A Ghost in the Glamour

by Elizabeth Hunter

  “You are, of course.” I patted his cheek. “I’d call you the pollen god, actually.”

  “Now you’re just sucking up, and it doesn’t sound sincere.”

  I stood on my toes and kissed his cheek. “Thank you. Really, thanks.”

  “Okay, okay. Don’t get mushy.” He put the evidence box back on the shelves and nodded toward the door. “When we get back to the maintenance entrance, you can show me your boobs there.”

  I’d have punched his shoulder, but I was pretty sure I’d only hurt myself.

  Frank was sitting silently next to me in the car. I usually had a good read on his emotions, but that night I was coming up blank. We were stopped at one of those endless red lights on Venice Boulevard, so I picked up my phone and switched to one of his favorite albums.

  Duke Ellington and John Coltrane. 1963. One of the best albums ever. I had it digital, and it was one of the few albums I’d bought on vinyl too.

  Maybe it was inevitable that I’d love jazz after growing up with a ghost who defined years by album releases, but I would always appreciate the music Frank had introduced me to. Some of my happiest teenage memories consisted of searching out music online from obscure albums Frank had only heard of. He’d name an album and I’d search for it online as he looked over my shoulder. He thought the Internet existed for jazz aficionados.

  As the strains of the first track died down, he asked, “Are you going to read it?”

  Yes. “Do you want me to?”

  He frowned. “Yes. But in context.”

  “So tell me the context.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  His face lost its melancholy and the corners of his mouth turned up. “Because I can show you.”

  “What— Oh, Frank! Not that. Can’t you just tell me?”

  “Nope. It’s not the same.”

  I growled low in my throat. “Fine.”

  It was something we only did occasionally. My mom was the kind of medium who regularly let spirits sit in the front of her mind and show her stuff. That was because my mother usually only dealt with grief-stricken people who needed to say goodbye to a family member or find out someone’s last wishes. She could let a spirit sink deep enough into her mind that she could even take on handwriting and signatures. Trust me, more than one will has been signed by my mother for spirits who were a little late in their estate planning.

  She could do that kind of thing because her own talents were incredibly strong.

  When Frank sat in my mind to show me memories, I could see a scene from his point of view. Which meant I was Frank… kind of. It was a little like putting on a suit that was scratchy and didn’t fit. Not my favorite thing, and it took some kind of focus we could share. Which for me and Frank meant I’d be chain-smoking Lucky Strikes for the duration of the vision.

  So. Gross.

  We got home and I pulled the dreaded box from the bottom of my desk drawer before I went outside and sat in the back garden. “Okay, this better not take too long. You’ve only got three left.”

  The last vision had been over six months ago, and I hadn’t gotten another pack of cigarettes. I always hoped I wouldn’t need them again, but then we’d be working on a case and Frank would stop and say that he couldn’t explain something, he needed to show me.

  Personally, I think he’s just a dirty, dirty nicotine addict.

  I grabbed a beer and sat at the picnic table I’d repainted the summer before. Everything in the backyard—fence, furniture, pots, and planters—had been painted and repainted by me multiple times. Painting is what I do when I get stressed out.

  I struck a match and put a Lucky Strike in my mouth. “Okay, Bogie, hope you’re enjoying this.”

  “Oh yeah, having a punk kid in my head is always a fun experience.”

  I felt Frank settle behind me as I lit the cigarette. Then he leaned forward and…

  3

  One of the Good Boys

  Frank handed his fedora to the coat check and glanced at his hair in the mirror before he made his way down the hallway. Medium height. Medium build. A face his mother had loved until she didn’t. A face that had cop written all over it.

  This club might have been neutral territory for the various criminal organizations in Los Angeles, but that didn’t mean a cop was welcome.

  He wasn’t.

  The slow brush of cymbals painted the air as he made his way past the hostess, slipping a ten in her waiting palm before he passed unmolested into the dark club on Central Avenue. His snitch had said Mintz’s newest girl would be here solo.

  And she was.

  Tucked into a booth near the back, Nina King’s face was illuminated by a single candle as she pulled a cigarette from a silver case on the table. A quick flare of light, then the booth dimmed as the trumpet pleaded for mercy on the stage. The slow piano kept rhythm with Frank’s steps as he made his way toward her, following the glowing tip of her cigarette and the smoke that drifted around her. He unbuttoned his jacket and slid across from Nina King, ignoring the curl of her lip and the watchful eyes of the security guards by the door.

  “Miss King, how are you this evening? Enjoying the music?”

  She sipped her martini and examined him. “Do I know you?”

  “You will if you keep hanging out with Pete Mintz.” He took out his own cigarettes. Lucky Strikes. Not the fancy French brand Miss King was smoking, but Frank wasn’t a fancy kind of guy. “You know who your sweetheart is?”

  “I know him enough to know that nobody”—her red-painted lips curled around the word, stretching it—“calls him a sweetheart.”

  Her carefully cultivated voice reminded him of an aspiring actress, some small-town girl from the middle of the country who’d caught a bus to LA with big dreams. She paced her words, drawing them out for maximum effect.

