“I might be able to help ya, sister.” Along with the stale-peanut smell of old cigars, Chet Houston was back. He was standing on the other side of my desk and when he leaned nearer, his eyes twinkled. “See, I know this guy who knows numbers.”
“A dead guy?” Yeah, a no-brainer, but like I said, clarity.
Chet nodded. “Albert’s a little bored, too, ya see, and he’s got this crazy woman buried right next to him. Some dame with a big, noisy family and she’s been dead for years, but they still keep comin’ to see her. Go figure. They do a lot of talkin’ and a whole lot of cryin’. You know the types.”
I did, though I couldn’t imagine what I was supposed to do about it. “And Albert’s looking for…?”
“A little peace and quiet is all.”
I doubted I could make that happen. Then again, if Albert was all he was cracked up to be…
“He’s good with numbers?” I asked Chet.
A grin softened his pug-ugly face.
In that one instant, I made up my mind. Since ghosts are incorporeal and can’t touch things, I’d need to get Chet a tape recorder so he could dictate the stories for the newsletter and I could enter them on the computer.
As for Albert…
“I’ll need to check it out,” I told Chet, leading the way to the door. “But if this guy’s as good as you say he is…”
“God’s honest truth! I seen him work wonders with numbers,” Chet said. “And the crazy part is, it all makes sense to him.”
Numbers and sense. Not a likely pairing of words, but I wasn’t about to argue. Budgets, lunches with potential donors, no sign of the drippy ghost, and two new ghosts in my life and still, it was turning into a not-so-bad day. Suddenly, I had staff. Yes, they were dead, but a girl like me can’t afford to be picky.
I should have saved the especially cute outfit for the next day because the next day, Quinn was taking me to lunch. That day—the day I met Chet and acquired my ghostly peeps—I spent most of my time slogging from one end of the cemetery to the other, which meant, obviously, that the cute pants and schoolboy blazer look was totally wasted on everyone but the dead.
The good news is that I didn’t let the disappointment that comes along with a fashion letdown stop me. In fact, I was at my brilliant best that afternoon.
Chet’s headstone, as it turned out, was as schmaltzy as he described it. Unfortunately, though it had been carved and put in place nearly eighty years earlier, it was also in perfectly good shape. Let’s just hope no one saw me when I went into a nearby groundskeeping shed and borrowed a hammer so that I could do a little damage, write up a report about the vandalism I’d discovered, and order a new headstone sans angels and flowers.
As for Albert, the numbers man, his problem was a little easier to solve and didn’t involve any malicious mischief and hardly any lying at all. Those noisy visitors he complained about were there when I arrived to check out Albert’s grave, and the solution was clear to me the moment I heard them reminiscing about the dearly departed. That afternoon I put in a request to have a row of hedges planted between Albert and his popular neighbor. Sure, it was out of the realm of my responsibilities, but Ella’s handwriting isn’t all that hard to copy and Silverman is easy to spell.
Those two missions accomplished, I found one of those voice-activated tape recorders and got it set up for Chet. It would have been easier if he had been able to do his own typing, but a girl can’t have everything.
That left me free to take care of work, which pretty much consisted of touching up my nails (vandalizing a headstone does nothing for a manicure) and figuring out what I was going to wear to the next day’s lunch.
I probably shouldn’t have bothered putting so much thought into it. When Quinn came to the cemetery to pick me up the next afternoon, I don’t think he even noticed my slim black mini, white cami, or that mossy green schoolboy blazer I had slung over one arm. Yes, I know, it’s a fashion faux pas to wear the same article of clothing two days in a row, but believe me, there was a method to my madness: (1) I left the blazer in my car and kept it there until Quinn pulled his unmarked police vehicle into the parking lot outside the administration building so really, no one at Garden View had an inkling that I might wear the jacket again, and (2) I might need it if the restaurant Quinn was taking me to was chilly.
I paused just outside the door of his car, the better to give him a chance to look me over, and when all he did was lean over to the passenger side of the car and shove open the door, I gave up with a sigh.
“Nice to see you, too,” I said, getting into the car.
“I left my cell phone at the station,” he grumbled.
“Nice to see you, too.”
“I said I left…Oh.” He wheeled out of the cemetery and glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “I get it. Of course it’s nice to see you. You know that. But I just realized I left my cell phone back at the station and I hate not having it.”
“In case someone needs to call about a meeting with school crossing guards or something.”
Another grumble from the driver’s side of the car. “Not funny.”
“Wasn’t trying to be. Just pointing out that you probably haven’t missed any important calls.”
“Also not funny.”
I wasn’t sure where we were going to lunch, but I had suspected Little Italy. It is the closest place to Garden View for good food. Which is why I was surprised when Quinn didn’t head that way. “You’ve got something else in mind.”
“We’ll get lunch. After I pick up my phone.”
This, I could understand. At least to a point. I felt naked without my cell, too. But there was something more to Quinn’s bad mood. And it had nothing to do with school crossing guards.
Ghosts don’t call me smart for nothing. I turned in my seat, the better to see his reaction when I said, “You’re up to something. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so pissed about your phone.”
