Ghost Hunter

by Paige Tyler

  He considered ignoring the call, but then saw Cassidy look at him expectantly. Telling himself it’d be easier to answer the damn thing, he dug the phone out of his pocket. He supposed there was always an outside chance Joyce Reynolds might have something worthwhile to tell him.

  “McCord,” he said into the phone.

  “Detective McCord?” a male voice asked. “It’s Thorn.”

  Trace frowned at the name. “Who?”

  “Thorn.” There was a sigh on the other end of the line. “It’s Dillon. Dillon Reynolds. You came by to see my mom yesterday.”

  “Oh. Right. What can I do for you, Dillon?”

  “I need to talk to you about Carson.”

  “What about him?”

  “I can’t talk about it on the phone,” Dillon said. “There’s a diner on the corner of Fifth and Maple. I can meet you there in half an hour.”

  Trace wasn’t sure what the kid could tell them, unless it was to admit to stealing a random body part from Del Vecchio. But if the old Voodoo priest was right, then a random body part on its own wouldn’t be enough to bring the serial killer back. Dillon obviously knew something he thought was important enough to talk to the cops about, though, or he wouldn’t have called.

  “I’m on my way back from the city,” Trace told him. “Let’s make it an hour.”

  He pressed the button to end the call, then glanced at Cassidy as he shoved the phone back in his pocket. “That was Dillon Reynolds. He says he has some information about Del Vecchio. I told him we’d meet him.”

  Trace didn’t like the idea of Cassidy being out in the open any more than necessary, but they’d have to find out if the necklace she was wearing worked sooner or later.

  When they got to Fairfield, they found Dillon waiting for them outside the diner. He was wearing the same black leather jacket, jeans and tanker boots he’d had on the day before, but had traded in the plain T-shirt for a graphic print one. Dillon pushed away from the wall he was leaning against and walked over to them as they got out of the Hummer.

  He eyed the black SUV appreciatively. “Nice ride for a cop.”

  Trace grunted in reply. “What did you want to tell us?”

  The kid jerked his head toward the diner. “Can we go inside and get a burger or something while we talk? I’m starving.”

  Trace didn’t want to hang around any longer than they had to, but he couldn’t very well say no, so he nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

  Once inside, they grabbed a booth in the back, then ordered as soon as the waitress came over. The moment she left, Trace leaned forward.

  “Okay, why didn’t you want to talk over the phone?”

  Dillon snorted. “Talk about that asshole Carson with my mom around? You gotta be kidding.”

  He supposed he couldn’t blame the kid. “You don’t agree with your mother about your brother being innocent then?”

  “Carson was my half brother,” Dillon corrected. “And no, I don’t think he was innocent. He did everything you cops said he did. Probably some stuff you guys didn’t know about, too.”

  “Your mother didn’t think so,” Trace pointed out.

  Dillon made a face. “That’s because my mom’s the queen of denial. Ever since I was a kid, all I heard about was how she missed her precious little boy Carson. It was Carson this and Carson that.” He raised his voice as he imitated his mother. “I’m sure Carson was more polite than you, Dillon. I’m sure Carson was smarter in school than you, Dillon.” He shook his head. “Man, I wanted to puke.”

  He fell silent as the waitress set down his burger and fries, then reached for the bottle of ketchup and dumped some on the plate.

  “Then one day, I come home from school and there he is in the flesh, my perfect older brother,” Dillon continued around a mouthful of fries. “Only he wasn’t so perfect. He was a freaking psychopath. My mom couldn’t see it.”

  “What did your dad have to say about him moving in?” Cassidy asked quietly.

  Dillon picked up his cheeseburger and took a bite. “My dad took off when I was ten. It was just my mom and me. Until Carson came along. I tried to tell her he was messed up, but she thought I was just saying that because I was jealous or something. She didn’t even believe me when he came home with blood on his clothes. She put them in the hamper with the rest of the dirty laundry as if it was no big deal.”

