Supernatural Born Killers

by Casey Daniels

  I pulled it out of my purse where I’d stuck it after I gave it a quick once-over. I pointed to the list of cities on the back.

  “Seattle, Las Vegas, Chicago, New York,” I read.

  Quinn plucked the flyer out of my hands and turned it over. “All cities that hosted a comic book convention like the one coming to town here.” His eyes flickered to mine. “Good catch.”

  “But what does it mean?” Mom asked.

  “And how is it going to help us find Jack’s killer?” Dad added.

  “We’re not—” I bit off my objection. There was no use even trying, not when Mom and Dad were looking as if they’d just been handed the winning lottery ticket. After Dad’s years in prison and Mom’s years of missing him, this was the first something they had to get excited about. To do. Together.

  I swallowed my pride along with my objections. “What do you think it might mean?” I asked them.

  Neither of them had an answer, but of course, Quinn did. “It’s not coincidence,” he said. “It can’t be. If the killer sent these cards—”

  “Then the killer was in those cities for the comic book conventions,” I added.

  “And if there’s a comic book connection—”

  “Then it might have something to do with the fact that Jack took Dingo away from the comic book store but never officially arrested him.”

  “And that kid with the shaggy hair who we saw at the comic book store…” Quinn gave me a hard look, waiting for me to finish the thought, but I held firm. This was not the moment to freak out my parents with talk of backhoes and holes in the ground.

  “Which might mean…” he egged me on.

  It’s a good thing Mom and Dad were watching Quinn and me go back and forth. Watching them bob their heads one way, then the other, gave me some time to try and figure out where we were headed with this argument.

  “The whole thing’s got to be connected with comic books,” I said, my voice tentative at first, but gaining traction when Quinn didn’t tell me I was way off base. “The comic book Dingo took at the shop was valuable. Dick said so. And if he had it with him when Jack took him away—”

  “And it was never turned in as evidence,” Quinn reminded me.

  “Then maybe Dingo took Superman seventy-five because Jack wanted it?” I saw my argument fall apart right in front of my eyes and flopped back down into my chair. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would Jack want a comic book?”

  “You could ask him,” my mother suggested.

  “Or we could find out what the guys in Seattle and Las Vegas know.” Quinn pulled out his cell and walked into the living room with it.

  “Oh, honey!” As soon as Quinn was out of earshot, Mom leaned closer. Her cheeks were pink. “He’s dreamy.”

  “Mom,” I groaned.

  “Oh, I know. You’re an adult and you don’t need your mom and dad telling you what to do about your love life.”

  I didn’t even need my mom saying the words your love life.

  “He seems like a fine man.” At least Dad’s comment skirted the issue.

  “And dreamy,” Mom added, but mostly, I think, because she knew it would drive me crazy.

  Quinn stuck his head back in the room. “There was a burglary during the convention in Seattle, all right,” he said, then talked back into the phone. “What’s that? That’s all they took?” He clicked off the call and dialed another one, pacing back into the living room.

  “One in Vegas, too,” he said in a couple minutes when he was done with that call. “And our thief is very selective.”

  My mother didn’t raise any fools. And remember, I’m an only child. Even I knew where this was headed. I looked at Quinn, Quinn looked at me, and we spoke at the same time.

  “Superman.”

  He stuck his phone in the holder clipped on his belt. “I’ll wait until morning to call Chicago and New York. Bet they’ve got the same story.”

  “All valuable stuff, right?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Rare and valuable. Our thief is very selective.”

  “And I’ll bet that means the goods haven’t come back on the market.”

  Let’s face it, a Harvard-educated guy shouldn’t know stuff like this; we both turned to Dad.

  He shrugged. “Makes sense. If you’ve got a punk who’s that selective when it comes to swag, he’s not going to fence it. If he was, he’d just grab anything he could get his hands on. But you said this guy is particular. He’s not doing this for drug money. Or for kicks. Somebody’s paying him to go shopping.”

  I nodded. “Shopping for Superman memorabilia.”