He slid me a look. “Maybe.”
“Probably. And it has nothing to do with the job you’re supposed to be working.”
This time the grumble contained a couple words I will not report. “Community liaison. I was over at that hotel where the convention’s going to be held. You know, the one I’m supposed to work on as a go-between for the police and the community. Can you believe it? It’s a comic book convention!”
“Comic books? Like the Smurfs?”
“More like Batman. And the Avengers. And Superman.”
Superman.
It wasn’t the first time in the last few days that the superhero’s name had come up in conversation. At the sponsorship cocktail party, Milo Blackburne had mentioned Superman. Superman and Lois Lane. “So what are you supposed to do with these comic book people?” I asked Quinn.
“Darned if I know. Make sure no one decides to put on a cape and tights and take a leap off the roof of the building, I guess.”
“No doubt you’ll handle that part just fine.” I sat back and stretched out my legs, the better to look relaxed and catch him off guard when I added, “But you’re doing something else, too.”
It was midafternoon and traffic was heavy so I guess I could excuse Quinn for keeping his eyes on the road and not answering me right away. Then again, Quinn is the careful type. He thinks—twice—before he commits and gives too much away. We were blocks closer to downtown and the bridge that would take us across the Cuyahoga River to the west side of town, where Quinn’s new station was located, when he said, “There was a murder a few months ago—”
“And you’re investigating!” I slapped a hand against the fake leather seats. “I knew it.”
“You don’t know anything. Not for sure. Not officially. I didn’t say I was looking into the murder. I only said there was one.”
“Because you’re not supposed to be investigating. You’re supposed to be working with the comic book crowd.”
“Will you quit reminding me!” Good thing we were at a red light because he plunked his
head down on the steering wheel.
I waited until we were driving again before I asked, “So who got killed?”
“Plenty of people. It’s a violent city.”
I wished he wasn’t concentrating on traffic, otherwise he would have noticed the acid look I shot his way. “Who got killed that you’re not supposed to be looking into the murder but you are anyway?”
“If I was…” Another quick glance. “It happened a while ago, before I got shot.”
“And ended up dead.”
He ignored the comment. No big surprise there. “Small-time thief, guy named Danny Ackerman. He was known on the streets as Dingo.”
The name—either name—didn’t ring any bells.
“And we care about Dingo because…”
“Because back when he got himself shot in the head and his body was dumped in a landfill, I was working Homicide and Dingo was one of my cases.”
“And you can’t let it go.”
“I shouldn’t have to.”
I agreed with him, so I didn’t argue.
“So what have you found out?” I asked instead.
“Nothing much.” We were at another red light, and Quinn drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “Dingo was a nobody scumbag.”
“But there’s something about his case that interests you.”
Another quick look, but then, Quinn was waiting to turn left so he had the time. “Has anybody ever told you you’re too nosy?”
“Plenty of times. Mostly you.”
“You’re not going to tell me there’s some ghostly connection and so you’ve got to find out all there is to know about Dingo, are you?”
“Hey, you’re the one who brought up the ghosts.” I shouldn’t have had to point it out.
“So why do you care?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t. Not really. Except that you do.”
The driver behind us beeped his horn and Quinn was forced to look away from me and get moving.
“If your bosses found out you were still working Dingo’s case—”
“I’m not. Not technically.”
“But you’re nosing around.”
“Maybe. A little.”
“And if your bosses found out—”
“They’d remind me I have other things to do these days. Like work with school crossing guards and worry about comic book conventions.”
“But you’re not ready to let go of Dingo’s case. And there has to be a reason. I mean, a reason more than that you’re working on other things now and you’re not happy about it.”
We were through downtown, across the river, and into a working-class neighborhood where the houses were set one next to the other and trees shaded the streets, and Quinn passed up a car wash and pulled into the parking lot of a low-slung redbrick building. He parked the car, turned off the ignition, and turned in his seat.
“There’s been some talk…about a cop named Jack Haggarty. Black Jack, that’s what we all called him. There’s a rumor that there might be some connection between him and Dingo’s murder.”
“Dirty cop, huh?”
Quinn slapped the steering wheel and, startled, I sat up like a shot.
“Not a chance,” he growled.
“Sensitive subject.”
“No, it’s not. Sensitive subjects are only sensitive because the people looking at them can’t be objective. And as always, I’m plenty objective.” Quinn pulled in a long breath and let it out slowly, and I could just about see the debate going on behind that chiseled face of his. To tell or not to tell. That was the question. Lucky for me and the curiosity that made me feel like I was going to crawl out of my skin, he decided to fess up.
“Jack and I were partners once. A long time ago. When I first got onto the force. We worked a patrol car together over on the east side.”
Somehow, I had always pictured Quinn the way he was now: sophisticated, well-dressed, superior detective. The thought of him in a blue patrolman’s uniform…
“What are you smiling about?” he asked.
“I wasn’t.” As if to prove it, I wiped the smile away and promised myself that one of these days, I’d ask to see him in his uniform. I’d bet anything he was as cute as a button. “So you worked with Jack and you know he was on the up-and-up. I get it.” I nodded. “So what does he have to do with Dingo’s death? And why don’t you just ask Jack about it?”
