“Shut up, Monica, shut up!” Griffin said aloud.
“Oh, no!” Vickie murmured. “He will suspect her. I think it’s ridiculous, but...”
Griffin’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out. He was grateful to see that the caller was Jackson Crow.
“Here at the station. Jackson, Morris has Monica Verne in an interrogation room. I’m observing. And she’s busy damning herself...Okay...Excellent!”
He hung up the phone. Vickie was looking at him.
“All is well!” he said softly.
“It is?”
She frowned, looking into the room. The hallway door to the interrogation room opened; Detective Morris’s lieutenant—a small, wiry man with snow-white hair—stepped in. He was followed by another man, middle-aged, broad, with steel-gray hair and dead straight demeanor.
“Barry!” Monica Verne said with relief.
“Good afternoon, Detective!” the man said.
“This is Barry Kenyon, Mrs. Verne’s attorney,” Morris’s lieutenant said.
“Are you arresting Mrs. Verne?” Barry Kenyon asked Morris.
“No, sir, not at this time,” Morris said.
“Then, we’ll be leaving.”
“We were just questioning Mrs. Verne, hoping for help in the investigation,” Morris explained.
“Yes, well, you can question her in my presence from now on,” Kenyon said.
“I don’t mind helping at all—I want the killer caught!” Monica said. “But this oaf is suggesting that I put my fingerprints all over a raven and stuffed it into my poor Franklin’s hands. Oh, and that since Brent Whaley is his friend and has been to my house, I killed him, too!”
The door to the observation room opened.
Jackson Crow stepped in, followed by Adam Harrison and Angela Hawkins.
“We’re in officially,” Adam said. “The mayor has asked for our help.”
Griffin smiled and turned to Vickie. “The cavalry has arrived!” he told her.
9
Adam Harrison had to be the most dignified-looking man Vickie had met in her life—except, of course, for her own father, but then, Adam could have been her grandfather, rather than just a generation above her, and he’d done much to earn her admiration.
She’d gotten to know him, Angela, Jackson and a number of the other agents with the Krewe over the last month or so. She’d met them all when she applied at Quantico—and when her application had been given special consideration because of her specialty.
“History,” as Jackson had said, not blinking, when they were in the offices for admissions.
Other departments speculated about the Krewe; some liked to tease and call them Ghostbusters.
But the Krewe came up with results, and therefore they were respected; often, those mocking them most especially wanted to be among their number.
After her lawyer escorted her from the police station, they brought Monica Verne to her house. Once safely inside, she broke down.
She and Adam went and sat by the pool, him comforting her. They must have really been good old friends, Vickie decided—closer than she had realized. Monica Verne had been giving them all a brave act; she had actually given way with Adam. She was sobbing hard as he soothed her. She needed that cry. It was great to be strong, but everyone needed to break down now and then.
“Poor woman,” Jackson murmured, looking out. “Her husband found dead bright and early on a Saturday morning, and then Brent Whaley. And then...” His voice trailed.
Adam Harrison was such a good man. His interest in unusual people stemmed from his son, Josh, dying many, many years ago now in a car accident. But Adam had once told Vickie that he’d always tried to hold tight to Josh, perhaps somehow knowing himself that Josh wasn’t meant to be in his mortal shell on Earth for too long. When Josh had died, his abilities had seemed to slip into a friend, and she had been one of the first people Adam knew of who had acknowledged speaking with the dead. For many years, it had been a frustration to Adam that he had no abilities, gifts or curses whatsoever himself. It had never turned him bitter or mean; it had just made him realize that the right people were out there for certain mysteries, and he had started putting people and situations together. Then he had formed the Krewe.
While he never gained the scope of abilities that were so often “gifts” of those around him, he had come to a point where he could see his own son.
Josh’s ghost was often with Adam. Like Dylan, he was young. The dead never aged. But like Dylan, Josh had gained his own kind of wisdom. He seemed to be a very old soul.
Vickie had met Josh, too. He was charming; a little more bookish, perhaps, than Dylan had ever been, and yet, still similar to her own resident ghost. They were both fiercely loyal—and committed to those they had chosen to stay and protect. Josh seemed to appreciate that his father had found his true meaning in life, and also the fact that Adam hadn’t given way to his despair, but had rather made something good of his loss.
Josh wasn’t with them now. When it had been just Krewe members, Adam had mentioned casually that he had chosen to stay back at the hotel.
Vickie still marveled at the whole group—headed by Adam, and by Jackson in the field. They were just so amazing. So easy with the truth when they were alone together. So accustomed to living in a world, too, where most people walking down the streets didn’t know that they were often actually crowded with the dead.
She was excited about striking out on her new life; the people with whom she would work were extraordinary and she sincerely liked everyone she had met so far. They made it easy to feel like family. She’d already worked with Special Agents Devin Lyle and Craig Rockwell—agent friends who had happened to be in Boston at the right time during a recent situation. They’d welcomed Vickie’s help, even though she had still been a ways from making her decision to apply to the academy and the Bureau. They were wonderful.
