Ghostly Murder (PI Assistant Extraordinaire Mystery Book 1)

by Lotta Smith

  “So, who stabbed him?” Henderson knitted his eyebrows. “Oh! We have this woman who nearly escaped from the rapist. So, are you implying that she stabbed him when she fought back?”

  “No. I don’t think she stabbed anyone. She was too busy running from Weitzman.” Archangel shook his head. “Also, she was found disheveled and panicky, but she wasn’t described as drenched in blood, which excludes her from the list of suspects that could have stabbed the Sushi Czar. In addition, I’ve told you it’s the Ghost in the Net who killed Weitzman.”

  “Who the hell is the Ghost in the Net?” Henderson let out a deep sigh.

  “Here’s what happened.” Archangel rolled his shoulders, as if to work out the kinks in his muscles. “This twenty-four-year-old office worker was assaulted by the man with no face, who was Weitzman wearing a ghost mask. Somehow, the knit mask came off. Considering the mask was discovered on the pavement near some lights, she saw the rapist’s face. My guess is this accident stunned the rapist for a moment, which gave the victim time to run away. At the same time, this event scared the shit out of the rapist because everyone in the neighborhood knew who Thomas Weitzman the Sushi Czar was. So he had to think fast and move faster. Perhaps Weitzman always carried that knife whenever he went for a night jog slash raping journey. So with the knife in his hand, he ran after her, determined to kill her and keep her mouth shut forever. And the rest is history.”

  “She ran into the cage, shut the door, and locked herself in,” Henderson muttered.

  “Exactly.” Archangel nodded. “But even with the cage door locked, the fence wasn’t high enough to keep the deranged rapist away. So Weitzman started to climb the fence. Meanwhile, the office worker wasn’t just sitting around while her would-be-killer came after her. She had to get out of the cage before the attacker came inside. Most likely, Weitzman climbed up the side with the door, so he could jump down on the victim if she tried to run out the door. As the person being chased, she ran toward the opposite direction.”

  Archangel pointed at the cage. “I’m assuming she chose to climb the fence furthest away from the one Weitzman was climbing, trying to keep as much distance as possible between her and the predator. Seeing as he was larger and stronger, he must have cleared it while she was climbing the fence. In hopes of catching her, Weitzman ran toward the opposite fence. He was so desperate and intent on his task, he forgot something very important about this tennis court, such as, there’s a net dividing the two sides. In addition, this area of the park gets pretty dark at night, so running across the dark tennis court wasn’t such a good idea. When it’s dark, people tend to miss a lot of things. Anyway, he stumbled over the net and fell, like Boom! Unfortunately for him but blissfully for the victim he was trying to kill, he fell on the military knife he was carrying when he landed. As the result, he stabbed himself.”

  “What? But in that case, shouldn’t he be facing down, not up?” Henderson said.

  “He tried to get up, and he managed to change his position, but that was about it. He died from blood loss.”

  “All right.” Looking up at the sky, Henderson muttered, “I’ll tell forensics to thoroughly test the ghost mask.”

  “I recommend looking for the office worker’s shoes. When she was found, she was barefoot, right?”

  “Right,” Henderson agreed. “Shoes may make good evidence as well.”

  Archangel added. “Not to mention, she might want her shoes back. What if they were the good shoes? Nothing is as annoying as losing a good pair of shoes.”

  For someone who preferred women’s getup, Archangel had no sense of delicacy or gentleness, but at least, he was considerate enough to understand the frustration of losing good shoes.

  “So, what about the Ghost in the Net?” Henderson asked. “Are you suggesting the battered dignity of the rape victims helped stumble the Sushi Czar?”

  Archangel clarified, “There’s this tennis term ‘ghost in to the net,’ which is a strategy to sneak toward the net while the opponent scrambles for a difficult shot. Though this case has nothing to do with this strategy, by giving a ghost the credit, there’s the feeling of poetic justice. I like to think there was a ghost who tripped the rapist and saved the woman.”

  “I know.” Henderson nodded. “That explains her shock, I guess. Perhaps she witnessed the Sushi Czar stabbing himself and bleeding to death.”

  “Right,” Archangel agreed. “That’s my assumption, too.”

