Living With the Dead

by Kelley Armstrong

  Seemed she'd need to hail another cab. It was a good thing she was turning herself in because, at this rate, she'd run out of cash. L.A. cabs were not cheap.

  Her chances of getting one on this street were nil. It was blocked off for the festival. So she set out in search of the nearest busy road or pay phone, and walked two blocks, finding neither. Then, as she glanced down a quiet side street, she laughed. There was an LAPD bike patrol officer stopped in front of a parked car as he drank from a water bottle. Another bike was propped against the mailbox behind him. Twenty feet away a second officer was walking into a restaurant.

  Apparently she'd just needed to stop looking for a cop and they'd be everywhere.

  She took a deep breath, then strode toward the drinking cop, his helmet swaying on the bike handles. He was in his thirties, light haired, with ears that would favor a longer haircut.

  "Officer?"

  He capped his bottle.

  Robyn waited until she was close enough to speak without shouting, and said, "I'm Robyn Peltier."

  His thick lips pursed. He pulled off his sunglasses, but his eyes remained as blank as the dark lenses. Great. Even with an introduction she couldn't get recognized.

  "Detective Findlay is looking for me," she said as she stopped in front of him. "He wants to talk to me about Portia Kane's murder."

  With that name, recognition hit. He glanced past her, as if looking for his partner, one hand sneaking toward his gun belt.

  "Can you take me to Detective Findlay? Or call a car?" A weak smile. "I guess that bike isn't built for two. I know this isn't the best way to turn myself in but... it's a long story."

  His hand moved away from the gun, taking his radio instead. He lifted it to his lips, then motioned for her to wait, as if she might wander off. Again he glanced behind her, still hoping for his partner. She thought of suggesting he handcuff her to the signpost, but from his expression, he might take her up on it.

  He made the call. On reflex, Robyn glanced away to give him privacy, feigning great interest in the nearest closed store. The officer asked for Detective Findlay, giving the precinct, explaining that he had -

  A blow hit Robyn in the shoulder, knocking her off balance. She recovered, twisting to see the officer standing there, mouth open, her shock reflected back in his face. Why had he hit her? His hand rose to his chest and she followed it to see a dark stain spreading across his breast. His eyes met hers, then his knees gave way.

  As Robyn reached to catch him, a figure stepped from behind a parked car, gun rising. Adele Morrissey.

  Robyn dove as the gun went off. An awkward drop, more of a fall, and she hit the pavement hard, skidding hands out, skin peeling from her palms, pain disappearing under a burst of agony from her shoulder. She saw blood spreading across her sweatshirt. Shot. Oh God, she'd been shot. That's what she'd felt, the bullet passing through the officer and hitting her.

  Another explosion of pain, this one in her side. She rolled as Adele slammed her foot into Robyn's ribs again. Robyn tried to jump up. Then she saw the gun, pointed at her head.

  "All you had to do was give me your cell phone, Robyn," Adele said, her voice as high and light as a child's. "How tough was - ?"

  Robyn grabbed Adele's pant leg and yanked. As Adele staggered back, Robyn flew to her feet, her shoulder flaring again, the pain excruciating. Adele regained her footing, gun going up -

  Robyn slammed her fist into Adele's arm. Not much of a hit, but the movement startled Adele. She released the gun and it fell, skidding across the pavement.

  Robyn started to run for the gun, but Adele was closer. She looked around, hoping to see the other officer. No sign of him. Seeing the alley Adele must have come out from, she raced toward it.

  * * *

  FINN

  Finn was a block from Weston's station when he got a call from the dispatcher at yet another precinct. One of their bike patrol officers had been phoning in wanting to speak to him, then the line had disconnected and the officer's partner had returned from a bathroom break to find him dead on the pavement, shot in the back.

  An officer killed in the line of duty meant every available tech was there gathering evidence as a dozen officers scoured the neighborhood. Having the shooting happen at sundown in a commercial area only added chaos to the mix, as citizens gathered to gawk.

  Finn flashed his badge to a gray-faced rookie with distant eyes, too busy reconsidering his career choice to watch where Finn went, much less direct him to anyone in charge. The person Finn was looking for wasn't anyone the rookie could have led him to anyway.

