by Dan Willis
“How is Danny?”
“Out dancing with Mary,” Alex said, paging trough the paper as fast as he dared.
“He’d better not break her heart,” Iggy said, taking his pot off the burner. “I’ll never forgive him if she stops cooking at the diner.”
Alex chuckled at that.
“You’re all heart,” he said.
“I eat lunch there almost every day,” Iggy admitted.
“It says here that the government of Spain is suing some American over a museum exhibit,” Alex said, changing the subject.
“Phillip Leland,” Iggy supplied. “The adventurer who found the treasure of the Almiranta. She was part of the 1715 treasure fleet that went down in a hurricane. Only the Almiranta made it out. Leland found it sunk off the coast of North Carolina.”
“Paper says the treasure is worth almost one hundred million dollars.”
“Which is why the Spanish government wants it back. They’re claiming that the Almiranta and everything on it are still the property of Spain.”
Alex flipped back to the article and scanned it.
“What does that have to do with the Museum of American History?” he asked.
“Leland loaned most of the treasure to them,” Iggy said. “It’s been on display there for a month but they’ve had to take it down until the case is settled.”
“Do you think Leland will have to return it?”
“No.” Iggy shook his head. “Salvage laws are hundreds of years old. The Spanish are grasping at straws.”
“So what do you think about this ghost killer?” Alex asked, hiding a grin behind the paper.
Iggy groaned.
“Not you too,” he said in an indignant voice. “Does everyone read that disreputable rag?”
“Doris had a copy,” Alex explained. “How did you see it?”
“I played pinochle with Doctor Anderson down at the coroner’s office this afternoon,” he said. “He always reads that trash. But, since you bring it up, tell me what you think of these deaths while you help me set the table.”
Alex put the paper aside and went to the cupboard for plates and silverware.
“I’m going to go out on a limb and say the victims weren’t killed by a ghost,” Alex said, fighting not to grin.
“Please,” Iggy said in a wounded tone as he set out the bread and butter. “Don’t indulge childish fantasy at my dinner table.”
“If the details in the story are correct, the victims were all found alone in locked rooms,” Alex said. “The police had to break in each time.”
“What does that tell you?”
“Locked rooms mean suicide,” Alex said with a shrug.
“You don’t sound sure.”
“According to the story, the victims were all stabbed twice in the chest,” Alex said, filling two glasses with water. “I can’t imagine someone killing themselves that way, let alone three people. Most people just turn on the gas and stick their head in the oven.”
“A graphic, but accurate description,” Iggy said, setting a tureen of stew on the table. “What about the absence of a murder weapon? Wouldn’t that indicate that someone else was there?”
Alex nodded as they both sat down. He waited until Iggy said grace before continuing.
“Well, you’ve always said that if you remove the impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” Alex said. “If there’s two stab wounds and no weapon, it has to be murder. Someone is managing to get into and out of those locked rooms.”
“How?” Iggy asked, serving the stew. “Are there secret passages?”
“No,” Alex said. “Two of the murders were in upscale homes, but one was in an outer ring tenement house. Besides, the police would have checked for that; they’re not idiots.”
“Then how is our murderer doing it?”
Alex thought about that while he ate. There were only so many ways a crime like this could have been committed, and without examining the rooms in question, it was hard to draw a conclusion.
“A runewright could do it with an escape rune,” he said at last.
Iggy thought about that for a few moments, then shrugged.
“It’s possible,” he admitted. “But that seems like a long way to go for something as easy as murder. The killer would be shaving months off his own life every time he used a rune to escape the locked room. Not to mention the cost.”
Alex nodded. Escape runes could cost over a hundred dollars when you factored in the exotic inks.
“That would make these murders the most expensive in history,” he said. “In dollars and life.”
They passed ideas back and forth for another half-hour while they ate, but nothing felt right. In the end, Alex suggested that the tabloid had probably got the details wrong and these were three unrelated suicides.
“That paper needs to go out of business,” Iggy said at last. “I hope the mayor’s wife takes them down.”
“Who?” Alex asked as he began clearing the table.
“The mayor’s wife is suing The Midnight Sun,” Iggy explained, lighting a cigar as he watched Alex. According to their arrangement, Iggy did the cooking and Alex did the washing up.
“Why?”
“They’ve been out to get her for months,” Iggy explained, puffing out a cloud of aromatic smoke. “You can’t open that rag without reading something salacious about her.”
Alex hadn’t known that, but he didn’t even know who the mayor actually was, to say nothing of his wife.
“Well,” Iggy said, rising, “I believe I’m going to the library to read for a few hours. Come join me when you’re done.”
That actually sounded like a great idea. Alex hadn’t had time for pleasure reading in weeks.
“Sorry, Iggy,” he said as he scrubbed his plate. “I’ve got to make a phone call.”
“Oh well,” Iggy said, heading off toward the library. “Suit yourself.”