  EPILOGUE

  After Henderson sent the forensics team all over the park in search of the lost pair of shoes, Archangel and I left.

  “You know, Mr. Archangel…” I said, power walking to keep up with my towering employer.

  “Yes?” Without turning back, he responded.

  “When did you figure out the death of the Sushi Czar was an accident, rather than a murder?”

  Stopping abruptly, he turned back to me.

  “That’s a good question.” He raised one corner of his mouth.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” I pointed out.

  “As a matter of fact, I had that possibility in my mind as soon as I saw the roofless cage.”

  “Wow, that’s impressive,” I admitted. “By the way, you didn’t need to send me to the forest, did you?”

  “Come on, that was necessary.” He gave me a ‘get real’ look. “Sometimes, I need to prove I’m working hard so I can keep my service fees high. In addition, you were way more reluctant for that task than I’d expected, which earned me some extra points in the effort department. Nice job, Kelly.”

  “Excuse me?” I countered. “I’m the one who went into that creepy forest, and not you.”

  “So what?”

  “Can’t you care a little bit more about your assistant’s safety?” I spat. “You sent me to that godforsaken forest before the ghost mask was located. At that time, you had no idea the serial rapist was Weitzman a.k.a. the Sushi Czar, did you?”

  “Oh, Kelly. You’re making me out to be a callous, heartless con artist. That really hurts.” He clutched at his chest dramatically. “How can you accuse me of sending you in to that shrub before making sure you were going to be safe? Unlike that lying, cheating fraud of an ex-hubby, I have standards.”

  “So, you knew the rapist was the Sushi Czar?”

  “No,” he said nonchalantly. “I’m not a psychic. At that time, that was just a theory, but I had nothing to support it. Then again, this rapist hadn’t committed his crime spree in the light of day, so I presumed you’d be fine. Besides that, helping me with my job is what your job’s all about, isn’t it?”

  “I’d appreciate it so much if you would kindly care about my well-being,” I said grudgingly.

  “You know what, Kelly?” He chuckled. “I was more than positive of your safety. If I recall it right, you can breathe fire. That skill was listed in your resume, am I right?”

  “Maybe,” I admitted, pouting.

  Hell, I shouldn’t have gone that far. Maybe I should have replaced the part that said “Can breathe fire” with “Can seat ambassadors from multiple nations perfectly according to protocol.”

  “Hey, cheer up,” he said as he checked the time with his smartphone. “It’s almost lunch time. I’ll buy you lunch to show my appreciation for your hard work.”

  “Hmm, okay. What’s for lunch?” I asked, perking a little bit. I didn’t mind having a nice lunch.

  “What do you say about sushi?”

  “After seeing the corpse of the Sushi Czar stabbed to death?”

  “I guess so. Having seen the blood, I developed a craving for some raw tuna,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “You know what, Mr. Archangel? You are sick!”

  Michael Archangel burst out laughing.

  His laughter was annoying, yet contagious at the same time, and the next thing I knew, I was giggling.

  “We’ll go for something that doesn’t serve raw fish meat,” I said.

  “Okay. How about that little bistro near
Arlington Ridge?”

  “That sounds nice.”

  The sky was blue with no sign of clouds, and the air was warm. Everything around us seemed uncharacteristically peaceful for a place where a suspicious death had happened just several hours earlier.

  At that time, I didn’t have the slightest idea of Eyeball Snatcher fiasco, which was about to start just after a week or so. In retrospect, the mayhem was already beginning, without getting noticed.

  As they say, ignorance is bliss. We were acting as if we didn’t have a care in the world.

  IMMORTAL EYES

  Here’s a sneak peek of Immortal Eyes—PI Assistant Extraordinaire Mystery Book 2—available at Amazon!

  To download, access http://amzn.to/1T4DKC3. Kindle Unlimited subscribers, read for free!

  Serial murder with a sick ritual…

  The Dragon Lady…

  and the mismatched duo’s race against time…

  Previously a socialite and a ‘real’ housewife, Kelly Kinki is now stuck with a dead-end job as a personal assistant to a private investigator. To Kelly, this translates as playing second fiddle to a guy who gets more cat-calls than she does.