Jackson Crow was an amazing individual as well, Vickie thought. He was a striking man; his Native American heritage was evident in the contours of his face. His eyes, in bright contrast, were light. And beyond that, he was the kind of man who seemed to command attention just by walking into a room.
Griffin, of course, was a lot like that, too. She thought that aspects of their manner were certainly innate, but possibly gained through the rigors of work as well.
Jackson led the Krewe in the field while Adam was the power behind the politics. Angela was Jackson’s wife, but she had been among the original six people selected by Adam for his first experiment in creating the Krewe. She had, Vickie knew, an uncanny ability to choose what cases the Krewe should accept—as in, where they could be the most helpful—and she was also able to fathom when a Krewe member stumbled into something—as Griffin had with Vickie.
Vickie also simply liked both Angela and Jackson. There wasn’t a way to turn off who they were and what they did, as some people could when they left the office at 5:00 p.m., but Jackson and Angela seemed to believe that it was important that they lived lives as normal as possible. Especially given that they used their strange gifts to work on cases that often centered on heinous killers.
Angela was blond, tall, slim and shapely. She was quick to smile and laugh. She was also extremely intelligent, could diagnose any situation and also whip information out of a computer with uncanny speed.
She was busy tearing into the little laptop she’d pulled from her bag, sitting at the dining room table with Vickie.
Vickie had done her best to bring Angela up-to-date on what was happening with the ghost of Poe—and with his determination to help them solve the current murders.
Angela turned to her. “So, Poe is hanging around, claiming he wants to and can help. But what about your young resident ghosts—Dylan and Darlene?”
“They managed to get here
, too. But I haven’t seen them since the other night. I’m going to assume they’re off sleuthing on their own.”
Angela looked back at the computer. “All right, well, it seems that Brent Whaley and Franklin Verne were better friends than most people knew.”
“The police have Franklin Verne’s desktop computer. But Monica said his laptop was still missing, I believe. The police haven’t said that they’ve found anything on the desktop. In fact, it seemed he hardly used it for anything other than as a glorified word processor. He must have done all his emailing and social stuff on his laptop.”
“Sometimes it’s not the glaring clues that we’re looking for,” Angela murmured. She studied her screen, pushed keys and studied the screen again. “I’m sure the police checked out the social sites, but they might not have gone to the ‘pro’ pages. Each time one of the men posted something, the other made some kind of a complimentary comment.”
“It’s quite possible that when Brent Whaley was here for dinner, he made plans with Franklin Verne to meet later in the night,” Vickie mused. “At the Black Bird?”
“They were definitely good friends—not just associates or lip-service friends.”
Vickie shook her head slowly. “There was something intriguing to both of them—something or someone. And it drew them out. And Franklin Verne didn’t tell Monica because he knew that she would stop him from whatever it was he planned on doing.”
“Yes, maybe.”
“Maybe?”
Angela shrugged. “Oh, possibly Monica is involved.”
“No! She can’t be... I mean...”
“We’ve all learned that the person we least want to believe could be guilty just might be,” Angela said.
“Yes, but you all came to her aid. You called her attorney. Adam is out there with her now.”
“Yes. And I certainly hope that she’s as innocent as she seems. Until we know who did do it, we don’t forget that it might be just about anyone,” Angela told her. “We’ve seen a lot through the years. When one Krewe member is emotionally involved, well, the others have to keep a little bit of armor on.”
“We’re only involved in this case because of Adam Harrison’s friendship with Monica.”
“Yes. And we will find the truth—because of Adam’s friendship with Monica.”
Monica and Adam were outside; Griffin and Jackson were by the back windows looking out. The men quietly exchanged words now and then.
Vickie wouldn’t be overheard. She still lowered her voice.
“You really think that it could be Monica?” she asked incredulously.
“I don’t suspect her more than anyone else close to the situation at the moment,” Angela said. “I don’t suspect her any less.”
“Adam—does he know this?”
“Of course,” Angela said, smiling and turning back to the computer again. “So—what was it that brought Brent Whaley from his home and Franklin Verne from his bed to the Black Bird in the middle of the night? They knew what they were doing when they left their homes.”
“They haven’t been able to find Franklin’s phone,” Vickie said.
“Nor have they found Brent Whaley’s phone,” Griffin said. Vickie started, turning to see that Griffin and Jackson were now by the table. “Naturally, the police are tracing the calls through their providers.”
Vickie looked around at their group.
“And,” she said, “they’re going to find out that both men were contacted through a pay-as-you-go phone, bought with cash, with no record to trace.”
“Yes, that’s what they’ll find,” Griffin said. “It will have been purchased through a common chain store that sells thousands of items, and even if we were able to zero in on which store, it’s completely unlikely anyone will remember having sold it.”
