Dead-Tective Box Set

by Mac Flynn

  "I want them trespassed immediately!" we heard Bobby shout.

  "I'll tell you one more time. We can't cite someone for trespassing without knowing who they are, and you're telling me you don't know the people who came here," an unknown male voice replied.

  "Then find out! I gave you a description of their weird vehicle and its license plate! That should be enough!" Bobby protested.

  "Listen, sir, some days we perform miracles, but this might not be one of them. I can run the description of the car and its plate through our list of stolen vehicles and whatnot, but there's no guarantee we can press charges," the other man argued.

  "Then do that and get on it! I don't want any snooping around and wrecking the place!" Bobby ordered him. I snorted. They'd have to clean up the place first to wreck it.

  "We'll try our best, sir. Let me run that license plate through our database and see what I can find."

  Vince slunk down the hall to a tall, narrow window covered by a moth-eaten curtain. I followed, and we both peeked out through the moth holes. Bobby stood on the gravel driveway in front of the house, and in front of him was a police car. I could see the officer inside the car typing the information given to him by Bobby.

  "Think they'll find us on record?" I asked Vince.

  "Undoubtedly. Tim and I have a long record of eluding the law with the car," he reminded me.

  "There goes the plan to coax him into telling us where the family skeletons are buried," I quipped.

  In a moment the officer climbed out of the car with a printout of a picture which he handed to Bobby. "This the car you saw?"

  Bobby perused the picture and gave an emphatic nod. "Yes, that's it. Who are they?"

  "We don't know, but we consider the owner or owners of the vehicle to be very dangerous. They have more vehicular violations than half the total city," the officer replied.

  "So why don't you arrest them?" Bobby questioned him.

  The officer shrugged. "We can't catch them, but if you see them again don't approach them. Call us and we'll handle the situation."

  "So you're not going to do anything about them right now?" Bobby persisted.

  "We can't follow them because we don't know where they went, but we'll keep a patrol car around the block just in case they show up again," the officer promised. "Anyway, have a good night, and don't forget to call us." The officer slipped back into his car and drove away.

  Bobby turned away from the leaving vehicle with a sulking expression on his thin, pale face. "Damn cops not protecting me," he mumbled.

  Vince slipped away from the window and back to the rear of the house, and Harriet and I followed him. "We must leave before our car is discovered," he commented.

  "What about my body?" Harriet insisted.

  "We can find nothing of importance here, but do you know of anyone else who might have a key to the house?" Vince asked her.

  She furrowed her brow. "There's Bobby's solicitor. Some man named Craig Bartlett. He hired him about four years ago to handle my death proceedings, and he visits every few months. I've never seen him in the house, but he might have a key."

  "We will speak with this solicitor and find if he knows anything," Vince suggested.

  "You can find his office somewhere along Mephisto Street," Harriet told us.

  "We will look for him there." Vince opened the unlocked back door and paused on the threshold. His eyes scrutinized the ground, and I followed his gaze. There wasn't anything unusual about the hard-packed, weedy earth.

  "What is it?" I asked him.

  "The trail of earth is gone, and yet there are no tracks from a vehicle or wheelbarrow. It seems that whoever stole the bag was perfectly capable of carrying it up the stairs in their arms or over their shoulder," he explained.

  "So why didn't they?" I asked him.

  "They wished to attract the attention of Morley with the trail of dirt and the unlocked doors," he surmised.

  "So it wasn't Bobby who stole my body?" Harriet questioned him.

  "I don't believe so, but we will speak with the solicitor and see what he knows," Vince replied.

  "Well, don't take too long. I'm not getting any younger here," Harriet scolded us.

  Chapter 5

  We trudged through the wilderness to our car. The cop hadn't yet noticed our dark vehicle among the dark shadows of the tall trees. Harriet floated behind us, but stopped at the edge of the weed-choked lawn. "I can't go any farther than this, but if you need to get a hold of me I'm always around the hollow tree," she informed us.

  "We will speak with you later this evening, or tomorrow night," Vince promised.

