Ghost Hunter

by Serena Akeroyd

  “Ms. Ventura?”

  My phone had beeped and buzzed in my skirt pocket all throughout my little hugfest with Drake. Only when he realized I’d stopped crying and I’d womanned up, did he let go of me and reach for his sandwich, while I went for another beignet.

  Pulling out my phone, I see the missed call, and I don’t recognize the number, but call them back anyway. I get a lot of numbers I don’t recognize. If I ignored them all, I’d never have any clients.

  “Yes. This is she,” I reply, eyeing Drake’s sandwich as he loads it down with my favorite—garlic mayonnaise.

  He knows, too, because his grin is wide before he covers it with the huge monster of a sub.

  I glower at him, then clear my throat in surprise at the caller’s next words: “This is Detective Arroyo from the twenty-third precinct. I was wondering if you could come in to see me sometime today.”

  Eyes widening, I ask, “Sure, though can I ask what about?” It isn’t the first time the police have called me and tried to get me involved in a case.

  When I was younger, I was more amenable to taking part in investigations. But I got a shitload of bad press when I did it, and afterward, I realized that though I wanted to help, the aftermath wasn’t worth it.

  The press that have recently been after stories have hounded me, admittedly, but not like the ones in the past did.

  I was scared, more often than not, and their scorn hit me in ways I probably wouldn’t be able to handle to this day.

  The police were no help either.

  Though I gave them aid, usually solved their cases singlehandedly thanks to the ghosts of the victims fucking telling me, point blank, who did it, how, why, when, and where, they typically cut that out of the case files. Unhappy to be seen relying on a psychic for help.

  “It’s about a murder that happened two nights ago. The suspect told me that his reason for being here revolves mostly around you living in the city. I was wondering if we could have a talk. That’s all.”

  The woman’s voice is all business, but there’s a blankness to it that has my wide eyes narrowing into slivers. I’m not sure if she’s found me guilty already, or truly has an open mind as to what’s going on.

  “Can’t you come to my apartment?” I ask, knowing that the detective wants to formalize this more than she’s making out by asking me to come see her at the precinct.

  I wasn’t born yesterday, for fuck’s sake.

  “It would be easier for me if you could come here. Any time this afternoon would suit.”

  “Is this for formal questioning?” I ask, watching as fear filters into Drake’s lustrous eyes. They glint like gems. Hazel one minute, more green the next, more blue after that. Constantly changing. Shifting. I like that.

  It makes me feel more at ease around him, because my world is always changing, too.

  “No. Not yet, ma’am. I really would just like to have a chat with you.”

  “I have many clients who visit the city because this is where I live. Am I allowed to know which one we’re talking about, detective?”

  “No. I’ll explain more when we meet. ”

  My lips purse with irritation. “I’m just in a business meeting,” I lie, and feel no compunction or guilt about it. “I should be there after three.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll see you then.”

  I cut the call, eyeing my phone with a scowl as I switch off the screen and place it back in my pocket.

  “Well,” I say, blowing out a breath, “that was interesting.”

  “What’s happening?” Drake asks, concern lining his brow. He pushes his plate away, and the sight disturbs me. He has a healthy appetite, has been working all morning—he needs to eat.

  “Nothing too bad. Nothing I’m not used to, anyway. Eat your lunch,” I tell him softly, and when he shakes his head, I sigh. “Please, Drake. For me. I’d hate to think of you going hungry all afternoon.”

  Still, my own hunger has disappeared. I ignore the bites of the sub I was going to take earlier, and dismiss the four beignets left.

  “Tell me,” he commands, and I grin a little.

  “I do like it when you’re forceful,” I tease, and laugh when he rolls his eyes at me.

  “You’re the most infuriating woman, sometimes.”

  I lean forward to kiss him, moan with delight at the taste of garlic mayo on his lips, and murmur, “But I’m all yours, baby.”

  Ain’t that the truth.

  I manage to get out of our lunch date without revealing too much. There’s a warning in his eyes though. A warning that tells me he wants to know everything tonight.

