"I-I don't know. I didn't take a good look. It was just... Portia being silly. I filed it away, waiting to see whether she'd insist I send it."
"We're going to need to see that picture," Hope said. "Do you - ? Shit. You tossed your cell, didn't you?"
"Lost it," Robyn said. "But I downloaded the photo to my laptop. I do that at the end of the workday to keep all my messages in one place."
Hope smiled. "As organized as ever. Now we just need to get your laptop."
* * *
FINN
Finn had never been to a spa.
No, that wasn't true. He'd once had a crime scene at a spa. The ghost claimed to have been bludgeoned to death by her romantic rival as they awaited some hot new treatment guaranteed to make them irresistible to the D-list actor they were both pursuing. As it turned out, the young woman had been pawing through a shelf of discounted hair products when a massive bottle of conditioner had fallen and hit her in the head.
Finn doubted the ghost had intentionally lied. She'd been bending over, felt a blow and made up her own explanation. If her version made her death feel less pointless, she was welcome to it.
Today he was tracking down witnesses. The death of Portia Kane was a high-profile case. The death of Judd Archer was just as big - at least for the cops involved. Whether the two were connected remained to be proven. A team had been hastily assembled, pulling in resources from everywhere. Other detectives would work the Archer angle, in case his death was related to his undercover work. Finn would lead the team working on Portia Kane, which included finding Robyn Peltier. Another team member was handling the press side - that really wasn't Finn's thing.
He'd also assigned a pair of detectives to look into Robyn Peltier's life - conducting interviews, checking her apartment, gathering background. Her husband had been killed six months ago in Philadelphia. Shot to death. Finn doubted there was a connection, but he had people working on it.
As for him, he'd spent most of the day tracking down people who'd been at the club with Portia Kane. He'd started with Marla Jansen, gotten three names from her, found them, learned nothing but got another name, and so on. Half the time, all they could say was that they hadn't seen anything unusual, but you should talk to their good friend Tina. Ask for Tina's last name, though, and apparently their friendship hadn't reached the exchange of surnames stage.
Finally, Finn's persistence had paid off. He'd followed a trail to these two young women who'd been with Portia's crowd at Bane. Madelyn and Kendra. And they had a lead for him. Robyn Peltier hadn't gone to Bane alone. She'd brought a friend.
As for details on that friend, though, that's where things got fuzzy. They agreed she was eastern - from the eastern U.S. by her accent and from an Eastern ancestry by her looks. Middle Eastern or East Indian? They bickered over that until Finn assured them a final call wasn't necessary.
As for a name, neither had caught it. And they got into another fight because their friend "Chas" claimed he recognized the girl from some high-society charity ball back east a couple of years earlier. He'd mentioned a name, which they'd forgotten, except that it was "totally Anglo, like Jill Smith," which Madelyn claimed proved Chas was too wasted to see straight and had mistaken the girl for someone else. Kendra disagreed about the "wasted" part, but admitted Chas might have just been angling for an introduction to an attractive young woman.
An attractive young woman who had come with her boyfriend, as it turned out. Now him they remembered.
"He was white," Madelyn said. "Older. Maybe thirty-five. He looked like a banker or a stockbroker. A money guy. Portia was all over him. Normally not her type, but he was very fine... for his age."
"Was that a problem?"
"His age?"
"Portia being 'all over' this other young woman's boyfriend."
"She didn't care. Probably used to that. The culture, you know? Arranged marriages, multiple wives..."
Kendra sighed. "The girl was obviously as American as you."
Madelyn dismissed the idea with a snort. Finn wrapped it up and jumped to his own dismissal after getting this "Chas" guy's cell number.
He was in the outer room when a deep voice behind him said, "Whoa. Those chicks were brutal. Meow."
A man stood across the room. Finn's cop eyes assessed him, spitting out vital stats. Roughly thirty. Six foot two. A hundred ninety pounds. African-American. Dark hair and eyes. Short beard.
"Look sharp," the man said. "Corporeal being at one o'clock."
Finn turned as Kendra hurried from the spa room, still dressed in her robe and turban. She shut the door behind her
"I wanted to say I think Chas did recognize that girl. Madelyn's just jealous 'cause he was checking her out. But you might have trouble getting hold of him. He took off to Ibiza this morning, and he always 'forgets' his cell, so his dad can't bug him. If that number doesn't work, call me - I have his e-mail address somewhere."
When Kendra was gone, Finn turned back to the man, who was leaning against the wall, arms folded, humming under his breath.
"We done here?" He bounded forward, arms uncrossing. "Good. We have murders to solve."
He started for the door, then noticed Finn hadn't budged. "I suppose you want an introduction first. The name's Trent. I'd shake your hand, but we both know that's not going to work out."
So he was a ghost. The quip about corporeal beings should have been the tip-off.
Finn said nothing until they were in the car. The ghost - Trent - passed through the door and sat in the passenger seat. Finn never understood how they could do that. If you can walk through a chair, how can you sit on it? Whatever he'd learned in physics, apparently it didn't apply to ghosts.