  We slipped into the car and drove down the road, mindful of police cars. I glanced over my shoulder at the property and was in time to see Harriet fade into nothing. "So is she trapped on the property until we bury here?" I asked my partner.

  "No. The ghost is trapped to the property on which they are buried," he explained.

  "So does that mean the bones are still somewhere on the grounds?" I guessed.

  "Yes."

  "And there's no way of using Harriet as a divining rod or pointer?"

  "Very little. The grounds are extensive and if the bones are buried deep she may not feel a connection," he revealed.

  "So what are we hoping to get from this solicitor guy? And what is a solicitor?" I asked him.

  "A solicitor is an old term for an attorney, and I don't expect anything to come of this interview unless he might inform us about the insignia and the boy's acquisition of the anti-supernatural items," Vince replied.

  In a few minutes we reached Mephisto Street. It was an older part of the business district where the buildings hardly rose above one floor and most were made of aged and discolored bricks. The streetlights flickered, but usually kept up a steady light, and many of the shops were closed at the hour we arrived. Most had dim lights behind their large windows and etchings of their business names on the glass. We puttered past the shops until we found Bartlett's building, a small, single-story brick structure with a large window beside the heavy wooden door. Another large window to the right of the front door had closed curtains and was dark.

  I was surprised to see the lights were still inside and the curtains were opened. The window and lights revealed a small waiting room with a few chairs against the left-hand wall, and a wall with a small window at the rear that separated the waiting room from the rest of the building. There was a door to the right of the window that allowed entrance to the rear.

  Vince parked the car and we approached the entrance. "Think we should knock?" I asked him.

  He answered by opening the door and stepping inside. I followed, and a small jingle of a bell overhead alerted the occupant to our presence. In a moment a tall man of sixty appeared at the window in the rear wall and smiled at us. He wore a dark-blue suit with spectacles on his face. His whitish hair was slicked back and his large hands showed ink stains from notarizing documents.

  "Good evening. What can I do for you?" he asked us in a bright, cheerful voice.

  "We wish to discuss a client of yours, one Mr. Robert Morley," Vince told him.

  The man raised an eyebrow and slipped from the window. The side-door opened and he slipped into the waiting room and shut the opening behind him. "I'm afraid the attorney-client privilege means I can't speak about any personal matters, but might I ask why you're inquiring?"

  Vince stepped up to him and his glasses dropped. The vampire's red eyes stared into Bartlett's own, and the old man's body loosened and his eyes drooped. "We wish to know of Morley and his mother."

  Bartlett spoke in a mechanical-sounding voice. "Mrs. Morley is dead, but Bobby fears she still haunts him."

  "Is that why he has the spiritual protections in and around his cottage?" Vince questioned him.

  "Yes. He fears she will take his life, and he himself has discussed suicide many times to free himself of her influence," Bartlett explained.

  "Do you know where he purchased the anti-super
natural items?"

  The human shook his head. "No."

  "Has he acted strangely within the last week?"

  "Yes."

  "How so?"

  "I visited him six days ago and noticed he had dirt from the basement on his shoes. When I asked him where he'd been he refused to tell me and he ordered me to leave. I have not been back."

  "And you know nothing of the body of Harriet Morley?"

  "Nothing but that it was never found." Vince frowned, but held one of his hands in front of the man's face. He snapped his fingers and Bartlett swayed and clutched his head with one hand. The attorney glanced between our faces. "What-what happened?" he asked us.

  "You have been very helpful," Vince replied.

  Bartlett blinked at us. "I have?"

  "Yes, now we must bid you goodnight." Vince bowed his head and left.

  "Um, thanks for the help," I added, and hurried after my partner. I found Vince waiting for me by the car. "Did he really help us?" I asked him.

  "Very little, but we have now confirmed the body has been missing since the last week," he pointed out.

  "That's great, but we still don't know where the body is and our only lead turned out to be as dead as our client," I countered.