  After what I just told him, I’m kind of amazed there is a tonight. The last thing I need to compound this conversation is by revealing that the police want to talk to me.

  Jesus, it’s a wonder the poor man hasn’t sprinted off into the wide blue yonder to escape the fuckfest that is my world.

  He should have, but he hasn’t. I’ll never forget that.

  Drake’s solid. Resolute. I need that in him. Like I said, my world is constantly shifting, evolving. I need such strength, that fiery determination in my life.

  In a universe where everything is constantly fickle, he’s the exact opposite.

  I’ve never been more grateful for his presence in my world than I am today.

  I catch a cab to the precinct.

  This isn’t my first rodeo, so I’m kind of surprised when I ask after the detective that A) I’m not led to an interrogation room, and B) the woman doesn’t make me wait that long.

  Both have happened to me in the past, and it’s rather nice it isn’t what goes down today.

  My patience isn’t infinite, after all.

  Taking a seat beside a man that I assume to be a pimp, I wish like hell I hadn’t decided to tease Drake today by wearing a provocative dress. The guy is probably waiting on news of one of his girls, and looks like he could be persuaded to add me to his coterie from the way he’s eying me up and down.

  Great.

  I look like a hooker.

  “I could have told you that,” Kenna murmurs, making my lips twitch because she’s out and out grinning at me.

  Kenna and I tend to have arguments about my wardrobe, but this is one outfit we both agreed on in the store. That’s the joy of fashion. A hundred and fifteen year old woman and a thirty year old can find common ground.

  Trying not to make it obvious that I’m as uncomfortable as fuck, because these guys prey on weakness, I take a look around.

  The front desk is busy, but this is New York, and it would be dumb to forget that. Joking boys in blue intersperse with harried-looking detectives as they all head off into the Big Apple. Radios squawk, phones ring, and the throb of hundreds of voices all speaking at the same time in the building create a cacophony of noise that could easily give me a headache.

  The pin board opposite me reveals the nation’s and the state’s most wanted, and I’m relieved, as always, not to see my face on there.

  Back in the day when I helped the police more, I used to see those posters and have a weird premonition that one day I’d see my face on that wall.

  It was stupid—I hope—but it certainly didn’t add to my ease in the many precincts I visited and helped.

  The smell in the air is of a cheap knock-off of Joop for Men—that’s the pimp at work—then there’s that weird floor cleaner that all state buildings seem to use. The DMV stinks the exact same way. Beneath that though, there’s the horrible scent of desperation and terror.

  I couldn’t work here without going nuts, I don’t think. It would kill me to have to come here every day and work nine to five, or however long a cop’s shift is. Although, I think cops wish like hell they’d only have to work eight hours.

  A woman passes the front desk. The guy manning it is fat, bald, and sweating. She waves at the dude whose face lights up at the sight of her. She passes a few words through the bullet guard, then steps out from the bullpen and into the waiting area.
>
  When she heads straight for me, I get to my feet.

  “Ms. Ventura?”

  “The one and only.” My blasé retort skims over her head but I can tell she doesn’t like me. Shit, I could tell that from how she looked at me. I didn’t have to say a word for her to have judged me as a charlatan.

  I’ll definitely get a kick out of proving her wrong.

  Or maybe I’ll play dumb and pretend…

  “No! Jayce, not that again. I know it hurts your ego for these morons not to believe you, but it’s tough. Last time, you were in jail for three days. I’m not staying in one of these horrible places again.”

  Kenna’s bitching has me clearing my throat. “Detective Arroyo?”

  “Yes. Thanks for coming down. If you’d like to step this way?” She holds out a hand and lets me pass in front, but I don’t take the bait. I stay beside her instead.

  She has an interesting face. Definitely Hispanic, the clue was in the name, but I’d say she has a bit of Asian influence in her blood too. The almond slant of her eyes and straight black hair that she half pinned up gives that away.

