The Ghost Had an Early Check-Out

by The Ghost Had an Early Check-Out (retail) (epub)

  Nick said patiently, “I think he might have slipped coming down the stairs. If you feel up to it, you should get dressed.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m…” Confused but racing to catch up. Perry threw back the bedclothes, and Nick handed him his jeans and a flannel shirt. Perry took his clothes, saying, “I hope the body doesn’t disappear.”

  Nick was moving away, pressing numbers into his cell, but he looked up at that. “What?”

  “Like at the Alston Estate. Remember?”

  Nick gave a funny laugh. “I think from now on we should make it a rule not to stay in places built before 1960.” He resumed making his call. “Yeah. My name is Nick Reno. I’m a private detective staying at the Angel’s Rest hotel off Laurel Canyon. I just found a body on the third floor.”

  Silence on Nick’s end.

  “Unknown.”

  Another silence. Perry finished buttoning his shirt and began hunting for his socks. His fingers were unsteady with cold and nerves. Dead bodies were not a good start to any morning.

  “Unknown. It looks like an accident. It looks like he slipped coming down the stairs.”

  Perry pulled on his socks and found his shoes during the pause that followed. Poor Horace. This was… Well, come to think of it, for all Perry knew, Horace might appreciate the attention. One thing for sure, it vindicated his fears. For another, and maybe it was kind of cold to even think it, but maybe this took care of Horace’s problems. Or at least the immediate problem of someone threatening to kill him.

  Nick finished his phone call, disconnected, and said, “I’ve got to wait for the cops downstairs. It might be a good idea if you stayed with Horace until they get here.”

  “Oh. Uh… Okay.” He was not crazy about that idea. He’d have preferred to stick with Nick. Not because he felt unsafe. Because where Nick was, was where the action would be, and Perry felt sort of possessive about this, er, case.

  As though reading his mind, Nick said, “I’m kind of curious about how a handful of marbles ended up on that staircase. Since Horace is the one with the antique toy collection, I’m guessing they belong to him. Though that doesn’t explain how they got on the stairs.”

  “Do you think someone left the marbles there deliberately? In hopes of causing an accident?”

  Nick said, “Horace seems to use the elevator to move around the hotel, so I don’t think he could have been the intended target. I don’t know that there was an intended target. I kind of doubt it. Unless—”

  Perry had a sinking feeling he knew where Nick was going with this. “Unless Horace left them there?”

  Nick nodded. “If Horace thought someone was getting inside the hotel at night, it’s possible he came up with a homemade booby trap.”

  That seemed more the way a Navy SEAL would think than a man like Horace, but Perry didn’t know Horace well enough to predict.

  “If he did deliberately place the marbles on the stairs, would that be manslaughter? Criminal negligence?”

  Surely not murder?

  “There are extenuating circumstances,” Nick said. “Horace was in fear for his life. The victim was trespassing—had probably committed breaking and entering, was possibly even attempting burglary.”

  “Or planning to murder Horace.”

  Nick grimaced. “The thing is, this kid—”

  “Kid?”

  “Late teens, early twenties.”

  “Oh no.” Now Perry really did feel sick.

  “Yeah. The problem is, he fell coming down the stairs from the fourth floor. You can tell from the way he landed. His left foot is lying on the first step.”

  Perry preferred not to think about the fact that a corpse was lying down the hall from them, but he didn’t miss Nick’s point. “He wasn’t after Horace,” he said.

  “It doesn’t look like it. I don’t know what he was up to, but how could he miss the fact that no one lives up there? He couldn’t. So what was he doing?”

  “What were you doing up there?” Perry asked. “You left the room to go exploring while I was sleeping?”

  “Yes. I locked you in,” Nick answered briskly, but he was avoiding Perry’s accusing stare.

  “That’s not really the point, Nick.” Perry was getting mad imagining Nick being the one to slip on a marble and kill himself falling down a staircase. “I’m not worried about me. What if something had happened to you?”

