That was the first I realized he had his gun out.
With his free hand, he reached for the doorknob. It turned easily. “Stay here,” he told me.
Yeah, right.
When he slipped into the house as quiet as a shadow, I slipped in after him. Of course, he noticed, but honestly, he didn’t try to stop me. We’d stepped into the kitchen, and there was a light on over the sink. Quickly, Quinn scanned the countertop where dirty glasses and dishes were piled high and the two-seater table where a few days’ worth of newspapers were piled. Through a doorway directly in front of us was the living room, and he leaned in, took a quick peek, and seeing that it was empty, he pointed to a closed door over on my left.
He motioned me to stay put, kicked open the door, and—
“You don’t want to come in here, Pepper,” Quinn said.
Too bad I was already on my way when he gave me the warning.
If I had waited, I wouldn’t have seen Vincent the crazy security guard, his face bulging and blue, a rope tied tight around his neck until the life had been choked out of him.
“Well, Vincent did say the morgue.”
We were standing in the waiting room of the county medical examiner’s office, so Quinn’s comment, while appropriate, wasn’t exactly funny.
Then again, I didn’t think he was trying to be. After an hour waiting for a patrol car to show up at Vincent’s and another half hour hanging around until a group of Homicide detectives got there, Quinn wasn’t in what anyone would call a cheerful mood. Oh, it wasn’t like all those other cops weren’t glad to see him. It was obvious even to me, outsider that I am, that most of his fellow cops liked and respected Quinn. It was just as obvious that now that he wasn’t a part of the Homicide team, they would have preferred if he was anywhere but the scene of a murder.
For his part, Quinn had watched his former coworkers go through the motions and treat him like any other witness. He was friendly. He was professional. And I could tell it was just about killing him (no pun intended considering the situation) to be odd man out.
He glanced down the hallway and the room to which Vincent’s body had been taken a short while earlier. “What I wouldn’t give to be in there,” Quinn grumbled.
Me? Not so much. My arms had been wrapped around myself to control the rumba rhythm pounding inside my ribs that had started up the moment I set eyes on dead Vincent.
“It’s got to have something to do with the convention,” I said.
“And the morgue at the hotel?” That wasn’t humor I heard in Quinn’s voice. It was sarcasm, pure and simple.
“But it’s not a coincidence,” I insisted, keeping my voice down so the man stationed behind the front desk wouldn’t hear. Talking through the situation helped calm my nerves. So did pacing. I walked to the far wall where a picture of roses hung in a silver frame. I walked back the other way. “Vincent’s been calling you. He’s been warning you that something was going to happen at the convention. Now he ends up dead? At just about the same time we figure out that valuable memorabilia is getting stolen at comic book conventions? Even you have to admit it’s—”
“Fishy.”
I thought so, too, so Quinn didn’t have to demonstrate by sniffing the air.
“I get it,” I said. “It’s fishy. You don’t have to be so—”
I didn’t finish. That’s because the odor assaulted my nose like a whiff of off-brand perfume. Fish. And not fresh.
When I looked into the farthest corner of the waiting room, I saw a puddle on the floor, a dead carp lying in it, and Jack hovering above.
“So you didn’t cross over.”
Jack shrugged.
“Which means I’m not the one you were supposed to save.”
He nodded.
“So somebody else is going to die?”
Another nod.
“And it all has something to do with Vincent.”
“Hmhm Mmm. Mmmmnm”
“Jack’s here?” The question, of course, came from Quinn, who looked where I was looking, squinted, and looked some more. “Ask him about Dingo. And Superman.”
“Superman, isn’t that the only thing you’re supposed to be worried about these days?”
The question came from behind us and Quinn and I both spun away from the puddle and the fish and the ghost and found ourselves face-to-face with a heavyset African American with sleepy eyes and a unlit cigarette between his teeth.
“Anderson.” Quinn’s nod was brusque enough to tell me they were acquainted, but not old friends. “You caught this case?”
