by Mary Blayney
"And this guy," Martin gestured toward Karl, "was one of his friends. He a cop too?"
"Nope," Erin said, popping the door open. "He's—" She caught herself, remembering Detective Campbell's words. "He was the coroner."
Karl met her eyes as she approached. When he reached the curb he stopped. He gave Martin a nod. Gave her a small smile.
"I heard you were a man of leisure now," Erin said. Aiming for affection but landing closer to desperation.
Karl's smile widened and the sight of him—big and broad—brought back better times. The good times, when her father was still alive. And Rolly. When she had a job that she was good at, and that she loved, and nobody would have dreamed she was capable of killing her partner—no matter how much money was on the line.
Erin introduced Martin as a friend and the two shook hands. Then the older man reached into his front pocket and pulled out a roll of Lifesavers.
He took one for himself, then offered the roll to them. Martin refused, but she took one and smiled as the sweet, buttery taste of nostalgia filled her mouth.
"It's important," Karl said, waving at the little cart next to him, as if they'd asked about it, "to do this every fall and every spring."
"Karl, I—"
"People remember to do it in the spring. That's easy. You want your lawn to be pretty. It makes sense in the spring." He pulled a red bandana out of his back pocket. "But if you forget to do it in the fall?" He mopped his brow, tucked the bandana away. "Come the spring, there's not as much new growth to feed. Oh, you won't be able to see the difference in just one year." He looked down the street. "But after two years? Three?"
They followed the direction of his gaze, taking in the lawns lined up against the curb, like quilts in different shades of green.
"It's a matter of diminishing returns."
When Erin turned he wasn't looking up the street, he was looking at her. And there was regret in his pale blue eyes. A distant form of pity that was almost professional. It was easy to picture him, suddenly, with those big shears next to the scales in the morgue. Weighing. Measuring.
"Every year," he said, looking straight into her eyes. "You lose a little more."
Erin shook her head. "Karl, please. Please don't close the case on me. Not like this."
He blinked and looked at Martin, who took a few steps away to give them space.
"I didn't close the case," he said then, his voice low. "I filed it under 'inconclusive'—which it is—and then I retired."
"But it can't be." A twinge in Erin's shoulder reminded her to relax her hands. "It can't be inconclusive. There has to be evidence. You taught me that. Everything leaves evidence. Everyone leaves evidence."
He nodded, still not looking at her. "I'm sorry. I really am." He swallowed. Then, finally, he turned to meet her eyes. "I tried as hard as I could, but all I had was what I had. And that was nothing. What was I supposed to do?"
He glanced at his watch, then took the handle of the little cart. "Well, leisure–shmeisure—the wife's got me on a strict schedule." He lined it up at the end of the next row.
"Karl—" Before she could stop herself, she grabbed his hand. "Please. I'm begging you."
He froze. Looked down at her hand on his. "I did the best I could, little girl," he said, his voice so low it was almost a growl now.
And even though he wasn't looking at her, for the first time since she got out of the car she felt like he was seeing her. Seeing Erin, Jimmy Healy's little girl. "But there has to be something. Something that proves—"
He covered her hand with his. "I had to retire. Do you understand? For your father. For all those years."
His hand on hers was warm, but his words chilled the blood in her veins. "For the first time in my life. The first time in my career, I wanted to record a false conclusion."
He squeezed her hand and the cold shot straight to her heart. "You don't want me working on that case," he said, his voice low. "Because a lack of evidence like that is evidence."
Erin shook her head. "You don't believe that. You don't believe that I could do something like that. To Rolly. That I could ever—"
"Of course not." He released her. "There's a difference, though, between what I want to believe, and what I have to believe."
"Karl, I—"
"I did what I had to do. For Jimmy. And for you. I did what I could." He smiled again. A sad, tired smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You come back and visit us again, okay? You're welcome any time. You know that. Any time." He waved at Martin, who was at the end of the drive. "Nice to meet you."
Erin nodded, unable to speak. Not that he'd have listened if she could. He was already walking away from her, down a surgically straight path.
#
The bow was back. That strained arch in her neck. And when Martin saw the tears in her eyes, he reached for the keys.
Her hand snapped shut. "I've got this."
He shrugged, and climbed into the car.
As she pulled away from the curb he felt, more than heard, her take a shaky breath. Then another. The one after that was a little smoother, a little deeper.
He didn't have to ask what the coroner had said, he'd heard the whole thing so no sense pretending. Instead he said, "It started when I was a kid."
That wasn't what he'd meant to say, though, and the awkward words landed rough and loud in the silent car. But it was too late to take them back.
For a moment that gray gaze focused on him. Then she turned back to the road and he thought, What the hell.
"I don't remember the first time I realized that some of the people I saw were dead, I just knew there was something wrong. And it was scary."
It was all scary, and not just the ghosts. The worst was the disappointment. The resignation on his mother's face, tight around her mouth. The fury in his father—whenever he was actually home—shouting and ordering because no goddamned son of his could be afraid of the dark.
"I was scared a lot," Martin said. "My mom tried to pretend it wasn't happening. She was good at that. If you ignore it, it will go away. It didn't, but my father did."