  “Which means we need to tap our Superman connections.”

  I knew Quinn was talking about Vincent, the crazy security guard.

  Me?

  I had other ideas.

  And no way I was going to share them with my new “partners.”

  “Well, this is perfect.”

  I knew Quinn didn’t mean that. He couldn’t. The pizza and the wine were gone, and I’d made coffee and now, he was seated at my dining room table with me, my mom, and my dad. Perfect? This was nobody’s idea of perfect, especially since I didn’t know what other big family secrets my parents might blurt out, or how they might start grilling Quinn about things I would rather they didn’t discuss even more than the family propensity for chatting it up with ghosts.

  Like me and Quinn.

  And what was happening between us.

  And where our relationship was headed.

  Hey, why should Mom and Dad get answers? I’d known the guy for years and I still had no idea.

  “I brought some stuff over for Pepper to look at and as long as you’re all going to be working together…”

  Oh yeah, I nearly slapped that smug smile right off his face.

  Since I am not a violent person (at least not unless it’s absolutely necessary), I pasted on a sweet smile of my own.

  “No one said we were going to be working together,” I said from between gritted teeth. “If you’ve got something to tell me about the case—”

  “Oh, did you hear that, Gil?” My mom bounced up and down in her chair. Not a good idea considering that the chairs, along with the table, had come from the nearest Salvation Army store and there was no telling what kind of abuse they were able to withstand. “We just opened our doors for business and we’ve already got a case.”

  “I have a case,” I reminded them.

  “Which makes it our case, too,” my dad pointed out.

  Quinn’s lips twitched.

  Since he was sitting next to me, it was easy for me to lean to my right and whisper, “Why are you doing this? Why are you encouraging them?”

  Quinn had brought a legal pad to the table and he scrawled cute on it.

  I was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about me.

  Quinn moved his cup out of the way so he could put his elbows on the table and lean forward, the better to pin Mom and Dad with one of his bad-cop/bad-cop looks. “Let’s get something straight. There are a couple things I want to discuss with Pepper and since you’re here, I’m more than willing for you to listen and give me your opinions. But this is my case.” He glanced at me when he said this. Message received loud and clear.

  Which didn’t mean I had to listen to it.

  “I’m not asking you to get involved,” Quinn continued. “And there’s no way I want to put you in danger. Gil, you’ve got keep your nose clean; you can’t get mixed up with anything that can jeopardize your release. Barb, it’s great to read about mysteries and watch them on TV, but that’s not how things work in real life. Pepper…”

  He didn’t bother to finish.

  Just as well; I’d already scooted my chair forward so that I could take a closer look at the evidence bags he pulled out of his pocket.

  “The postcards from Jack.” When Quinn didn’t object, I lifted each bag and the postcards in them. Four postcards, four bags. To bring my parents up to snuff, I explained how the cards had apparent
ly come from Jack Haggarty except that we knew Jack Haggarty was dead.

  “And you know this because you’ve seen his ghost, right? You’ve talked to this Jack fellow.” Mom sat up tall. No easy thing for a woman who barely scraped five feet. “You’re using your Gift. Honey, we’re so proud.”

  “I’ve seen him,” I said. “We haven’t exactly talked.” I debated about whether to get into the gory details, then decided that if they were going to play detective for this one evening, they might as well know the whole truth and nothing but. I described how Jack looked, how he’d been bound and tied and, apparently, drowned. I told them how difficult it was to communicate with Jack.

  Then I figured I might as well go for broke. Well, go partway to broke, anyway.

  “We don’t seem to be getting anywhere as far as figuring out what happened to Jack or who he wants us to save,” I said. “But we’ve apparently touched a nerve.” Along with this information, I gave Quinn a telling look.

  He gave me back a blank stare.

  “Touched. A. Nerve,” I said again. How much clearer could a girl be?

  “We really haven’t.” He shook his head. “There’s not much we’ve found out and—”

  Good thing I was sitting next to him. It gave me a perfect opportunity to give him a kick.