“And you didn’t.” Anderson stepped forward and I stepped aside. “I got a copy of the statement you gave to the cops who got the call. If I have any questions, I’ll be in touch. You’re over in the Second District now. Am I right?”
Personally, I was glad Anderson didn’t pause long enough for Quinn to answer. Something told me it wouldn’t have been pretty.
He took the cigarette out of his mouth, looked at the end of it as if he was surprised it wasn’t lit, then shoved it back in his mouth. “Heard you were working with the school guards,” Anderson said, that cigarette spinning when he spoke. “That’s great, Harrison. It’s real important for the police to keep up ties with the community.”
Even before the last words were out of Anderson’s mouth, Quinn had a hand on my arm. “Come on,” he said, tugging me toward the exit.
All well and good. Except we were forgetting what we were there for. Which was solving Vincent’s murder. And putting Jack to rest. And figuring out why someone was trying to kill me. And…
“But what about the Super—”
Quinn’s fingers closed around my arm. Yes, theoretically, that shouldn’t have clipped off my words, but the pain that resulted did a pretty good job.
It wasn’t until we were outside that I untangled myself from his hold. It was just after sunrise and cool. The sidewalk was damp from a sprinkling of overnight rain and the clouds hung thick over the building that housed the morgue.
“What was that all about?” I demanded.
“Anderson’s a fool. Always has been, always will be. In case you couldn’t tell. There’s no use handing him our case and all our evidence.”
“But it’s not our case, it’s his. And if we tell him what we know, it might help him find who did that to Vincent.”
If looks could kill, I suppose I would have keeled over right then and there.
Then again, Quinn didn’t exactly have a chance to make the look stick.
That was because a car pulled up next to us, the passenger window rolled down, and my mother stuck her head out.
“Yoo-hoo!” She waved and from the driver’s side, so did Dad. “It’s so lucky you told Ella you’d be late this morning and that you were here. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have been able to find you. We’ve been talking it over, Dad and I.”
“Talking what over?” Excuse me for being the voice of reason.
Since my dad had put the car in park, he was able to jump out and come around to the other side of the car so he could answer my question.
“Our case, of course, honey.” He gave me a peck in the cheek. “We’ve been thinking about everything you said, you know, about the ghost and how he drowned and how he can’t tell you anything because of that duct tape over his mouth.”
“And that’s when we decided,” my mother chimed in. “You know, about what we have to do next.”
A muscle jumped at the base of Quinn’s jaw, but hey, he was a better detective than I; he dared asked the question. “And what’s that?”
My mother’s mouth puckered. “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? I mean, it wouldn’t be. Not if Penelope didn’t have her wonderful Gift. But she does, have the Gift, that is. And we can use it to our advantage.”
“That’s right.” Dad nodded. “We’ve decided what we need to do is find this ghost’s body.”
Quinn slid me a look. “It’s crazy,” he said. “So crazy, it’s really, really smart.”<
br />
“There’s nothing in his locker.”
Quinn slammed said locker door shut and aimed a look at it that in the Superman universe would have melted the gray metal. “What kind of guy doesn’t keep anything in his locker at work?”
“The kind of guy who maybe did keep something in his locker but then someone got here before us and took out whatever it was Vincent did keep in his locker.”
This, of course, though slightly convoluted, was not only logical, but brilliant, and if Quinn wasn’t in such a crappy mood, he might have realized it. And acknowledged it. Instead, he scrubbed his hands over his face and looked around the tiny employee locker room at the hotel where Vincent worked when he was still alive to work.
“Your fellow cops could have already been here.” I ventured the guess because let’s face it, Quinn’s angry-detective persona might have scared some people into silence, but I wasn’t one of them. “Or the murderer might have taken anything worth taking. Maybe even before he killed Vincent.”
“Maybe.” The single grumbled word was the equivalent of a wow, you’re right, and aren’t you a genius from any lesser person, and with it, Quinn spun around and headed out of the locker room. “Let’s take another look around the hotel.”
We did.
Just like we’d done when we first arrived there an hour earlier.