  Trace wanted to ask why Dillon hadn’t gone to the police, but he knew the answer. Dillon was a teenager with a rebellious streak. He might have hated his brother, but he would never have ratted him out to the cops no matter what he thought Carson had done. Then again, maybe Dillon had never connected his brother to the serial murders.

  “Did you know your brother killed those women, Dillon?” Trace asked.

  A pained expression crossed Dillon’s face and he shook his head as he looked down at his plate. “Not back then. I should have figured it out, but I didn’t. Not even after I heard him talking on the phone to his friend.”

  Trace’s eyes narrowed. “What friend?”

  Dillon washed down the last of the burger with some soda. “I don’t know who he was, but that was what I wanted to talk to you about. I heard you tell my mom that you thought the person murdering those women might have known Carson and is following in his footsteps. If this guy was Carson’s partner, then I figure he might be the one who’s doing it and that I should probably tell you guys.” He gave them a sheepish look. “You know, especially since I didn’t say anything about Carson and all.”

  Talking to them now was the kid’s way of making up for not going to the cops about his brother. Trace could respect that. Maybe the kid might turn out okay, after all. While they knew for a fact Del Vecchio’s friend wasn’t the one committing these new murders, it was possible the guy could be involved in resurrecting the serial killer.

  “Do you have the name of this friend?” he asked Dillon.

  The kid shook his head. “Nah. Carson never said who he was.”

  “Then how do you even know it was a man?”

  “Because I heard Carson call him dude.” Dillon dunked what was left of his French fries in ketchup and shoved them in his mouth. “Carson talked to him almost every night. At first, I thought they were just talking about hot babes they banged or something, but then Carson started saying weird crap about the thrill of the chase and the rush of the kill. Once, I think he even jerked off while he was talking about it.”

  Apparently, Del Vecchio was even more of a sick fuck than they’d thought. Beside him, Trace saw Cassidy grimace.

  “Are you sure you never heard your brother mention the guy’s name?” Trace asked. “He never came over to the house?”

  “Never,” Dillon said. “Do you think this guy could be the killer?”

  “It’s hard to say, but we’ll check it out,” Trace said. “If you think of anything else, call me, okay?”

  “Sure thing.” Dillon drained the last his soda, then set the glass down with a thud. “I better get back before my mom freaks out and calls the cops saying I ran away or some crap like that. Thanks for the burger.”

  Trace frowned. He hadn’t remembered offering to pay for the kid’s meal. But Dillon was already out of the booth and heading for the door. Trace shook his head and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He supposed it was a small price to pay if the information Dillon had given them turned out to be good.

  “Do you think the friend Dillon was talking about could be the one who brought Del Vecchio back?” Cassidy asked.

  Trace tossed enough money on the table to cover Dillon’s burger and fries, as well as the coffee he and Cassidy had ordered, plus some extra for the tip. “I don’t know, but it’s a damn good place to start.”

  “How do we find out who he is?”

  That was the tricky part. “If I were still a cop, I’d take a look at Del Vecchio’s phone records and see who he spent all his time talking to.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Can’t you ask Muncie to do it for you?�
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  “If I ask Muncie, he’s going to connect Del Vecchio’s friend to the current serial murders and assume he must be the guy responsible.”

  “Which would be a bad thing, I’m guessing.”

  He nodded. “Definitely a bad thing. At the very least, Muncie would haul him in for questioning. With him in lockup, our connection to Del Vecchio’s ghost is gone. Muncie sure as hell wouldn’t let me have a chat with him.”

  “What do we do then?”

  Trace opened his mouth to reply when his cell phone rang. Relieved it wasn’t a ringtone associated with any of his fake business cards or the emergency number for Paranormal Investigations Unlimited, he took it out of his pocket and checked the call display. He hoped it was Wes returning his call, but instead it was Muncie. That was strange. The detective never called him.

  “Hey, Muncie. What’s up?”

  “We got another murder and I need you to come take a look at the crime scene.”

