Principles of Spookology (The Spectral Files Book 2)

by S. E. Harmon

  I shifted a little, trying to put more of my weight on my right side. The hard chair only seemed to exacerbate things. That dull pain was the least of why I wanted to toss Watts right back in that filthy canal.

  Watts stared at me. I stared right back, letting the silence build. I always found the adage about learning more from listening than talking to be true. Most people weren’t comfortable with silence, and a little quiet inspired them to fill it with words.

  After a few minutes, I realized Jeremy Watts was clearly not one of those people.

  Just when I was about to break my own rule and the silence simultaneously, he spoke, his voice clear and uncompromising. “I want a deal.”

  I blinked. You are a seasoned investigator. You will not open the floor with the word, “Wut?”

  “What are your terms?” I finally asked.

  “I know you’ve been looking for me, and why.” He leaned forward. “I tell you something useful, and you talk to the DA.”

  “I can certainly put in a good word for you,” I said honestly. “But cooperation is your new best friend. No yanking me around.”

  His gaze was troubled. “What do you want to know?”

  “Actually, I’m going to tell you what I already know, and you fill in the blanks. I know you threatened Mason. I have a witness who can put you and him together.”

  “What witness?”

  “You let me worry about my witness,” I said bluntly. “How much did Luke owe you and how did Mason get involved?”

  “Same way he usually got involved, I guess. Luke begged, and he folded. He had a bad habit of, let’s say, overextending himself.” He scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Maybe if Satan had come through, it wouldn’t have been an issue.”

  I liked to think I’d heard it all—in fact, I prided myself on keeping a poker face. This time it was hard to keep the bemusement at bay. “What’s that now?”

  “Satan’s Best,” he said impatiently. “That damned horse should be in a fucking glue factory. Luke said Mason would pay the money he owed me. Only when I went to their place to collect, Mason told me to get lost. He was done paying Luke’s debts. I told him that’s not how it works.”

  “And how exactly does it work?” I asked grimly.

  “Luke’s debt was Mason’s debt. When I made him… understand that, he tried to give me a portion of the money to settle things. He said it was all he could get his hands on. I told him I don’t run a swap meet, and I don’t make deals. I gave him a week to get it together or….”

  My mouth tightened. “Or what?”

  His gaze briefly landed on mine and skittered away. “I wasn’t going to actually hurt him. But if you don’t show these fools you mean business, they don’t take you seriously.”

  “And did he?” I asked evenly. “Did they take you seriously?”

  “Luke brought me my money. On time.” He shrugged. “He knows what’s good for him. Everyone knows you don’t short the Hammer.”

  I tried to keep a neutral expression, but it was difficult. Mason had just been being his usual overly helpful self, trying to get his brother out of trouble.

  Watts frowned. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “That’s a handy talent. What am I thinking?”

  “You’re thinking I fucking killed him, and I didn’t. When I left Mason’s house, he was alive.”

  “You have anyone to corroborate that?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’ve got a problem.”

  His hands curled into fists. “You’ve got to be kidding me with this shit.”

  “Luke owed you a lot of money and he couldn’t pay. Mason gave you what he could, but it wasn’t enough. What’s a couple thousand dollars to a hustler like you?”

  “No.”

  “So you decided to make an example out of him, just to show Luke that you meant business.”

  “No.”

  “You can say no all you want. If you don’t give me another version, I have to go with the one I’ve got.” I pushed away from the table. “Sit tight. I’m going to get you booked—”

  “You don’t walk away from me,” he shouted. He hit the table so hard, the cheap metal dented a bit before it popped back into place. I only just managed not to flinch. “I’m not finished talking to you.”

  Temper, temper. My hand rested lightly on the butt of my gun. I stared at him, long enough to make him flush with shame. I spoke in even tones. “Calm down, or I’ll be forced to put you down.”

  He blew out a gusty breath. “I’m sorry. I’m just frustrated. But I’m telling you the truth. Luke paid me, alright?”