We talked to the front desk clerk. Again. We stopped in the gift shop. One more time. We did a turn around the ballroom where workers were scrambling to set up vendor booths and put the finishing touches on a life-sized model of Clark Kent’s office at the Daily Planet. The comic book convention was slated to start in just two days and it was obvious there wasn’t a moment to spare. Guys in hard hats raced around us and there was so much hammering, it made my head hurt.
Each person we talked to told us the same thing—a detective named Anderson had already been there and asked all the questions we were asking.
This did not improve Quinn’s mood one bit, and that was bad enough, until every person we talked to added that even if we had gotten there first, there wouldn’t be anything to tell us, anyway. Vincent was crazy, and he kept to himself. Friends? As far as anybody knew, Vincent didn’t have any. Enemies? It didn’t seem likely. The kid did his job (such as it was), ate lunch by himself, hopped on the bus, and went home. It wasn’t that he didn’t have time to make enemies, it was more like he had so little personality, nobody would have noticed him enough not to like him.
“Except that he did a lot of crazy talking.” This was me, always the voice of reason, and I threw out the comment to the guy supervising the building of the Clark Kent office. “Maybe somebody didn’t like what Vincent said about the comic book convention.”
The guy’s mouth twisted. “Vincent said something about the comic book convention? What could he possibly say except that it was scheduled to take place? That is, if we get this damned construction finished. Hey, Mario!” The supervisor waved his arms to get the attention of a guy who was attaching a door to the back of the office set. “Not that way, you idiot. The other way! The other way!” He used his hands to demonstrate and once Mario got the message and started installing the door with the hinges swinging in the proper direction, the supervisor turned back to us. “What were we saying? Oh yeah, Vincent. Who would listen to a nutcase like him, anyway?”
“I guess maybe we should have,” I mumbled once the supervisor hurried away. “Quinn, what about—”
I was going to suggest talking to the cleaning ladies I’d seen out in back where employees smoked, but Quinn mumbled something about security tapes and walked away.
I was not overly disappointed. For one thing, being on my own gave me a break from the bad mood that had been hanging over him ever since the day before when we’d visited the morgue (the real morgue) and Detective Anderson had reminded him that these days, Quinn’s job pretty much consisted of community relations and nothing else. For another, it gave me a chance to do a little investigating on my own, and that is never a bad idea.
At least it never had been before my parents popped back into my life.
Oh yeah, that was them all right. Walking into the ballroom of a hotel where they had no business and knew nobody. Except me.
“Yoo-hoo! Honey!” Mom waved and made a beeline for me. Dad followed, looking around as he did. “I called Ella and she said—”
“It really is amazing.” Dad gave me a good-morning kiss on the cheek. “This is going to be some fancy convention, huh? I might have to come check it out. And you know what else is amazing?” He gave me the once-over. “Ella can’t say enough good things about you and all the wonderful work you do, but honey, it sounds like you don’t even go in to the office every day. Shouldn’t you be there now? It’s not that I don’t think your investigations are important. And it’s not that I don’t understand that when Mom and I are officially on board, we’ll all be doing this full time, but for now you should probably make a better show of it. You do have benefits, don’t you? I’d hate to see you lose them before we can figure out if joining the chamber of commerce can get us a good rate on our own.”
I told myself I would explain about my ghostly peeps some other time. For now, the only thing that came to mind was, “What are you two doing here?”
“Helping you investigate, of course.” Mom smiled at each workman who scuffled by. “You are here about the…” She leaned in close and whispered, though how anybody could have heard her over the sounds of a table saw that started up was anybody’s guess. “M-U-R-D-E-R, right?”
“We are. I am.” It never hurts to make this sort of thing clear. “But there’s nothing going on. Nothing I need help with, anyway. I’m just asking some questions. In fact, I was just leaving. There’s nothing to see here and no one to talk to and—”
“Pepper! What a wonderful surprise!”
Surprise, yes. Wonderful? I would have to think about that. Right after I got over the shock of turning toward the sound of the voice.