  “Ow.” Quinn winced. “What’s that—”

  “I think what she’s telling you…” Across the table, my dad’s expression was thunderous. It took him a moment to gather his composure and switch his gaze to me. “Has someone threatened you, sweetheart? Because if they did—”

  “Threatened?” Quinn sat back, his arms crossed over his chest. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It wasn’t exactly—”

  I might have finished my half-baked explanation if my mother actually waited to hear it. She was as pale as a sheet and she clutched one hand to her neck. “Someone tried to kill you! Oh my goodness, Gil.” With her free hand, she grabbed my dad’s arm in a death grip. “We need to do something about this. Now.”

  “Nobody needs to do anything!” I was already on my feet before I was even aware that I’d jumped up. “I’m fine. Look. Fine.”

  “But…”

  That from Quinn, of course.

  I plunked back down in my chair. “But someone tried to kill me,” I groaned.

  The new uproar is best left undescribed. Mostly because it was just like the last one. Only longer. And louder. Suffice it to say that when it was finally over, Mom fell back in her chair, Dad was so red in the face, I thought his head was going to pop off, and Quinn was really quiet.

  I knew what that meant, and I braced for the lecture.

  “Why didn’t you—”

  I defended myself instantly. “I tried to call. Obviously, you were busy.”

  “Yeah, if you call talking to Vincent Bagaletti busy.” Quickly, Quinn told my folks about the crazy security guard at the hotel and his delusions about the morgue. “You’re more important than that looney.” It would have been a nice compliment if Quinn didn’t growl at the end of it.

  I was glad to hear it, but that didn’t change a thing.

  “I’m fine. Obviously. Jack, the ghost,” I added for my parents benefit in case they were so focused on the Pepper-as-dead-person scenario they’d forgotten. “Jack showed me how to save myself and I—”

  A thought hit out of the blue and I sucked in a breath.

  “Do you think that’s it?” I was so excited, I grabbed Quinn’s sleeve. “Jack said the only way to redeem himself was to save somebody. Do you think…maybe that somebody was me! Maybe we’ve taken care of his unfinished business and he can rest in peace now.” Another thought occurred and I looked across the table at my parents. “That means the case is closed. Thanks for your help.”

  “Except…”

  Quinn’s objection rumbled through the room.

  I grumbled right back at it.

  “We still don’t know the truth about Dingo,” Quinn reminded me. “Or what happened to Jack.”

  “Because Jack got murdered, too.” Thinking this over, Dad shook his head. “We need to review the clues.”

  “There aren’t any,” I started to say, then thought about the guy I’d seen jump off the backhoe. “The guy who tried to kill me had dark shaggy hair,” I said, turning in my seat to Quinn. “Curly. I swear I’ve seen him before.”

  “The comic book shop.”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the pieces fell into place. I would have slapped my forehead, but since I was trying to convince my parents I was the consummate professional PI, it didn’t seem like the best move. “He was at Dick’s with that other guy.”

  “Five-ten, two-sixty, earring in his left year.” Quinn didn’t give me a chance to tell him his powers of observation were as awesome as his abs. “I’ll go over there tomorrow and talk to Dick again. Maybe he knows who those two guys are.”

  “So we do have a clue.” Yeah, it cost me nearly getting killed, but Mom was right, and this was good news.

  Not just one clue. Quinn tapped his finger against those evidence bags as a way of saying so. “Somebody’s been sending postcards and signing Jack’s name,” he told my parents.

  “To make you think Jack was still alive.” My mother had watched her share of old Murder, She Wrote episodes and obviously, she’d learned a thing or two. “So the postcards—”

  “Must have come from the killer,” Dad said.

  “Or someone who the killer asked to send the cards for him, and that person—the sender, I mean—might not know why he’s sending the cards. He’s just doing a friend a favor. Or he’s getting paid to do what he’s doing.” This, too, from my mom, who was on a roll.

