Following Ms. Greystone’s instructions, I start digging through the contents of the room. It takes the better part of a half hour, but we finally find Olsen’s boxes.
Right away, I notice something. I feel it in the pit of my stomach that this is going to be bad news. All the boxes we’ve seen in here are covered with layers of dust. This entire shelf that I’ve been searching through for the past several minutes is devoted exclusively to Olsen’s case files. And there, at the bottom, are three boxes newly cleared of dust.
I can feel it as soon as I touch the box. I throw the lid off to look at its empty contents. There is nothing in the box.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Greystone says. “I know for a fact the files were in there. I accompanied Detective Olsen here every time he moved these boxes to storage. Based on the time stamp on the box label, these must be the boxes that contained files pertaining to Mr. Davenport.”
I’m afraid I know the answer to this, but I ask it anyway. “Ms. Greystone, what does this mean?”
She looks at me, and while it’s not fear I see in her eyes, it is definitely uncertainty. “The only people that have access to these rooms are officers from our unit.”
Dammit. I was afraid of that. I hear Finnegan’s voice in my head again, warning about jumping to conclusions. But I don’t think there can be any other possibility. “This means that either someone on our team removed these files or, at least, let someone else in here to do it. We’ve got a mole on the force, don’t we?”
Chapter 21
I’m totally screwed now.
Greystone has been gone a few hours in the hopes that I would go home and get some sleep. But I’m still at my desk, alone in the office, and my brain is working a million miles an hour. I’m not entirely sure of my position in this place yet, whether or not I have a safety net of any kind. How could anyone believe I would work out as a detective, something for which I’m absolutely not qualified? I barely passed as a digital art student a few months ago. I could play computer games, draw pictures, and make 3-D models. Now, I’m supposed to enforce the law in a town where the natural order of things, as I understand them, is completely backward. And only then because they made me. Because they didn’t offer me any other options. I haven’t dared ask what will happen if I ever try to refuse. As far as I can tell, provoking Captain Radu would be suicidal since he seems to be in charge of things. Does he report to anyone above him? Are there politicians here? Kings? Archmagi? Grand Poobahs? I have no idea.
If he ever decides that I’m more effort than I’m worth, I’ll just disappear one day. No one will ever find me—even if they knew in which part of the world to look.
The only thing I can think to do right now is to work the best I can at the job they’ve assigned me. As a detective. I need to prove my worth, validate that this mysterious faith they have in me is well founded. But what do I get as my first real case? An impossible crime. Murders—something never seen before in this place. People are freaking out. The undead are spooked. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, and I’m responsible for helping to figure it all out.
I only know a few people here, and most of them don’t like me. Or they would rather eat me than talk to me. But they are my only support here. And now I’ve found out that one of them may be actively working against us. It would be so easy for one of them to get close to me and make me disappear. I shiver, covered in a cold sweat. Each day seems to find new and exciting ways to terrify me.
It’s nearly dawn, hours past when my shift was supposed to end, but I know I’m not going to get any sleep. I put the box back on its shelf in the storeroom and close the door. I don’t want anyone to know what I’ve stumbled on to. By necessity, I’m going to have to trust Ms. Greystone. For one, I know she can’t have physically removed the files, as a ghost she can’t grab anything. In my mind, I can feel her, and if I understand the impressions from the bond they formed between us, she’s as confused and worried about this as I am. She hasn’t left the precinct either; she’s just giving me space.
Following the sense I have of her, I walk in her direction. She is on the main floor, talking to a few of the other ghosts. They all appear in sharp detail, though a couple of them, like Greystone, also fade out around their feet. Like the undead here with bodies, they appear dressed in fashions that are decades out of style. There are around a half-dozen of them, men and women. All scowl at me as I come down the stairs. They disperse as they see me approaching, leaving Greystone alone, waiting for me.
“Ms. Greystone, I’d like to go home now. Would you mind coming with me? I think we need to make some decisions.”
She nods. “Of course, Detective. I’ll have a coach summoned.”
I don’t recognize the officer driving. He ignores my greeting, just staring straight ahead over the top of the horses. I climb into the coach. Greystone sits on the bench across from me. We make the trip home in silence. A gaslight burns inside providing light. As a ghost, Greystone glows slightly but not enough that I can see clearly to do anything. I’m curious how she’s sitting, how she travels with the coach as it moves, but I’m too tired to bother asking for an explanation.
The coach drops us off outside my apartment building, the driver ignoring the both of us as we get out. I resist the urge to flip him off as he leaves. I trudge up the stairway, dimly lit by flickering gaslights at each landing. The shadows almost hide the mold and stains on the walls. Shuffling and whispers sound from behind other doors, echoing in the stillness of the halls.
I find my door, open it and enter chez moi. It does nothing to brighten my mood. I hold the door open for Ms. Greystone then curse my stupidity. Still, it only seems polite, and she actually nods in appreciation. Not a smile, exactly, but not a frosty glare, so I count it as a win.