“Milo!” I wondered if my smile looked genuine or slapped on and decided it didn’t matter. One look at me and Milo Blackburne’s chest puffed out. His smile was genuine enough for the both of us. “What are you—”
“Just checking on the construction.” His cheeks turned a dusky shade that matched my mom’s raspberry-colored sweater. “I’m financing it. The Daily Planet part of it, anyway. Not the entire convention, of course.” He tipped his head in the direction of the set we’d seen being built. “Just my way little way of helping out and paying homage to the greatest of the superheroes.”
It was all Mom needed to hear. No, not the superhero nonsense, the financing part. She skimmed a look over Blackburne, assessing his charcoal suit, his wingtip shoes, his haircut, even his glasses. Oh yeah, I could practically see the dollar signs light up in her eyes. Like I said, Mom isn’t as shallow as she’s just downright practical. She knows a good thing when she sees it—moneywise—and one look, and she knew Blackburne was the real deal.
“Is this a friend of yours?” She stepped forward and had her hand out even as she asked me the question. “I’m Barb,” she said, pumping Milo’s hand. “And this is Gil. We’re Penelope’s parents.”
“Well, this is perfect!” Blackburne turned to my dad. “I was hoping to talk Pepper…er…Penelope…er, Lana…” His blush deepened. “I was hoping to talk to her and arrange something so that I’d have the opportunity to meet you one of these days. And now the pieces have all fallen into place. But what…” He looked my way. “What are you all doing here?”
“Investigating, of course.” This was Mom. Even as I tried to shush her with a laser look of my own, she rambled on. “We’re joining Pepper’s firm, Gil and I. GBP Investigations.” She whipped out a business card and pressed it into Blackburne’s hand. Amazing that I noticed since I was so busy cringing. “Getting ready to put the shingle up. A family business is something we’ve all always dreamed about.”
Except that we hadn’t. Not ever.
&nbs
p; Before I could point this out, Milo glanced at the business card, then looked over at me. “Investigations. Pepper, you never told me you were a private investigator. Not that I’m surprised. It only makes sense that you’d be engaged in something so interesting.” He turned a smile on my parents. “Your daughter is very smart, but I’m sure you already know that. She’s also very clever. But she never told me about this.” He aimed an admiring smile in my direction. “Tell me, what are you investigating here at the hotel? It doesn’t have anything to do with the convention, does it? I’d hate to hear there’s anything fishy up. I’m so looking forward to spending the weekend with other aficionados!”
“Coffee.” I looped one arm through one of Mom’s and the other through one of Dad’s and managed to get them both pointed toward the door before either one of them could open their mouths to contradict me. “There’s been coffee missing from the employee break room,” I told Milo, careful to keep my voice low, like it mattered and we had to keep it under our hats. “They asked us to stop by and ask a few questions, you know, to try and get to the bottom of things.”
This whole fabrication might actually have sounded convincing if Quinn hadn’t picked that particular moment to join us. He had yet to meet Milo Blackburne, but I knew he knew who we were talking to the moment he set eyes on Blackburne. Then again, Quinn has a way of sizing someone up in an instant and deciding just as quickly that he likes—or doesn’t like—that person.
Want to guess which decision he made about Blackburne?
Quinn’s nod was barely perceptible. “You’re Milo Blackburne.”
Blackburne’s smile didn’t make it all the way to his eyes. “I can tell Pepper’s been talking about me. And you’re—”
Quinn provided the information. Don’t think I missed the look he slid my way while he was doing it. It was one of those what-the-hell-is-going-on-here glances anybody else might have mistaken for casual. Me? I knew Quinn was as serious as a heart attack. And pissed, too.
“Barb and Gil tell me you’re investigating,” Milo said. “I have to admit, I didn’t think it was anything important until I realized the police were involved. Whatever’s going on, I’d hate for the convention to get any bad PR. But then, that’s what you’re supposed to be taking care of, isn’t it, Detective Harrison? If I’m not mistaken, I saw your name on the contact list at the back of the convention brochure. You’re our liaison with the city, police protection–wise.”
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