Dead to Rights

by Ellie Thornton

  Dead to Rights

  The Contemporary Reboot Series Book 3

  Ellie Thornton

  Copyright © 2018 by Elle Thornton

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Dead to Rights

  Invitation

  Prologue

  Reboot: Ghost and Just Like Heaven

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Dead to Rights

  In the third installment in the Contemporary Reboot Series, Patrick Daley and Elizabeth Shea get their memories wiped once more. And that’s not the only thing weird happening. If you liked the films Ghost and Just Like Heaven than this is the book for you.

  After three years of working as a Detective with the 35th Precinct, Elizabeth Shea is finally starting to feel like she belongs. So, when the Serious Crimes Unit gets assigned to take down the Tourneau Cartel, she’s not worried; that is until she’s cut off from her team and shot.

  Being a cop has its risks, but the last thing she expected was to become a ghost. If she’s still here, she must have unfinished business. But that doesn’t explain why she can’t get more than a block away from a questionable psychic she saw on TV.

  Patrick Daley hates pretending to be a psychic, but having signed a contract years before, he’s often expected to make television appearances. Plus, being “psychic” has been invaluable in his work with the Feds. Just because he can’t see beyond the grave doesn’t mean that his power of deduction isn’t useful.

  However, when the two-year anniversary of his wife’s death passes, he finds faking psychic is way more than he can handle. After blowing off a consultation with the Sacramento Police Department, he’s inadvertently placed on a path he never expected. All he wants is to be left alone. Unfortunately, the little brunette ghost following him around has other ideas.

  Invitation

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  Prologue

  Late October

  Staring at the palatial two-story home he’d acquired less than a month ago, Patrick Daley shook his head. The grandiose structure held beauty in its own way, but deep down he never liked it. The whole thing had been a scam, along with his pseudonym Alex Westkeys. A mere ploy to get his revenge.

  He hadn’t gotten revenge, but he had gotten justice.

  In the distance, thunder clapped. A breeze tripped through his blond curls and sent a shiver up his spine.

  His former friend and now greatest enemy, Sean Jones, was holed up in the local Sacramento hospital with guards at his door. The stab wound Patrick had given him had left Sean nearly dead, with severe internal bleeding. For a week he’d been in a medically induced coma.

  From what Patrick had heard, the danger on Sean’s life had passed. Unfortunately.

  Patrick turned his back on the mansion as his real estate agent, Linda Barnes, came out of the house and locked the door behind her. Storm clouds twisted and writhed across the sky, closing the distance in what seemed an unnatural speed.

  Linda practically glowed. Not all realtors got the opportunity to make a commission on the same house within a month and a half, once for the purchase and now for selling. Not that he cared. He wanted to start fresh with his girlfriend, Elizabeth, and this house was only a reminder of the dark path he’d nearly chosen. A path that might have ended with him in jail, the hospital, or an early grave.

  “Mr. Daley, exciting news.” Linda clunked down the stairs in her four-inch platforms. “I already have an offer on your home.” The wind picked up speed, whipping about the thin, orange scarf she wore.

  “Perfect,” he said.

  “They want to stop by tomorrow if you’re available?”

  “I’m not.” Tomorrow was Saturday, and for the first time in weeks, Elizabeth had the entire day off. He had every intention of going to her house at an unforgivable hour in the morning and then spending the rest of the day making it up to her. He could already picture the angry scowl on her lovely face when she opened the door to find him standing there with breakfast. “I’d rather not be here while you’re showing the house.”

  “Ah.” A sharp gust of wind undid Linda’s coif and whipped her hair around with the scarf. She raised her volume so he could hear her. “It’s just this particular buyer is interested in meeting the homeowner—”

  Her phone rang.

  “It’s him.” She answered, and the small talk began.

  A flash of lightning hit followed a second later by an earth-shaking boom. Linda flinched, then faced Patrick, her face drawn. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Patrick frowned but took the phone. “Hello.”

  “Patrick, how good to hear your voice.”

  The clouds overhead ceased their unholy dance, and silence fell heavy around him. “Sean? How did you—”

  “Get your number or escape?” The cheery lilt in Sean’s tone shouldn’t have been there—he was supposed to be suffering in the hospital.

  A raindrop hit Patrick below his right eye and slid down his cheek. “Escape?” Sean had escaped? How was that even possible?

  Sean chuckled. “It’s a long story, my friend. One you will never know. But not to worry, our story isn’t over. Not yet. I enjoy playing with you too much to stop now.”

  “Playing with me? You’re the one who got played. How’s the stab wound, by the way?”

  Deep breathing came through the line before Sean answered. “It’s as can be expected under the circumstances. But like in chess, one must expect to lose some pieces. I am down but not out. I learn from my mistakes.”