  And that voice was effective, even though Frank knew Nina King was from a little house on the East Side.

  She continued, “And who exactly are you, mister?”

  “Detective Frank Bogle.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know who hired you but—”

  “The good people of Los Angeles, ma’am,” he said. “I’m with the police department.”

  She paused. “Like I said, I don’t know who hired you, but if you have questions about Pete, you ask Pete. Everyone who knows me knows that.”

  “I know you might find it hard to believe,” he said, “but I’m not on the take. For anyone, including your boyfriend. Everyone who knows me knows that.”

  She blew out a stream of smoke. “One of the good boys, huh? How sweet.”

  “That’s me,” Frank said. “Sweet as candy.”

  “And just as likely to cost me my teeth,” Nina said under her breath. The Hollywood accent slipped. “Why are you here?”

  “You’re a good girl, Nina. Your family’s worried about you.”

  A flicker in her eyes.

  That’s right, sweetheart. I’ve been to that little house on the East Side. Seen the pictures of little Magdalena Reyes there.

  “You were cute in your confirmation dress, Nina.”

  Rage bubbled just under the surface. Rage… and fear.

  “You leave my family out of this.” She wasn’t speaking for the guards anymore. He could barely hear her over the music. “What do you want? You want money? The money is Pete’s. I have nothing. You want to make time with me?” The carefully cultivated ennui fell away. “You think he lets me out of his sight? All the guards here report to him, just like they do everywhere. If you think he doesn’t know about this meeting, you don’t know a thing about Pete Mintz.”

  “I don’t want your money or anything else. I just want you to do the right thing. You know something—like about those murders on the East Side by your ma’s house—you tell me.”

  “You’re asking me to snitch?” She lit another cigarette after stabbing out the first. The Hollywood accent was back. “You’re delusional, mister.”

 
; As she reached forward, Frank’s eyes were drawn to the evenly spaced bruises her cap sleeve didn’t quite cover.

  Damn Pete Mintz to hell. No wonder her ma was crying.

  She caught him looking and rearranged her shoulders, draping her wrap over even more evidence of Mintz being an animal. “You done?”

  “Maybe.” He had to ask. Frank dropped his voice so the moaning saxophone masked his words. “You want out, Nina?”

  Nina froze for a second, then she carefully took another drag, blew out the smoke. “Like I said, you’re delusional, mister.”

  She wanted out.

  Frank took his card out, flipped it with practiced care under the table, making sure to hit her ankle. She’d pick it up or leave it, but he had to offer. Smooth as silk, he slid out of the booth and buttoned his jacket, nodding politely at Magdalena Reyes before he turned to go.

  “Ma’am. Hope you enjoy the music. Have a nice night.”

  “I’d like to say it was nice meeting you, Detective Bogle.” She raised her voice for the guards before she finished one martini and—quick as a blink—another was on the table. “But I’m not that good a liar.”

  4

  What Do I know? Not Much, Apparently.

  I could taste the tobacco on my lips when Frank left my mind. I tried not to gag and took a long drink of the beer I’d set on the table. It was slightly warm, but I didn’t care. I drank half of it before I set it down again. Visions like that one left me parched.

  I licked my lips and tasted the Lucky Strikes. “So Nina King was a mob moll, huh?”

  Frank was sitting in front of me now. He shook his head. “You think that, you didn’t see enough.”

  “Her boyfriend was beating her up?”

  He nodded.

  “So she’d keep her mouth shut about what she knew?”

  “Partly. And partly because Pete Mintz was a piece-of-shit human being.”

  Frank rarely used the word shit.

  “And she stayed with him,” I said.

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “So explain it to me, Bogie.”

  “What I showed you was in 1952, just after a pair of murders on the East Side. The victims were strange. Unexpected. A nice Mexican couple with grown kids. Husband had a steady job. Wife was a seamstress. No criminal connections. Not Mintz’s usual type. He was an animal, but he didn’t kill randomly. He was too smart for that.”

  “And you were the detective on the case?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you solve it?”

  He gave me a look, and I knew he hadn’t.

  “Time to read the note?” I asked.

  He let out a breath that ghosted across my cheek. Spirits were weird that way. Sometimes their energy was chaotic enough that they could affect the environment. The fact that Frank’s energy was so churned up was telling.

  I pulled out my phone and zoomed in on the close-up of the letter.

  * * *

  October 12, 1952

  * * *

  Dearest Frank,

  * * *

  I know this letter might be too little, too late, but it’s finally over. I’m done with Pete. He came to me last night, and I could see the blood on his hands. I know he killed the Mendez family. It was so awful. When he hit me, blood got on my dress. I don’t know if I can ever get the stain out, and I can’t live like this anymore.

  * * *

  I’m leaving him. Your love has given me the courage to escape. Meet me at my Aunt Mary’s house Friday morning. I should be able to get away then. I’m so afraid, but it’s the only way I can live with myself. I can’t stay with a murderer.

  * * *

  I love you, Frank. You gave me the courage to do this. I just want to make things right.

  * * *

  All my love,

  Nina King

  * * *

  Frank was staring at me intently. “You see it, right?”