  "If the living cannot help us then maybe the dead can, and that is why we must secure a dog capable of finding dead bodies," he replied. He slipped into the car and I stepped up to his open window.

  "We're not going to go steal a police dog, are we?" I asked him.

  "No, we will be borrowing a Parasquad dog," he revealed.

  "A Parasquad dog? They have dogs?" I wondered.

  He started the engine. "Yes, but the night is marching on and we must hurry if we're to put to rest our client this night."

  We drove to our usual manhole entrance into the drudges of the supernatural society that lay beneath the city. The tunnels were lit with the torches, and I expected to see the hulking, shadowy figure of Officer Romero give us his customary greeting.

  I sidled up to Vince as we trudged through the dank tunnels. "So how exactly are we going to get a Parasquad dog? I mean, don't they need those for official paranormal business?" I asked him.

  "Officer Romero owns one of the beasts, and may allow us use of it," he explained.

  "Uh-huh, you mean the officer we keep leaving high-and-dry with information?" I quipped.

  "The same," he agreed.

  "I don't think that's going to make him want to hand over his dog."

  "Then perhaps information may be traded for the dog."

  "You're getting pretty desperate for the dog, aren't you?"

  "We have no other leads," he reminded me.

  I sighed and let my shoulders droop. "Don't remind me. Here we are on a case and even your detective skills aren't up to the challenge."

  "The detective work hasn't failed until we give up," he countered.

  A smile slipped onto my lips. "That's pretty optimistic coming from you."

  He turned away from me so he faced straight ahead. "I must blame you for such thoughts."

  I straightened and grinned. "I'll take the blame, and wear it like a badge of honor." We reached the underground city and found it as lively as ever. Monsters walked to and fro on their shopping missions, and others plied their wares on the different levels or in the rows of shops. Unfortunately, there was still no sign of Romero. "Think he's out on another beat?" I asked my partner.

  Vince pursed his lips and shook his head. "No, but he may be on assignment."

  "Like he was in the Underground?" I guessed.

  "Yes, but we shall find the truth." He led us to the station down the row of shops. At the front desk sat another zombie, and a few others worked behind him among the rows of desks filing reports of phantoms and booking witches for illegal hexing.

  The zombie at the front desk glanced up from paperwork and glared at us. "How can I help you?" he asked in a brisk tone.

  "We wish to speak with Officer Romero," Vince told him.

  The zombie officer's mood darkened and his eyebrows crashed down. "He's been given time off for bungling the stakeout in the Underground." His cloudy eyes flickered between us. "It seems a vampire and novice messed up the works."

  Vince frowned, but bowed his head and turned away. I glanced at Vince's retreating back to the zombie officer and back. "Um, thanks for the help," I told the officer as I hurried after my partner.

  I caught Vince outside where he stood in contemplation. "You know, they make time off sound like a bad thing," I commented.

  "For a zombie that is very bad. If they find the creature is more trouble than they are worth then the spell keeping them alive will be revoked and they will die a permanent death," Vince explained.

  I furrowed my brow. "Is that such a bad thing? I mean, Harriet wants to find peace. Don't the guys at the Parasquad want to get some eternal rest?"

  "Some of them are proud of their jobs. Romero is one of them," he replied.

  I ran a hand through my tied hair. "Just our luck. We could have released two people for the task of one. Anyway, what kind of a dog are we getting from Romero that we can't find somewhere else?"

  "A dead one."

  I threw up my arms. "Why do I even bother asking? Of course a zombie guy would have an undead dog."

  "We will visit him at his home and see what we can find out," Vince suggested. He strode toward a different tunnel than that which we'd entered.

  I hurried after him. "Wait, the zombies have homes? They don't live at the precinct?" I asked him.

  "That is correct," he confirmed.

  "So where do they live exactly?"

  "At the outskirts of the sewers," he revealed.

  "Sounds fashionable. Why do they live there?" I quipped.

  "Zombies are less accepted than other creatures," he explained.

  "Because they come to pieces in a fight?"

