Ghost Walk

by Melissa Bowersock

  Lacey hung up the phone with a huff. This case was not going to be an easy one. If only she had some point of reference—a name, a date. Without that, the scope of this thing was just too wide open.

  She dialed Sam.

  “Hello?” A child’s voice, giggling. The phone being fumbled around. A terse “Hey!” from some distance.

  Lacey waited. She heard Sam’s voice—“Give me that!”—then, “Hello?”

  “Sam? It’s Lacey.”

  “Oh, hi. Wait a minute.” He must have covered the phone because his next words were muffled. “Sorry,” he said, coming back to her. “Kids, you know.”

  Lacey smiled. She couldn’t quite get a picture of the stoic Navajo being flummoxed by his children. It just didn’t jive with the man she knew.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Sorry to butt in on your family time,” she said, “but I’ve been researching what I can and I keep coming up empty. I just don’t have enough information to zero in on anything useful. I was just wondering if you could give me any kind of detail—name, age, description. Anything to go on.”

  Sam was silent, but Lacey could hear giggling in the background. “Hey, guys,” he said. “Just chill for a few minutes.” Then he was back. “Give me a minute,” he said to Lacey. “I’m going outside. I can’t think with these two hooligans.”

  Lacey heard muted fumbling, voices in the background, then a door closing. Silence except for gravelly footsteps.

  “Okay,” Sam said, exhaling heavily. “Let me see if I can switch from Daddy to ghostwalker. It’s a stretch, I’ll tell you.”

  “Take your time,” she said.

  “Yeah.” Silence for a moment. She imagined him staring off at nothing with unfocused eyes.

  “Toned,” he said.

  “Toned? What—?”

  “He works out. Proud of his body. That’s why he can’t believe he’s dying. He’s in the prime of life. He thinks he’s going to beat it, if he can just reach…”

  Lacey waited. She remembered him saying something at the house about something just out of reach.

  “What?” she asked finally. “Reach what?”

  “Gun,” Sam said. “A Glock. Nine millimeter. It’s hanging in the closet, in its holster. He can’t quite reach it. He’s straining, his hand outstretched, but he can’t… reach it.”

  Lacey could hear it in Sam’s voice, as if he, too, were straining.

  “What’s in the way?” she asked. She remembered Janet’s description of scrabbling sounds in the closet.

  “Boxes,” Sam said. “Shoe boxes. Tackle box. Long coats. Can’t reach…”

  She held her breath. She could tell this was requiring a lot of effort from him. She felt bad for asking, for plunging him into this again, but she needed to know.

  Finally she heard a heavy sigh. “That’s all,” he said.

  “Okay,” she said, licking her lips. “That’s helpful. Now, without going back into it, can you tell me any more? How old he is? What he looks like?”

  “I’d say he’s late thirties, maybe forty at the most. Dark hair. High forehead. I think he was cheating on his wife. That’s why she killed him.”

  Lacey scribbled all that down. Rough sex, angry sex. No doubt, she thought.

  “Anything else?”

  Breathing. “No.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I have to ask. Names? Dates?”

  “No. None of that.”

  “All right.” She drew in a deep breath. It wasn’t much, but it was more than she had before. It would have to do.

  “Thank you, Sam. I’m sorry to put you through that, but hopefully it’ll be enough to point me in the right direction. I really, really appreciate you doing this.” She hoped her sincere gratitude would make up for any adverse effects.

  “Yeah, okay,” he said.

  “How hard is it going to be to switch back to Daddy mode now?”

  “Oh,” he laughed softly. “Not too hard. All I have to do is go back inside the apartment and sit down. They’ll be all over me.”

  Lacey smiled. “Good kids?” she asked.

  “The best. Of course.”

  “Of course,” she agreed. “So Daniel is twelve and Kenzie is how old?”

  There was a moment’s pause. “Facebook?”

  “Yeah.”

  He sighed. “She’s eight. Wants so bad to grow up, to be older like him. I wish she wasn’t in such a hurry.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I’ll bet the time goes fast.”

  “It does. Too fast.”

  “Just curious,” she said, “do you ever take them home? To the reservation?”

  “I took Danny when he was ten. I’m thinking I might take them both toward the end of the summer. Just gotta figure out the timing.”

  “I’ll bet they’ll enjoy it,” she said. She glanced at her watch. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Let you get back to being Daddy.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Thanks, Sam.”

  “Lacey?”

  She hesitated. Had he ever said her name before? “Yeah?”

  “Thank you, too.”

  She grinned into the phone. “Talk to you later, partner.”