“But,” Angela said cheerfully, “that’s when it’s great that we have our own small army of street power. We can call on extra forces. And while we try to use taxpayer money prudently, Adam is wealthy—no matter how often he gives money away—and he funds extra help when necessary. We’re now here officially. Of course, it’s great that Griffin managed to keep such a cordial relationship with Carl Morris. We’ll continue the co-investigation, but with a little more power behind the punch, so to say. Anyway, we’ll get on all the tedious details. Griffin, you can...”
“Enjoy a few days at a mansion,” Griffin said.
“Oh?” Vickie asked.
Griffin lifted his phone. “I’ve just received a message from Gary Frampton. He and his daughter are heading out to their property on the edge of the city—in the woods. We’ve been told that we’re more than welcome to join them out there tomorrow, after they’ve gotten the place opened up. In fact, Gary will feel a great deal more secure if we’re there.”
“Ah,” Vickie said. She looked at Angela. “Now, that should mean that Gary Frampton should be innocent of any wrongdoing. But no—not among suspicious minds. It just means that he wants witnesses for something, that he might be using us in one way or another...?”
“You’re going to love the academy,” Angela told her. Her smile faded as she looked over at the back door.
Adam was coming back in the house with Monica Verne.
“Monica is all right now,” he told them. “It’s been a very long day. Time to call it quits. Hotel, room service and sleep,” he said.
“You all are more than welcome to stay here,” Monica said.
“Maybe a few of us will come over tomorrow, Monica, if you’re worried about being here alone,” Adam told her. “At the moment, we’re checked in to the hotel for the night. Of course, if you are nervous, I can have someone run things back to me.”
“No. Tanya, my housekeeper, is here with me. The house has an excellent alarm system And I own a small hand gun and happen to be a crack shot,” Monica said, wiping the last of her tears from her cheek. “I’ll be fine.”
Adam appeared uncertain for a moment.
Then Monica grinned. “Don’t worry. Tanya is a crack shot, too.” She shrugged. “Franklin wrote about cops and lawmen, historic and current. We went to shooting galleries fairly frequently. We’re going to be fine.”
“Excellent, then,” Adam said. “But when we’re gone, please set the alarm.”
“Of course,” Monica promised them.
She bid them all good-night at the door. Vickie was surprised when the woman suddenly hugged her.
“Thank you. Thank you so much,” she said.
Vickie smiled, accepting the hug.
Then she realized Angela was right; it was always good for one member of the unit to remain doubtful.
Because Vickie knew she didn’t want Monica to be guilty.
And that made her vulnerable.
* * *
Dylan and Darlene were in the room, watching HBO, when Vickie and Griffin returned that night. It was almost like having a pair of younger siblings, Griffin thought, aware that he let a weary breath escape when he saw the two of them sitting there. They had a habit of showing up when it was time to rest at last—and they were full of bubbling energy.
“Hey, glad you guys are finally here!” Dylan said, rising. “We’ve been trying very hard to keep our eyes open and on everything. We hung around outside the Black Bird for a while. And then we followed Gary Frampton.”
“And what did Gary Frampton do?”
“Not much, really,” Dylan admitted. “He went to his house.”
“And packed,” Darlene offered, rising as well. “But we watched Alice Frampton, too.”
“And?” Vickie asked.
“Well, she’s a little liar, but then again, I’m not sure it’s in a bad way.”
“What way is lying not bad?” Griffin asked her.
“Her dad is kind of hard on her. He kno
ws that she’s seeing Jon Skye now. But I guess he’s like all dads, with a sterling image of his little girl. Anyway, she slips Jon into the house when her father has gone to bed for the night,” Dylan said.
“She is twenty-one,” Darlene offered. “I think that she doesn’t want to upset or disappoint her dad.”
“Thing is, of course, as Darlene said—she’s an adult. She could walk out of the house if she wanted, see anyone she wanted... That’s why it’s not such a bad lie,” Dylan said.
“She’s sleeping with Jon, I take it?” Vickie asked.
“We can’t swear to that,” Dylan said.
“You know we would never hang around!” Darlene said.
“Right. Of course not,” Griffin said, glancing over at Vickie with a grin. “And so now...”
“Well!” Dylan said cheerfully, reaching for Darlene’s hand. “We’re off! Have to change rooms. Those friends of yours—Krewe associates—checked in to the empty room we had claimed.”
“Jackson and Angela?” Griffin asked, and teased, “How rude of them!”
“I found a better empty room, anyway,” Darlene said. “We’re going to have a suite tonight!”
“Nice,” Griffin assured her.
“Good night then,” Dylan said. He paused and looked at Vickie, and Griffin thought that he really had taken on a role as a brother to her. “Love you!” he said.
“Love you, too!” she assured him.
And then their ghostly guests were gone. They looked at one another for a moment and burst into laughter.
Griffin was still laughing when he walked across the room to her and took her into his arms.
“I must have a shower,” she murmured. “And I am exhausted.”
“And starving,” he said.
“How romantic,” she murmured.
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