  “So the killer…” Dad drummed his fingers against the tabletop. “He wanted you to think Jack was still alive. Why?”

  “Well, for one thing,” Quinn said, “so we didn’t go looking for him.”

  “And find his body. Bound and gagged! Oh, and Penelope, honey, you could have been next!” Mom waved a hand in front of her suddenly pale-as-ashes face.

  “For another,” Quinn continued, “there are some people in the department who think Jack might have been involved in the murder of a guy named Dingo. Maybe our bad guys are the real culprits and they figured that as long as we were looking for Jack in connection with the murder, they didn’t have to worry that we might stumble onto them.”

  “You’re not one of those people who think he’s guilty.” Dad always was good at reading people. But then, that’s how he was able to tap into their cosmetic surgery fantasies. A couple minutes with a patient, and Dad could always put a finger on their body image (figuratively speaking, of course). It looked like a few years behind bars hadn’t done anything to blunt that talent.

  Rather than answering, Quinn took a drink of coffee and while he was doing that, I took a gander at the postcards.

  “Las Vegas, Seattle, Chicago, New York.”

  Dad reached across the table and slipped the postcards in front of him. “The first thing we should do,” he said, “is look at the postmarks and arrange the cards in the order in which they were mailed.”

  Hey, he wasn’t a Harvard graduate for nothing.

  “Seattle first.” My dad laid that card (still in its bag, of course) out on the table. “Then Las Vegas. Makes sense.”

  “Because whoever sent them,” Mom chimed in, “was in that part of the country.”

  Dad nodded. “Then Chicago.” He set out that card, too. “And finally, New York.”

  “So what does it tell us?”

  Mom was looking at Quinn when she asked the question, and for all I knew, he was trying to come up with the answer. I hardly noticed. Something about the litany of cities struck a chord.

  “Seattle, Las Vegas, Chicago, New York.” I mumbled the mantra. “Why does that list of cities sound so familiar?”

  “We’ve vacationed in all of them,” Mom put in. “Remember that time you jumped in the pool in Vegas, Penelop
e, and your swimsuit top came off and floated to the surface? Good thing I was right there to help you put it back on again!”

  I refused to look at Quinn. I was doing a pretty good job of imagining his smile without seeing it.

  “It’s more than that,” I said, some memory tap-tap-tapping on my brain. “Something recent. I saw the names listed and—”

  The truth struck like the proverbial bolt out of the blue and I jumped up. “It’s the comic book store again,” I said, racing into the living room and retrieving my purse. “The other day,” I said to Mom and Dad, because of course, the other day, they were still long gone and didn’t know any of this. “When we went to the comic book shop. Dick, the owner, he gave me a flyer.”

  I pulled it out of my purse where I’d stuck it after I gave it a quick once-over. I pointed to the list of cities on the back.

  “Seattle, Las Vegas, Chicago, New York,” I read.

  Quinn plucked the flyer out of my hands and turned it over. “All cities that hosted a comic book convention like the one coming to town here.” His eyes flickered to mine. “Good catch.”

  “But what does it mean?” Mom asked.

  “And how is it going to help us find Jack’s killer?” Dad added.

  “We’re not—” I bit off my objection. There was no use even trying, not when Mom and Dad were looking as if they’d just been handed the winning lottery ticket. After Dad’s years in prison and Mom’s years of missing him, this was the first something they had to get excited about. To do. Together.

  I swallowed my pride along with my objections. “What do you think it might mean?” I asked them.

  Neither of them had an answer, but of course, Quinn did. “It’s not coincidence,” he said. “It can’t be. If the killer sent these cards—”

  “Then the killer was in those cities for the comic book conventions,” I added.

  “And if there’s a comic book connection—”

  “Then it might have something to do with the fact that Jack took Dingo away from the comic book store but never officially arrested him.”

  “And that kid with the shaggy hair who we saw at the comic book store…” Quinn gave me a hard look, waiting for me to finish the thought, but I held firm. This was not the moment to freak out my parents with talk of backhoes and holes in the ground.