A radio squawked. Footfalls sounded in the next alley. Robyn's assailant let her go and ran.
Robyn scrambled to her feet. She slipped and recovered, but when she looked up, her attacker was gone. She heard an officer radioing for backup, saying that they might have found the suspect. Robyn almost called out, saying that their suspect was getting away. Then she remembered who those officers were looking for: her.
She looked down at herself, bloodied and battered. A bump on the head, a scrape on the cheek - proof she'd been in a fight, maybe with Portia. If those officers found her, they wouldn't keep looking for the fleeing killer; they'd presume they already had her.
Robyn took off.
* * *
FINN
John Findlay - Finn since first grade when there'd been three Johns in his class - stared down at the body of Portia Kane, lying flat on her back, shirt ripped open, blood-smeared nipple rings glistening under the harsh light.
"This is one photo you wouldn't want in the tabloids," he murmured.
He lifted his gaze from the body and looked around the room for the ghost of Portia Kane, hovering over her body in disbelief or huddled in a corner, pulling her torn blouse closed. Nothing. Maybe she'd headed back into Bane to get in a few more minutes of clubbing before she was trundled off to the great beyond.
He snorted at the thought, earning a wary look from the new police photographer who circled wide, his looks saying he suspected what they said about Finn was true.
A hand slapped Finn between the shoulder blades and he turned to see the beefy figure of Mark Downey, one of the crime scene techs.
"Got that mojo working for us tonight, Finn?" Downey asked.
Finn glanced around, seeing no shimmer of Portia Kane. "Fraid not."
"Don't listen to him," Downey mock-whispered to the photographer. "This guy is a regular Sherlock fucking Holmes. I swear, crime scenes talk to him."
Not crime scenes, Finn mused as Downey wandered off. The photographer kept eyeing him warily. He wondered what the kid had heard. The mildest rumor was that Finn was a crack detective, but somewhat eccentric, and not really a team player - hence the "partner" who'd gone on leave five months ago and never been replaced. Worst were the stories that blamed his partner's absence on Finn - the stress of working with a wacko the department kept on only because of his clearance rates.
It didn't matter how careful Finn was. Every now and then, someone would see him carrying on a conversation with thin air and staring at things no one else could see. He wasn't psychic, he just saw dead people. Not like the kid in the movie, though. With Finn, they usually only appeared at homicide scenes, distraught and confused.
If he was lucky, he'd get a few questions answered before the ghost disappeared. And if he didn't? Then he was shit outta luck, because they never came back. This was, apparently, one of those times he wasn't getting any help from the dead. He took one last look around, then set to work.
One dead celebutante. Apparent gunshot. Possible murder weapon lying beside her. After an hour's work, he knew no more than he had looking in from the doorway. He had a witness, but all she could say was that she'd heard something, come back here and seen a woman run out the exit door. As for what the woman looked like? Between eighteen and fifty, five foot to six foot, not fat, light hair.
She'd agreed to work with a sketch artist, but from the panic in her eyes when he asked, he wouldn't put much stock in the result. Eyewitness accounts were notoriously unreliable, and Finn knew the truth of that better than most. Twice he'd had ghosts give him a full description of their killer, only to have the evidence prove it was someone who didn't look anything like the sketch.
Finn didn't blame the ghosts. Both had been killed by strangers - one jumped in an alley, one catching a stray gang bullet. In that split second before death, they sure as hell weren't taking notes. And in those shell-shocked minutes after, their memory had shown them the face of a monster - bigger and uglier than the reality.
"Hear that?" Downey cocked his head, meaty jowls quivering. "The wolves are baying at the door. Think we should toss them a few scraps?"
Finn listened to the dull roar of the press firing questions to the officers guarding the perimeter. The club had been very helpful, even calling in off-duty bouncers to help them with crowd control. They must have had a few infractions on the books, hoping their cooperation might make those disappear.
He knelt beside the items that had been scattered beside the body. Women's things - makeup, a compact, tissues.
"I figure that belongs to the victim," Downey said. "Her purse was empty - dumped."