  Nick did not actually roll his eyes, but it was aggravatingly close. “Okay, I don’t want to argue with you. We don’t have time. I had an idea about the power going out in specific grids, and I thought I should just check it out.”

  “Good initiative, bad judgment,” Perry retorted, which is something his pop had used to say to him when his enthusiasm occasionally overrode his common sense.

  Nick laughed. “Okay, Sarge. That’s fair.” He leaned over and kissed Perry. His mouth was warm, the kiss sweet—that was as much of an apology as Perry would get. Anyway, it was very hard to stay irked with someone who pressed a smiling kiss onto your mouth. “Will you stay with Horace while I deal with LAPD?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. I think this news will come better from you than the police.”

  Perry thought so too, though he didn’t relish his job of bearer of bad tidings. He left Nick heading for the elevator and knocked softly on Horace’s door.

  A floorboard squeaked on the other side of the door. “Who is it?” Horace called warily.

  “Perry.”

  He heard a series of locks being thrown, and the door opened. Horace studied him blearily. It seemed he had been up for a while because he was dressed in baggy black jeans and some kind of painted velvet shirt. He was unshaven and looked haggard in the light streaming from the large picture window. “The power is back on. I’m making coffee.”

  “That sounds great,” said Perry, who never drank coffee.

  He followed Horace into his apartment. A black-and-green afghan was crumpled on the velvet sofa. A pillow lay on the floor. He deduced that Horace had been sleeping on the sofa—and it probably was not a rare occurrence.

  “Where’s your friend?” Horace asked. There was a slight edge to the word friend, though Perry couldn’t think why.

  “He’s downstairs waiting—actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Something has happened.”

  “It’s about time.” Horace sounded bitter as he led the way to the kitchen, which smelled comfortingly normal: coffee, toast, and maple syrup.

  “Something not good.”

  Horace went straight to a perfectly modern-looking coffee machine and picked up the carafe. Perry’s words registered. Horace stared. “What?”

  “One of the skeleton men got into the house last night. Nick found him this morning.”

  “Found him? Found him where?”

  “Found him dead,” Perry said. “Down the hall at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “Down the hall? This hall?”

  “Yes.” Perry was watching Horace to see…well, he wasn’t sure. Nick hadn’t instructed him on what to look for; he’d just said to observe Horace’s reaction. Horace appeared perplexed and alarmed. Which seemed a reasonable response in Perry’s opinion.

  “Dead. You said dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “But how could he be? Are you sure?”

  “Nick is sure. Nick is—has experience.”

  “But how?” Horace’s eyes flickered. “You said he was at the bottom of the stairs. Did he fall? Could one of his accomplices have pushed him?”

  Now that was an interesting thought.

  “Nick couldn’t tell how he died. It seems like he was probably alone, but we don’t know that either.”

  “No.” Horace, clearly on automatic pilot, finished pouring the coffee. “Cream and sugar? A snort of whisky perhaps?”

  “Cream and sugar,” Perry said, hoping Horace would follow his cue.

  Horace added cream and sugar to the cup and handed it to Perry, then asked, “Where
is Nick? What happens now?”

  “Nick’s waiting for the police.”

  “The police?” Horace nearly dropped his own cup. He looked horrified.

  “We had to call the police,” Perry said, a little surprised at this reaction. What did Horace think was supposed to happen after finding a body?

  “How could you do such a thing without speaking to me?”

  “We had to. We didn’t ha—”

  “You should have allowed me to phone my lawyer first!” Horace was flushed, his eyes bright with anger.

  “But—”

  “Your loyalty should be to me. I won’t accept anything less!”

  Perry was both fascinated and apprehensive at the abrupt swing from confusion to utter rage. “That would look guilty,” he pointed out.

  For a moment he thought Horace was too angry to even hear him, but then Horace seemed to think this over. The frightening glitter faded from his eyes. He offered a twitchy smile. “You’re right. I see. Yes. True. You’re right.”