  Michael Archangel is his name, catching killers is what he does, and he does it in…well, a short skirt and high heels. As a former FBI Special Agent turned P.I., Archangel knows his way around a crime scene as well as he does the local Agent Provocateur. His game de jour is toying with Kelly, his assistant—just like cat and mouse. However, they’re a team, whether fending off rude paparazzi or manhandling the politicians, freaks, and other lowlifes roaming the streets of the nation’s capital, the two are hell-bent on finding a serial killer who is holding the city hostage.

  Join Archangel, Kelly, and a host of oddball characters as they wind their way through a madcap crime thriller, with more twists and turns than a mind-bender roller coaster. Kelly’s story is filled with raucous humor and irreverent satire, so buckle up. Who’ll solve the crime, and who will take the credit? Perhaps all the investigators will get for their trouble is a full color splash on the cover of the Washington Post, “Latest Victims Discovered in Matching Frocks - One Male, One Female”.

  Chapter 1

  There’s a first time for everything.

  I was at a medical examiner’s office in rural Virginia. It was my first visit to this place and, actually, it also happened to be my very first trip to a morgue. I was there to attend the autopsy of a woman who allegedly had fallen victim to a brutal murder. So far, I’d seen more than my share of corpses in the past four months; however, I usually saw them at crime scenes and not morgues.

  I didn’t know much about the statistics of murders, but I had seen lots of homicide victims since starting this job. In the beginning, I kept track of the body count, but I stopped counting after hitting ten on the third day of my current employment. Later, I learned it was just a temporary thing—one of those crazy, busy times—the “on-season” of killing. Anyway, who knew murders had on-seasons? And I’m not talking about Walmart jobs during the holiday season or the wedding industry in June.

  My name is Kelly Kinki. Yes, it’s my real name as written on my birth certificate. No, I’m not into kinky sex, and no, I’m not making this surname thing up. I’m twenty-nine years old, half Italian-English American and half Japanese. Currently, I’m divorced with no intention or anticipation of a new romantic relationship, much less marriage.

  Been there, done that. No thank you very much.

  Right then, my mind was completely centered on my career. And guess what, thinking about myself as a super-cool, classy, and oh-so-savvy sleuth—the assistant extraordinaire, to be precise—totally made me happy. The hard bench chair I sat on was no Cassina, and with the faded grayish-green color scheme, sad taste in décor—or lack thereof—and chilly yet stale air, the morgue’s waiting room was depressing at the best of times. But I was optimistic. In fact, I was feeling kind of flamboyant because I really, really liked the idea of visiting the morgue in line of my job. First of all, I loved the CSI TV series, and the prospect of seeing a live autopsy was totally thrilling. Besides that, it was not like the morgues were open to the public so that anybody could take a sightseeing tour and attend an autopsy, right? Having access to this facility was a real privilege.

  In my mind, I was picturing myself as a female version of Dr. John Watson, only less geeky. Maybe by taking a part in the autopsy, I might come up with something that could lead to a breakthrough—just like super-assistants of brilliant detectives in fictions do all the time. Maybe I could even kick some ass like a badass assistant, too. In my opinion, it was often the assistant extraordinaire who should get the credit for disentangling the mystery before his/her boss did.

  Something warm and fuzzy started to bubble up in my stomach. It wasn’t the aftereffect of a lunch burrito. I had to use a great amount of self-restraint to keep myself from singing, “For the first time in forever, I’ll be watching an autopsy!” like a certain Princess of Arendelle.

  I didn’t realize I was smiling until I heard, “Why don’t you stop grinning like an idiot?” in a deep, husky voice, which belonged to Michael Archangel, the private investigator I worked for, who was sitting next to me on the same bench.

  How I managed to forget his presence, I didn’t know. If nothing else, the delicate yet distinct scent of Higher Energy by Dior, his fragrance de jour, should have alerted me to his presence.

  No thanks to his voice, I was snapped back to the reality that it was him who had access to the morgue, not me. I hadn’t clarified with the morgue, but considering I had no authority or qualification, they wouldn’t have granted me permission to attend the autopsy if I went there all by myself. I also realized a real badass woman wouldn’t imagine singing like a Disney Princess while sitting in the morgue’s waiting room. The truth was, I wasn’t very sure if I wanted to attend the autopsy at all.