  A quiet laugh. “Okay. Partner.”

  ~~~

  EIGHT

  Lacey drew up a timeline to help her visualize the sections of time she was working with. She’d done this before, especially with the Fairfax Stalker case. Truth be told, it hadn’t helped her with that one, but she still found it useful. It helped her to think.

  1981—Staffords bought house

  1990—Fairbanks bought house

  1996—Addisons bought house

  2002—Mrs. Fairbanks died of cancer

  2013, June—Boating accident, Mr. A. died

  2013, December—Weiss bought house

  2014—Redecorate, tile, countertops, no carpet

  She also consolidated all her notes about the ghost.

  Thirties, maybe forty. Toned, worked out.

  Proud of his body. Ego? Cheating.

  Arguments, angry sex—cheating?

  She is… fed up? Pushed to limits?

  Stabs him in kitchen; he goes down hall to back bedroom. Looking for gun.

  Glock in closet. Coats, boxes, tackle box.

  Can’t reach.

  She realized that, even if the house had been unoccupied for a time between owners, and even if petty criminals or druggies had availed themselves of the empty space, none of Sam’s impressions spoke of either impermanence or urban camping. Knives in the kitchen, arguments in the bedroom, things stored in the back closet all spoke of permanence, to living fully in the house. No, these arguing, murdering people weren’t transients; they lived there.

  No one reported a problem before the Weisses. The earlier owners could be lying, of course, although there was no reason for them to, now that the house had been passed on. So if everyone was telling the truth, that still pointed to some nebulous moment between the Addisons and the Weisses.

  Lacey read back over her notes. The things that obstructed the dying man’s attempt to get his gun: coats, boxes, a tackle box. Boating accident. Did the Addisons sail, only, or did they fish as well? But if Doug Addison disappeared off Catalina Island, who died in the house? Did Marci take a lover after Doug’s death?

  Suddenly she smacked her forehead with a flat hand. Gun! California law required all guns to be registered, at least all guns sold commercially. If Doug owned a Glock—and bought it legally—there would be a record of that.

  Frantically she brought up one of the paid search engines she’d come to trust. Too many of them were shams, promising detailed information for big bucks, but delivering little. This one, her favorite, was on the level. She keyed in all the identifying information she had and hit the submit button.

  After some chewing, the computer disgorged several entries. Doug Addison was not the most unusual name; she had twelve to choose from in California. She concentra
ted on the ones in the southern part of the state.

  Bakersfield -- no. Indio -- no. La Crescenta -- no. San Diego -- maybe. She clicked on that but as soon as the data came up, she hit her back button. Too old; this guy was in his sixties. Riverside -- no. Huntington Beach -- maybe. She clicked that.

  Jackpot.

  Born October 15, 1975. Married Marsha Williamson April 9, 1995. Worked for Realty Professionals. Background check run on September 12, 2001. Reason: handgun purchase. Make: Glock.

  Lacey sat back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. She wanted to go over this again, slowly, carefully, to make sure she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. She knew too well the brain’s penchant for showing her what she wanted to see.

  Just to clear her head a little, she went to the kitchen and got herself a glass of water, walked around the apartment for a minute. Then, her senses tingling, she settled into her chair again and hunched forward over her laptop.

  She clicked on the background check. No felonies. One misdemeanor when he was in college at UC Irvine: disturbing the peace. Probably drunk at a party, Lacey thought. No other priors.

  She scanned the rest of it. Date of death: June 23, 2013. Missing, presumed drowned. At the very bottom was a photo.

  Dark hair. High forehead. Toned.

  Lacey sat back again. This was crazy. If he died off of Catalina Island, how did he get stabbed in his own home? This made no sense.

  But she sure as hell was going to find out why.

  The last thing she did that evening was download the picture, then send it off to Sam’s phone.

  ~~~

  Monday morning, she printed out Doug’s picture and headed for Dana Point. She’d never been to a yacht club, but felt pretty sure she could bluster her way through.

  After driving the familiar maze of freeways south again, she pulled into the parking lot and found an empty space between a BMW and a Lincoln. No one would notice her little Hyundai, right? She checked her lip gloss, grabbed her purse and strode into the club.

  Plush, dark blue carpet. Huge dining room to one side, front desk to the other. A wide bank of windows straight ahead, looking out on the patio that sat just above the blue-gray Pacific.

  She approached the desk.

  A man close to her own age stood behind the counter. Although he wore a suit, his sun-streaked blond hair and tanned face was evidence that he spent a great deal of time outdoors.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  “Yes?” He looked up from whatever he was doing, met her eyes and smiled.

  Nice looking, she thought. She answered his smile with one of her own.

  “I’m a private investigator and I’m looking for some information about a former member here.” She opened her purse to pull out the picture of Doug.

  “I’m sorry,” the man said, “I’m afraid we can’t give out confidential information about our members.”

  Lacey turned her smile up a few hundred watts and slid the picture across the counter. “Oh, I don’t want confidential information,” she said. “This particular member is dead and I’m investigating the circumstances around his death.”

  She watched the man’s face as he focused on the photo. His eyebrows inched upward.

  “This is Doug Addison,” she said. “Did you know him?” She tilted her head slightly, friendly but determined.

  “Yes. Yes, I did. Not well, though.”

  “Did he spend much time here at the club?” she asked.

  “He’d use the exercise room quite a bit,” the man said, “then often sail on the weekends.”

  Lacey noted the man’s gold name badge: Frank L.

  “Yes, I understand he worked out a lot,” she said amicably.

  “Yeah. He was a real estate agent, so he’d come in at odd times, day or night, to work out.”

  “And did Mrs. Addison come with him?”