Finn surveyed the small mound of items, then glanced at Portia Kane's purse, barely big enough to hold a pack of smokes. "All this didn't fit in there."
"Hey, you should see all the crap my wife squeezes into hers. I swear, those things are magic."
Finn nodded, as if he understood. He wasn't married. No girlfriend, not for... well, it had been a while. It took all his time and energy to do his job - a life spent in service of the dead.
He could resent it, but he'd never really seen the point. He'd been given this gift, and it was his duty to use it.
Finn sorted through the purse debris with a gloved hand, looking for insight into the woman who'd left it behind. A young officer tapped him on the shoulder and said Marla Jansen wanted to speak to him. From the way he said it, Finn knew he should recognize the name, but he considered himself lucky to know who Portia Kane was.
He followed the officer - Tripp - into the hall and found a young woman with stop-sign-red hair bouncing on her tiptoes, trying to see into his crime scene.
"The body's been removed," Finn said.
"Oh!" Jansen's dark eyes widened with put-on horror. "I didn't want to see - " She shuddered. "Eww."
An actor. In this town, one learned to identify them at a hundred paces. From her exaggerated expressions, he would peg her as a wannabe - and likely to stay that way - but if Tripp knew her, she must be semifamous. Finn just hoped she didn't expect him to ask for her autograph.
"Officer Tripp says you saw something."
Jansen launched into a lengthy account of being in the club with Portia then sending Kane's PR rep - a woman named Robyn Peltier - to find her when she'd been gone too long.
"Portia Kane goes clubbing with her publicist? Does she expect to need her?"
"Of course not. Portia feels sorry for the chick. She lets her tag along with us sometimes. I always told her you shouldn't socialize with the hired help, and now look what happened. The chick flipped out and killed Port in a jealous rage."
"Was there an issue?"
Jansen fluttered her hands. "There's always an issue with people like that. They hate us. Finally it just bubbles over and... boom."
"Boom?"
"Or 'bang,' I guess. Anyway, they were fighting."
"About what?"
"How would I know?"
"When did this happen?"
"Right before Portia left us," Jansen said smugly. "The PR chick said something and Portia didn't like it. She told her to call the driver and went to the bathroom."
Didn't sound like much of a fight to Finn.
Jansen nibbled a purple-painted fingernail. "Do you think I should, like, get a bodyguard?"
"I doubt it's an epidemic."
Her brow furrowed, trying to figure out what he meant. Then she gave up and pulled out her cell phone. "I'm going to get one. Maybe two. You can't be too careful."
* * *
ROBYN
Robyn stood across the road from Bane. She looked down at her cell phone for the umpteenth time, as if the image she wanted was just slow in materializing, like one of those old Polaroid cameras. It was a great shot... of the blurred top of a light-haired head.
She looked at the club - at the growing crowd, at the reporters, the TV vans, the police cars, the ambulance... and she realized that every step she'd taken since finding Portia's body, as right as it had seemed at the time
, had only made her situation worse.
She'd left her prints on the murder weapon. She'd been spotted fleeing the scene. She'd maybe even been spotted running down the alley. And now, to turn herself in, she'd have to pass the gauntlet of reporters and news cameras.
A primitive voice in her head screamed for her to run, but she silenced it. That would be the worst thing she could do.
She imagined a client calling her with this situation. She'd tell him to prepare for a trip to the station... just as soon as she'd made a few calls and gotten professional advice on how to proceed.
That's what she needed now: professional advice.
She didn't call ahead, just showed up on Judd's doorstep and prayed he was home. Judd Archer was a contract bodyguard Portia hired when she needed extra security, or wanted to look as if she did. He was much in demand in Portia's circles, not so much for his security abilities - which were top-notch - but for the extra services he provided.
Judd was an ex-cop. Robyn wasn't completely sure what his story was, only that he'd been screwed over by the department. And he was mad as hell about it, which meant he was happy to exact some revenge by advising his clients on ways to deal with the law.
