A Room For The Dead (THE GHOST STORIES OF NOEL HYND # 3)

by Noel Hynd

  He cursed softly to himself, his words a murmur in the room.

  “A penny for your thoughts, lover,” Carolyn whispered back.

  “I just gave them to you,” he answered. “My thoughts. All of them. As many as I dare to have.” He paused and thought of it. He thought she was sleeping.

  “Gary's a ghost, and you are, too,” he repeated.

  Softly, she laughed.

  Was she making fun of him? Toying with him? He didn't know.

  “What we both are is crazy,” she said. “Everyone can see that. We see things that others can't. The psychiatrists lock up people like us,” she said.

  She said this so routinely that it seemed acceptable as a fact, as logical as falling off a log. Moments later, her easy, steady breathing told him that she was asleep again.

  His eyes travelled the room.

  Then a whole explanation was upon him: She and Gary were one; different aspects of the same personality. And they existed not at all, other than in his dementia, and he had lost control of his mind completely.

  He went to sleep with that thought. When he woke up the next morning and she was still there, downstairs making some breakfast, he knew that this line of reasoning was as flawed as several others.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Here was what made Kaminski most nervous. The stranger standing in front of him, the man he had never seen before who was in his real estate office, had produced a badge.

  Police! And damn it all, out-of-state police once again! What was it about his business that kept drawing out-of-state law enforcement?

  This time, New Hampshire. And this time, State Police.

  Kaminski was sitting down but was weak at the knees. His stomach felt like heaving. O'Hara folded away his ID case and smiled to reassure Carolyn Hart's landlord.

  “If a crime was committed, it has nothing to do with you,” O'Hara said. “This is really some very basic background questioning. Do you mind helping?”

  Kaminski broke a sweat. “I don't know what I might know that could help you,” he said. His voice broke, too.

  “One of your tenants,” O'Hara said. “A Carolyn Hart. Lives in a residence on-”

  “Oswell Street,” Kaminski said. Two tenants in a row, cop problems from Oswell Street.

  “You know her?”

  “I know her,” Kaminski answered. His unrequited love, he might have said. But didn't.

  “Do you happen to know if Carolyn Hart is her real name?”

  Kaminski puffed himself up a bit. “Why wouldn't it be?”

  “There are a few things about Carolyn that don't quite follow,” O'Hara said.

  “Like?”

  “Her identity.”

  Kaminski brooded over it. “Look, she's a very exemplary individual,” he said, rising to the defense of the woman he coveted. “She lives quietly. Causes no trouble. Not involved in anything funny that I know about. Why should I bring tsuris to her?”

  “You shouldn't.”

  “Well, then . . .?” Kaminski opened his hands as if the solution were self-evident: Just go away and ignore the whole thing, Mr. Irish Policeman.

  “But you shouldn't bring any to me, either,” O'Hara said. “And if I can't get answers, I have to involve the local police. Maybe even the FBI. That would involve you, and. . . .”

  Kaminski, with a sinking feeling, responded, “I get the hint.” He shuddered, sweating as badly as an innocent man could. “What do you want from me?”

  “Maybe you could give me an unofficial peek at her application to rent,” O'Hara suggested. “I won't tell her you did this. I'd just like to take a glance at the bank references. And any personal ones.”

  “The references are very sketchy.”

  “I don't care.”

  “Some are out-of-date.”

  “Makes no difference. “

  Kaminski summoned up all the courage and willpower he owned. “Look,” he said. “I, uh, I don't know how to tell you this, but Carolyn and I are, uh, how would you say it. . .?”

  O'Hara frowned in surprise. “What? Romantically involved?”

  “Well, yes.”

  O'Hara held the moment tenaciously. “Does she know?” he asked.

  A long pause. “Well, no.” A longer pause. Then the landlord added, “Not exactly.”

  “So you have a crush on her. From a distance.”

  “Sort of.”

  “Well, good luck with it.”

  “Thank you.” Kaminski felt proud of himself, having at last proclaimed his love and stood up to a tough cop at the same time.

  “Now could I see the application?” O'Hara asked firmly. “Or do I need to come back with a summons?”

  Kaminski's world crashed. O'Hara sat before him without moving, intransigent in his demand. Moments later, Kaminski found himself at his file, turning over to a policeman he had never seen before-and hoped never to see again-every bit of information he had on the woman he loved.

  *

  Late the next afternoon, O'Hara sat outside Dr. Paloheima's examination chamber and waited. As always, the foul scent of death was in the air. The M.E.'s office was busy. A nice spurt of business in the three days that O'Hara had been away from the state.

  A man of twenty had been found dead in a new Honda that had crashed off a highway and onto the rocky banks of Lake Hawthorne near Antrim. Problem was, the man had what appeared to be a deep, narrow, and very suspicious wound to the left side of the cranium.

  Murder? Or death by auto accident?

  Similarly, the body of a hunter had been found frozen in a forest south of Swanzey. The man had been missing for two months. Much deterioration of the corpse. But what about the two bullet wounds to the upper back?

  Stray bullets from a low-caliber hunting rifle? (Second degree manslaughter at best.) Or well-aimed bullets from a handgun? (Murder one.) Fortunately for O'Hara, neither were on his desk.

