuinely worried now. His friend wasn’t telling him the entire truth. “Yeah, sure. Don’t take any wooden nickels, Harry.”

  LATER that night, Jake sat on the quilt-covered bed in his rented room, reading the file. Harry was right. He’d covered all the bases—waste disposal, deliveries, repairs—and checked some less obvious ways. Harry was a good agent for the same reason he’d been a good deputy: he had a mind like a criminal, and though he went to extremes, he was thorough. Harry had already followed several of the potential suspects: The secretary who’d been complaining about the rationing complained about everything else. The technician who seemed to have an unlimited supply of gasoline for a car with an A sticker was found to be siphoning fuel from his brother’s trucking business. No one was obtaining the information any way he could see.

  It was time to call in reinforcements, Jake decided. He went down to the drugstore and called his cousin Vic, arranging to meet him at the boardinghouse in two hours.

  When Vic arrived, the cousins set out for a walk along the Charles River. Jake explained everything, not sparing the details. “I want you to follow up on what Harry started. You and Rosalie tail the employees, sniff around, see what you turn up. It can’t be magic that’s getting those secrets out.”

  “Hey, there could be vampires,” Vic said. He waggled his fingers, widened his eyes. “Turning into mist and going under the doors.”

  Jake shot his cousin a dirty look. “Stop clowning.” Then he began to worry that Vic might not be too far off the mark.

  Vic nodded. “Okay, you want Rosie’s sister—you remember Olivia?—to cuddle up to anyone? She’s got a real knack for making men want to please her.”

  Jake thought about it. Olivia might get Harry to reveal what he hadn’t told Jake. As badly as he wanted to know, he shook his head. “No, thanks. Best not to raise our profile, now of all times, if we can avoid it.”

  After confirming their plans, Vic left for downtown, and Jake went about assuming his new identity.

  EVERY day for two weeks, Jake—wearing Coke-bottle-bottom glasses and coveralls—swept, emptied the trash, and did odd jobs at the research facility. Even though he had access to almost everyone and everything, he still couldn’t figure out how the information was leaving the lab. Rosalie and Vic had no better luck.

  After two weeks working the day shift, Jake switched to the swing shift. The second night, he was mopping up in the office area when he heard a hiss from the doorway to Section Sixteen.

  “Psst! Hey, buddy!”

  Half convinced Harry was playing a joke on him, he looked up from the bucket to see a stacked redhead in a white lab coat beckoning to him. He recognized her as one of the computers,
the women who operated the large, impossibly complicated analytical machines that were behind the locked door.

  He made a point of looking over his shoulder, turned back, and raised his eyebrows—surely she couldn’t mean him? She nodded vigorously, waved at him to hurry. He could barely believe his luck at this break. Supposedly, all the computers, mostly women, had the highest clearance, but maybe—

  “Hey, I’m not trying to borrow money,” she whispered. “I just need someone with good, strong hands.”

  Jake knew what she meant, but stayed in character. He backed away a step or two, holding his hands up. “Sister, I may be on the dumb end of the mop, but you move too fast for me.”

  The redhead blushed six different shades of mortified. “I ... I didn’t ... I never ... Oh, golly, I just need you to help me fix something, and quick!”

  “I’m not supposed to go in there,” Jake said. No sense appearing too eager. “I don’t have clearance.”

  “I’ve hidden all the sensitive material,” she said, bouncing a little with impatience. “Unless you think a bearing that’s come out of a rotor is top secret. And you’re cleared to be here, right? I need to finish this set of calculations tonight, mister! Please?”

  Jake shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

  When he entered the long, wide room, the racket almost floored him. On one side of the room were rows of shelves of electronics, bulbs and dials like 10,000 radios. The other side, a spaghetti mess of wires, all the way down the wall. The heat from the analytical machines was oppressive; a few curls stuck limply to the redhead’s cheek.

  “It’s over here,” she said and handed him a screwdriver. “If you could get that bearing back on track, I’d owe you.”

  Jake saw the problem right away. He grimaced; his hand was too big to fit comfortably, but she was right. All it took was brute strength to get the bearing reset. When it snapped into place, the woman’s face lit up.

  “Oh, thanks a million! I’d just gotten the—well, I can’t really say. But if you hadn’t been there, a lot of hard preparation would have gone down the drain, and some of our boys would have been in a real jam.” Satisfied the machine was in order, she ushered Jake back to the administrative area.