I grab what passes for a beer out of my fridge and sit down on the sofa.
“Ms. Greystone, what are we going to do? I’m so out of my depth here it’s not funny.”
She floats in the air before me and looks down on me with sympathy. “The important action here is to not inform the wrong person. We should take this straight to the captain.”
I start to say something, stop, try again. Finally, “This may be the craziest thing I’ve ever said, but, no. I don’t want to involve Captain Radu.”
Greystone waits patiently, I’m guessing she can tell I’ve got more to say.
“If I’m going to pull my weight at all on this job, if I’m going to figure out why I’m worth keeping around, I have to show I can do something. I don’t know the captain as well as you do, but my guess is that if I bring this to him, he’ll just ask me to figure it out. He’s not going to want another problem; he’s going to want answers. Besides, whoever took those files has managed to keep it hidden so far from the captain.”
She floats over near me and “sits” on the couch next to me. She sits ramrod straight, knees together, hands clasped together on her lap. I still don’t see her feet, but if they were visible, they would be tucked up against the base of the couch. “I think you may be right. But it could be safer if he knows.”
“We’re assuming he’s not the one responsible. I doubt he is, but I don’t know. I can’t even ask Marsh. Since I arrived here, Marsh has been the only thing keeping me alive. But what if it is him? Someone in the room where I’m working is hiding something about these murders. Right now, I think the only thing that’s keeping me safe is my complete cluelessness.”
Greystone sighs sympathetically. I know she’s acting supportive in the only way she knows how, so I resist the urge to scoot away from the chill radiating out of her so close to me.
“Seriously, though,” I continue. “The second whoever it is thinks I might be suspicious, how easy will it be to make me disappear? No one who knows me knows I’m here. My friends, my family probably think I’m dead already.”
“One problem at a time, Detective,
” Greystone suggests softly.
“How do I know this place is clean?” I ask, changing the subject. I wave my arms around to indicate the entire room.
“Clean?” Greystone looks at me in confusion. Her face, as she glances around my apartment, says plainly that “clean” is never a word she would use to describe where I live.
“Clean. No bugs.” I clarify.
“No bugs? You want to get rid of insects right now?”
“Not bugs. Listening devices. You guys gave me this apartment. How do I know I’m not under surveillance?”
“Ah, I understand,” Greystone replies, nodding. “You have nothing to worry about. This is one of the advantages of having a ghost working with you. I believe you are still assuming electronic equipment will work here. It will not. My mere presence would short it out.”
“What about magic?” I ask, my cheeks turning red at the sheer stupidity of saying something like that out loud to an adult.
She pauses, obviously trying to choose her words with care. “You are closer to the mark with this question. To one who knows the arts, they could scry your words out of the air. This isn’t as foolish a question as you seem to think.”
“Are you serious right now?” I was half hoping she would have ridiculed my question and I could forget about it.
“Yes, but while I cannot prevent someone from scrying you in my presence, I can sense when it is being done. While we discuss these things, I will know if anyone attempts to overhear our words.”
I think this over, trying to poke holes in her logic. But it seems pretty safe. One thing, at least, is that I feel secure speaking to Greystone. I may not have any experience in being a real detective, but I’ve seen enough spy thrillers and horror movies to know that most people who get caught in conspiracies always end up trusting the wrong person before everything goes to hell. I have no choice but to put my faith in Greystone, and I think I’m relatively safe in doing so. We’ll see how catastrophically stupid this decision may or may not be.
I try to put it into words. “OK, so just to review: we’re investigating murders, and someone has clearly removed evidence from a storeroom—evidence relating to one of our victims.”
Greystone nods.
“The only people that have access to that storeroom are people from our unit.”
Greystone nods again.
“Could anyone else have gained access? Copied a key or something?”
She shakes her head firmly. “No. It isn’t a physical lock. Only people from our unit can enter.”
“And who sets that up?”
“Captain Radu,” she says. “He is the only one.”
I hate asking questions that must seem obvious to anyone who lives here. But the sooner I understand this stuff, the better.
“And it’s keyed to what? Our bodies?” I ask.
She shakes her head again. “No, to your badge.”
“To my badge.” I ponder this for a moment. Is there anything there?
“To answer your next question,” Greystone says, pushing her glasses up her nose. This makes me smile. Her glasses are part of her physical form. I’m guessing it must be some habit she had when she was alive that she’s carried over. “No one but you can use your badge. The badge is attuned to a specific individual.”
“So, no one but our unit then, in any obvious way, can access the storeroom. Which means we’ll need to start by looking at everyone in our unit.”
Captain Radu. Marsh. Meints. Burchard. Clark. Finnegan. Armstrong. Kim. Ms. Greystone. And me. I know very little about them outside of my interactions with them at work. I’ve tried asking about their lives back when they were mortal, but universally, the people here are reluctant to talk about that time, if they even remember much of it at all. For many here, mortality was literally lifetimes ago. It’s like a distant dream—only barely recalled. When they get to Meridian, many of them leave their old selves behind and start anew, reinventing themselves to be better or worse than when they were alive. They could have been doctors, priests, or mass-murderers before they put on badges and began enforcing the law.
