Jack Hanlin glanced at Aubrey’s purse and placed the plastic bag of her personal items on top. “Not so fast. Accident or not, none of it explains the story she’s been peddling since security nabbed her. Two people are still dead. I don’t care what caused that explosion; nothing explains her obvious prior knowledge.”
“To be honest,” Aubrey said, “I was thinking the exact same thing.” She looked at Piper. “It wasn’t a past event, Piper. It wasn’t a simple ghost gift or a filter of information that solved a decades-old crime or a recent one. It wasn’t a connection that led me to the resolution of a cold case. It was a statement about future events.”
Piper tucked a length of curly blonde hair behind her ear. “And that’s different?”
“You know it is.”
“What the hell are the two of you babbling about?” Hanlin asked.
The women traded a glance, and Piper held up her hand. In a drawl that drew you in like a campfire tale, Deputy Chief Sullivan spent the next thirty minutes filling in Jack Hanlin’s blanks. With each story, his skepticism didn’t shift, though he appeared to grow more curious.
In the meantime, all Aubrey could think was that Agent Hanlin’s reaction would have been Levi’s reaction had she spilled everything about herself at their first meeting. She pushed away old memories of the Surrey City Press and focused on Piper’s explanation. How for the past decade, in a rather covert fashion, she’d offered her psychic services in at least a dozen cold cases, all of them involving missing children. Nearly every case Aubrey worked on was now archived under “solved.”
“And in January of this year,” Piper said, drawing to a close, “Aubrey was able to lead my team to a barn outside Lexington—a property authorities had gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Under a classic 1954 Edsel was a hidden trapdoor. Inside a dirt cellar was Lily North, a nine-year-old girl who’d been abducted from a mall in Braintree.”
“I know the story,” Hanlin said. “She was presumed dead. Solid detective work finally broke the case.”
“Aubrey broke the case. Months before we found the girl, Edith Pope died. She was the mother of Errol Pope.”
“The creep who took the girl.”
“Exactly.”
“But what does that have to do with solving the case . . . or her?” He pointed at Aubrey again.
“Seems Edith went to her grave carrying a good bit of guilt and information. Eventually, via Aubrey’s spiritual guide and Edith—”
“Via what?”
“Trust me,” Piper said. “It’s all in the sealed file. By way of Aubrey’s gift and with Edith’s cooperation, she led us to the barn and the Edsel.”
“That’s insane.”
“That’s why we don’t broadcast it on the evening news.”
Agent Hanlin cleared his throat. “So what you’re telling me . . .”
“Oh my God, yes!” Aubrey slapped her hands on the table. “I see dead people! Get over it!” She gathered her composure. “Look. I’ll show you. Would you, um . . . could I have my purse and the plastic bag?”
“Aubrey?” Piper said tentatively.
He obliged, handing over the freshly trampled handbag and her personal items. From the tagged plastic bag, she withdrew a thimble—about the size of a high-tech earpiece. “I’m going to take a chance here. Otherwise, if you like, you could surely have me arrested for stealing historical treasures.” She held out the thimble, closed end up. Engraved on the tip was a tiny cursive R. “This is a piece of silver given to me this morning by its maker.” She smiled at Agent Hanlin. “It will be a smart addition to my collection.”
“Of silver?” he asked.
“Of ghost gifts.”
“Ghost . . . ?”
“Gifts.”
Jack Hanlin blinked at her and ran his hand over the tattoo on his forearm. “You, um . . . before . . . earlier.” His color had turned pasty pale. “You talked about Shaun . . . Cairo.”
“Shaun Ramirez has been waiting some time to communicate with you. It was everything I told you—believe it or don’t.”
“He’s been dead for eight years.”
“And he’s quite pissed off that you’ve been spending your live ones wallowing in guilt. For whatever it’s worth, before you so rudely dismissed him, Shaun said, ‘Get some therapy, maybe a dog. Cairo’s cool with that’—whatever that much means.” Aubrey turned back to Piper before Jack Hanlin’s voice drew her back.