  As he picked his way through, he took in the wider scene. Hell of a place to shoot a cop. A commercial street in a neighborhood of adult-only condos and retirement villages. In the distance... was that polka music?

  His gaze skimmed the uniformed officers and came to rest on one, sitting on the curb, ramrod straight, staring at the corpse being zipped into a body bag.

  Finn walked over and sat beside him. The officer - stocky, thirtyish, light brown hair - didn't even glance his way.

  "I'm sorry," Finn said.

  He looked at Finn, head tilted, lips pursed.

  "I'm sorry."

  "You're talking... to me?"

  "Yeah."

  "You mean you can see - " He leapt to his feet and took three steps toward the crowd of officers surrounding the body bag. "Gord! Hey, Gord!"

  Finn rose and walked over. "He can't hear you."

  "So I'm..."

  "Yeah."

  Silence fell. Would Finn ever figure out the right thing to say under the circumstances? The instructors at his academy had said the worst part of police work was breaking news of a death to loved ones. That's only because they'd never had to do this.

  Finn cleared his throat. "I'm John Findlay. You'd phoned - "

  The ghost slowly turned.

  "But that's not why I'm here," Finn hurried on. "I want to find who shot you, and anything you can tell me about what happened here will help."

  The ghost gave an odd snort of a laugh, then rubbed his mouth. "Sure."

  "Can we go... ?" Finn motioned to a place outside the tape.

  The ghost nodded, eyes still dancing with what seemed like genuine amusement.

  "You're Officer Kendall?" Finn said as they walked.

  "Lee. You can call me Lee." Kendall shook his head. "Man, I hope I remember all this when I wake up."

  "Hmm?"

  "I'm out on patrol. Gord takes off for a piss. And who walks up while I'm rehydrating? One of the most wanted suspects in L.A. Turning herself in to me. On my bike. I call it in and, bam, I get shot. Who shows up then? The same detective I'd been calling, who just happens to be able to see ghosts."

  Kendall stopped by a storefront. "It's Gord's fault, you know. This morning he was going on about the Kane murder, saying people like that are just asking to get popped. That poor PR chick just got sick of all the bullshit Kane put her through. So after listening to him all day, what do I dream? This."

  Finn nodded. What else could he do? Spend his few precious minutes with the ghost convincing him he was dead? Maybe not the most ethical choice, but Finn had a job to do.

  "So Peltier approached you..."

  Kendall sighed.

  "Please. Before you wake up."

  "Fine. Okay. So she came from there - " He pointed to one end of the street. "The street festival."

  "Street festival?"

  "Golden Years Jamboree or whatever. An excuse to sell crap to old people. Not that she was anywhere near old enough - she's younger than me. That's dreams for you, huh? They never make sense."

  "I guess not. Can you tell me what she looked like?"

  His description matched Robyn Peltier right down to the white and navy sweat suit the other officer had seen her wearing earlier. Then Kendall told him what she'd said.

  "She was having trouble turning herself in?" Finn repeated.

  "Hey, it's not supposed to make sense, remember? So I made the call
. And then..." Kendall glanced at his chest, as if expecting to see a bullet hole. "Bam."

  "She shot you?"

  His lips pursed. He had big lips, thick and bowed, as if they got pursed a lot and had permanently reformed.

  "No, I don't... Let me think. I'm on the radio, asking for you and she moved... back. She staggered backward."

  "Away from you?"

  "Then I felt the shot." He pursed his lips again. "Or maybe I felt the shot before that. Hard to say. It's all a little blurry."

  "But she stumbled around the time you were shot?"

  "She fell back, looking at me like I'd smacked her and... and there was blood on her shoulder." He blinked. "She must have been shot, too."

  Finn glanced across the scene at Damon, busy examining the crime scene. Finn had told him to stay away if he found the ghost - it was too much to explain otherwise.

  Kendall continued, "The bullet must have gone right through me and into her. Huh." He pondered this a moment, calmly, as if piecing together a random crime.

  "Then what?"