I think I can safely discount me. I don’t remember killing anyone. So that leaves nine other possible conspirators. Something else occurs to me. “I’ve been assuming there’s only one, but I guess that doesn’t have to be the case.”
Greystone nods grimly. “That is true. There could be more. I also had not thought of that.”
“Well, we’re going to rule out you, and me, and Captain Radu for the time being.” But I’ll keep Radu as a long-shot suspect, just in case. “That leaves seven possibilities. I barely know anything about any of the people I work with. You’ve worked with them. Can you tell me what you know about them?”
She nods, reluctantly.
“Tell me about Detective Burchard,” I ask.
Greystone shifts uncomfortably. I’m essentially asking her to spill whatever gossip she knows, asking her to talk about her coworkers behind their backs. But she recognizes the need for it. “Detective Burchard—these are merely my observations, you understand—he has been on the force longer than I, nearly seventy-five years. He is quick to spot details that most others miss, and he finds the anomalies in the patterns of his investigations. There have been many cases solved because of his attention to detail. He will spend hours looking at photos and reports, sifting and sorting information.”
I nod. That all matches with what I’ve observed as well.
She continues. “If you can catch him in the mood, he’s actually quite witty.”
Now that’s where her observations differ from mine. Burchard’s usually got a serious expression on his face when he’s not glaring in anger. If he has a sense of humor, I have yet to see any evidence of it. Unless you count the wicked zingers and verbal barbs he tosses out without any apparent effort. Burchard hasn’t been overtly hostile but hasn’t said anything nice to me either. As long as I stay out of his way, he doesn’t seem to care about me.
“Detective Burchard isn’t prone to excessive violence but has proven very competent in carrying it out when necessary,” she continues. “He is the best shot in the squad by far. I get the impression he has a history of killing. A soldier, perhaps.”
I can see that. No telling if he still craves it. If he were working against us, he would be methodical, ruthless, and violently unstoppable.
“What can you tell me about Detective Meints?” All I know about him is that he’s tall, the tallest detective on our squad. He’s got an older and wiser air around him.
“He is certainly the most well-read,” Greystone says. “I have yet to come up with a general topic he doesn’t know at least something about. He is an expert in philosophy and most of the sciences. I’ve heard a few of his peers call him ‘professor’ from time to time, and I doubt it was meant ironically.”
A professor. That makes sense. Like most professors I know, he has no tolerance for incompetence or laziness. When I make mistakes, his voice is usually the first and loudest to point it out. I’ve tried asking him questions about various things, and while he clearly could answer, he won’t bother responding to me.
“He’s supposedly written multiple volumes of esoteric and historical research, but I haven’t managed to find time to read any yet. He’s extremely clever. And logical. There’s not much that he can’t deduce or ferret out.”
I heave a depressed sigh. If Meints is behind this, he’ll stay several steps ahead of us the whole time.
“What about Detective Finnegan?”
She presses her lips together in disapproval. “A psychotic, vicious man. He enjoys inflicting pain and misery.” She stops, surprised at herself.
I nod, encouraging her to continue. “I’d guess he’s a serial killer before I’d think a detective. For all I know, that’s what he was before he joined the squad.”
Greyston
e composes herself. She really doesn’t like to dish the dirt on the detectives in the squad. I’m guessing she went too far in expressing her dislike of Finnegan because she’s intent, now, on keeping the observations proper. “He’s thin but with a wiry, cruel strength. He knows his way around chemicals; he’s the expert on anything related to this area of research. Bombs, magical spell components—he spent many decades in forensics before moving up to his role as a detective. The forensics team still regularly consults with him to help understand any complex information they can’t figure out.”
He’s had it in for me since he set eyes on me. I think he just wants to slice me open to see how I tick. Peel me open slowly, with deliberate care, to great satisfaction. I can feel his eyes on me any time I’m in the same room, like he’s preparing for my dissection. Regardless of whether he’s working against us or not, I don’t want to find myself alone with him. Marsh’s presence is all that keeps Finnegan from tearing me apart. Part of me hopes Finnegan’s the one, just to get him away from me. But if it really is him, I don’t see things ending without a lot of blood.
“Then there is Detective Clark,” Greystone says. He’s been the friendliest of the group so far, but I think it’s only because I amuse him. I work at trying to be a cop, and he thinks it’s funny. I almost expect him to give me a treat every time I talk.
“Detective Clark manages not to allow the stresses inherent with the job to get him down. He is independently wealthy; he doesn’t need to live off his salary like the rest of the squad. He works the job because he’s quite skilled in following paper trails. Of the entire group, he is the one who best knows the laws and codes we live by.”
“Wait a minute. Back up a second.”
Greystone waits patiently while I try to put this into words.
“We get paid?”
She smirks, chuckling silently. “Of course you do, Detective. Hasn’t Marsh told you yet?”
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