  “Where’d he get the money?”

  “That’s not my job.”

  “Your deal hinges on your cooperation,” I reminded him.

  “And that’s exactly what I’m doing,” he said defensively. “I don’t know where Luke got the money. I’m no fucking detective, but maybe he got a little angry when the golden goose stopped laying eggs.”

  “So you had nothing to do with Mason’s death?”

  “Is there someone I can speak to around here that knows English?” Watts glared at me. “I didn’t fucking kill him. And I’m tired of fucking saying it.”

  Frankly, I was tired of fucking hearing it. I stood. “Just sit tight.”

  “Hey, I did my part,” he hurried to say. “Now it’s your turn. You’ll talk to the DA? Make some of these charges go away?”

  Andrea Fairbanks was a fair-minded woman who was always willing to make a deal; however, I wasn’t sure what she would be willing to do for a career criminal with a handful of new charges—reckless endangerment, felony evasion, and possession of a class A substance, to start.

  The best I could promise him was a vague, “We’ll see.”

  As to be expected, he wasn’t thrilled with my answer, but that was just too bad. It was the best I could do.

  All in all, I thought the day could’ve gone worse.

  Lieutenant Tate didn’t seem to agree.

  Danny and I sat in front of her desk like a pair of chastened bookends as she interrogated us. Danny had his usual stone face on, those big arms crossed, one scuffed boot resting on the other knee. He looked like he could sit there until the next millennium. I, on the other hand, was more fidgety than a five-year-old.

  After I recounted the events of Rain and Kevin’s Not So Awesome Adventure to her a third time, she steepled her fingers. “So let me get this straight. You chased a suspect through crowded Miami streets without regard for public safety or an actual plan for capture. An old woman fractured an ankle when she jumped out of the way—”

  “Into a pile of trash bags,” I said quickly. “And she cleared that curb.”

  “And then destroyed a bus stop?” She glared at me. “Or am I misunderstanding that part of Kevin’s report?”

  “Kevin already finished his report?”

  She nodded, those shark-like eyes trained on my face. “He sure did. I wonder if your account of today’s activities will match.”

  Damn, I really would’ve liked to look at it first. Not that we’d done anything wrong, but it never hurt to be on the same page. I reminded myself that the truth only had one version and lifted my chin. “I’m sure it will.”

  She gazed at me for a few more seconds. “And the bus stop?”

  “The term destroyed really does seem a bit excessive.” I winced, remembering the glass shattering everywhere as the cars plowed into the bus stop. “Well, maybe it was. But I checked the status of all passengers involved in the crash and reportedly, everyone is fine.”

  Danny’s eyes widened. “You destroyed a bus stop?”

  Okay, so maybe I forgot to give him all the details when we were hustling down the corridor to Tate’s office.

  “I didn’t, the three other cars did,” I said in the interest of accuracy. They both stared at me. “It will all be in my report.”

  Tate went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “You add that to a car sti
ll stuck in the Woxahatchee canal, a near suspect and officer drowning, and you’re telling me all that… that was for nothing?”

  “Not nothing,” I said indignantly. “We made some really important connections with the case. And other than an injection to my posterior, there are no lasting effects. It’s the left one, you know.”

  She stared at me for a moment. “The left one, what?”

  It took me a second to realize I’d initiated a conversation about my ass with my displeased boss. But I was committed, so into the valley charged the six-hundred. “Butt cheek,” I said crisply.

  Danny made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a guffaw. He cleared his throat. “What Detective Christiansen meant is that while things may have happened both quickly and unexpectedly, he and Detective St. James were always in control of the situation.”

  I jerked a thumb in his direction with a sigh of relief. “What he said.”

  Tate took a deep, cleansing breath. Then she started muttering to herself. Never a good sign.

  “Maybe we should go,” I said. “I still need to complete my report while everything is nice and fresh.”