  She’s tired—that’s as clear as day. Her hazel green eyes are bruised with fatigue, and there are smudges rimming them.

  Dressed in a bland pantsuit, with a tight, light blue shirt, and standard leather flats made for being both smart and practical, she blends in when really she shouldn’t.

  She’s one of those chicks who just has to whip off a pair of glasses, fluff up her hair, and instantly will look like a demi-Goddess.

  I’m not sure whether to like her or loathe her.

  We pass through crowded desks, men and woman cuffed to their seats, and browbeaten cops tackling mountains of paperwork. They all have that overworked and underpaid vibe going on, and I feel for them. I really do.

  I’m not one for believing cops are all good. I’ve seen too much shit for that. Too many incidents where dirty cops rule the roost, and others where they abuse their position of authority. However, the majority are decent, good, hardworking men and women with duty written into their hearts, and a need to serve their public flowing through their veins.

  Look at me, getting all sentimental.

  Kenna snorts at me, but she’s from a more respectful time. As well as a time when laws were more dubious.

  Once, we worked with a cop who was damn good at his job. Solved cases with an efficiency that was beyond impressive. There were just a few little problems. He had a habit of turning up with his perp’s face busted up.

  Every. Single. Time.

  Didn’t matter if it was a white collar crime or a rapist. He always beat the shit out of them, and his department always covered his tracks because he was a damn fine officer.

  Now, Kenna didn’t think that was a problem. Jungle justice, and all that.

  For me? Nah. Not so much.

  That’s not how this country works.

  After all, what if he’d gotten the wrong guy? Just because he was usually spot on, didn’t mean he always was.

  And though some sons of bitches did kind of deserve their noses caving in—I worked on a child killer case once, and I’d have cut the bastard’s balls off myself—does a guy who illegally bought his wife weed deserve to be beaten up? A wife who was dying of cancer but, for whatever fucked up reason, couldn’t get a prescription for medical marijuana…?

  There are limits, and there are limits.

  The law isn’t black and white, in my opinion.

  There’s an empty corner desk which Arroyo leads me to. She waves a hand at the seat beside the table, and I gingerly sit down. Before she can, the phone rings and she picks up.

  She answers in Spanish though, so I don’t know if it’s about me or not, which is kind of irritating.

  “We should have called back at the apartment and picked up Jimenez. He could have translated.”

  I duck my head to hide my amusement at Kenna’s whisper.

  It’s not like we knew she’d be speaking Spanish, I tell her.

  “Next time, we’ll bring him.”

  You think there’ll be a next time?

  Kenna laughs. “When isn’t there?”

  True. I grimace at that and realize in the time it’s taken for me and Kenna to shoot the shit a little, Arroyo has stopped talking and is staring at me like I’ve just developed a third eye.

  “You were talking to someone then.”

  Her words were a statement. There was no doubt in them.

  When I remain silent, she purses her lips. “Unless you’re schizophrenic and have voices in your head, that is.”

  I sigh. “How much do you know about me?”

  “Know and read are two different things. What I read in the papers, I never trust, and the only shit I’ve been able to find on you is in the media.”

  “You haven’t called cops I’ve worked with?”

  Arroyo purses her lips, telling me without words that she has. If she denies it, I can’t help but wonder why… then she nods. Although I can tell it’s something she’d liked to have withheld from me.

  Again, why?

  “She’s a typical detective. Likes to keep her cards close to her chest, but is shittier at bluffing than a ten-year-old with chocolate around his mouth and an empty plate of cookies in the kitchen.”

  I cough to hide my laughter, and realize again, Arroyo’s spotted it. Before she can question me further, I point to the edge of her neighbor’s desk. “See that spot there?” She frowns when I point at the left corner. “There’s a ghost sitting on the edge. She’s called Kenna. I’m talking to her. She made me laugh.”

  Arroyo cocks a brow, and her scorn is evident. “Really?”