"Where did he go?"
Martin shrugged. "He worked for the government. I guess he got reassigned and moved without us. It was right around the time that I met Rose."
Another glance away from the road. "And Rose is—"
"Dead. But different. I—" He broke off, searching her face. "I think Rose is like me. I think, when she was alive, she could see the dead. And when she died—"
Erin blinked and turned back to the road but he could see the wheels turning in her head. The stone wall of disbelief.
"Fuck you," he said, half laughing. "You asked how it works. This is how it works. All right? I was in the hospital. I got beat up—which wasn't unusual," he added, when she winced. "I was the weird kid at school, after all. But that last time it was pretty bad. My mom took me to the emergency room and they thought I might have a concussion or something so they kept me overnight."
"How old were you?"
"Nine."
He turned away this time, looking out the passenger–side window. "I hated it," he said. "Not the beating. I was used to that. But the hospital. Dead people everywhere. The halls are filled with them."
She murmured something vaguely sympathetic and Martin shook his head.
"She saved me. Rose. She was the first person ever who could explain what was going on. Explain what was wrong with me. And she was dead. But somehow, she knew what to do. She's been with me ever since. Well…" He thought about Rose's recent disappearing act. "Most of the time."
He laughed and turned back toward her. "I'd like to help you," he said. "I really would, but I don't run the show. I have to take what I get, if that makes sense. They come to me. The dead. It's a one–way street. Don't call us, we'll call you, and—"
"Sure," Erin said, though it was clear she wasn't buying it. "So you need your…" She seemed to grope for the word for a moment, then give up. "Rose? In order to
talk to the dead?"
As she spoke she turned the car into the drive in front of his house.
"Sort of," he said. "It's hard to explain."
She turned the car off and sat back, leaving the keys in the ignition.
"Often," he said, into the deepening silence. "If someone comes to me their dead come with them."
She wasn't looking at him, she was looking down at the steering wheel, but he could see the edge of her lips begin to curl into that sad smile. "I've certainly got enough of those."
"But that's the thing," he said. "That's the problem. So far, there hasn't been anyone. And Rose…"
She looked up, the question in her eyes and something—the silence, maybe, or the lingering scent of Butter Rum Lifesavers and grief—made him want to give her the truth. Made him think she needed it, whether she believed it or not.
"Rose doesn't want me to help you. She doesn't want anything to do with this. With you. So she keeps disappearing. It's weird. Really weird."
She laughed out loud at that. "Weird seems to be my middle name these days."
#
She bit her lips to stop laughing, grateful for the change in mood. His story had been unbelievable. Also, unbelievably sad. The thought of him as a little boy—that dark shaggy hair, those big dark eyes.
All those bruises.
She could see it all in her mind, as clear as if she'd been there, and something loosened in her chest—that stony vine of disbelief. It didn't dissolve, but for a second, thinking of that little boy, it loosened its grip.
She swallowed. She didn't want to think about Martin as a boy. She shouldn't be thinking of him as a man, either, but she couldn't seem to stop herself.
"You think you're weird," he said, his voice low. "Try living with a ghost for twenty years. A really judgy one, at that."
"What did I ever do to her?"
"I have no idea."
"I mean, I understand why the police are mad at me. I get that. But why would she be mad at me?"
"I'll ask her, the next time I see her."
His breath, when he laughed, blew the ends of her hair against her cheek. He was closer than she'd realized. All of a sudden. He was right there. She could pull away and he knew it.
In fact, he seemed to be waiting for it.
But the truth was, she didn't want to pull away. She'd been out here in the cold for so long that she'd forgotten she was cold. When was the last time she felt truly warm? Truly alive?
She leaned forward, leaned up, just a little. Just enough. Seeking the warmth that she heard in his voice. Felt in his breath. The fire in those golden eyes. And it was there, all of it, when she pressed her mouth to his.
His bottom lip was soft and she paused there for a moment, adjusting. Then she slid closer and as if that was what he was waiting for, he took her in his hands and pressed her back against the seat. She gasped, shocked by all that heat, by him, hard and solid against her.
He lifted his head, his eyelids heavy over those hot dark eyes, and they both caught their breath. Then he turned and looked around the car.
"What?"
He shrugged. "Rose threw a fit when we were in the hall. Knocked all the pictures off the wall, remember? I thought maybe if I kissed you, she'd show up again."
He pulled her close and looked down into her eyes. "I'm going to kiss her again," he said, in a louder voice. As if daring somebody. "I mean it."
His eyes were open as he bent toward her, moving so slowly it felt like she was falling up instead, into him.
"Here I go," he said.
If he didn't kiss her soon, she was going to bite him. She was about to sink her teeth into his bottom lip when he stopped again, smiling down at her.
"My," he said, his voice soft now. Just for her. "What big eyes you have."
"The better to see through your bullshit with."
He laughed. "And what big teeth you—"
She caught his lip between her teeth and he groaned, leaning into her, kissing her again and then again. Fitting himself around her in a way that was completely different from the way anyone else ever had. A way that made her feel pulled together, somehow, instead of held apart.