  She didn’t respond, which I took to mean, “Great idea. You’re a real go-getter.” We got up and made a beeline for the door. I reached back before the door could slam shut and pulled it closed with a soft click.

  I wasn’t sure if Tate kept her office the temperature of hell purposefully or not, but the cool air of the hallway was a much-needed relief. I blew out a breath. “I assume we’re going into WITSEC immediately.”

  Danny didn’t seem all that perturbed. “Things could’ve gone worse.”

  I squinted up at him. “Murder-suicide?”

  He snorted. “She’ll get over it. Maybe you guys made a little more noise than usual, but she knows you were just doing your job. And it wasn’t like it was for nothing—Watts could possibly be our guy.”

  “There’s also a chance it could be Luke. He could’ve argued with Mason about not paying the debt. Things could’ve gotten out of control.”

  “Also true.” He didn’t seem perturbed by that, either. “Did you call Saunders and let him know we have a suspect with the nickname The Hammer?”

  “Yes. He said he’d already checked hammers and it’s not a match to the strike pattern on the skull. He also said the weapon is most likely cylindrical in shape.”

  To be more specific, he’d tried club, sledge, and claw—straight and curved—hammers to no avail. He informed me that he knew how to do his job, and he’d been doing it without my help for over thirty years now. Then he said that he would call me with more results and hung up.

  Sour bastard. The picture on his ID badge should just be an underripe gooseberry.

  “You know what’s odd, though?”

  I looked at him quizzically. “What?”

  “How Watts lost control of his car. An eyewitness said it was one of the strangest things he’s ever seen. One second Watts was getting away, and then it was like he almost deliberately drove toward the canal.”

  “It certainly was strange.”

  “Kevin said you were talking to Mason in the car before it happened.”

  “Was I? Oh, that’s right.” I nodded jerkily. “Everything happened so quickly, it was like a blur.”

  He gave me one of those long, intense looks designed to make me squirm. I stared back, trying not to blink my suddenly blinktastic eyes. If he asked me directly, I wouldn’t lie. This would be a fan-fucking-tastic time for that Jedi Mind Trick shit to kick in.

  A sudden movement in my peripheral made me turn, and I saw Tate rising from her chair. She spotted us through her door’s small window. Surprise crossed her face to see me still standing there followed quickly by irritation. Brow furrowed, she reached for something in her desk drawer.

  I spoke without moving my lips. “Did she just pull out her service weapon?”

  “I think so,” he murmured back. She holstered her weapon and grabbed her keys. “She could just be going out in the field.”

  “Or she could’ve just thought of a way to end her PTU problems for good,” I whispered. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  When he didn’t agree, I turned to find him headed down the hall at a fast clip. He didn’t seem all that worried that I wasn’t right behind him. Clearly, he’d decided to sacrifice me earlier than planned, no zombie attack necessary. Tate’s door opened and I hurried after him, borrowed sneakers squeaking urgently on the cheap linoleum.

  Chapter 21

  Our suspects had clearly made a unanimous decision to cease cooperation and give BBPD the finger. Luke was ducking our calls quite handily, and both times I went by the bakery, Melanie was on shift. She coolly informed me that her fiancé was out of town at a baking expo in Tampa. I was almost surprised—almost—when a quick Google search showed there was no such expo.

  Carter James retained an attorney, some fancy mouthpiece who didn’t know how to converse without using the word sue liberally. When I asked her if she knew any other words, she demanded my badge number, which I rattled off resignedly. Get in line, lady.

  At least Jeremy Watts was on ice, but he wasn’t happy with the DA’s deal, and not because the terms were unfair, but he’d been dreaming of a walk. Needless to say, he was no longer interested in talking with the PTU. Especially him, he’d said angrily, stabbing a finger in my direction.

  Our case needed some juice.

  There was a quick knock at my door and one of the techs, JT, stuck his head in the crack. I eyed his sweetly rounded, freckled face. “I don’t suppose your middle name is Tropicana?”