  “Yup.” I smile at her. “You know from the other cops that I’m not a bullshitter. You also know that I’ve helped with many cases, many times. From robbery, to larceny, murder, and rape cases. And though I totally understand it’s in your nature to test me, I hope you also understand how fucking boring it is.”

  Arroyo’s eyes narrow, and lo and behold… is that a glimmer of respect I see burrowed away in those glass-green eyes of hers?

  “You know why it’s necessary though, right?”

  “Yes.” I huff. “But don’t expect me to be happy about it.”

  “I don’t.” Her lips twitch. “Look, I called you here because I’ve got this guy in custody telling me he’s in the city because of you. What was I supposed to do when I read up about your background? Not call you in and ask what’s going on?”

  A glimmer of sepia catches my eye. A woman, looking as out of her depths as a goldfish in a shark tank, appears out of nowhere. She’s dressed in some kind of ceremonial garb. Glossy black hair curled and rolled back from her face, every single feature coated in white paint, with her lips a bright red and her cheeks cherry-pink—she’s in sepia, but the dark brown coloring of her features lets me know she’s wearing bright shades there. The geisha walks toward the desk, pats Arroyo’s shoulder, then mimics Kenna’s position on the detective’s desk.

  The silk kimono is light in hue but voluminous. As I sit there, she starts wafting a patterned fan at herself.

  For once, I have to admit to being speechless.

  This is my first geisha, but hey, at least I was right about Arroyo having some Asian genes.

  Arroyo clicks her fingers in my face. “Ms. Ventura?”

  She snaps me to attention, but the move irritates me. I frown at her. “What?”

  “You were staring.”

  “You would, too, if you could see what I can see.”

  The detective blinks at me. “What can you see?”

  “You’re half Japanese, aren’t you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean, I knew you had to be a bit Asian because of your eyes and hair, but I didn’t realize you were, what? Quarter?”

  Arroyo blinks at me. “My grandmother was Japanese. My grandfather married her and brought her here after the war ended.”

  I’d expected nothing less, rea
lly. One good thing about being followed around by walking history is you learn a lot about the past.

  “What’s your name?” I ask the ghost, but Arroyo misunderstands.

  “I already told you. Detective Sara Arroyo.”

  I huff. “Not you. I’m talking to her.”

  Sara blanches. “My grandmother’s here?”

  “Right there.” I point to her positioning. “What freaked me out is the fact she’s in full geisha getup. I’ve never seen one before, and it’s kind of an unusual sight to see a geisha storming through a bullpen like she’s on a catwalk at New York Fashion Week.”

  Arroyo gulps, but before she can say anything, her grandmother replies, “Mai Lin.”

  I repeat the name to Arroyo who looks like she’s swallowed an orange.

  Then, Mai Lin lets loose a flurry of Japanese that has me blanching. “I have no idea what you just said.”

  The grandmother looks suitably pissed off, but says, in heavily accented English, “Tell her that boy is no good for her.”

  Jesus. “I can’t tell her that. It’s not my place.”

  “You tell her,” Sara’s grandmother barks at me.

  Arroyo leans forward. “Can’t tell me what?”

  “Tell her. His name is Brady. Joshua Brady. I’ve seen him. He’s a bad boy.”

  I wince, but admit, “She says your boyfriend, Joshua Brady? He’s not good for you.”

  It’s then I know the old woman’s taken it too far. Arroyo jerks back in her seat and eyes me with the suspicion I’m well-accustomed to—her distrust is beyond evident. “Have you done background research on me too?”

  “No. Your grandmother follows you. She told me to pass on the message.”

  “He watches bad things on the computer. When she sleeps, he goes online. Tell her his password is gendust99.”

  Whoa. Talk about ghost detective here. Hell, this woman puts me to shame.

  “This is very awkward,” I tell Arroyo. “But she says his browsing history is questionable. She says his password is gendust99 and that you can see for yourself he’s no good.”

  “You expect me to believe my grandmother, who died in the sixties, knows what a fucking computer is? Knows what it means to go online and to check someone’s browser history?”