When they paused to catch their breath, she asked, "Is it working?"
"It's working," he said, but he didn't look around. He didn't move.
Her hips shifted in the seat, the heat spreading. "Is she here?"
"Do that some more," he said, his lips hot against her neck. "And it won't matter."
God. She'd forgotten this. How could she forget this? The way that kissing somebody new made kissing new. Made you new, so that you felt every little bit of it. And the way that, when it was good—like this—it seeped into your blood, slid through your veins, and made you forget how to stop.
When Martin stopped it was as sudden and complete as her heart—beating, then not beating. She opened her eyes.
Her shirt was hanging off one shoulder, where his lips were just a moment ago. Her fingers were tangled in his hair. His breath, her breath, came loud in her ears and that was when she heard the phone ringing, muffled, between them.
"Not mine," he said, letting go, subsiding back against the other seat.
She pulled her phone out. A local cell number, but not one she recognized. "This is Erin Healy."
"I can't find Andreus."
The girl's voice sounded high and tight with strain.
"Andreus?" Erin asked.
"He didn't come home. He hasn't come home. I thought…" Her voice trailed off. "He doesn't like to tell me what he's doing. Where he goes, when he goes. But it's been two months now and he hasn't paid the bills and like, his voicemail box is full and—"
"Who is this?"
"Mitra. This is Mitra Yusefi. Andreus Alba's girlfriend."
Erin popped open the door and slid out. She hadn't recognized the name Andreus, because she and Rolly always called him Alba.
"Andreus gave me your number. Said if I ever got in trouble, I should call you. Well I'm in trouble here. I'm in big trouble and I can't get hold of him so—"
#
Martin climbed out on the other side, circling around the front of the car to keep the dead guy in sight.
"I'm on leave, Ms. Yusefi," Erin was saying. "I haven't been in to the station in a couple of months. I haven't talked to Al—to Andreus in a long time."
The dead guy was lean and hungry looking and he watched Martin approach, meeting his eyes with a long, level stare. But then Rose came flying out of nowhere and his eyes went wide, almost wild.
Get away from here! Rose shouted, flying straight at the dead guy. You have no business here!
The dead guy braced, as if for impact: center of gravity lowering, arms up and out. Then—just as Rose was about to fly into him—he closed his eyes.
In a blink they were both gone and Martin was left studying the ground at Erin's feet. Wondering what the hell had just happened.
"I have to go," Erin said.
He lifted his head to find her watching him, her clear–eyed gaze reminding him of the dead guy a few seconds ago.
Cop eyes.
"How old did you say your partner was?"
She frowned. "Why?"
"Just answer the question."
"Rolly was sixty. He was about to retire."
Not the dead guy. But if it wasn't her partner, who was it? "Where are we going?"
The corner of her mouth kicked up in a way that made him want to kiss it. Kiss her. Forget the dead guy. Forget that he wasn't taking the case. Forget Rose and the coroner and—
"We?"
"Rose is still in a bad mood. A monumentally bad mood. There's no way I'm going back in that house. So get in the car and consider me backup."
"All right," she said, climbing in behind the wheel. "You can come, but you are not backup. Is that clear?"
"Whatever."
Her eyes narrowed and he laughed. "You worry about your bad guys, babe, I'll worry about mine. Who are we meeting and wh
ere?"
Chapter Three
Twenty minutes later, Erin pulled in to the McDonald's off 13th. "You stay here," she said to Martin, even though she didn't really expect him to. And he didn't.
"What?" he said, when she gave him a look. "Maybe I'm hungry."
She rolled her eyes. "Just stay back, then, Mr. My–Case–Load–Is–Full, while I talk to this girl."
He raised his hands like a suspect and slowed his steps, letting her go into the McDonald's first.
Mitra Yusefi was sitting right where she said she'd be, in a booth toward the back by the indoor playground. Her large, liquid brown eyes widened as Erin approached the table.
"Mitra?"
The girl nodded and motioned impatiently for Erin to take a seat. "Do you know where Andreus is?"
"I told you on the phone, I haven't worked with him in a couple of months."
The girl's eyes welled with tears and she blinked. "I have to find him. I have to talk to him. I didn't know, when he left. I mean, I wasn't sure. And he was so nervous I didn't want to worry him so I didn't say anything but now…"
She sat back against the booth and brought her hands over her abdomen, slender fingers lacing over the slightly round shape beneath her too tight t–shirt.
It was still strange to think about Alba as Andreus. Let alone as a boyfriend and now, possibly, a father.
"Mitra, I wish I could help you. I just don't—"
"He said you could." The girl's words came out low, almost vicious. "He said I should call you. He made me memorize your number because if anything went wrong, I was supposed to call you."
"Mitra. Do you know what Andreus does?"
Her lashes swept down, like curtains over her eyes. "I know it's not legal." She bit her generous lips. "I think it has something to do with drugs. But he would never tell me anything." She looked up, meeting Erin's eyes. "He said he didn't want to taint me with it. He liked coming home to someplace clean. To someone that had nothing to do with…any of that."