It was eight o’clock when Alex finally got upstairs to his room. The room, like most of Alex’s life, was plain and simple. A metal framed bed stuck out from the back wall, flanked on either side by an end table, one empty and the other bearing an alarm clock, a telephone, a shot glass, and a mostly-empty bottle of bourbon. A dresser and a desk stood against one wall, one on either side of a large window. The opposite wall had two doors, one to his clothes closet and the other to a tiny bathroom complete with a stand-up shower. A comfortable reading chair stood alone with a small table next to it with a plain, brass lamp on it.
He took off his coat and poured himself a shot of bourbon from the bottle on his bedside table. His telephone sat right next to the bottle, but he studiously avoided looking at it.
After ten minutes and another shot of the bourbon, he finally pulled his red rune book out of his jacket and sat on his bed. He turned to the back of the book, just inside the back cover, where a pouch had been sewn. Inside, Alex kept business cards and anything important he might need with him.
He pulled a crisp, white card with sky blue printing on it out of the pouch. There were only two words on the card, along with a phone number.
Sorsha Kincaid.
Alex had met Sorsha in her capacity as an FBI consultant. She was the most incredible woman Alex had ever met, beautiful, sensual, and most important, dangerous. Sorsha was one of the New York Six, the six sorcerers who made their home in the greatest city in the world.
It was Sorsha that Alex had helped recover the missing plague last year. He’d thought she disliked him, but when Alex traded most of his life force to keep her floating castle from crashing into the city, she’d been very upset. The last time he saw her, she declared that she never wanted to see him again.
At the time, he’d thought that was a fine arrangement, but lately, he’d found himself missing her. He felt a connection to her that he could neither justify nor explain.
He sighed and picked up the phone, giving the operator the number. A moment later a cold, contralto voice slithered d
own the wire and into his ear.
“Hello?”
“Sorceress,” he said, in his most annoyingly cheery voice. “It’s been a long time.”
“Alex?” Her voice changed; it held none of the disdain he had expected. She seemed almost happy to hear from him. Alex suddenly became very aware of his own heartbeat.
“You do remember,” he said, trying to keep his voice easy and relaxed.
“I remember telling you never to call me again,” she said, her voice back to its usual imperious chill.
“Actually,” Alex said, a smile spreading across his face. “You said you never wanted to see me again. This doesn’t count.”
He didn’t know why he felt the need to antagonize a woman who had once threatened to freeze him solid, but it was an urge he simply couldn’t resist.
“This counts, Mr. Lockerby,” Sorsha said, her formal speech patterns reasserting themselves. “But since you’ve already interrupted me, why have you called?”
“I need a favor.”
Sorsha didn’t sigh, but Alex could feel her rolling her eyes through the phone.
“You are without question the most brash annoyance I’ve ever known,” she said. “And that’s saying something. What makes you think I have the time or the inclination to do you a favor?”
“It isn’t for me,” he said, then he explained about Bickman and his wife and their predicament.
“So, if I understand you,” Sorsha said once Alex finished, “you need help finding these people employment so they can pay you?”
Maybe that’s why he liked the sorceress so much — she saw through him so easily. That didn’t really make sense, but Alex couldn’t resist the thought.
He cleared his throat and forced himself to smile even though the sorceress couldn’t actually see him.
“That’s not exactly how I would put it,” he said. “These people need help and you’re the only person I know who travels in the circles that might need their services.”
The line went silent for a long minute and Alex could almost feel the chill on the other end seeping through the phone.
“As it happens, I might be able to help,” she said at last. “Tell Mr. Bickman to come by my office in the Chrysler building tomorrow afternoon. I’ll see him then.”
“Thanks, doll.”
“Don’t push your luck, Mr. Lockerby,” Sorsha said, then the line went dead with a loud click.
Alex replaced the receiver on the phone and looked around his room as if he expected there to be an audience.
“That went well,” he said to the empty air.
A knock at his door made him turn. Before he could respond, Iggy pushed it open.
“Are you finished?” he asked from the door.
“You heard?”
“Sorry, lad,” Iggy said. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. How is Ms. Kincaid?”
“Chilly,” Alex said with a grin. “What can I do for you?”
“You have a visitor,” he said. “From the police,” he added at Alex’s confused look.
“Wow,” Alex said. “Danny must really have blown it.”
“It’s not Danny,” Iggy said with a serious look. “It’s the Lieutenant.”
“Callahan?” Alex asked. Frank Callahan was Danny’s boss on the police force and definitely wasn’t Alex’s biggest fan. “What does he want?”
“I suppose he wants your help,” Iggy said. “Apparently the ghost has killed again.”
3
The Trail of the Ghost
Half an hour later, Lieutenant Frank Callahan’s car pulled up in front of a tidy Inner-Ring house just outside the Core. Unlike the Atwood mansion, this house was a tasteful Victorian, complete with a veranda. The only thing off-putting about the house was the number of police cars clogging the street in front of it. The coroner’s van was parked in the driveway, and half a dozen officers milled about outside. Alex could only imagine the mess they had already made of the crime scene.
“Okay,” Alex said, taking in the scene. “We’re here; are you going to tell me what this is about?”