Judd answered the door on the second ring. Dressed in sweatpants, he rubbed his fist over his bleary eyes.
"Rob?" He blinked hard. "What's wrong? Portia in trouble?"
"Not her. Me."
He frowned, as if he must have misheard.
"Portia's dead," Robyn said. "And they think I killed her." He backed up and waved her inside.
They were in the kitchen, Robyn on a stool at the island, Judd behind it making coffee.
Judd had loaned Robyn a sweatsuit. She'd changed into it and carefully folded her dress into a bag, so the police could test it for gunshot residue. Then she told Judd everything.
"Did you get a look at the detectives?" he asked. "I knew most of the homicide guys in that division."
"One guy in a suit came out to talk to the officers guarding the scene. Big guy with a craggy face. Dark blond hair in need of a trim. Early thirties, maybe?"
"Did he have an accent? Texan, I think. Or Oklahoma... No, I guess you wouldn't have been close enough to hear. But it sounds like John Findlay. Hopefully it is. He's a good cop. Might look like a cowboy, but he isn't, not when it comes to police work. Slow, steady and thorough. He won't jump to conclusions or railroad you into a confession."
Robyn stirred her coffee as she took a deep breath. "Okay."
"It's not like you have a lot of choice, Rob."
"I know. I just feel like an idiot. I ran from a crime scene."
"Trying to get a look at a fleeing killer. After you called 911. And when that girl saw you, you tried going back to explain. Even banged on the door. You've got scrapes and bumps to support your story, ones that wouldn't come from a run-in with Portia. And you have a photo."
"Oh, yes. The amazing photo." She took the cell phone from the table, looked at the blurry picture again and put the phone into her pocket as she shook her head. "I'm not even sure that is the killer. For all I know, I accidentally ambushed a street kid."
"But it still supports your story."
Robyn wasn't so sure. She knew Judd was trying to make her feel better. Like he'd said, she didn't have much choice. She had to turn herself in.
"Can you call the detective now?" she asked. "Get this over with."
Judd had phoned a contact at the station and discovered that Detective Findlay was indeed assigned to the case. He left a message with the dispatcher. Findlay would call him back.
"So," he said as he sat again. "Do you have any idea who this woman might have been?"
"If it was a woman. I didn't get a good look. But I still wouldn't know. Portia didn't make enemies. People loved to hate her, but no one really hated her."
"Maybe someone wanted something?"
Robyn shook her head. "If they did, she gave it to them - she was so desperate to be liked."
"What about tonight? Did anything out of the ordinary happen?"
"I spent most of the evening talking to my girlfriend. And Portia was too busy flirting with my friend's boyfriend."
Judd's brows shot up. "Your friend couldn't have liked that."
"Honestly, she wasn't the least concerned. He stayed right beside us and didn't flirt back. Portia asked me for his number afterward. I said I didn't have it. She wanted me to get it. Not exactly a fight - she just snapped at me and - " Robyn looked up sharply. "Could they use that against me? Proof of a fight?"
"Just explain it to Findlay before he brings it up."
Judd prodded for recent incidents, but Robyn couldn't remember anything. Portia would have mentioned it - she told Robyn more about her personal life than she ever cared to know.
Eventually Judd said, "We'll leave the speculating to Findlay. He should be here in a few minutes. I'll start another pot of coffee."
* * *
ROBYN
Robyn was in the bathroom holding a cold cloth to her face, listening to Judd grinding more coffee beans, when she heard a bang. And the grinder stopped.
She froze, not thinking, not moving, heart slamming against her chest. It couldn't be what she thought. She had guns on the brain and her nerves were shot. She opened her mouth to call for Judd, but she couldn't get his name out.
She crept to the door and opened it just enough to hear footsteps. Heavy footsteps. Judd had been in bare feet.
A loud crack, like a door smacked open.
"Damn it," someone muttered. A male voice, young, and definitely not Judd.
She backed away from the door, clicking off the light. The footsteps and mutters continued. He was searching the house.