“The IED.” His tone softened. “It wasn’t just Shaun. Cairo was my canine. In truth, he was the lead dog. It was Cairo’s job to head in first, but Ramirez shouldn’t have been behind him. They both bought it, hidden tripwire.”
And the disdain filling Aubrey yielded. “I’m sorry, about your friend . . . your dog. But that was the message—from both of them.”
Hanlin furrowed his brow and turned away from the women.
In a smaller voice, Aubrey spoke to the deputy chief. “Piper, listen to me.” Sullivan’s gaze, glued to the back of Hanlin’s head, peeled away. “Regardless of why that explosion occurred . . . learning the information in advance of the event, it has me spooked. The dead don’t show up to predict the future. That’s not how it works.” She leaned closer. “It’s not something I get to say very often, but believe me when I tell you: nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”
CHAPTER TWO
Biddeford, Maine
Levi debated between rolling up his shirtsleeves and tolerating the flies and heat. He gave in to the elements and turned up the starched fabric. It was a warm day for late September, particularly in Maine. Regardless, a shiver prickled up his spine as he surveyed the scene from his swampy perch. Distracted momentarily, Levi smacked at his bare forearm: a mosquito, not a fly. “I should have brought all-purpose bug repellent,” he muttered to himself, imagining what was buzzing around the dead body forty yards in front of him.
As he slogged forward, Levi’s shoes sank farther into the marshy land. It hadn’t occurred to him to bring waders either. Hell, it wasn’t like he owned a fishing pole. His son liked basketball, skateboarding, and miniature models. Both Pete and Levi found fishing to be a big yawn.
Dan Watney, supervisory field agent, had called Levi in. He was a full-time contact and sometimes friend. Dan worked the law enforcement end of crime, while Levi dug in on the reporting side. More than once, the pairing had turned in a slam-dunk crime-solving effort. Earlier that morning, while making Pete’s lunch, Levi had spoken to Dan with his cell phone pinched between his shoulder and chin. That’s when Dan dropped his dead-body bombshell, and Levi dropped his phone into the mayonnaise jar. A short time later, after seeing Pete off to school, Levi got in his car and drove north.
He wanted to breathe deep now, but the smell of sun-soaked, putrefying flesh permeated the air. A dead body—one thing that could easily out stink a marsh, a normally robust place where cranes nested and owls navigated endless sky. According to Dan, at first glance it appeared to be an execution-style murder, a body discovered by—who else?—bird-watchers. The rural Maine topography showed off waterfront properties, though really it was home to nothing but repurposed swampland and new money. On his drive in, Levi noted a single secluded housing development—Five Points at Blue Cove. In the distance, from his swampy vantage point, a surround of rocks outlined a jagged inlet. Geology, time, and the ocean provided the blue hue. Beryl. Levi noted the color of the stone, unsure when his brain had stored the miscellaneous fact. The classification of rock and color denoted the prime waterfront real estate. A glass house with a red roof stuck out from one point. And big money. That thought was strictly an observational detail.
Navigating a winding road on his way in, Levi had located the rural location not by GPS but by spotting Dan’s steely gray SUV and a van. It was a good thing; otherwise, he would have blown right past the scene. You couldn’t see the estuary, never mind the houses or swamp-like land now filled with a mix of local and federal authorities. High reeds made for good privacy and, ap
parently, the perfect unmarked grave—no burial required. Better still, no people to find it.
Levi was the only media person on-site. That wouldn’t last. As it was, he should have informed his Ink on Air producer about Dan’s call. But Levi’s TV newsmagazine producer only would have insisted on sending a camera crew. Dan’s tip was privileged information, and Levi wasn’t about to cross that line. Five years into his Ink on Air television gig, and Levi still had trouble negotiating professional nuances. So what else was new?
From shin-deep muck, he surveyed an expanse of cattails, gaps of water, and, most notably at the moment, the partially submerged body. He’d waited as the local police cut away enough reeds to reveal the victim, though Levi was at too great a distance to make out much. Turkey buzzards circled, and he forced spit down his dry throat.