  I was no Dr. Watson. I had no background in medicine. The closest experience I’d ever had with this particular field was having a pediatrician and an orthopedic surgeon as ex-faux-dads. It was the first time for me to see a cadaver getting cut open. The corpses I had seen often had a hole or two, but I had never seen the human innards peekabooing from inside of the body cavity, saying something like “Yoo-hoo?”

  As I anticipated this new experience, a gazillion butterflies went wild in my stomach. Okay, so the earlier flamboyance and faux-hardboiled tone were only parts of my façade to hide my nervousness. And speaking of body contents, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to keep my lunch burrito where it belonged.

  Discreetly, I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and regain my composure. “I didn’t realize you were watching every step of mine, but thanks for your keen attention anyway. I’m flattered,” I said nonchalantly.

  “Ha.” With a snort, Archangel’s candy-apple-colored lips curled into a sarcastic smirk. “Don’t get me wrong; it’s hard to miss someone sitting by my side babbling silly things with goofy grin pasted on her face, especially when this special someone starts drooling.”

  I felt around my lips with my fingertips, only to find the area completely drool-free.

  “I wasn’t drooling. You tricked me!” I narrowed my eyes.

  “It’s because you’re such a good comic relief to poke fun at, Kelly,” he had the audacity to admit. “But look on the bright side. It was just a joke and not a con. Hey, speaking of a con, did I mention I in no compare to the lying, cheating, jilting, swindling, oh-so-disturbing excuse for a human douchebag who happens to be your ex-husband?” With a lighthearted chuckle, he added, “No pun intended.”

  Biting my lip, I toyed with the idea of kicking him really hard in the shin. This cra…I mean, nonsense, of him dissing Warren and my past marriage was just getting old, and it was oh-so-tempting to finally make a point. But I thought better of it. First off, kicking your employer runs a potentially hazardous risk for your job security. Secondly, most of his words were accurate, especially the part about my ex being a con—as in
being a convicted conman. I didn’t want to reinforce his cocksureness by getting upset. That would only tip him off that yours truly, indeed, had feelings for my ex-husband.

  So instead of kicking him, I retorted, “I never drool!”

  “Hey, Kelly.” Flashing the perfect set of pearly whites, Archangel nudged my elbow. “Look what you’ve done to her.” I followed his gaze and spotted the female receptionist. She was practically gaping at us from behind the counter. My eyes met with hers. I tried a polite, social smile that implied I was not her enemy. She averted her gaze.

  “See?” He cocked his head. “You’ve managed to creep her out in five minutes. What a shame. Now I’m labeled as a PI who’s stuck with a weird assistant from La-La Land. Come on, I’ve got a reputation to maintain.” As he shook his head, shining locks of his long, auburn hair swayed like dancing waves.

  “I see, so you’ve got a reputation to maintain.” Rephrasing his words, I gave him an up-and-down look. His attire consisted of a skintight, above-the-knee-length dress in vivid magenta and purple fishnet stockings paired with fuck-me-if-you-can high heels. Okay, so the colorful attire flattered his alabaster complexion and the totally gorgeous hair that went midway down his back. Even the heavy makeup wasn’t laughable.

  Yes, you heard me right. I said he was dressed like a woman. I’m not making any of this up. His outfit de jour was described as skimpy and eye-catching, at best. It was not his Halloween costume on an account that it was early April, not the last day of October. Did I mention that cross-dressing was his “casual/business” attire? I didn’t know and didn’t want to know what he wore for black-tie events.

  I glanced back at the receptionist, who was shaking her head as if trying to clear away the many thoughts running through her mind. I suspected she was taken aback—no, that would be an understatement. I wouldn’t be surprised if her brain was caught in a temporary cerebral arrest. Archangel had that effect for many people. Basically, unlike L.A. or Miami, seeing a transvestite in rural Virginia was a very rare occasion, which alone counted as an element of surprise. There was another major element called confusion. Indeed, to the casual eye, his appearance was very confusing. I’m not talking about an esthetically challenged dude playing dress up as a geisha.