Ghost Seer

by Robin D. Owens

  “Hi, Zach,” she sounded like the former accountant she was, cool and professional. Her voice still zinged down all the nerves in his body.

  “I just received a call from your boss, Tony Rickman. . . .” Zach lost the rest of the sentence at the pang that he was now working as a private investigator for money instead of in the public sector to serve and protect.

  Mrs. Flinton elbowed him, bringing his attention back to the call.

  “Sorry, missed that, say again?” Zach asked.

  “Zach, do you know why Rickman would like to meet with me?”

  That made him blink. “No. He didn’t say anything to me about that. When did he ask you?” Zach’s thumb skimmed over his phone, hovered on the icon for video calling. Wasn’t ready to push it and see Clare’s face if she was on visual, get slammed with more mixed feelings.

  “Rickman called not more than ten minutes ago and wants me there within the hour.” Her words were crisp.

  “Meet her there,” Mrs. Flinton said.

  “I’m sorry?” Clare asked. “I didn’t hear that.”

  Now Zach rubbed his forehead. “I just got back from Montana. If you want, I can meet you there at the top of the hour.”

  “Oh.”

  “You didn’t tell her when you were coming home?” asked Mrs. Flinton.

  “Zach?” Clare asked.

  “No, Mrs. Flinton,” Zach said loudly. “I didn’t tell either of you when I’d be in. Wasn’t sure of the drive myself. Get over it.”

  Mrs. Flinton pouted, then angled closer to Zach’s phone. “Hello, Clare, you and dear ghostly Enzo-pup need to come over for tea again.”

  “Oh.” Just one small word and Clare sounded confused, wary. Just like Zach. He smiled.

  “Do you want me to meet you at Rickman’s?” Zach asked.

  A small pause. “All right. I’ve never met the man and can’t understand what he wants. I only did that little accounting job for him.” Clare sighed. “The ghosts have been bothering me more lately, especially downtown, I’ll call the car service.”

  “That sounds excellent, dears,” Mrs. Flinton said.

  “Gotta clean up. Later,” Zach said, bending a stern look at Mrs. Flinton. She just smiled and sashayed out of his apartment. He understood why the housekeeper, Mrs. Magee, preferred to live in the carriage house. At the moment, a little space between him and the mansion would be welcome.

  Zach rubbed his neck again, limped over to close the door behind his landlady—he only had his orthopedic shoes on for driving, not his light brace for his left ankle and leg to prevent the foot drop—and headed to his bathroom.

  A few minutes later when he left his apartment and his ass complained at hitting the seat of his truck again after driving for so long, he just grumbled under his breath. Then he looked up and saw crows sitting on a power line, half a dozen of them, quiet in the heat. His jaw clenched. He hadn’t seen any of the damned birds in Montana, but here they were.

  As always the Counting Crows rhyme his maternal grandmother had taught him ran through his mind.

  Six.

  Six for gold.

  He ignored their beady eyes as he exited the circular drive.

  • • •

  Clare Cermak changed clothes just because she’d be seeing Zach. She didn’t care what Rickman—whom she’d never met—or anyone else at his business thought of her . . . except Zach, her newish lover.

  They’d gotten so close when she’d thought she was going crazy. It turned out that along with her Great Aunt Sandra’s fortune, Clare had inherited the family “gift” for seeing ghosts and helping them move on to . . . wherever. She still had a shaky grasp on that, particularly since she preferred rationality in her life. Her now exploded past life as an accountant.

  Hello, Clare! We are going OUT? Enzo, the ghost Labrador dog, sent mentally. He’d materialized from nothing to sit panting at her feet, gray-white shadows and shades.

  “Yes. Zach’s boss, Tony Rickman, wants to see us for some reason.”

  We are seeing Zach? Enzo hopped to his feet and his whole body wiggled front to back.

  “Yes, apparently he’s back from Montana.” She frowned, not knowing exactly how she felt about that. She’d missed him outrageously in bed. No, scratch that thought, she missed him outrageously, period, darn it. She wanted him . . . and she’d forever be grateful that he’d helped her during the time she’d had to deal with her first major ghost. Did that make her dependent on Zach? She didn’t think so. They had a lot in common and he was just plain fabulous in bed. . . .