  He smiled, not perturbed by my strangeness. “Sorry. The T stands for Theodore.”

  He didn’t say anything else, and I held in an inappropriate, What do you want, chipmunk? I inclined my head at the papers in his hand. “You have something for me?”

  “I have a match for the sketch.” He handed me the papers and my gaze landed on the face that had been haunting me for months. “Thought you’d want to know right away.”

  It was a candid shot—the man was kneeling in the grass of some field, with a dog exuberantly licking his face. But for a few minor details, Eli’s sketch was unbelievably accurate. It was the same oval face, the same brown curls falling over his forehead. Same brown eyes that were slightly sad. Same generous mouth, same wide smile.

  “What’s his name?” I asked softly.

  “Samuel Abbot. He’s been missing for over fifteen years now.”

  That certainly got my attention. Yet another missing person connected to a string of them in this case. I believed in coincidence on occasion. But too much coincidence usually meant connections.

  JT didn’t seem in any hurry to leave, which seemed to be a common affliction for most people who entered my office. Alight with curiosity, his gaze roved my murder board, “What’s with the picture of Ironcrest Bridge?”

  “You know of it?”

  “Of course. There have been rumors of a haunting, if you believe that kind of thing.”

  “Do you?” I asked bluntly.

  “Nah. My sister does, though.” He shook his head. “She loves anything old and mysterious, even if it’s silly. She took me on one of those murder mystery dining cars, and we had a good chuckle over it.”

  Help me. My eyes widened as a familiar voice filtered through my mind, one I now knew was Samuel’s. Don’t leave me here to die, die, die. Beautiful boy dancing his way down the tracks, getting farther and farther away from me. Those soulful brown eyes begged me to save him, but it was already too late. Help me. Don’t leave me here to—

  “Detective?”

  I blinked up at JT, whose brow was creased in concern. “Yes?”

  “Everything alright?”

  “Of course.”

  He looked like he wanted to say more, but his phone started to buzz. He pulled it out of his pocket, glanced at the screen, and let out a curse. “Shit. I’m late to pick up my girlfriend from the airport. I gotta go.”r />
  “Of course.”

  “Let me know if you need anything else,” he called over his shoulder.

  “I will, thank you,” I murmured to an empty doorway.

  I pored over the information JT had gathered for me. Then I woke my computer up and researched some more. Samuel Abbot had been twenty-three when he disappeared. He was at a bar with some friends, celebrating a birthday. He went to the bathroom and never came back. His friends, each one more inebriated than the next, figured he’d gotten lucky and went home with someone. They didn’t realize anything was wrong until the next day.

  Months later, a barfly claimed he’d gone to pee in the alley and might’ve seen someone fitting Samuel’s description. Maybe. The maybe Samuel had been leaning into the passenger window of a blue Buick, talking to the driver. Before the barfly went back inside, he thought he saw Samuel open the car door.

  It wasn’t much. But a lead was a lead.

  I hadn’t gotten where I was by ignoring my investigative instincts, and something about this case was starting to feel a little… serial to me. I started a search in the database for more missing young men in the area. I left off parameters like hair and eye color, inputting more general data like Abbott’s age range. His build. His height.

  I came up with a crapload of results. I growled. Too many results. I didn’t have many more parameters to narrow the field. It didn’t help that the search functions were practically prehistoric. After hemming and hawing, I pulled up the log-in screen for the more advanced FBI database—a database I was no longer entitled to use. I knew my credentials wouldn’t work anymore but maybe….

  “Yahtzee,” I muttered, logging in with a former coworker’s password.

  I worked quickly. She’d sniff me out in a few seconds, but maybe she would be in a generous mood. We may not be coworkers any longer, but we were still friends, weren’t we?

  It only seemed like a few minutes, but was probably more like ten, before my connection blinked out. I cursed as the sign-in page showed again. My phone rang and resignedly, I answered.