Law enforcement snapped photos and gingerly combed the scene, still marking significant areas, perhaps the direction or clues as to how the body entered its final resting place. Alive or dead? It would be a difficult crime scene—no footprints, for one. Unless the killer or killers dropped a business card, evidence would be tough. Finally, a man lumbered toward him. Levi had been watching Dan from the distance, the field agent’s coppery hair signaling like a flare. After peeling off latex gloves, he extended his hand to Levi. “Some mess. Poor bastard. I wouldn’t wish that resting place on my worst enemy.”
“Even then, your worst enemy is something I wouldn’t want to be.” Levi looked toward the body. “How long?”
Dan shook his head. “Too long. Hard to tell since this particular setting accelerates natural decomposition.” Dan brushed an arm over his sweaty brow. “If it’d been winter, we’d have a hell of a lot more to go on. Whoever dumped our DB did it strategically.” He glanced around the perimeter. “Serious exposure, plus heat, a variety of feeders.”
Levi pressed his hands to the air between them. “I think I’ve got it.”
“Just trying to prepare you, man. Won’t be like our live drug dealers in the Keys or the prostitution ring in New Orleans. This is stomach-hurling stuff. Except maybe that one girl, she had the quirky set of—”
“Yeah. I remember.” It was hard to forget the curious range of women connected to a politically funded call-girl operation he and Dan had thwarted. “And sorry to say, this won’t be my first dead body.”
“Won’t be a wall full of floating bones either. Not like your famed Missy Flannigan case.” They exchanged a nod. “Aside from not pretty, there’s no ID—obviously.” Dan raised a hand to scenery that, given a different circumstance, would have looked like a Maine tourism brochure. “This marsh runs into a bog.” He pointed northeast. “Out to sea from there. Body was faceup, submerged at times with the tide, which factors into its condition. Male is our best guess, but the coroner will have to confirm. Looks like maybe it was dark hair, Caucasian, possibly Latino, but again, speculation. That’s about all I can tell you.”
“No, it’s not.” Levi stared at the foreground action. “Your bosses wouldn’t have called you, and you wouldn’t have called me, if that was all. These aren’t your stomping grounds. This homicide doesn’t fall to federal jurisdiction, not at a glance.”
“Not true. For one, based on our moist location, it’s not immediately determinable that the crime didn’t occur at sea or aboard a ship.”
“Dan, I’d appreciate it if you’d avoid the word ‘moist’ at all costs.”
Dan pursed his lips. “To conclude my point, maritime law is assumed until proven otherwise and prompts initial reasoning for calling me in.” His expression sobered. “Grislier but relevant, the flesh is so deteriorated with the fatal wound to the head, crack in the skull is exposed. It was close range for sure.”
“Hence your execution assumption, possibly organized crime and crossing state lines.”
“You are on your game, Levi. And those are enough facts to put this body on my radar.”
“Back to that. There’s nothing else of interest, nothing that got your attention?”
“Maybe. A tattoo.”
“Wouldn’t it be stranger to find a body without one nowadays?”
“Point taken.”
“And it’s intact?”
“Partially. One thing I can tell you, and the ME will agree, no two bodies decompose the same way. Clothing might have preserved parts of our John Doe.”
“I’m assuming the tat isn’t typical, doesn’t say ‘Mother’ or show off some pride of motorcycle ownership.”
“Actually, it’s more like a symbol,” Dan said. “And that’s why it got my attention.”
“Cult?”
“Why don’t you come see for yourself?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Levi said. “I was beginning to think you’d called me up here for the mezzanine view, sunburn, and teaser content.”
“I had to wait for the local Buford T. Justice to bless off on everything.”
“And he was fine with you bringing press in?”
“Who said I identified you as press?” The two men trudged into deeper marsh, murky water pooling around Levi’s knees. “You’d just better hope our local Joe Friday isn’t much for television newsmagazines. Might blow your cover.”
The two men approached, and Dan drew a small jar of Vicks VapoRub from his pocket. He handed it to Levi. “Great . . .” Unscrewing the lid, he scooped out a finger full and ran it beneath his nose. “You’re the only person I know who rides around with Vicks in his glove compartment. Ever think about that?”