  Perry said nothing. He was still startled by Horace’s reaction.

  Horace smiled again, weakly. “I’m sorry for shouting at you, lovey. But you see, my experience with the fuzz has not been a happy one.”

  “Sure,” said Perry, unconvinced.

  “I’ve been betrayed so many times. Betrayed by people I thought I could trust.”

  That time Perry didn’t offer a response. He couldn’t help thinking that that attitude, paired with Horace’s quick temper, made Horace more than capable of shoving someone down a staircase. He watched in silence as Horace doctored his coffee with a generous slug of whisky. Horace’s hands were shaking a little as he brought the cup to his mouth.

  Perry said, “What do you think the, er, intruder was doing up on the fourth floor?”

  Horace looked blank. “How should I know? Setting a trap for me, I suppose.”

  “Do you go up to the fourth floor very often?”

  “No. But he couldn’t know that.” Horace stopped. He asked in a different tone of voice, “How did he get in?”

  “I don’t know. Nick didn’t say. Maybe he doesn’t know either.”

  Horace studied Perry’s face with odd intensity. “You trust Nick very much, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because he’s…he’s trustworthy.”

  Horace’s face twisted. He shook his head. “No. You think that because you love him. But loving someone doesn’t make them trustworthy. His love for you doesn’t mean he won’t fail you in the end.”

  Wow. This was a grim outlook on love and romance.

  “It isn’t just that Nick has never let me down. He doesn’t let anybody down. If he gives his word, it’s the same as if he signed a contract. He’s…he has honor.” It sounded kind of silly and self-important saying it, but it was true. Nick was a man of honor. He believed in integrity and commitment and loyalty and all that stuff that so many people seemed to think was old-fashioned.

  Horace was not impressed. He sniffed. “So you say. He seems like a blunt instrument to me.”

  Perry was amused rather than offended. “He can be.”

  Horace was once again following his own thoughts. “I want to see him,” he said, as though coming to a decision. “I have to see him.”

  “Nick? He’ll—”

  “Not Nick.” Horace slammed his cup down and strode out of the kitchen. “I must see the dead man.”

  Perry set his untouched cup down and sped after him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  He was talking to himself. Horace had left the apartment, leaving the door standing wide.

  Perry hurried to catch up. “Mr. Daly, this isn’t smart. We—you—don’t want to take a chance on contaminating the scene.”

  Horace ignored him, striding down the long, grim corridor like a racewalker in the home stretch.

  “We might accidently introduce evidence that confuses the situation,” Perry said. He was trying to be tactful, but really. Did Horace not see? “The last thing we want is for the police to think this wasn’t an accident.”

  “We don’t know it was an accident,” Horace threw over his shoulder. “Perhaps his confederates turned on him. Perhaps the house turned on him.”

  The house? Uh…yee-ah.

  “Either way, you don’t want to take a chance of leaving any DNA—”

  What the hell. It was pointless to keep talking. Horace was not going to be satisfied until he saw whatever it was he needed to see.

  They were now three quarters of the way down the hall. Perry’s stomach curled inside itself at the unpleasant smell drifting toward them. He knew what that was.

  “There,” Horace said. “He’s still there.”

  Having experience with disappearing corpses, Perry understood Horace’s relief.

  He too spotted the dark form lying at the bottom of the staircase. He made himself keep walking. He did not want to see this, but Nick would expect him to watch Horace and take note of his reactions.

  He sped up and reached the dead man as Horace did. They stared in silence. The man was facedown. He was not tall, but he was muscular. He wore a cheap nylon cape over black spandex running pants. His head was at a weird angle, and a white-and-gray rubber mask was pushed back on his yellow hair like a melted hat. One black-tennis-shoe-clad foot rested awkwardly on the bottom step.