Quinn scraped a hand through his inky hair. “Believe me, I’d love to talk to Jack. But nobody’s been able to get a hold of him. And nobody’s seen him. Not since a couple days after Dingo’s body was found. As for Jack’s connection to the murder…there was some evidence…” A cop Quinn recognized walked out of the station and he lifted a hand in greeting.
I guess that was enough to remind him that he was sharing, maybe a little too much. Remember how I said that Quinn is careful? Well, the not sharing goes along with the careful. Or maybe it’s the other way around. No matter. He changed the subject in a heartbeat.
“I’m going to run inside for my phone,” he said, sliding out of the car. “I’ll be right back.”
I suppose if he had been, I would have stayed where I was. The way it was, Quinn was gone too long for it to qualify as right back. And I was hungry. Not to mention bored.
I sashayed into the station, told the sergeant behind the desk that I had an appointment to speak to Detective Harrison, and was ushered back into a dull bullpen area packed with gray metal desks. Quinn’s was in the far corner, he was talking on the phone and as I made my way over there, I saw a number of raised eyebrows and heard a couple of mumbled comments. My response was a sparkling smile that didn’t waver even once.
Not even when Quinn caught sight of me and rolled his eyes.
I sat down in the gray metal chair next to his desk and waited.
“I can stop by this afternoon.” Quinn said this with another roll of the eyes that made me think maybe the first one might not have been meant for me after all. “How long?” He looked at the clock on the wall. “Fifteen minutes or so. Yes, I’ll find you. Yeah, see you then.”
I smiled as sweetly as I could, considering that my stomach was growling. “Got a date?”
“Yeah, with a security guard over at the hotel where that convention is being set up. He says he’s got something he needs to talk to me about.”
“Does that mean we have to wait for lunch?”
“There’s a vending machine out in the lobby.”
Not the answer I was hoping for, but before I had a chance to point that out, a uniformed cop walked into the room. “Got another one,” she said, waving something small and rigid in the air. “Another postcard from Jack Haggarty.”
An hour earlier, I wouldn’t have known or cared. Now, my ears pricked right up. So did Quinn’s. In fact, he jumped out of his seat, closed in on the cop, and plucked the postcard out of her hands.
“Come on, Harrison, get over it!” one of the other detectives sitting nearby called out to Quinn. “Just because Haggarty’s sending postcards doesn’t mean he’s not—”
I guess the cops in this new station already knew Quinn pretty well. One scathing look from him and the other detective shut right up.
When he sat back down, I leaned nearer to Quinn, careful to keep my voice down. “I thought you said nobody has talked to Jack Haggarty, not since a couple days after Dingo’s murder.”
“That’s right. Nobody’s talked to him. And he doesn’t answer his phone when we try to call. That doesn’t mean we haven’t heard from him.” Quinn looked over at the bulletin board on a nearby wall and I saw that there were three other postcards stuck onto it with pushpins. From this distance it was hard to tell exactly where they were from, but I thought I recognized scenes of Las Vegas, Seattle, and Chicago.
“This one’s from New York,” Quinn said, checking out the picture of the Statue of Liberty before he turned over the card and looked at the postmark and the cramped letters written in blue ink. “Wish you were all
here instead of working like dogs.” He read the message with something very like acid in his voice. “Same as always. And just signed Jack. Same as always.”
“So this Jack guy is somehow connected to a murder. Maybe. Then he disappears. And now he’s sending postcards from all around the country?” It was so weird, I had to try to talk it out, just to get it to make some kind of sense. “Why would he do that?”
“Because Haggarty’s pulling our chains.” The voice of the cop at the next desk startled me, and I jumped. I guess I hadn’t been talking as quietly as I thought. The guy was middle aged and beefy, with short-cropped sandy hair, a square jaw, and the beady-eyed gaze of a Doberman. “He’s practically daring us to prove he was involved in Ackerman’s murder.”
“Or he’s doing exactly what he always promised he’d do.” Quinn set the postcard down on his desk. “Jack always said that one day, he’d just walk away from the job. That he’d travel and finally get to enjoy life. Maybe he’s just reminding us that while we’re slaving away, he’s getting to live his dream.”
“Whatever.” The cop at the next desk went back to reading a stack of reports.
This time I made sure my voice was even quieter. “Do you believe that? That he had something to do with Dingo’s murder? You said there was evidence.”
“And I’m sure not going to say any more. Not here.” Quinn tucked his cell in one pocket, the postcard in another, and led the way out of the station.
Out in the car, I was finally able to give voice to the questions that had been bugging me. “Why do all those other cops think Haggarty was involved in the murder? And who’s this guy we’re going to see over at the hotel? And when…” Since this was the most important question of all, I paused to give it all the drama it deserved. “When are we going to get lunch?”
Like most cops, Quinn is logical and methodical. He answered my questions in order.
At least I think he did.
“Candy bars,” he said. “Vincent. And eventually.”
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