by S. E. Harmon
I had a feeling all that friendliness was about to disappear. “I’m on the fourth floor.” I smiled. “The PTU.”
It was almost funny the way he went still and grew pale. “Oh,” he said weakly. “That’s um… that’s….”
An actual bead of sweat formed at Ray’s temple as they stared at me. “El Diablo,” Ray whispered, and Jeff elbowed his partner in the belly.
“You can turn around now,” I said helpfully, and they both snapped forward like toy soldiers.
Ray kept his movements furtive and small, but I could still see him crossing himself in the shiny elevator doors. I rolled my eyes. They got off on their floor with muttered goodbyes. Two more cops stepped on and immediately found a reason to get back off. Suit yourself. I hear the stairs are lovely this time of year.
I’d rather share the elevator with a creepy ghost whisperer than do extra cardio, but different strokes for different folks. I had the elevator to myself for the rest of the ride. I tried not to think of how symbolic that was.
I had acquired a bit of a reputation. Everyone was friendly enough, but they all stared a little too long and laughed a little too loud. Information regarding our unit was only distributed on a need-to-know basis. As far as I knew, that list included our Lieutenant and a few higher-ups who authorized the creation of the unit in the first place. But the department had more leaks than a two-day-old diaper; things just had a way of getting around.
The only people fighting to get transferred to the PTU were the insatiably curious, who just wanted to know if the rumors were true. The types that would open a basement door in a horror movie. Or hear a noise outside in the middle of the night and go out there to check. “Hello? Is anyone out there?”
So far, all transfer requests had been denied. If I had to have someone running interference for me, there was no one more suited for it than our hardnosed Lieutenant, Lindsey Tate.
I passed our secretary, Macy, with a nod and a wave. She wasn’t all that great at her job and didn’t care. She’d squinted up at Danny after breaking the copier for the third time and told him that retiring was the first stage of death. To hear her tell it, her dearly departed husband lived four days after he retired from the post office. “Purpose, hon,” she said. “People need to have a purpose. If we start thinking we’re useless and pointless, our bodies begin to agree.”
I wasn’t sure she was wrong.
I grabbed a cup of barely passable coffee from the breakroom before I headed for my office. I ran down my mental to-do list as I walked, organizing my thoughts. The impending hurricane meant it was going to be a very short workday, and I had a lot I wanted to accomplish.
First on the agenda was to research the bejesus out of Delilah Rose. While it was easier back in the eighties to just disappear without a trace, I had a hard time believing she’d managed to stay off the radar for this long. Eventually, people let down their guard and made mistakes. Maybe they contacted family members, or risked crossing a well-guarded border… even lingering in one place too long could be a colossal error. Delilah couldn’t have just dropped off the face of the earth.
If Kane was telling the truth—and that was a big fucking if—then he hadn’t gotten a chance to finish his work. Delilah was probably supposed to be number twelve, the crowning achievement of his garden, but she’d flown the coop first. Maybe she’d gotten wind of what he was doing in their basement. Perhaps she’d already known and found out he was saving the best for last.
Of course, all my theorizing could be moot, and she could be buried with the rest of his macabre collection.
I opened my office door and stopped short, wholly unprepared to find the room occupied. For the first time in recent memory, I wished it was a fucking ghost. Instead, Lieutenant Tate had her back to me, arms crossed as she stared at my whiteboard. It was a timeline of Kane’s crimes over thirty years, complete with photos of his victims.
She didn’t turn around, so I directed my look of disbelief at her back. “I just started.”
“And you’re already in trouble.” She shook her head. “I know. I’m a little shocked myself. It’s like you’re predestined to be on my shit list.”
I hung my attaché case on a hook on the back of the door and then sank onto my chair. I took three more long sips of coffee before I was ready to face what she might have to say. “All right,” I finally said. “What’s the problem?”
“Where do I start? The problem is you putting a spotlight on this department. The problem is you doing more favors for the fucking FBI. The problem is you digging up three murders—solved murders, mind you—and a missing person case on the ruminations of a goddamned serial killer.”
Goody-goody gumdrops, she had a list all cued up. “That’s a lot of problems,” I murmured.
“So it is.”
She turned to stare at me. Her dark hair, formerly in a signature pixie cut, was now a riot of microbraids that she’d pulled up in a neat bun. The hairstyle suited her face, as did the thin, filigree hoops that dangled from her ears. She looked quite fetching. I didn’t dare mention it, though, because I had no desire to be kneed in the groin.
I didn’t know which issue she wanted me to address first, so I went with the most obvious. “Kane claims he didn’t kill his wife. He also said he didn’t kill three of the women on that board, and I think I believe him.”
She glanced at the whiteboard and then back at me. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Do you know who the three are yet? Or are you just going to keep sitting here with your thumb up your ass?”
I gritted my teeth as I pointed to the left side of the board. “I circled them in red. Lana, Ivy, and Rosy.”
“Why did you mark their pictures before you even talked to him?”
“They broke his pattern,” I said with a shrug. “There was a thirteen-year gap between these three murders and the others. That’s almost unheard of as a cooling period. Ivy, Lana, and Rosy were also his youngest victims by far, in the twenty to thirty age range.”