  CLARE!

  She thought back to what Enzo had asked. “Yes, we are seeing Zach.” Grudgingly, she added, “You can come with me.” Not that forbidding Enzo would make any difference. He materialized and vanished as he pleased.

  I would like to see a new place with new people and maybe some ghosts?

  “A highrise downtown.” All right, she admitted she was curious about Zach’s place of employment. Frowning, she glanced at the old map of Denver she’d hung on the wall of the tiny bedroom she’d designated as her “ghost laying” office in her new home. “There might have been buildings there in the late eighteen hundreds,” she said to Enzo.

  The dog itself—himself—had told her that the human mind could only comprehend ghosts from slices of history. From her experimentation this last week, she’d determined that her period was from 1850 to 1900. She seemed to specialize in Old West phantoms.

  A toot in the driveway announced that the car service she now had on retainer had arrived. She couldn’t drive in heavily ghost-populated areas anymore, it was too dangerous when apparitions rose before her or pressed around the car, or invaded it.

  She locked up, greeted the driver, and sat in the back of the Mercedes, heart pounding at seeing her lover again.

  • • •

  Zach arrived at Rickman Security and Investigations before Clare, shoved through the heavy glass doors—wouldn’t surprise him if they were bulletproof—and into the lobby area. The walls were pale gray, the reception station dark gray stone with a glossy black top, and black computer and phone accessories.

  He nodded to the receptionist before heading straight to his boss’s door. Zach stood with his hand on the lever until the electronic lock buzzed to let him into his boss’s office, decorated in gray and cream.

  Two men watched him with military assessment as he entered. The craggy-looking man in his late forties with a buzz cut and salt-and-pepper hair wearing an engraved wedding band was his boss, Tony Rickman, who sat behind his dark wooden desk.

  The guy standing near the desk, six-foot-six, two hundred seventy five pounds, pale white or blond hair in another buzz cut, light brown eyes, had “ex-special-ops” written all over his body and attitude. He wore expensive black trousers with knife-edge creases, dull but not scuffed shoes, a black silk shirt, and a lightweight black jacket.

  “Hello, Zach,” Rickman said.

  Zach nodded and spent effort to keep his walk as smooth as possible, even with his cane and brace, as he headed for the far left of the four gray leather client chairs. “Hello, Tony.”

  “Clare Cermak called you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Obviously, you’re back from Montana.” A note in Rickman’s voice told Zach the man had expected Zach to check in.

  “Just arrived a half hour ago.” He sat and stretched his jeaned legs out, propped his cane against the chair.

  “Make yourself at home,” Rickman said.

  Zach smiled. “Thanks, I will.”

  “I don’t believe you’ve met another of my operatives, Harry Rossi. Harry, this is Zach Slade.” Rickman gestured to the guy, who scrutinized Zach and his threat level. Zach stood, studying Rossi with his flat cop stare. Wouldn’t surprise him in the least if the guy had broken into a few places. Something—shadows�
�in the man’s eyes showed he’d had to kill. Zach figured that showed in his own eyes.

  After a few seconds, the big man smiled and took a few steps toward Zach, half the distance between them. Zach came the other half and offered his right hand that he kept free for his sidearm under his own jacket. Both of them were carrying and Rickman probably had a weapon in easy reach.

  “Good to meet you,” Zach said.

  “Likewise,” said Rossi. A quick, hard grip and then they retreated at the same time.

  “Rossi works mostly as a bodyguard,” Tony said.

  Zach nodded. “Looks good for that.”

  Rossi gave a quick grin, ostentatiously adjusted his shirt cuffs.

  Returning to his chair, Zach said, “I don’t think Clare needs a bodyguard . . . yet.”

  With a bland smile, Rossi said, “Not with you around.”

  “Looks like we need Clare,” Tony said.

  “Is that so?” asked Zach.

  A quick double buzz came from the door lock as the receptionist opened it.

  Clare walked in and Zach had the novel experience of having his heart jump in his chest. Damn she looked good.

