“Come sit,” Koda said, motioning to the sofa. “I thought you worked out of Virginia?”
“We did,” Newt said. “We just moved over this week.”
“My dad should be here any minute,” Koda said. “Listen, I’d like my sister to sit in with us, if that’s okay.”
Newt took a moment, thinking about the risks of bringing yet another person into the loop. The more people who knew what they were doing, the more likely the information could leak—maybe not intentionally, but an accidental slip was just as bad.
“Is it absolutely necessary?” Newt asked.
“No,” Koda said. “I’m just trying to do everything I can to integrate her into the family. You know she was at the house that night, right? She already knows everything.”
Not everything, Newt thought.
None of them knew everything.
Bruce, Koda, and Krissy sat in a row on the living room sofa, with Newt in a chair directly opposite them.
“We got him,” Newt said straight out without fanfare or preamble. “The man who killed your wife, Bruce—and mother, Koda—is in custody.”
“And my father,” Bruce said.
“When did this happen?” Koda asked. “I didn’t see anything about it on the news.”
“And you won’t,” Newt said. “That’s why I wanted to come here and talk to you in person. We’re handling the situation a little differently.”
“Oh, please don’t tell me you’re going to offer this asshole a deal?” Bruce snapped.
“The federal government will not be pursuing charges against Stanton Lee Mungehr,” Newt said.
“So he’s not going to stand trial?” Krissy said.
“That’s right. There will be no trial.”
“Why not?” Krissy asked.
“Because of the ghosts,” Koda said. “They can’t afford the chance that he might take the stand and blow the cover story.”
Newt nodded. “That’s part of it, but not the entire reason. The other part is selfish, in that I want to study him. To determine how a serial killer becomes a serial killer.”
“I already know how. They’re born that way,” Bruce said.
Newt shook his head. “No, they’re not. People become serial murderers for one of two main reasons: physical trauma and/or emotional trauma. Heredity is not a factor.”
“Well, based on that I should be a serial killer,” Bruce said. “Hell, in this family, we all should.”
“It sounds like you’re saying all of this isn’t his fault?” Koda asked.
“Not at all,” Newt said. “But there’s more to be gained by keeping him alive and in our control than finding him guilty and then killing him.”
“For you maybe,” Bruce said.
“I hate Stanton Lee Mungehr with every fiber of my being,” Newt said. “But my role in the bureau requires me to be pragmatic. We’ve been presented with the opportunity to find out what makes one of the worst serial killers in history tick—something that will give us an edge when it comes to catching the next one—and the ones after that. When you put aside your anger and your hurt, certainly you can understand that.”
“So that’s it? We’re supposed to set our emotions aside, and he escapes justice. Just like that?” Bruce said, shaking his head.
“Who said anything about escaping justice?” Newt asked. “Just because we don’t hang a guilty sign around his neck or give him the death penalty doesn’t mean he won’t suffer. That’s what you want, right? For him to suffer?”
Bruce, Koda, and Krissy all remained silent.
“He thinks he’s getting the better of us—and, in the short run, maybe he is—it’s the long term that matters. I know his profile. Wait, check that. I wrote his profile. I know everything there is to know about him. I know things about him even he doesn’t know. His entire sense of self-worth relies on his ability to control and dominate another human being to feel powerful and important. Right now, he thinks he’s winning—because he’s still getting a lot of attention. He thinks he still matters. He thinks he’s getting headlines and that the world is talking about him. But eventually, Stan Lee will realize the truth. In a year or two, he’ll wish he’d gotten the electric chair.”
“I want to see him,” Bruce said finally.
Newt nodded. “I was fairly sure you’d ask.”
NAPA VALLEY, CALIFORNIA
MAY 23, 2011
BRUCE AND KRISSY made their first trip together to Krissy Vineyards in Napa. The good news was that the winery had continued operating in Chloe’s absence without skipping a beat—due in large part to how everyone pulled together after her death.
The bad news was they didn’t much like the idea of Chloe’s business partner, Bruce Mulvaney, taking over—a man who they considered “just a money guy” with no idea about wine.
“Let me handle things,” Krissy said when she and Bruce got to the winery. “Okay?”
Twenty minutes later, Krissy had everyone gathered in the main house.
“First, I wanted to say thank you to everyone for everything you guys have done over the last five months,” Krissy said. “The winery would have shut down without you, and I know my mom would be so happy.”
Krissy paused, her eyes suddenly welling with tears. She took a deep breath and continued.
“Next, as I’m sure you are aware, my mother’s business partner—Bruce Mulvaney—will be taking over the day-to-day operations of the winery,” Krissy said. “Bruce is committed to maintaining the standards of excellence my mother demanded of everyone, including herself. So I would like to think each of you will give him the same respect and loyalty.”
Again, the workers nodded, but said nothing.
“Lastly, as a token of our appreciation, Bruce will be writing everyone a bonus check of $5,000 for helping us through this difficult period.”
Suddenly there were smiles all around. Krissy turned and looked at Bruce, who smiled and raised his eyebrows in apparent surprise.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Krissy said, walking over and putting her arm around Bruce’s waist. “Bruce Mulvaney is my father.”