  Paloheima emerged from the office shortly after five P.M. He carried with him the Travis Jones pm that O'Hara had brought from Philadelphia.

  O'Hara looked up expectantly. “What have you got?” asked O'Hara, folding away a book.

  The doctor was faintly redolent of marijuana smoke in addition to chemicals and gore. A cloud of some sort always seemed to follow him.

  “I got a man who apparently drove off a cliff after pushing an ice pick into the side of his head, and I got a hunter dead when a deer presumably pulled a pistol and nailed him in self-defence,” Paloheima said. “How's that for starters? Then I got some bad news for you.”

  “What's that?”

  “Want to see the charts you brought me from Philadelphia?”

  “I've seen the charts. I just want your opinion.”

  “Same dude, once again,” the M.E. said. “Whoever killed Karen Stoner killed Abigail Negri, and whoever killed both of them killed Travis Jones.”

  His suspicions confirmed, O'Hara heaved a sigh. He gazed off to the middle distance for a moment. Then his eyes came back to the doctor.

  “You're sure?” O'Hara asked.

  “No. I'm making this up. Do the birds crap in the woods, Frank? Of course, I'm sure.”

  O'Hara stood. He gathered his parka and gloves. “Thanks,” he said.

  “Does that make things easier or more difficult?” Paloheima asked. “It's not like I need to know or anything. But I'm curious.”

  “I'm not sure what it proves either, Doc. I just know that it makes it more complicated.”

  The doctor nodded. O'Hara turned toward the exit to the ice-encrusted parking lot. Paloheima's voice stopped him as he was at the door.

  “Hey, Frank?”

  O'Hara turned.

  “You don't think that a deer really could have pulled a heater on a hunter, do you? You know? Plugged him before the hunter could get off a round?”

  “A deer wouldn't have shot him in the back, Vinnie,” said O'Hara. “That one's like extortion and auto theft. More of a human trait. Very low number of instances among animals.�
�

  “Thought so. But I wanted to run it past a detective. Have a good one.”

  There was a bar across the street, and O'Hara stopped there. He had been drinking again since he had gone to bed with Carolyn Hart. He wasn't even sure why. He just knew that he craved the booze, and it seemed to settle his nerves.

  He stood at the bar and stared out the window. More snow coming down. Snow on top of the ice which was on top of the snow. No one knew any more what was under that, because no one had seen it for weeks.

  He put a first beer down easily. The bartender, a burly, red-haired man named Matt, drew a second one for him.

  Then the thought was upon Frank O'Hara. Death was under the snow and ice. As it had been in the case of the hunter who had been murdered by someone off in the tall woods. Murder was under the ice that had covered the new Honda that had plunged off the highway toward Lake Hawthorne. Scratch the surface of anything, O'Hara thought to himself, and you found murder. Human cruelty to other humans. It never failed.

  “Know something, Matt?” O'Hara asked the bartender out of the blue. “If a damned deer actually plugged a hunter, I'd give the animal a medal. What do you think?”

  “What are you talking about, Frank?” the bartender answered.

  “Paloheima's got a case over there,” he said, draining a brewski. “A guy got whacked in the woods over in Cheshire County. Small-caliber. Think a deer was packing some artillery?”

  Matt assessed him coldly. “You know, your wife always told you that your job would drive you nuts. Remember that?”

  O'Hara thought about it. The bartender took the glass and started to fill it again.

  “Yeah. Barbara did mention that from time to time,” O'Hara answered. He asked for a third beer.

  “Make this the last one.”

  “I was going to anyway.”

  With a slight pause, O'Hara drained his glass. Then he was on his way.

  He drove across Nashua in the snow, stopping at the police parking lot. A plow was busy already, sanding and salting. O'Hara stepped out of his Pontiac, cursed the elements, and walked indoors. He went straight to the second floor, and moments later stood at the door to Captain Mallinson's office.

  He knocked. Then he saw that the captain was not alone. His wife was with him. Virginia Mallinson.

  Both Mallinsons looked up. O'Hara knew immediately that he had intruded.

  “Don't talk to me,” the captain said without looking.

  Virginia recognized him. She had always liked and respected O'Hara while holding a lesser opinion of many other men on the force. She was a gracious, little lady in her mid-fifties. For thirty-two years her entire life had revolved around her husband and her children.

  “Come in, Frank,” she said softly.

  O'Hara approached cautiously. The captain looked like hell. “Is there a problem?” O'Hara asked.

  “No frigging problem!” Mallinson snapped. “Sorry, Virginia,” he said, dismissing the profanity. “I'm fine. Why won't anyone leave me alone?”

  O'Hara looked back and forth from one to the other and knew there was a problem. The captain's face was even more lined and drawn than it had been a few days earlier. And it was gray. Gray like a man's hair is gray. Gray like a clump of ice on a frozen sidewalk is gray. Worse, Mallinson was breathing funny.

  “I'm all right,” the captain said again. “Virginia, it's all right. You can leave.” He looked at his desk. “I've got so damned much work to do.”