  Trace frowned. “You sure about that?”

  Muncie let out a heavy sigh. “No, but I’m up against a wall here. I’m at the point where I’ll try anything to get a lead on this guy. All I’m asking is that you try to be as inconspicuous as possible.”

  “I can do that.”

  Taking a pen from his pocket, Trace grabbed a napkin and wrote down the address Muncie gave him, then told the other man he was on his way. While looking over the crime scene probably wouldn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know, he might be able to talk Muncie into checking Del Vecchio’s phone records, no questions asked. If the cop was willing to let Trace step all over his crime scene, then maybe he’d agree to do a little off-the-record snooping, too.

  Downing the rest of his coffee, Trace quickly relayed Muncie’s call to Cassidy. She paled at hearing Del Vecchio had murdered yet another woman, especially when he told her it was only a few blocks from the apartment where she’d been staying with her friend Jennifer. Not crazy about the idea of having Cassidy there, he offered to drop her at his place before going to the crime scene, but she insisted on going with him. Considering the apartment building would be crawling with cops, he wasn’t too worried about Del Vecchio trying anything. Besides, Cassidy was wearing the necklace the Voodoo priest had given her.

  Since Trace knew there was no way he and Cassidy were going to get past the uniform cop guarding the door without a real badge or a police escort, he called Muncie when they got to the apartment building. The cop standing behind the yellow crime-scene tape studiously ignored them while they waited for Muncie to come out. Trace wasn’t surprised. No doubt the guy had heard all the stories about him.

  Fortunately, Muncie didn’t make them wait too long. He gave Cassidy a curious look, but made no comment, just told the uniform cop to let both of them in.

  Trace lifted the yellow tape so Cassidy could duck underneath it, then did the same himself. They followed Muncie up the sidewalk and into the apartment building. It looked a lot like the place Cassidy had been staying, right down to the fancy front lobby with its crystal chandelier and fresh-cut flowers. Trace wondered if that was why Del Vecchio had chosen it.

  Inside the elevator, Muncie pressed the button for the fifth floor. “The victim is Marissa Day. She’s the chief financial officer for a restaurant chain in New York City. She was having a party when the attack occurred.”

  Trace lifted a brow. “There were other people in the apartment at the time?”

  “Yeah. Around twenty guests.”

  “That’s different than the usual M.O. Are you sure it’s the same killer?”

  The elevator dinged, announcing their arrival on the fifth floor. A moment later, the doors slid open.

  “It’s him. We’re sure of it.” Muncie glanced pointedly at Cassidy. “The victim meets the same profile as all the others and the way the crime occurred is unmistakable. It’s also impossible. Or at least it should be. That’s why you’re here.”

  Muncie stepped out of the elevator and led them down the hallway. As he and Cassidy followed, Trace noted that some of the apartments looked liked they’d been turned into impromptu interrogation rooms. Inside, plainclothes detectives and uniform officers were taking statements from people who must have been at the party. A few of the cops glanced at them as they passed and while some nodded at Trace, most looked away as if they hadn’t seen him at all. If they didn’t want to acknowledge his presence, that was fine with him. He didn’t mind being in the background if it meant getting the bad guy in the end.

  The cop standing guard at the victim’s door was either new to the force or hadn’t gotten the memo of how things worked when they brought in a “consultant” who didn’t have any business being at the crime scene because the guy asked to see their identification.

  “They’re with me,” Muncie said.

  “I still need to see some ID and mark them down on the log,” the stocky patrolman said.

  Muncie took the clipboard the cop was holding. “I’ll do that. Why don’t you take a break and go get a cup of coffee or something, huh?”

  Trace thought the younger man was going to protest, but he must have changed his mind because after giving him and Cassidy one more curious look, he nodded at Muncie and left with a mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

  There were several other cops and forensic specialists from the crime scene unit in the apartment, but none of them so much as looked up from what they were doing as Trace and Cassidy walked in.

  Trace looked around. “Where’s your partner?”