"You are a hard man to get hold of," Trent said as he settled into his seat. "I've been following you all day. A couple times you glanced my way, like you saw a flicker, but that was it. That glow you've got, the one that says you're a necromancer? It's really dim. I suppose that means your powers aren't very strong. No offense."
"Necromancer?"
"That's what they call your sort, isn't it?"
Finn had no idea what his sort were called. The power to see ghosts ran in his family, skipping most, but hitting one or two every generation, to varying degrees. His mother sometimes caught flashes, but had never actually seen a ghost. His great-aunt saw faint outlines, but couldn't communicate with them. Supposedly her brother - his great-uncle - had been able to, but he'd died when Finn was in preschool.
His family presumed there were other people who could see ghosts, but they'd never given it much thought. You heard about that sort of thing all the time - spiritualists, mediums, whatever - and his family didn't see any use in sticking a name on it. It was what it was, and you learned to live with it. Or you didn't. Your choice.
"What can I do for you?" Finn asked the ghost.
"The question, sir, is what can I do for you. The answer? Help solve this case."
Finn pulled out of the lot. "You know something?"
An enigmatic smile. "I know a lot of things."
"Specific to this case?"
The ghost reached for his seat belt, cursing as his fingers passed through. Then he gave a short laugh. "Not like I need that anyway, huh? Old habits..."
"Do you know something specific to this case?"
"About what those girls said, Detective - Can I call you Finn?"
"What do you know about this case?"
"This and that."
"In other words, not much. Look, if you need something from me, ask. I'll do what I can. But I don't like games. You don't need to pretend you can help - "
"You're right that I don't know squat, but that doesn't mean I can't help." He faced Finn as they idled at a light. "You like blunt? Okay, let's be blunt. I'm bored. I've been wandering around on the other side for... years, I guess. Eventually, I suppose I'll go wherever it is I'm supposed to go, but in the meantime, I'm bored shitless. So I see you, a necromancer, trying to solve this case, and I see a chance to have some fun
and do some good at the same time. Maybe that's why I'm stuck. I did some time when I was a kid, ran with some people, did some shit I regret. If I do a good deed, maybe I can get wherever it is I'm supposed to go."
Speaking of shit, Finn could smell it a mile away and Trent reeked. Finn had met rehabilitated gangbangers. If this guy was one, Finn would turn in his badge and declare himself unfit for detective work. Not a scar or tattoo to be seen. Well spoken, obviously educated... Finn wasn't enough of an optimist to think it came from prison classes. And his manner was far too relaxed for anyone who'd had repeated run-ins with the police. But that didn't mean he hadn't done things that might keep him from passing over.
When Finn said nothing, Trent went on. "Think of what I could do. You can't get a search warrant? I'll pop in and take a look. You question someone who seems jumpy? I can hang around after you leave, see if the guy does anything, calls anyone. You need someone followed discreetly? It doesn't get any more discreet than me. Best of all? When you solve this, you get all the glory. I'm the perfect silent partner."
He flashed a smile that reminded Finn of his little brother. Whenever Rick had been trying to cajole Finn into doing something he probably shouldn't, he'd smile like that - a disarming grin that made Finn feel like a spoilsport for refusing.
Maybe it was the grin, but as Finn considered the matter, he couldn't see any reason to refuse. He'd been raised to see his power as a gift to be used for good. If he could solve a murder with it, he would. If he could reassure a ghost with it, he would. And if he could use it to help a spirit cross to the other side - or even just make him feel better - he should. So he would, at least until the guy made him regret it.
* * *
HOPE
Robyn's laptop was in her apartment, which was one place she definitely couldn't go. But Hope was fine with that... because Robyn really didn't need to see how easily they could get past a police stakeout.
She'd already seemed suspicious about how Karl had found her. Good thing her scent trail had been recent enough for him to follow or Karl would have needed to return at night and change into a wolf. And if she'd accidentally seen that it would take some real explaining.
At least she hadn't questioned the lies about a witness hearing Portia arguing about a photo and a picture.
Now Hope was off on another chaos-promising mission, one she could enjoy guilt-free. She'd planned to stay at the motel while Karl retrieved the laptop, but Robyn had argued that Karl needed backup. Hope suspected she wanted to be alone, so she went with Karl, which would have been her choice anyway.
A breakin was always good for a chaos snack. Karl wouldn't let her accompany him on a real theft. But one for a legitimate cause was fair game, though this time, there wasn't any actual breaking in to be done. Robyn had given them the keys.
Night had fallen, making it easy to avoid the two cops in the unmarked car. A quick trip alongside the neighboring building, climb the dividing wall, sprint to the back door and break in. There weren't any more cops inside. For a professional thief, it didn't get much easier than that.