  Officer McConnell, the captain's frequent driver, arrived at the door.

  “Chest pains. Short of breath,” McConnell explained to O'Hara.

  “I was walking back from a late lunch and I felt a little funny,” Mallinson said. “That's all. It's nothing.”

  “Chest pains. Short of breath. Pain on the left side,” McConnell warned. “The captain had difficulty walking up the front steps.”

  O'Hara knew a mild heart attack when he saw one. Or when he preferred not to see one.

  “I phoned Mrs. Mallinson, and she insisted we call an ambulance. It should be here momentarily.”

  “Ah, frig it,” the captain said.

  His wife tried to calm him, but the chief of homicide was having none of it. Or very little. Virginia Mallinson had to beg her husband to sit. He only obeyed when he tried to stand. Apparently he was too weak and couldn't.

  There were tears in the woman's eyes, as if this were a moment she always knew was coming. “Bill,” she said repeatedly, “Bill, I'm begging you.”

  “No hospital,” he said. “They'll kill me in the frigging hospital. The doctors in this state. They're all like Paloheima. All they know how to do is cut you. A bunch of' pot-puffing abortionists.”

  “We'll find a good one for you, Captain,” O'Hara said firmly. “But you're going to have to listen to your wife.”

  “You're all against me. All of you. Trying to get me out of here. Why don't you all admit it?”

  But with those words, Mallinson relaxed slightly. He sunk back into the chair and, breathing hard, seemed to concede that he was about to spend the night among physicians, nurses, bedpans, and heart monitors. His wife loosened his collar and removed his tie.

  “Look at that,” he growled. “She's taking my frigging cravat so I can't hang myself in my cell.”

  Even O'Hara and McConnell had to smile.

  “Frank,” Mallinson said. “What are you doing here? Did you need to see me?”

  “It can wait.”

  “No, it can't. They might have me locked up for the rest of my life. Talk to me now or forever shut the hell up. You got a suspect in the Negri murder yet? I get phone calls, you know.”

  “Still the same suspect.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I'm talking about Gary Ledbetter.”

  Mallinson made a moaning sound. He pressed his fingers to his eyes as if O'Hara's response had brought a special kind of pain. And apparently it had.

  “My top death dick,” Mallinson complained to anyone whose eye he could catch, “and he's got a ghost for a suspect.”

  “That's my reading of the case.”

  “Frig it,” said Mallinson. He put a hand to his chest as he spoke, apparently experiencing something wrong inside. Simultaneously, McConnell eased past O'Hara and set a series of papers on the captain's desk. “So you think Gary Ledbetter's back from the dead to kill some more women? Is that it?”

  “I'm not saying I can prove that's what happened, Captain,” O'Hara said. “I'm only telling you where things are pointing.”

  Mallinson made another low growl. “Frank, I'm glad you came by right now. Your timing couldn't be better. I need you to do something.”

  At first O'Hara thought his commander was being facetious. But he wasn't. From somewhere came the word that the ambulance had arrived. McConnell left to meet the orderlies, and Mrs. Mallinson went to get her husband's coat.

  “I don't know what's going on in my chest, Frank,” Mallinson said, “but it's not going to keep me out of this office more than overnight. I'll swear that to you right now.”

  “I'm certain, sir.”

  “But I need you to do something,” Mallinson said.

  O'Hara waited. Mallinson produced the papers that McConnell had provided. “I need your signature,” Mallinson said. “Do this as a favor to me.”

  Initially, O'Hara thought the form had something to do with his retirement, extending his time of service perhaps, because he saw his name printed at the top. But it didn't. The document appointed O'Hara to assume the captain's duties as head of New Hampshire homicide if Mallinson should become incapacitated.

  Or die.

  “What do you want me to sign this for?” O'Hara asked.

  “The State requires that someone be ready to act in my place in the event of prolonged hospitalization. Normally there's an acting assistant to my office, but the state budget couldn't provide it.” Mallinson sighed. “Who knows?” he added sullenly. “I might have to have a frigging ope
ration. Or be in the hospital for a week. Talk to me, Frank. Do me a favor. Sign this piece of crap. You're the most logical successor I have, so just be ready to be my stand-in this week. All right? It'll be a few bucks more in your paycheck, which will also show up in your pension.”

  The captain grimaced hard from some pain that he could feel, but O'Hara could not see.

  “But the real thing,” Mallinson continued in a low groan, “is that if you don't sign I have to get some incompetent asshole like Dreher or Schwine. Now do you understand?”

  The invocation of those two names was enough to guide O'Hara's hand to a pen.

  “I know you don't want this job, Frank,” Mallinson said. “God forbid that you ever frigging get it. So I know you're doing me a favor. I owe you one, big time. Okay?”

  “I'm not keeping score, Bill.”

  “You're a good man. Best I have. Always thought so. Just don't lose your grip like everybody else who walks through these doors.”

  O'Hara signed.

  McConnell returned with the orderlies and a wheelchair. Mrs. Mallinson came back with her husband's coat.

  “I'm not going to kick the bucket on you, Frank,” Mallinson said. “I'm too damned busy.”

  “That's the spirit,” O'Hara agreed.