  I was still reeling from the idea of Frank having a lover who was a mobster’s girlfriend. As acerbic as he could be, he was as straight an arrow as ever was shot. I mean, if I imagined Frank having a girlfriend, it was the girl-next-door type, not the femme fatale.

  I blinked. “What?”

  “You see what I spotted immediately, right?”

  “Poor Nina got herself killed because she was running away with you?”

  He scowled. “Nina King and I were not in love. We never planned on running away with each other.”

  “But the note—”

  “She lied. That’s what has me thinking. Yeah, Mintz beat her up. And the thing about the blood on her dress was clearly a hint for me to search her house, which I did when she went missing, but I never found a dress with blood on it. I’d have spotted that. And why’d she sign her name like that if she was pretending we were lovers? Who signs their full name on a love letter?”

  I shook off the shock of Frank having an affair with a mobster’s girlfriend and tried to think about what else I’d seen. “Uh… so you and she never… ’Cause I’m not gonna lie. That vision? You two had chemistry.”

  He looked at me like I’d just slapped my nan. “She was a victim, Linx. Pete Mintz kept her on a leash that was shorter than his… It was short. He was beating her up, threatening her family—”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “Because she called me from her mother’s house two weeks after we met. Once a month, she was allowed to go to her mother’s house, and she called from there.”

  “So you did see her?”

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t…” Frank shook his head. “Nina was smart. Beautiful. But I don’t think even she knew who she was anymore.” He waved at my phone. “None of that letter makes any sense. It’s her handwriting, but it doesn’t make sense.”

  “I don’t know.” I tried to put together what I knew. “Maybe she really was trying to leave. She was going to send you the letter—”

  “How? No address on the envelope.”

  “Um…” I really wanted to go brush my teeth. The tobacco taste was nauseating. “Her mother? Maybe she was going to give her mom the letter and have her mom get in touch with you. If Mintz checked her mail—”

  “Okay.” Frank started nodding. “I know he did.”

  “Then she probably was going to leave the letter with her mom and trust her to give it to you. Maybe she wasn’t going to run away with you, but she really wanted to get away from Mintz.”

  “So why pretend we were lovers?”

  “I don’t know, Frank! It’s late. I’ve already committed a felony tonight, hung out in your head, and now I feel like I’m going to gag on my own breath,” I protested. “All I want to do is brush my teeth, take a shower, and go to bed.”

  “Fine.” He waved his hand at me. “Whatever. Go to bed if you’re tired.”

  I rolled my eyes. Now he was just being a moody prick. “Fine.”

  See if I play you any Duke Ellington tomorrow night.

  “She didn’t even have an Aunt Mary,” he muttered.

  “Bogie, leave it alone.” I stood up and stretched my legs. “She’s been dead for sixty years. I don’t think taking a break for me to get some sleep is going to change anything.”

  Despite my annoyance, the look on his face was breaking my heart. I’d never seen him so confused. “I promise we’ll work on it tomorrow. Maybe one of Nan’s people knows something. We can go take a look around the park if you want. Who knows, maybe Nina’s still hanging around.”

  “Christ, I hope not,” he muttered. “She deserved better than that.”

  He hated being caught here. I knew that. But I didn’t know any better than he did why he was stuck with me, and his words stung.

  “Good night, Frank.”

  He leaned back and put ghostly elbows on the picnic table, staring up into the night sky and saying nothing.

  I walked to the house and turned before I went inside. “We’ll figure it out, Bogie. I promise.”

  5

 
; Same World. Less Style.

  But the next day came and so did work. Actual paying work, not detective work that put me at risk of arrest, which meant Frank was going to have to be patient. Jackson had called me to the cafe with the other artists, and it was a good thing, because artistic temperaments were as bad as moody ghosts.

  Farah was pacing at the back of the bookstore, his dark, beautiful eyes glaring. I was trying to take his tantrum seriously, but he was just so pretty.

  “Do I have to go? Why do I have to go? People will just spend all night asking me if the red represents blood when I mean…” He gestured at his section of the wall. “I mean, really? You have to ask?”

  Jackson was on the other side of the store, drumming his fingers on the nearly finished counter. Most of the crew was gone, and my other friends, Cristiane, Jonny, and Randy, were hanging around in the lounge area. I had silently checked all of them for wet paint and I couldn’t find any, so I wasn’t too worried about the new—and very expensive-looking—easy chairs.

  “Dude, chill,” I said. “You’re getting yourself all worked up for no reason. Jackson invited us to be polite. The cafe opening is like… it’s kind of like a gallery opening for overly caffeinated people. I mean, our wall kicks ass and we do too. And he kind of went out on a limb doing something different here instead of the happy scene of busy urban life, you know? He invited us out of respect.”

  Farah still looked confused. “Are you going?”

  “Of course I am. And I’m bringing business cards. Which is something you should do too.”

  He looked so appalled. Poor antisocial Farah. People would flock to him to ask about the blood thing. Of course, he’d also get hit on. He was beautiful, and his eyelashes alone made me want to stab him.

  In the most loving way possible.