  “You’re injured and well-known by the Sacramento PD. You’ll be found.” Patrick clenched the cell tight in his hand.

  “No. I won’t. I’m in charge of this game. Not you. By now, I am nothing but a vague notion at the back of the minds of any cop who ever met me, including your Elizabeth. All of this, like many times before, will be like it had never happened.”

  Rain fell in a light sprinkle. “What did you do? Where’s Elizabeth?”

  “At work, I’d imagine. You’d know better than me,” Sean said.

  “What game?”

  “One we’ve been playing for a long time. Years, in fact. Your mind is such an interesting place.”

  Across Patrick’s property, a low mist inched forward. “Mind games? Please.” He spoke with as much scorn and disbelief as he could muster.

  “At first you were difficult, but the deeper I delve, the easier it becomes. I’ll admit, when you first met Miss Shea at Bristle Park, I was more annoyed than anything—until I got to know her. I understand your fascination. This is why I’m allowing her to continue to take part. After your wife died, you were so gloomy. Two years ago this month, isn’t it? Anyway, it took a while, but you finally have hope. It’s a new twist to a worn play. It’s making you more compelling. Sharp.”

  Patri
ck swallowed a lump, thick as the fog now circling around him, and wiped a raindrop from his cheek. “I don’t have a wife.”

  Sean chuckled. “Not anymore. I must say, I was surprised by how easily you forgot. Pathetic, really. Not that I minded. You’re more fun when you’re not moping.”

  “Do you hear yourself? You’re insane.”

  “In this game, I’m the only one who is sane.” Sean cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”

  A zap of pain lanced through Patrick’s head, from the center of his brow to his crown. Images, memories danced in his mind: his kidnapping, the work camp, escaping and coming back to Sacramento, the first time he saw Elizabeth at her engagement party, Elizabeth showing up at this mansion threatening to arrest him, Elizabeth kissing him. Each memory faded from his mind faster than the clouds had appeared overhead until nothing remained.

  He blinked at his mansion, and the phone slipped from his grasp to the cement driveway below.

  What was he doing here? He hadn’t been here in years, two at least. Not since Katelyn…

  “Mr. Daley?” Linda scooped up her phone. “Are you all right?”

  He nodded. He was selling the place? What other reason would he be here with Linda for?

  She lifted the phone to her ear. “Hello? Mr. Jones?”

  Patrick rubbed between his brows. He had a throbbing headache. A hangover, likely. It wasn’t his first, nor was it likely to be his last. It was October, and that was never a good month.

  It started coming back to him. He had decided to sell his home. His wife had been gone two years almost to the day, and his best friend, Zak, had finally convinced him to let the place go. It’d made sense; he hadn’t lived here since the funeral. Without her, it held all the warmth of the sea on a cloudy day.

  Still, the decision had hit him hard last night, and if his headache was anything to go by, he’d spent the night up to his ears in booze.

  Linda hung up and faced him with a smile. “Congratulations. Your home is sold.”

  “Good.” The fog circled around his feet, and up his legs. “Send me the paperwork.” He turned from her, the heavy air fleeing in every direction. As he headed to his car, the small sprinkle morphed into a downpour.

  Reboot: Ghost and Just Like Heaven

  Chapter One

  Beginning of April

  Cheers and jeers sounded from the kitchen at the 35th precinct as Detective Elizabeth Shea meandered in. Several officers, including Elizabeth’s partner, Ethan Lee, stared at a small box TV that sat on top of the avocado-colored Kenmore refrigerator.

  “He’s doing it again.” Detective Spencer pointed at the screen. “This is the best part.”

  Detective Monroe hummed the theme song of The X-Files, hushed seconds later by two other detectives. One of them slapped him over the head.

  Lee sat at the front of the table facing the screen, and behind him rested a half-empty Tupperware container with chopsticks resting perfectly straight atop the lid. Lee’s mouth hung slightly agape, and he folded his arms tightly over his chest.

  What on earth could elicit that kind of a reaction from her normally stoic partner? Whatever it was, it had to be good to be keeping him from the homemade roasted duck and dumplings his mother had sent with him after he’d visited her in Oakland over the weekend.

  Elizabeth stepped farther into the room and turned her attention to the screen. A handsome man, with curly blond hair someone had tried to tame back with gel, stood on a brightly lit stage with his eyes closed. He wore an expensive, shiny gray suit and had a hand outstretched in front him, fingers splayed. In his other hand, he held a microphone. He kind of looked like a stockbroker.

  “I see them—your mother, father, and brother… twin brother.” The man kept his voice light and airy.

  The shot panned out to a theater filled with hundreds of people, all seemingly holding their breath. The camera zoomed back to the stage, but instead of showing a close-up of just the man, it now showed him standing with a woman covering her mouth.