“And if you take them out of the mix?”
“Then the range of his other victims was between forty and fifty, possibly surrogates for the rage he had against his mother. The three later killings polluted the victimology. The FBI considered them as just crimes of opportunity, but it makes much more sense that they weren’t actually his victims.”
“But he was the last person to see his wife.” It wasn’t a question.
“That we know of.”
“And the families of the copycat victims received a dozen roses, seven days after the abduction.”
I answered after a brief hesitation. “Correct.”
Not only that, but the accompanying cards with the flowers had all contained the same message. But he that dares not grasp the thorn, should never crave the rose. Kane had used the Anne Brontë quote for every victim, without fail.
“So, he had both means and opportunity to commit those crimes, regardless of whether or not they fit his pattern.” Tate squinted at me. “What are the odds that another serial killer would use Kane’s signature of sending the roses?”
“Slim,” I admitted, “but I’d like the opportunity to find out.”
“Why did he request you specifically?”
“Probably because I’m the only one who could potentially talk to his victims. I’m the only one who could know, for sure, that he’s telling the truth. I’m the only one—”
“Who gives a flying fuck about the actual body count of a serial killer? Yeah. You are.” She rubbed gently at her eyelids, clearly trying not to muss the makeup there. “Your job is to solve cold cases, Christiansen. Not pick through solved cold cases.”
I frowned. “Are you telling me to shut this down?”
“Why, would that give you more incentive to go running back to the FBI?” She shot back.
Defending myself was just a surefire way to look guiltier. Besides, I didn’t need a defense. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Maybe I didn’t
broadcast the job offer in the office newsletter, but it was just an offer.
I chose my words carefully. “I’m not leaving the PTU.”
“That’s not what Alford Graycie of the BAU-3 seems to think.”
“He called you?” I asked incredulously.
“Mm-hmm.” She eyed me some more. “He wanted me to know he was hoping for no pushback from the department and a smooth transition for his asset.”
My eyebrows rose right along with my temper. As soon as Tate left my office, I planned to call him and let him know exactly how I felt about him calling my boss. Hopefully, between now and then, I’d come up with something a little more erudite than the holy trinity of F’s: fuck this, fuck that, and fuck you.
“There’s not going to be any transition,” I said definitively.
She didn’t look remotely convinced. Quite frankly, her stare was making me itch. Or maybe that was my mother’s special smoothie that I’d sampled at her prehurricane breakfast.
“Quit looking at me like that,” I finally had to say, giving my neck a discreet scratch. “Even if it was true, which it isn’t, I’d think you would be eager to get rid of me.”
She shark-stared at me for a few more moments before she turned on her heel and headed for the door. Before I could even get out a sigh of relief, she paused with her hand on the doorknob and squared her shoulders.
Tate faced me again. “You’d think wrong.”
I sat in stunned silence. Her resigned expression told me it was killing her to make that admission. From Tate, that was as good as a marriage proposal.
“I do,” I said dramatically.
“Don’t make me regret all the nice things I said, Christiansen.”
That was putting a rosy glow on our conversation. “All the nice things you—”
“I’ll give you a little leeway with this Kane situation. But if I get uncomfortable with what you’re finding, I’ll pull the plug. I can’t come in here every day and encourage you like this.”
My eyes bugged out farther. “Encourage me—”
“Don’t let me down.” She pointed at me. “And stop threatening to leave us for the feds.”
“I never—”
She exited my office, and the door banged shut behind her.
“Yes, ma’am.” I sighed. Another swim in the shark tank, and thank Christ, I still had my balls. “Always a pleasure.”
*
I got in a solid two hours before my phone dinged with a text from Danny. I knew what the message would be about before I even checked. Sure enough, it read, time to enforce curfew. I sighed. The older I got, the more I envied toddlers’ ability to throw hissy fits at their leisure. I was certainly ready for one, right there in my all too grown-up office chair.
There was nothing worse than dealing with irate people who had to do just one more thing before complying with the citywide curfew. They were never pleased when an authority figure told them to go home—you know, because of the potentially catastrophic storm bearing down on us all?
I tossed my phone on the desk and leaned back. My research had netted a few leads. Delilah Rose had an old friend from college, Valerie Carr, who lived in a small beachside community forty minutes north of Brickell Bay. I’d spoken to her on the phone, and to say she’d been surprised would be an understatement.
“No, I haven’t seen or talked to Delilah in many years. Yes, I would’ve helped hide her from Thomas, if she’d come to me, but she didn’t. Yes, I’ll call you if I think of anything else.”
Valerie seemed convinced, much like the rest of the world, that Thomas Kane had killed her friend. I had no reason to doubt her. Because I firmly believed in the phrase, “trust, but verify,” I had no reason to believe her, either. I was hoping to question her in person, but that would have to wait until after the storm.
As if on cue, a distant rumble of thunder sounded. Like the growl in the back of a dog’s throat, I knew I’d better heed that warning. The sky was still crystal clear and perfectly blue, but the wind had picked up quite a bit, whipping tree branches against the building.