  More pondering and pursing. "I'm not sure. Everything went black, then I was standing over my body."

  "Was Peltier around?"

  "Nope. It was just me until Gord came running over."

  * * *

  ADELE

  Adele hadn't meant to kill the cop. She just hadn't seen any way to avoid it.

  It was Robyn's fault. Apparently she decided being a fugitive made her a movie action heroine. Running through alleys, hiding in the shadows, giving Adele the slip, then kicking and punching her before tearing off again.

  Adele rubbed her knee. That was going to bruise. The joint complained with every step, setting her teeth on edge. Robyn was just lucky she hadn't hit Adele in the stomach. If she'd hurt the baby...

  Adele wasn't sure how to finish the threat. She already had to kill Robyn. She put her face together with her name.

  Not that the name would get her far. Adele Morrissey was a business, not a person. It was a corporation owned by another corporation, ultimately held by the kumpania, but behind so many layers that no layperson would connect them. Adele couldn't even remember her real name.

  Still, the cops might make the connection, if they tried hard enough, and they would, now that two of their own were dead.

  If things spiraled further out of control, Irving Nast would come to Adele's rescue. She and her baby were too valuable to lose over a few dead bodies. If it came to that, though, she'd be indebted to them. Better to handle it herself.

  She checked her watch. She'd missed dinner. Niko would not be happy. The communal Saturday dinner was a must - a chance to discuss the busy night to come and reallocate resources if needed. Damn Robyn Peltier. Adele needed to wrap this up before she got into serious trouble.

  She reached into her pocket and touched the silk shirt. A few days more and the link would be so strong she wouldn't need the prop - she could just visualize Robyn and see her, as she'd been able to do with Portia. It would never get that far, though. Robyn would die tonight, then Adele would call Irving Nast and continue negotiations.

  She closed her eyes.

  Oh, look, there she was, coming out of yet another store. What did you buy this time, Robyn? She'd already picked up a clean shirt and bandages and water to clean her wound. When Robyn retreated to a bathroom stall to fix herself up, Adele would have had her best shot to kill her... if Neala hadn't picked that exact moment to return the message Adele had left for Colm. Neala had phoned back to say Colm could not help her practice tracking Jasmine Wills. He had a lesson with Niko and, really, if Adele was going to learn to track Jasmine, didn't she need to be doing it by herself?

  Bitch.

  Adele could have really used Colm. After she finally got off the phone and fixed on Robyn, she'd seen her in a bathroom stall, dressing her wound. Which would have been perfect, had there been any way to identify the bathroom. The last time Adele saw Robyn, she'd been on a street filled with eateries, any one of which could have housed the stall she saw Robyn using.

  Robyn's wound hadn't seemed too debilitating. Still, Adele had hoped it was slow-acting, that the bullet would work its way toward some vital artery and, any moment now, Robyn would keel over dead.

  The whole situation was ridiculous. Robyn Peltier might be older than Adele, but she was light-years behind in world experience. A sheltered upper-middle-class girl, recently moved to L.A., didn't know the city, probably never set foot in an alley for fear of stepping in something icky. Now she gets shot in the shoulder and what does she do? Fights back and runs. Field dresses the wound in a bathroom.

  Stores were closing now. Restaurants would follow. All that running would start taking its toll and Robyn would begin to grow tired, to wear down, and then...

  Adele smiled.

  * * *

  ROBYN

  Running about like a chicken with its head cut off. That's what Robyn had been doing since Adele shot the bike officer.

  She'd had a few patches of lucidity. Holding a newspaper to hide the blood, she'd bought a shirt and first-aid supplies, then she'd found a bathroom to change and fix up her shoulder. She'd also bought a cell phone using most of her remaining money. She'd intended to use it to get help. But she hadn't turned the phone on yet, much less made a call.

  Every time Robyn got her head on straight, Adele would pop up, like an ax-wielding killer in one of those movies she hated. Now she was living her own version. How did the woman keep finding her? In the bathroom Robyn had even removed and shaken all her clothing, looking for a transmitter.

  She'd given up trying to lose Adele, and her game plan now was to stay in populated places while she figured out what to do. But her exhausted brain couldn't contemplate any one-step long-term strategy.