He turned to Callahan and found the big man lighting a cigarette. He seemed cagey, like he didn’t actually want to tell Alex why he’d dragged him across the city after dark. Callahan was the quintessential police detective, big, square-jawed, and good at his job. Like most cops, he also actively disliked private detectives, so the fact that he came to Alex at all meant something important was going on.
“This is the home of David and Anne Watson,” Callahan said at last. “Earlier tonight, Anne called the police because her husband had locked himself in his study and wouldn’t answer her when she went to get him for dinner. When the responding officers got here, Anne had crawled through the vent duct from an adjoining room and found David dead.”
“Let me guess,” Alex said. “Two stab wounds to the chest?”
Callahan looked surprised and then a mask of disgust covered his face. “Does everybody read that rag?” he muttered. “Don’t tell me you believe it was a ghost?”
Alex laughed at that.
“Of course not, Lieutenant,” he said. “Everyone knows that ghosts strangle their victims.”
Callahan blinked as if he didn’t know whether or not to believe Alex, then Alex smiled.
“Funny,” he said without any trace of humor in his voice. “The guys who caught this case think it’s a copycat,” he went on. “They think the wife killed her husband and tried to pass it off as the ghost.”
“Any servants?” Alex asked, his mind shifting into gear.
“Just a maid,” Callahan said, “but she had the night off.” He puffed on his cigarette.
“Can I have one of those?” Alex asked.
The lieutenant rolled his eyes and held out his pack so Alex could extract one.
“You need a real job, Lockerby,” he said, flipping open his lighter. “I know you could pass the detective exam in your sleep; why don’t you come work for me?”
Alex lit his cigarette and sat back. He was about to say something sarcastic, but he stopped himself. Callahan hated private dicks and he didn’t much care for Alex personally, but the fact that he’d offered Alex a job was a sign of his respect for Alex’s skills.
It was flattering, and Alex resisted the urge to make a smart remark. He owed Callahan that.
“You wouldn’t want me working for you, Callahan,” he said at last. “I break too many rules. Besides, the official policy of the department is that magic doesn’t have any practical application in law enforcement.”
“We both know that’s crap,” Callahan said.
Alex nodded at that and took another drag on his cigarette. He’d been economizing so long that two in one day felt like luxury.
“So the wife was alone in the house,” Alex said, getting back to the murder. “Why do you think she killed her husband?”
“Not me,” Callahan said with a sour look. “It’s not my case. Third division caught it.”
Alex had never been too clear about how the police department allocated their resources. He knew that all the detectives for Manhattan worked out of the Central Office of Police near the park, but there were six different divisions. Callahan was the lieutenant over division five.
“It’s not your case,” Alex said, a light finally going off in his head. “That’s why we’re sitting here in your car instead of going inside.”
Callahan grimaced and nodded.
“But you think the wife is innocent and that’s why I’m here,” Ales went on. “So is she an old girlfriend or something?”
The lieutenant’s gaze narrowed.
“Current girlfriend?” Alex pressed with a raised eyebrow.
“You’re right,” Callahan said. “I wouldn’t like you working for me. I don’t know Mrs. Watson at all.”
“Then why do you care?”
“Listen, Lockerby,” Callahan said, jabbing his finger at Alex and sending ash flying from his cigarette. “Someone is killing people. This make
s four and we’ve got nothing to go on. Nothing. That’s why you’re here. Maybe you can find something we missed. Maybe whoever is doing this is using magic to kill these people. Either way, that’s why we need you.”
Alex nodded, feeling a bit embarrassed. He tended to have the same opinion of cops that they had of him and he regularly forgot that some of them were just as driven and dedicated as he was.
“So the wife is my in,” Alex said. “Has she been arrested yet?”
“I don’t think so,” Callahan said, tossing the stub of his cigarette out the window. “They were still questioning her when I left to get you.”
As if on cue, someone stepped up to Alex’s side of the car.
“One of my boys said they saw you parked out here, Callahan,” the newcomer said. He was short and stocky with thinning hair and a crooked nose. “What are you doing back?”
“You still think the wife did this?” Callahan said, without answering the question.
“You bet,” the man said. “She obviously read that article in the Sun and used it as cover to kill her husband.”
“Why do you say that?” Alex asked.
The man turned his gaze to Alex. He had a round face and a crooked smile to match his nose. He wasn’t large, but he had an imposing sort of air about him.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said.
“Lieutenant Detweiler,” Callahan said. “This is Alex Lockerby. Alex, Lieutenant James Detweiler, Third Division.”
“I’ve seen you around the Central Office,” Detweiler said. “You’re a friend of Callahan’s boy, Danny.”
Alex nodded.
“You’ve got a good eye, Lieutenant. So, what makes you think the wife did it?”
Detweiler clearly wasn’t used to being put on the spot. He held Alex’s gaze for a long moment as if considering whether or not he could safely reveal his thought processes.
“Simple,” he said. “There’s a copy of today’s Midnight Sun in the kitchen trash,” he ticked that off on his finger. “Second, the wife is almost fifteen years younger than her husband.”