I couldn’t help but think about my parents’ house—specifically about how tiny it was. Not to mention all the glass. The builder had used a lot of glass to create the illusion of space, which was great until ninety-mile-an-hour winds started chucking things at the windows.
I grabbed my phone and shot off a quick text to my mother. Are you sure you guys are going to be okay in the storm?
Why wouldn’t we be? The reply from my dad popped up quickly, and I realized I’d mistakenly used the group text.
Because I can pick up your house and put it in my pocket, I texted back.
We’ll be fine. It was my mother’s turn to be dismissive. You worry too much.
Hmph. I didn’t waste any time zinging her back. That’s precisely the logic I’d expect from a woman who held a breakfast in the middle of a hurricane.
The beginning, she corrected quickly. The beginning of a hurricane.
The voice of reason, otherwise known as Danny, popped in next. Guys. You should come over and stay. Seriously, it’s no imposition.
Well, that was what I meant to say before Robyn and Leo started needling me. That’s a good idea, I texted back. You should stay at Danny’s house.
I made a frustrated noise in the back of my throat when I realized I’d done it again. I was like a goddamned goldfish. Our house, I typed and sent, blushing a little even though not a soul could see me.
My sister, hereafter to be referred to as Number One Shit Stirrer, chose that moment to join the conversation. Wow, is it that hard to remember?
Danny: Maybe it would help you remember if you unpacked more.
Me: I wasn’t aware the boxes were bothering you so much.
Danny: They’re not.
Me: Then why mention them at all?
I cocked an eyebrow at the blinking dots, more than curious about his answer for that. This was the third or fourth time he’d mentioned the boxes, and I was starting to think they bothered him more than he let on. Was it just that he was missing his organized house? Or was it because he was having second thoughts about asking me to move in?
Leo: Do they even know we’re still here
Me: Yes, dad, we do
Sky: Don’t let that distract you. It’s good to get everything out in the open. Danny should get out what’s bothering him.
Danny: Nothing is bothering me!
Leo: I changed my mind. We def should stay with them during the hurricane. Power will be out. Going to need entertainment
Robyn: Awkward moments 4 the win
Me: Wonderful. Did I neglect to mention today how delighted I am that you two moved in next door?
Clearly, the art of sarcasm was lost on my mother, since she immediately sent me a happy face with hearts for eyes. After my father responded with an, aw, we enjoy you boys, too, I pocketed my phone and headed for the door. I ignored the sporadic dinging of texts. Per my autobiography, The Etymology of a Snarky Bitch, sarcasm was better delivered in person.
Chapter 4
He came to me in the storm.
I couldn’t quite see his face, just glimpses of a long, lean figure and a shock of dark, curly hair before he disappeared in the shadows. The sound of his laughter filled my head, and I turned toward the sound. “Who are you? What’s your name?”
“You always were so full of questions.” The soft voice that answered me was tempered with amusement.
“Have we… have we already met?”
“You could say that.”
Blearily, I scanned the fog, trying to make sense of the nonsensical. Some sort of iron structure peeked up at the top of the gloom, high in the gray sky. It looked almost like… like some kind of Ferris wheel. I wandered forward, the leaves on the ground crunching under my bare feet.
I glanced down in surprise. I was still in my pajamas. Could I be asleep? Maybe I was stuck somewhere between reality and REM, capable of understanding and speaking but not
in control of the dream. I had a feeling I was going to be stuck here with him until he was damn well ready to let me go.
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me why you brought me here?” I trailed my fingers over a crumbling, half faded sign. There were only a few letters left of the first word, but Fair at the end was clear enough. “Why is this place important to you?”
“Do you remember where we went on our first date?” The voice came from behind me, close to my ear. “We went to a taco stand and bought all this greasy, delicious food. Then we had a picnic in the park.”
More of the fog cleared and a carousel came into view. The ride had seen better days. The paint was faded, the royal looking animals chipped and broken.
I felt a presence behind me and turned slowly, afraid any sudden moves would scare him off. He was taller than me but had the same swimmer’s build. His eyes were dark, burnished green, and freckles sprinkled his nose and cheeks.
“Who exactly do you think I am?” I asked softly.
“I don’t think, I know.” He furrowed his brow. “It’s me. How can you not remember me?”
I racked my brain to no avail. “You’re sure we’ve met before?”
“You could say that. You were the only person who truly understood me.” Hurt crossed his expression. “I guess things like that don’t matter so much to you anymore, Alex.”
“I’m not Alex.”
My words had no effect as he lifted a hand to my face. I couldn’t help flinching, but he only drifted fingers down my cheek, light as the morning mist. “I still want you. Even after all this time. You’re just as beautiful as you always were.” Before I could get a big head about the flattery, he added, “Just older.”
“Thanks.”
His brow furrowed. “A lot older.”
“Got it,” I said dryly. “Before you put me in an Oil of Olay test group, I should tell you that nothing is going to happen between us. Being alive is the bare minimum requirement to be my boyfriend.” Sorry, not sorry.
“What if I wasn’t a ghost?”
“But you are.”