“Yep. Keeps my nose from reminding my brain how many dead bodies I’ve had to sniff.” Dan kept on a steady forward path, and Levi grew more grateful for the Vicks. Even so, he gagged at the stench, his eyes watering. “’Course,” Dan said, “I didn’t offer any rub to the village Barney Fife crew. Let them run and retch, might get them out of here quicker.” He winked and moved a step ahead toward his team.
Dan’s job required a certain sort of disconnected wiring, something Levi appreciated but did not possess. That said, he viewed himself as the type of man who did not rattle. Seeing the body, Levi felt a shudder, and he had to borrow a touch of his father’s military mind to keep steady. Grisly was an understatement. The combination of decomposition, weather, and feeding wildlife made determining factors, like facial features, impossible. It was worse than any victim he’d seen on a coroner’s steel slab; it rivaled photos he’d viewed of other postmortem bodies. Anatomy didn’t indicate the victim’s sex but clothing did—a dark long-sleeved shirt with buttons on the right side and men’s pants, probably jeans. Tufts of brown-black hair protruded from skin-covered portions of the skull. From the specifics he could gauge, which included little more than height and darker hair, Levi could have been looking at himself.
“Here,” Dan said. “Guys, can you turn him for me?” Two gloved men from Dan’s crew straddled the victim and gently rolled him to his side. Levi cleared his throat as the lower half seemed to separate from the torso. Levi focused on the victim’s saturated shirt. Dan leaned over, and with the blue tip of his standard Bic pen, he pushed up the shreds of fabric. While the exposed flesh had eroded to some extent, the angle did show off an unusual tattoo located on the body’s forearm.
“I see what you mean,” Levi said. “Definitely a Prince-like symbol.”
“Yeah. My first thoughts: gang, terrorist cell bond, prison embellishment—none of them holds water.” From his swampy stance, he looked at Levi. “No pun intended. And that ink isn’t like anything I’ve encountered. We’ll get a forensic artist to take a stab at reproducing it; our databases may tell us more.”
Levi took a mental snapshot. The mark, about six inches long, appeared to be a riff on the letter E. But it looked more like something a graphic designer would dream up than crude body art. Dan continued with instructions. “And I hope you guys brought the heavy-duty body bags. Let’s make sure we get all of him. It’ll be like picking an overcooked chicken out of a pot.” He shook his head. “Okay, guys. You can put hi
m down.”
“Hang on a second.” Levi squatted as close to the body as he could and shifted his line of vision from the curious tattoo to the tattered tape on the body’s bound wrists. “Huh.”
“Huh, what?”
“Can I have that pen?”
Dan offered a screwy look. “You’re the writer. Where’s yours?”
“Mine hasn’t been used to poke a dead body today. I prefer to keep it that way.”
Dan complied, handing over the pen. Levi leaned in and breathed through his mouth. He turned his head to the side as a gurgle of vomit surged up his throat.
“Steady there, dogged investigative reporter.”
Levi held his crouched position and his breath. “Would you shut the fuck up?” With the pointy blue tip, he scratched at the tape caked in body tissue and swampy debris. A few strokes of the pen’s tip and the black film eroded. Levi and Dan eyeballed one another. “Curious.”
“Green tape.” Dan lowered himself to Levi’s side. “And that’s not duct tape. Guys, let’s get some close-up shots of this.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s narrow compared to standard duct tape. More like electrical tape.”
“Unconventional choice for an execution murder.” Dan narrowed his eyes. “Generally, murder accessories—tape and blindfolds—are standard issue.”
Levi attempted to inch back. Dan leaned even closer, emphasizing Levi’s opinion about the field agent’s disconnected wiring.
“Good enough,” Dan instructed his crew as numerous camera shots clicked off. “You know I would have found the tape at the coroner’s office.”
“But now you found it that much sooner.” Levi stood. “I can’t say it’s a clue, but how many non-duct-taped body parts have you seen when it comes to . . . this?”
“None that I can think of. Great catch, Levi.” Both men backed off the body. “Why you’re a reporter and not a badge, I’ll never figure out.”
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