  Horace said nothing. He knelt, pushed the body onto its side, and examined the boy’s waxy, gray face. Because, yeah, Nick was right. This guy was maybe nineteen. Perry ignored the curdling in his stomach and simply looked. Beneath the pushed-up mask was a not particularly intelligent face—in fairness, he’d probably looked better alive—slack mouth, rolled-back blue eyes, a mashed-in nose.

  There was razor burn on his throat.

  “Thank God, thank God,” Horace’s voice wobbled.

  Perry stared as Horace wiped tears from his face. “Do you know him?”

  Horace shook his head. “No. I’ve never seen him before. Not without his mask.”

  So why—?

  But then he got it. Horace was relieved to the point of crying because this body did not belong to who he had feared.

  The dead man was not Troy.

  Chapter Ten

  First on scene were a pair of salt-and-pepper uniformed cops who looked like they’d been dragged out of retirement for one last job. Officer Bruce was short and portly with features like a Russian nesting doll and a silver bowl-cut that looked better on eleven-year-old girls than middle-aged men. Officer Nolan was tall and dark and grim. He looked like one of those guys who leaves the military and goes into law enforcement, but can’t help thinking of the public as The Enemy.

  “So the old man finally killed someone,” Nolan said by way of greeting when Nick let them through the grand main entrance.

  “So I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions,” Nick returned. “The power went out last night. I think there’s a good chance the intruder may have fallen down the staircase in the dark.”

  Bruce and Nolan gave him the weary smiles of veterans used to dealing with know-it-all-know nothings. The three of them went quickly through the formalities of what, where, when, and how.

  “A PI, huh?” Bruce said when Nick had finished his recital. “And you’ve been hired to do what exactly?”

  That’s confidential sprang to mind, but not only was Nick not officially in Horace’s employ, there was no way to keep most of the story from coming out. The most he could do for Horace was try to control the spin. Best-case scenario was the cops determined accidental death and closed the book. There would still be publicity, and more crazies coming out of the woodwork, but that was still much, much preferable to a full-on investigation.

  Nick felt pretty sure it was an accident.

  But pretty sure was not one hundred percent certain. He’d have liked to be one hundred percent certain.

  And even if the kid’s death had been an accident, there was st
ill the problem of the power going off and the alligator getting loose all at the same time a prowler had entered the hotel.

  “The kid who fell down the stairs is dressed like a trio who assaulted Daly on his patio on Friday. I chased him—or someone dressed like him—off the property last night.”

  “Let’s see the victim.” Nolan snapped shut his notebook.

  Nick escorted them to the third floor, waiting while they examined the body, then pointing out the marbles on the steps. Officers Bruce and Nolan held a scowling conference over the caped figure.

  Nick was not privy to their conversation, and even if he had been, he was distracted by the realization that someone had moved the body since he discovered it. He was very much afraid he knew who.

  “Why would he come back?” Nolan interrupted Nick’s thoughts. “What’s your theory?”

  The question was probably rhetorical, but Nick told them about Horace’s collection of movie memorabilia, pointing to a gruesome portrait on the opposite wall. The painting was of a martyred saint holding his own head and, from the look of things, asking to speak to upper management. The officers did not look impressed.

  “I don’t know what, if anything, this stuff is worth, but I do know a lot of this junk is the kind that appeals to adolescent males. And half the fun would be in liberating it.”

  “Speaking from personal experience?” Bruce asked dryly.

  Nick shrugged. “I was a kid once. Sure.”

  “Okay, well, thanks for your help,” Nolan said. “We’ll let you know if we need more from you.”

  Diiis-missed! Nick had been afraid of that. There were just too many weird things about this case for the uniforms to rubber-stamp it accidental death. One of those things being Horace’s celebrity status. Another thing being his well-known crank status.

  Nick headed downstairs and found that the coroner’s team had arrived—on foot—along with more cops who were busily securing the scene. He made his way out to the terrace, where he could see Ned Duke and the Savitri girl having a cozy cup of coffee together amid the piles of autumn leaves.

  “Good morning! The power’s back on,” Ami greeted him. “Would you like some coffee?”