  Frank glanced sideways, his eyes shifting. “Not usually. She worked in an office, you know. Didn’t have flexible hours like he did.”

  There was something there. She tried to think how to get to it. “I suppose you know how he died?” she asked, pulling the picture back across the counter.

  “Yeah.” Frank shook his head. “Tough luck. But anyone who spends a lot of time on the water knows it can turn on you.”

  She folded the picture and put it in her purse. “As much as he sailed, then, he must have been good at it.” She turned her green eyes on Frank again. “I would think anyone like that would know the currents, know the weather. Not be taken by surprise. Don’t you think?”

  Frank looked uncomfortable. “Well,” he hedged, “like I said, the ocean can turn on you. You have to watch it every second, not get too cocky.”

  “Was Doug cocky?” She smiled.

  “Uh, I don’t know. I really didn’t know him that well, just to say hi to.”

  “So you said.” She glanced around the club. There were a handful of members in the dining room, no doubt enjoying a late brunch. She turned back to Frank.

  “Do you know of anyone here who was friends with the Addisons? Anyone I can talk to?”

  “Um, I’m not sure…”

  She let him stew for a minute. When it became obvious he wasn’t going to give up a name, she reached in her purse. “Let me give you my number,” she said. “If you happen to think of anyone, please give me a call. All right, Frank?”

  He took the note she slid to him, read the scrawled number and frowned. I’m going to have to get business cards, she thought. These notes weren’t cutting it, not if she were going to pass herself off as a P.I.

  “You’ll let me know if you think of anything, right, Frank? Anything unusual? It could be important.”

  He slid the note into his pocket. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Okay, thanks a bunch.” She turned her biggest smile on him, waggled her fingers and walked out.

  ~~~

  As she walked the self-storage property on her shift that night, she pondered Frank’s evasive answers. There was a heck of a lot more going on underneath the façade of the Addisons’ upscale life. Of course, murder was a pretty darn good indicator, but that didn’t come out of nowhere. That came out of years of a dysfunctional marriage. What led Marci to it? What was the last straw?

  Lacey couldn’t ask her. She couldn’t tip the woman off that she was suspected of murder. At this point, Marci was sure she’d gotten away with the grisly killing. Lacey didn’t want her thinking anything else—yet.

  Late that night, Sam called.

  “You found him,” he said simply. She knew he’d gotten the photo she’d sent.

  Lacey grinned, proud of herself. “Yes, I did.”

  Sam chuckled. “Good job.”

  “Thanks. Of course it doesn’t stop there. If Doug was supposed to have died in the boating accident, how did he get killed in San Clemente? Did she kidnap him off the boat, throw him in the trunk of the car and take him home to kill him? I just can’t figure it.”

  “You got me,” Sam said.

  “Well,” she sighed, “I’ll run it down. As a matter of fact, I’m toying with the idea of going out to Catalina on Saturday, see what I can find out there.” She paused. “You want to go?”

  “Hmm.” He thought about that. “I could. I’d need to be back by mid-afternoon, though.”

  “Pick up the kids?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think we can manage that,” Lacey said. “Let me check the ferry schedule to make sure. I’ll call you.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  ~~~

  Wednesday morning’s paper had a gratifying announcement that made Lacey’s day.

  Police have identified the remains of a second victim in the Fairfax Stalker case. DNA analysis has confirmed the identity of the second skeleton recovered as that of Esther Eisenburg, a thirteen-year-old who disappeared in 1990. In addition, the LAPD has announced that more remains have been found and are currently being recovered. There were nine disappearances that matched
the Fairfax Stalker profile, and an LAPD spokesperson expressed confidence that all nine bodies might be recovered.

  In related news, Lester Morehouse was arrested in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and is scheduled to be extradited to California. During the time of the disappearances, Morehouse owned the property in Fairfax where the remains were found. He is also being investigated for two separate murders in the Tulsa area, both young girls whose bodies were found in a wooded area outside of town.

  Both investigations, in California and Oklahoma, are ongoing.

  Lacey made reservations for both herself and Sam on the ferry to Catalina. It was an hour trip from the harbor at Long Beach to Avalon. They could catch a ferry back around noon or early afternoon, in time for Sam to have some quality time with his kids.

  The report of police calls from the San Clemente office arrived in her inbox Thursday morning. Not much there. A report called in about loud music playing during a party. A complaint about mailbox-tampering, concluded by talking to the parents of a neighbor kid. No calls for domestic abuse, loud fights or shots fired.

  Quiet neighborhood, Lacey thought. Except for the murder by butcher knife.

  The uselessness of the police report goaded her to action. She decided to go back down to the yacht club and see her buddy Frank. He hadn’t called, which didn’t surprise her at all, but she was sure there was more to be discovered there.

  He glanced up and smiled automatically as she walked in, but the smile faltered somewhat when he recognized her. She pretended not to notice.

  “Hi, Frank,” she said amicably. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by and see if you might have any information for me.” She parked herself at the counter, arms crossed on the gleaming marble, in no hurry to go anywhere. She beamed a smile at him.

  “Oh, uh, not really. That was a long time ago, you know.”

  “Three years,” she said. “Not so long ago.”