  Rickman stood and so did Zach, automatically moving toward her. Just a step or two and he scented the exotic fragrance she wore that reminded him of more than kisses. He fought to control a hard-on. Did the damn multiplication table.

  Still, she looked good, better than he’d last seen her the morning he’d crawled out of her bed and headed to Montana. Better than he’d ever seen her.

  She’d come into her own, was done with the worry over closing out her great Aunt’s estate, moving into her own home, and dealing with a gunfighter ghost. The yellow sundress she wore accented her golden skin and hazel eyes. Her brown hair with red tints was rich and glossy. He thought he made a noise in his throat.

  She smiled like she was glad to see him and all his irritation at the wearying day vanished.

  “Hi, Clare.” Moving quickly, he took her hand, kissed her cheek. Oh, man, that perfume and her natural scent did a number on him. He didn’t want to be with her here, with two other guys in the room. He wanted to be in her bed, or have her in his.

  She brushed a kiss on his lips and relief flooded him. They were still on the same page, goddam good.

  “Hi, Zach.”

  He didn’t put his arm around her as he turned to face the men, but kept his body intimately close. “Clare, the guy behind the desk is the head of Rickman Security and Investigations, Tony Rickman. Beside him is Harry Rossi, another of Rickman’s men.” Zach had no clue how much she observed. As far as he knew she wouldn’t recognize a military man by his stance, his movement, his attitude. Wouldn’t know when a guy was armed. She’d once said she didn’t watch crime shows, so she was learning about police officers from him.

  “How do you do,” she said politely.

  Rossi nodded and stood at ease. Rickman came from behind the desk and offered his hand. Clare donned her professional-woman manner, gripped it and shook.

  “Please, have a seat,” Rickman said. “Would you like some tea?”

  She gave him a cool stare. “You’ve been talking about me with Mrs. Flinton? She’s the one who offers me tea.”

  Rickman’s gaze cut to Zach. The guy wanted back up. Zach decided to test his luck, put his hand around her upper arm and gave the lightest of tugs toward the chairs, stepped toward them himself. She slid her glance to him, and followed, answering Rickman’s question. “No tea, thank you. Coffee would be good.”

  “Fine.” Rickman returned to his desk and pressed the intercom. “Coffee, cream and sugar for Ms. Cermak.”

  Zach took the last chair left, after Clare sat down. He wished it were closer.

  “You asked for this meeting?” Clare said.

  Rickman lowered into his executive chair, but kept his manner casual. “Thank you for your work on the accounting ledgers in Mrs. Flinton’s case. She has spoken highly of you,” he said.

  Clare inclined her head.

  “We have a problem we’d like you to help us with,” Tony Rickman said.

  Clare stilled beside Zach, wet her lips. “As a forensic accountant?”

  A long, thumping pause.

  “I’m afraid not. As a ghost layer,” Rickman said.

  Clare flinched. Her fingers tightened on a small purse she’d moved from her shoulder to her lap. “I’m not in that business.”

  “Can you please hear me out? We have a problem,” Rickman repeated. “Or rather, one of our clients has a problem.” He gestured to Rossi, who treated Clare to a smile that showed male appreciation and twinkling eyes. Zach revised his first good impression of the man.

  “I’m the bodyguard to Dennis Laurentine,” he said.

  “The billionaire,” Rickman said.

  Clare blinked. “Dennis Laurentine? No. He’s not. As of last month Forbes’s website listed his net worth as being valued at approximately nine-hundred-sixteen million. That makes him a multimillionaire, but not quite a billionaire.”

  Rickman looked disconcerted. Rossi’s smile widened.

  “Never argue with an accountant about money,” Zach said, lounging even more in his seat.

  Clare sighed. “Well, Mr. Laurentine is very wealthy, and a client my former firm would have loved to have—would love to have. What does that have to do with me?”

  “Why don’t you, ah, tell the story, Rossi,” Rickman said.

  “Sure.” He moved to the front of Rickman’s desk, leaned against it, his gaze focused on Clare. “Mr. Laurentine has a ghost problem on his ranch in South Park.” The ends of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “Or, to be accurate, a bone problem. A dead guy is leaving his bones around.”