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA
JUNE 5, 2011
SO, WHAT DO you think?” Robyn asked when she and Koda finished painting the final portion of the living room.
“Honestly? It looks amazing,” Koda said. “If anyone had told me a year ago I’d paint the inside of a room by myself, rather than hiring someone to do it, I’d have told them they were nuts.”
“Teal, no less,” Robyn said.
Koda nodded. “Yeah, you were right about the color. It looks great in here with the wall knocked out too—opened the whole room.”
“Livable?” Robyn asked.
Koda glanced around and nodded. “Yeah.”
“So?”
“So, what?”
“So I’m asking if you want to live here?” Robyn said. “You and me.”
“I thought we were just helping my dad get it ready to put on the market?” Koda said.
“Yeah, I know. But after doing all the work—doing it together—it just feels like ours,” Robyn said. “This place is better than any fantasy house I ever dreamed of owning. I’m not sure I want to let it go.”
“Even though it was Mika’s?”
Robyn nodded.
“And even with all the—?”
“Yeah. I can’t explain it, but the idea that so many things happened here, in this space, well—it kind of gives it a sort of charm.”
“A creepy charm,” Koda laughed.
“So, are you going to tell me the real reason we took a couple months refurbishing this house?” Robyn said.
“What do you mean? I told you, we’re helping my dad—”
“Stop it, Koda,” Robyn said. “We both know you could have made a phone call and hired someone to handle it.”
Koda nodded. “You’re right. I could have.”
“So, why did you have us do it?”
“I guess I thought that
with everything that’s happened we needed something to focus on other than ghosts and dying.”
Robyn nodded. “That’s what I thought. So, do you think your dad would let us buy the place?”
“Buy it? If I tell him we want it, he’ll just transfer the title over to us,” Koda said. “You’re going to have to get used to being married to a billionaire.”
“Well, maybe that’s because I’m not married to a billionaire,” Robyn said.
“Yet,” Koda said.
Robyn eyed Koda for several seconds. “Was that a proposal?”
“I didn’t know I had to propose,” Koda said.
“I’m easy, Koda, but I’m not that easy,” Robyn said. “If you want to get this girl, the holy trinity of proposal activities will need to be involved.”
“The holy trinity?”
Robyn nodded. “Yes. An amazing dinner, an exceptional bottle of wine, and a very big ring.”
KEY WEST, FLORIDA
JUNE 13, 2011
TOMMY BILAZZO SLID into the corner booth of his favorite restaurant, a small Cuban joint six blocks from his house that catered mostly to locals. A moment later, a young girl with pink hair placed a cup of coffee and a slice of key lime pie in a to-go container on the table, smiled, and left.
The smile was because she’d gotten to know Tommy intimately—not because they were sleeping together, but because she’d been bringing him the same cup of coffee for over fifty years. Because they were both dead. It doesn’t get much more intimate than that.
Many famous people have called Key West home at one time or another—President Harry Truman, railroad tycoon Henry Flagler, Tennessee Williams, Ernest Hemmingway—the list went on and on. Remarkable people, each seeking something.
Maybe that’s what Tommy liked about Key West. The rich mix of ethnicities and diverse careers, hobbies, and lifestyles. Cigar rollers. Fishermen. Photographers, philanthropists, and pirates. Freethinkers and non-thinkers. Tourists and treasure hunters who’ve come to scour the sea bottom for sunken galleons filled with gold and jewels.
Gay. Straight. Dead.
All of it made Key West the perfect place to blend in and hide from the world. And from yourself.
The small bell on the door dinged, and Tommy looked up to see a biker-type. His arms covered in tattoos.
The biker looked over and nodded. Tommy nodded back.
The man wasn’t a ghost. The tattoos were a dead giveaway (no pun intended). Tattoos didn’t take on a ghost’s skin. Something to do with coming back as the most perfect version of yourself, Tommy assumed.
The man was probably a drug dealer.
Which was none of Tommy’s business.
Tommy went back to swirling his spoon in his coffee cup, and then heard the bell ding again. This time when he looked up he saw the man he’d been waiting for—a man in a dark suit and a bowler hat.
“Interesting place,” Stormy Boyd said, sliding into the booth opposite Tommy.
“Yeah, that’s Key West,” Tommy said. “First time down?”
Stormy nodded.
Tommy signaled the waitress with the pink hair, and she walked over to the booth.
Stormy nodded and then went still. He couldn’t hear the girl’s heartbeat. “How long?” Stormy asked.
“1922,” the girl said.
“How?”
“I drowned,” the girl said. “What about you?”
“World’s Fair in 1904,” Stormy said. “I made a pact with God to trade my life for a dying girl, a bit younger than you. I don’t think I realized the sacrifice I was making until it was too late.”
“Too bad there wasn’t a guy like you around when I needed him,” the girl said with a half-smile. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have the same.”
“I see why you like it down here,” Stormy said as the girl trotted off. “What percentage of the people do you think—?”
“—are dead? I dunno. Higher than most.”
Stormy nodded. “What about you? How’d you go?”