  "Because they have a foul odor."

  "Some of the racism down here have the strangest origins," I mused as Vince led me into the depths of the sewers.

  Chapter 6

  We wandered our way through the giant culverts. The farther we traveled the fewer the torches until they stopped altogether. Without our vampiric sight we would have been completely blind in the near-darkness. Only slits of light through sewer drains allowed any light to shine into the damp, dank, drippy sewers.

  "Can't we go any place fashionable?" I muttered.

  "Such as the clothing store?" Vince quipped.

  I stuck out my tongue. "Hardy-har-har. You just want to go back there to take a bite out of that employee again."

  "Jealous?"

  I turned away, folded my arms over my chest, and pressed my lips in a pout. "No." Vince stopped so quickly I rammed into his back. He didn't waver, but I fell back onto the cold, wet ground. "Will you warn me when you do that!"

  "I have stopped," he warned me.

  I stood and tried to brush unmentionable trash off my rear and pants. "Oh thanks, that really helps now. Why the sudden stop, anyway?"

  He gestured to a widening of the tunnel in front of us. "We are here."

  Before us were the remains of an old subway station complete with tracks and a platform. The tracks ran to our left and right, and on the other side of them was the platform. At the far side of the platform sat shanty houses made from discarded roofing material. Overhead was a glass ceiling where most of the glass was painted over with black, leaving only a few small holes to allow artificial light from a higher sublevel. The stairs were boarded shut and filled in with rocks. Above us I could hear the rumble of trains as they made their way along used tracks.

  What really caught my attention, though, was the beautiful touches. The platform was tiled in white marble. The walls held mosaics formed from colored tiles, and many of the images depicted scenes from the Bible and ancient classics like the Iliad and the Odyssey. There was Odysseus sailing by the sirens, and there was God booting Adam and Eve out of Paradise.

  I st
epped into the light and my mouth dropped open. "Wow," I whispered. "Somebody really wanted this place to look good."

  "The zombies created the mosaics and laid the marble tile," Vince informed me.

  I swung around and stared at him with wide eyes. "Really?"

  "They are undead, but not uncreative," he scolded me.

  I gestured with both hands to the beautiful layout. "Yeah, but this!"

  "It did take some years, but the effort was worth it," a voice commented. We swung around to find Romero standing behind Vince. Leave it to him to sneak up behind us at his home. I noticed he wasn't in his uniform, but in worn slacks with a faded white t-shirt.

  In one of his hands was a leash, and at his side was a dog much like him: rotting at the ribs and with filmy eyes. The dog took one whiff of our scents and pulled back its rotten lips to show off two rows of surprisingly healthy teeth. "Heel, Brutus," Romero hissed. The dog stopped growling and sat down, but its eyes never stopped glaring at us. Romero turned to us with a frown on his lips. "What are you two doing here, anyway? Come to ruin another stakeout?"

  "We wish to borrow your dog," Vince told him.

  Romero scoffed. "And why should I do that?"

  "Because you're a nice guy?" I spoke up.

  "As they say, nice guys finish last," he quoted.

  "We heard you were given time off," Vince commented.

  Romero gave a nod. "Yeah, I was given time off. I was blamed for the bungling of the stakeout at the Sea Slug." His eyes flickered to Vince. "Someone attracted werewolves and they alerted the buyers that danger was near, so they escaped."

  "We didn't mean to mess things up. We just needed to find somebody," I defended us.

  "Well, you messed things up for me, and the higher-ups are debating whether to de-life me," he revealed.

  I blinked at him. "De-life you?"

  "To extinguish his existence," Vince explained.

  "Oh, the permanent death. But it was only one mistake," I argued.

  "One big mistake, and there's a gluttony of zombies to use for the force. They can use me as an example for the others without losing manpower," Romero told us.

  I cringed. "How do they do it?"

  "They coat us with the blood of lambs. It purifies the body and forces our souls to rest," he explained. He hung his head and pushed past us with the dog at his side. "But what am I talking to you two for? You won't help."