  She kept hoping Adele would give up. Go home, get some sleep, try again the next day... giving Robyn a chance to rest and regroup. Yet Adele was as tireless and relentless as any of those cinematic monsters.

  As the stores closed and streets emptied, Robyn knew she had to find a place to sit and get her wits back. A club or movie was guaranteed to be full of people, but dark, too, and Adele wouldn't hesitate to shoot her there.

  She hailed yet another cab.

  "Where to?" the driver asked as she climbed in.

  She wanted to say "any place that's busy," but she had enough experience with cab drivers thinking she was nuts.

  "I'm in L.A. on business," she said. "I'm looking for something fun, but not a club. Something outdoors would be great." She thought of the street festival earlier. "Maybe a festival?"

  She braced for a gruff brush-off, but the cabbie smiled. "You like carnivals? There's a spring fair over in Wilshire Park. A couple of schools are putting it on as a fund-raiser. My girls were talking about heading over there tonight."

  A spring fair. Lots of lights. Lots of people. "Perfect."

  Robyn stood a dozen feet from the admission booth, where two teen girls chatted and giggled. Beyond the temporary fence there was a midway. Even before she'd gotten out of the car she'd heard it - the shrieks of fake fear, the shouts of the barkers, the boom of music over blown speakers.

  She bought a pay-one-price bracelet, then stepped inside. Fairs could never be too loud, too cheesy or too garish for Robyn. One time, for their anniversary, Damon had found this tiny -

  Okay, enough of that. This was no time for skipping down memory lane. She had to stop running like that decapitated fowl and act like a woman with her head fully attached.

  So she got cotton candy, telling herself it was necessary cover for playing a happy fairgoer - and, if held in front of her face, excellent cover for a fugitive. Then she staked out the perfect place to sit - a bench backed against a refreshment trailer. At one end sat a woman her age, holding a sleeping toddler. And, for the first time in months, Robyn could look at that and not feel a pang of loss.

  There, surrounded by lights and people, yet obscured by shadow and cotton candy, Robyn finally rela
xed a little. She scoured the path for the now familiar head of dark blond hair.

  Are you out there, Adele? Go ahead, pop out and say "boo." Bobby's not going anywhere.

  She plucked off a tuft of spun sugar, let it melt in her mouth, then turned on her cell phone and dialed.

  "Hope? It's Robyn."

  "Oh thank God. Are you all right?"

  The words rushed out on a sigh that stabbed Robyn with guilt. She should have called sooner. And what? Told Hope she was being pursued by a crazy girl with a gun?

  "I'm fine," Robyn said, which was, for the moment, true.

  "Where are you? What's that noise?"

  "I'm safe. I'm just having some trouble turning myself in."

  "I totally understand that. I don't think I'd have the guts to even try to do it without support - moral and legal. So here's what we'll do - "

  "That's not it. I - " Two kids went by, screaming about wanting to ride the Avalanche before leaving. Robyn waited for them to pass.

  "Rob? Are you still there? What's that racket?"

  "Busy place. I do want to turn myself in. I tried. I can't. It's the girl from the photograph. Adele Morrissey."

  "Adele? How'd you - ?"

  "I know her. She used to take pictures of Portia. She's a papa razzo."

  "What?"

  "A paparazzo. And a fucking psychopath, apparently."

  The woman beside her looked over sharply. Even Hope had gone silent in shock at her language. Robyn mouthed an apology to the woman and inched down the bench, lowering her voice.

  "She was at the police station."

  "Adele? From the photo?"

  "Right. She intercepted me. She wanted my cell phone. She had a gun, so I ran. She chased me. I grabbed another cab, went to another police station and she was there, waiting for me on the steps. She got there before I did."

  "Okay, so - "

  "I can't lose her, Hope. No matter what I do, where I go, she finds me. Finally, I found a police officer - a bike patrolman. She - she shot him." The air seemed to thin at the memory and Robyn had to inhale and exhale to catch her breath before continuing. "She shot him from behind. Killed him. I got a bullet through my shoulder."