“Me? How’d I die?” Tommy asked. “Typical mob hit—shot, chopped up, and put in suitcases. So, what did you wanna talk about?”
“I was thinking about moving down this way—perhaps hanging out a shingle.”
“Private dick?” Tommy asked as the waitress set another cup of coffee and slice of key lime pie on the table in front of Stormy.
Stormy nodded but said nothing.
“Why you tellin’ me this? You don’t need my permission to set up shop,” Tommy said. “Hell, down here you don’t need anyone’s permission for anything.”
“I wasn’t asking permission,” Stormy said. “I wanted to know if you wanted to be my partner.”
“That’s a flattering offer, but I ain’t gay.”
“Well, I am,” Stormy said.
“Huh,” Tommy said. “You ever come out?”
“I just did,” Stormy said.
“Not before?”
Stormy shook his head.
“Why not earlier?” Tommy asked.
Stormy shrugged. “Being gay a hundred years ago wasn’t quite as fashionable as it is today—not the kind of thing one shared with the public, telling the truth could get you killed.”
“But you were already dead,” Tommy said.
“Once you start telling a lie, it’s hard to stop,” Stormy said, lifting his coffee cup to his lips and pretending to take a sip. “But you know what I mean, don’t you?”
“So, this private eye thing?” Tommy asked, ignoring the comment. “What would we do? Stakeouts and shit?”
Stormy nodded. “We are particularly well-suited for stakeouts. Don’t you think?”
“Never thought about it before, but yeah—not needing to sleep is a definite asset,” Tommy said. “Besides, I ain’t got nothin’ else planned for the next one hundred years.”
“Good,” Stormy said. “I’ve got a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Why the pie?” Stormy said.
“What do you mean?”
“I get why you order the coffee,” Stormy said. “I do the same thing when I’m out in public, but why the pie?”
“There’s a homeless guy about two blocks from here,” Tommy said. “He likes key lime pie, especially for breakfast.”
“Well, then it’s his lucky day, isn’t it?” Stormy said, then slid his pie across the table, allowing his hand to linger on the table.
Finally—after nearly a century of denial, Tommy reached across the table.
WASHINGTON DC
JULY 21, 2011
PIPI ESPERANZA KNEW it was time to clean up the last of the mess that had been created by the ghost attack at the Mulvaney mansion eight months earlier. Loose ends were dangerous—even the thinnest overlooked thread could tangle you up.
There was also the upcoming announcement.
Pipi picked up the phone and dialed.
“What’s up?” Maggie asked when she entered Pipi’s office.
“Let’s wait for Newt,” Pipi said. “He’ll be here in a minute.”
“I’m going to grab some coffee then. You want anything?”
Pipi did not respond.
“Sorry,” Maggie said. “Habit.”
Maggie returned to Pipi’s office five minutes later with two cups of coffee in a cardboard tray and found Newt and Pipi smiling and laughing. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” Newt said.
“Yeah, it’s nothing,” Pipi said, holding back a laugh.
“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” Maggie said, clearly irritated.
“I’ll tell you later,” Newt said.
“Like hell you will,” Pipi said. “Private conversations are called that for a reason.”
“Yes, Director,” Newt said.
“Director?” Maggie said, taking the chair next to Newt.
Pipi nodded. “Yes. Effective September 15. Not a word to anyone, understood? The president will be making the announcement in a few weeks.”
“So what are we talking about this morning?” Newt asked.
“I wanted to let you know we’re dropping the charges against Beatrice Shaw,” Pipi said.
“It’s about time,” Maggie said.
“Yeah, well, her arrest served a greater purpose,” Pipi said.
“If you say so,” Maggie said, taking a sip of her coffee.
“I do say so,” Pipi said. “Sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the greater good.”
“When?” Newt asked.
“Soon,” Pipi said. “In the meantime, there are a few things I need the two of you to do for me.”
“Why do I get a feeling I’m not going to like this?” Maggie said.
“Because you’re not,” Newt said.
“He’s right,” Pipi said. “You probably won’t.”
“I’m not breaking the law,” Maggie said.
“You had your service weapon taken twice in less than a year, and I kept both events out of your file,” Pipi said. “You’ll do whatever I ask you to do.”
Maggie went silent.
“What is it?” Newt.
“I need for the two of you to clean up everything to do with the ghost situation at the Mulvaney mansion,” Pipi said. “And I mean everything. Scrub the files of any report that mentions anything of a paranormal nature. Everything has to point to the gas leak. And there can be nothing that suggests we took Stanton Lee Mungehr into custody. Oh, and I want all physical evidence collected gone—like the knife Mungehr used to stab Declan Mulvaney—everything has to get cleared out.”
Maggie leaned forward. “I don’t see the reason—”
“Pipi’s saying that once the announcement has been made, there’s going to be scrutiny over everything she’s ever touched. She needs to know there’s nothing that can trip her up, right?”
Pipi nodded.
“Okay,” Newt said. “But there’s one thing you need to know.”
“What?” Pipi asked.
“I told Bruce Mulvaney I’d let him see Stan LeeMungehr,” Newt said.
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