As she retreated toward the shower, she scoured the counter for a weapon. Not much to choose from. She grabbed an aerosol can of deodorant and a heavy silver toothbrush holder.
She set one foot in the tub and stopped. Hiding behind a shower curtain? Was she nuts?
Robyn crept to the door. Across the hall she could see a bedroom. There had to be better hiding places in there. She took one step... and the footsteps moved toward the hall. She darted behind the door and shrank back, the aerosol can lifted to eye level, her finger on the trigger.
The footsteps continued past the door, then squeaked as they turned into the spare room where she'd left her dress. Robyn slipped out. As she tracked the footsteps to make sure they stayed in the spare room, she hurried toward the kitchen. The front door was on the other side of it. Get to the end of the hall, make a left -
The footsteps squeaked again, coming back toward the hall. Robyn dashed through the nearest doorway. The living room. She spun, looking for a place to hide. As she turned, she saw through the hall to the kitchen. Judd's bare feet lay on the floor, sticking out from behind the island.
The footsteps kept coming.
Robyn tore her gaze from Judd. As she turned, she saw patio doors across the room. When she yanked the handle, the door hit the stopper with a bump-bump that sounded as loud as a crash.
The footsteps stopped.
Robyn dropped to a crouch. Hands shaking, she tugged out the stopper. As she straightened, she noticed a pair of old sneakers by the door. She scooped them up with one hand as the other pulled open the door as slowly as she could. The footsteps had started again, slow, measured, as the searcher listened for another sound.
Robyn almost got the door open far enough to squeeze through, then it let out a piercing squeal. She yanked it open and stumbled out. Running footsteps sounded behind her. She lurched across the deck and nearly fell off, missing the edge in the dark. As she jumped down, the door squealed again. She turned to see a slender figure silhouetted in the dark doorway, his hand going up.
Robyn dove as the gun fired. She hit the damp grass and skidded, almost dropping the shoes. The figure raised the gun again. She rolled as the second shot sounded. Lights flicked on in the house behind Judd's. The figure backed into the house.
Ro
byn pushed to her feet and ran.
The plan, like all her plans that night, had seemed so simple. Get away from the gun-toting killer. Take cover. Call 911 to get help for Judd. Then go back, find Detective Findlay and turn herself in. But again, the universe conspired against her.
Judd's attacker had only retreated into the house for a moment. Then he'd come after her. He hadn't tried shooting her in the open again, but he'd chased and he'd chased until finally Robyn managed to fake him out by hiding and letting him run past.
Then she'd put on Judd's shoes, lacing them tight so they'd stay on, and found a safe spot to catch her breath and make that phone call. But her pocket was empty. Her cell phone must have fallen out. And it was at that point, as she told herself Detective Findlay would be at Judd's house by now anyway, that it hit her.
Robyn had just fled another crime scene.
* * *
FINN
Finn rang the bell again. He imagined Judd Archer inside, trying to calm a suddenly panicked Robyn - he checked his notes again - Peltier.
He stepped back for a better look at the house. Small, maybe two bedrooms. A decent neighborhood. Not good, but decent.
He should buy a house.
He'd been saying that for three years, but hadn't so much as skimmed a real estate page. He supposed that unless the perfect house magically appeared - For Sale sign on the lawn, Realtor at the door - he'd never get further than wishful thinking.
Apartment living wasn't for him. The endless trekking up the stairs or elevator. The noisy, nosy neighbors. Watching his money evaporate with nothing to show for it. Finn told himself he didn't have the time to house-shop, but the truth was that he didn't dare invest his life savings in a place where he might discover he wasn't the sole tenant.
Though Finn rarely saw ghosts outside a crime scene, it did happen, especially in places where he spent a lot of time. Twice he'd had spectral roommates.
The first one, he'd only glimpsed. He'd walk into a room and see the faint outline of a middle-aged woman, who always faded before he could get a better look. She hadn't scared him, but it was like reading with someone hovering over your shoulder. He could always sense her there, was always waiting for her to interrupt him.
Living With the Dead Page 3