  “I sent Simpson down to the ME’s office with the body. Told him to see if he could find any physical evidence this time. I figured you wouldn’t mind if he wasn’t here.”

  Muncie had that right.

  The detective tossed the clipboard on the couch and gestured toward a puddle of vomit on the carpet. “Watch your step.”

  As Trace moved around the puddle, he noticed several others like it in the spacious, well-decorated living room. The victim’s guests had obviously seen something that made them sick. Which meant it was something Cassidy probably shouldn’t see.

  He turned to her. “Maybe you should wait in the hallway while I check this out.”

  She shook her head. “I want to stay.”

  “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

  She gave him a tight smile. “You don’t have to protect me from seeing what he did to that poor woman, Trace. I’ve seen it firsthand, remember?”

  Trace remembered only too well. That was why he wanted her to wait outside. But he didn’t want to argue with her, especially in front of Muncie and the other cops, so he nodded. When he turned back to Muncie, it was to find the other man regarding Cassidy with interest. Trace swore silently. He hadn’t wanted the detective figuring out who Cassidy was, but it was clear from the look on his face that Muncie had put two and two together and come up with the answer.

  To his relief, though, Muncie didn’t say anything about it. Instead, he jerked his head toward the back of the apartment, indicating for them to follow.

  “Sometime during the party, the victim went into the bedroom,” he explained. “While she was in there, the lights flickered and went out. According to her guests, the bedroom door slammed shut and Marissa Day started screaming bloody murder.” He glanced over his shoulder at them. “As you can imagine, the guests absolutely freaked out. They tried to get into the bedroom, but no luck. They said the door wouldn’t budge, not even when a few of the bigger guys tried to kick it in. All they could do was stand out here and listen as Marissa was murdered. By most accounts, the whole thing only took about thirty or forty seconds.”

  When they reached the bedroom, Muncie stopped to look at Trace. “Then, as fast as it started, it was over. The door opened of its own accord and the lights came back on. When the guests rushed in, there was no one in the bedroom but Marissa. Or what was left of her. There aren’t any other doors out of this room and the windows don’t open. How the hell did the killer get out?”

 
Trace ignored the question and walked into the bedroom. Inside the doorway, he stopped as he took in the gruesome scene. Holy shit. Marissa Day hadn’t been killed. She’d been butchered. He’d seen his share of murder scenes, but never anything like this. There was blood everywhere—the bed, the walls, the floor. It was even spattered on the ceiling. He could only imagine the fury it took to do something like this. Del Vecchio was one sadistic bastard.

  Behind him, Trace heard Cassidy gasp. He turned to see her standing there wide-eyed, a look of horror on her face. Dammit, he knew she shouldn’t have come in.

  She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Finally, she shook her head, whirled around and ran back into the living room. Trace started to follow, but Muncie’s voice stopped him.

  “Is she okay?”

  Trace turned to look at the other man. While he would rather have gone after her, he knew the faster he checked the place out, the faster he could get Cassidy home. She’d be safe out in the living room. There were cops all over the place. “Yeah. She’ll be fine.”

  Trace reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his EMF meter. Even though he knew what he’d find, he turned it on and did a quick scan of the room anyway. Sure enough, the needle jumped and the thing started beeping like crazy. While Trace knew the meter would show a reading, he hadn’t expected it to be that strong, especially since it had been hours since the murder. He considered the possibility that Del Vecchio might still be lurking somewhere, but quickly discounted it. If Del Vecchio was there, he’d more likely be hanging around outside in the crowd, as he had that night when the newspaper photographer snapped his picture.

  “What the hell is that thing?” Muncie asked, looking at the meter.

  Trace turned off the detector and put it back in his pocket. “Nothing.”

  He looked around the room one more time, then went back into the living room. His gut tensed when he didn’t see Cassidy anywhere, but then he spotted her standing in the hallway and he relaxed again.

  He looked at Muncie. “I need you to do something for me.”