  He opened his eyes, showcasing the prettiest blue-green irises Elizabeth had ever seen. He faced the woman and reached for one of her hands. She took it.

  “They’re glad you weren’t with them when their car crashed.”

  The woman gasped, and he continued, “Your mother left something—something you keep with you. A pendant?”

  The woman’s eyes widened.

  “No, a locket.”

  She grabbed at a necklace hanging under her shirt, visible only by the glint off the silver chain.

  “She’s glad you wear it. She wants you to be happy and live a fulfilled life.”

  The tears the woman held back spilled down her face. She yanked the man into a bear hug.

  Elizabeth frowned. What on earth?

  The audience erupted into applause at the same time the detectives started to boo and hiss. The showman ran his hands up and down the woman’s back and whispered something in her ear. Elizabeth frowned.

  Pretending to talk to a person’s deceased relatives was just about as low as you could get, especially considering the amount of money he was raking in if you considered the number of butts in seats. Still, he’d been pretty convincing. The girl had been legitimately surprised he’d known about the locket. If Elizabeth believed in psychics, she might buy his routine also. She touched the cross she wore under her shirt, an heirloom from her deceased mother.

  A detective leaning against the table near Lee, wadded his paper towel, and chucked it at the screen. “What a scam!”

  Detective Spencer pointed at him. “Come on, admit it: he’s good.”

  Another of her colleagues got up and knocked into Spencer as he passed. “So was your penalty shot, and look where that got us.”

  Spencer came out of his seat. “We did not lose that game because of my penalty shot!”

  “Keep telling yourself that,” said another detective as he opened the fridge.

  Spencer was new to their precinct. He’d been a cop for several years, and last year, at the ripe old age of thirty, he’d finally become a detective. He was still being broken in. They’d broken her and Lee in with all things baby-related: pacifiers in their drawers, bottles filled with formula replacing their lunches, diapers in the bathrooms, mobiles hung over their desks—for months this happened.

  Spencer’s hazing came two weeks ago when the Serious Crimes Unit had played the SCU of the 15th Precinct in a game of basketball, and the 35th had lost by one point. If even one of Spencer’s penalty shots had sunk, they’d have won, and no one would let him forget it. The day after, their unit had pelted him with miniature basketballs when he’d arrived at work. Since then and in the last two weeks, he’d opened his desk drawers to find the small balls filling them, had his lunch replaced with them in the refrigerator, and had been pelted once again while using a urinal.

  He took it all in stride.

  Elizabeth pointed at the TV. “What’s this?”

  Spencer smirked. “Only the greatest psychic on the West Coast, and we’re lucky because he only does one show a year.”

  “Right.” She smiled but shook her head. She crossed to the table, grabbed the remote, and turned the TV off. “War room’s ready, ladies, but if you’d prefer to stay here and watch the pretty-boy psychic instead of catching bad guys—”

  The detectives laughed but gathered their things.

  “Pretty-boy, huh?” one of the detectives teased as they all marched past.

  Another whistled to add to the effect. “Hear that? Shea likes pretty boys.”

  “I’m not the one sitting in here drooling over him.” She threw a fake jab as they passed.

  Two of them raised their fists and a third his hands in surrender.

  Lee put his leftovers in his lunch bag and placed it in the fridge.

  “I’m surprised you let them rope you into watching,” she said as they headed to the bullpen.

  “As soon as they heard the Feds sent a psychic to consult on the Tourneau
Cartel case, they came in here and pulled this up—”

  She turned on Lee and stared up at him. He had eight inches on her five feet, two inches. “The Feds are sending us a psychic?”

  Lee blinked at her, his dark brown eyes appearing black in the dim lighting of the precinct. “You didn’t know?”

  “On this case?” She pointed over her shoulder toward the bullpen.

  “They’re concerned with how often the Tourneaus have avoided us. They told Brown they wouldn’t interfere if we agreed to work with their man. He’ll be here for the briefing.”

  “When did you hear about this?”

  “This morning.”

  Well, perfect. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  Lee breathed out and walked past her, calling over his shoulder as he went. “Talk to Brown.”

  Sergeant Brown stood at the front of the room, going over the logistics of the sting operation. He stood under six feet, with broad shoulders and a muscular build. Not someone you wanted to mess with. Elizabeth sat at the back of the bullpen with Lee and decided she might want to mess with him anyway.

  Brown often made a habit of keeping her and Lee in the dark about things. Being the youngest detectives in their precinct made Brown overprotective of them. Except this time, it hadn’t been them; it’d just been her.

  Brown cocked his head to the side, exposing the top of his balding head as he pointed to a building in the center of a map behind him. “Our confidential informant tells us the major heads of the cartel will be in this building tonight at ten p.m. We’ll be moving in shortly after.”