Still, the danger had Hope's pulse racing and the steady strum of low-level chaos kept it going. Any adventure with Karl was worth-while, not only for the chaos vibes he gave off, but for the thrill of getting into trouble together, feeding off one another's excitement.
They made it into the apartment without incident. There was no sign that the police had searched the place yet.
Karl scouted the apartment, hunting for any sign of a nonofficial search by someone looking for Robyn or that photograph. Hope could see the computer through the kitchen doorway, on the dining table, but instead of just grabbing it she just stood there, looking around.
"Hope?" Karl stuck his head in. "What is it? A vision?"
"Imagine this was my apartment. If I'd been here for months and it looked like this - " She opened cupboards, letting them shut behind her as she circled the room. "What would you think? How long am I in a hotel room before I'm unpacked, drinks and food in the fridge, my stuff all set out..."
"Furniture rearranged..."
"Robyn's the same way. Worse. Last time she moved, she took a week off to settle in and decorate - and she hardly ever takes vacation time. But she's been here three months and has - " Hope opened a cupboard. " - two plates, two bowls and three glasses. The furniture looks like it came with the apartment."
"Perhaps that only means she doesn't plan to stay in L.A. That's good, isn't it?"
While she would have been disappointed to discover the apartment totally decorated, suggesting a permanent relocation, she would have been happy to see Robyn moving on, making a fresh start. But seeing this, she knew Robyn hadn't come to L.A. to start over. She was here to hide.
It was hard for Karl to see the significance. Hope had visited his old apartment once. He'd filled the closets and the fridge and nothing more. At least in his condo, he'd seemed gung-ho furnishing it - the two of them scouring Philly and making weekend trips into New York. That was a good sign, wasn't it? Proof he planned to stick around?
"Hope?"
Karl lifted the laptop. She stuffed it into the backpack.
"Now we need to grab her backup keys and emergency cash, then some clothes - "
He cut her short with a raised hand as his gaze flew toward the front hall. He grabbed the half-zipped backpack in one hand, her arm in the other, dragging her into the living room as the front door lock clicked.
"I don't think I should be doing this," a heavily accented voice said. "Miz Peltier is a good tenant. A very nice woman."
"I have a warrant." A second man's voice, lower pitched with a drawl.
Karl swung Hope in front of him as he hustled to the patio door. The sliding door was ajar, the curtain pulled across, as if he'd prepped for an escape while scouting earlier.
"I'm just looking for anything that might help me find her. Phone numbers of friends, family. An address book, PDA, laptop..."
Karl slid the patio door closed behind them. Hope walked to the far side and looked over the railing.
"Four floors," she whispered. "That's not too bad if we - "
"No." He touched her cheek, so light it sent a shiver through her. "Don't look so disappointed. If he doesn't leave in fifteen minutes, we'll consider a more chaotic solution. In the meantime, just keep quiet." His hands moved to her hips, mouth lowering to her ear. "It's still a rather dangerous situation to be in, police just inside the door, more below."
Hope's shiver turned to a shudder... and not from fear. She pressed against him, her lips moving to the V of his collar, his sweat tangy, as delicious as the chaos vibes circling them.
"None of that," he growled. "Dangerous situation, remember?"
"Mmmm."
He shifted, ostensibly nudging her farther from the window, hands tightening around her hips, fingers splaying over her rear. She undid the top button of his shirt and tickled circles with the tip of her tongue.
"Hope..."
"You could move away."
"And leave you exposed?"
"Hmm, there's a thought." She arched up to nibble his throat.
He wrapped the hem of her shirt around his fist, as if considering. Then he straightened, his werewolf hearing picking up the voices inside. His thoughts gave nothing away. He'd learned to block them from her. But whatever he was hearing, he didn't like it, the chaos flowing off him coming in short bursts of worry.
Hope struggled to keep still, but the vibes were so exquisite that she couldn't help squirming and shivering. A silent laugh vibrated through him and pulled his attention from the patio door. He made the chaos surge, the waves rocking her.
His chin lifted again, gaze returning to the patio door as he tried to listen.
"I've been thinking," she said, running her fingertips along his throat. "Someone has a birthday coming up, which, I believe coincides with our one-year anniversary. A special celebration is in order. Perhaps a fantasy fulfilled. A cabin in the woods..."
&
nbsp; His eyes glinted. He shook it off and glanced at the door. "We really should - "
"You're right. We should. In fact, I'm making the reservation as soon as we get home. One deep-woods cabin. One very willing girlfriend at your service all weekend, to fulfill your most uncivilized wolf urges - "
The sound of a voice inside stopped her like a bucket of ice water.
"Shit," she whispered, giving her head a sharp shake as she stepped aside. "Okay, that was stupid. Forget I said anything."
"Not a chance." He rubbed her hip before moving back. "We're going to revisit that one... just at a more appropriate time."
She smiled. "Agreed."
* * *
FINN
It looked like finn couldn't even keep a ghostly partner around. And just when he'd been thinking Trent could be useful...
He had enough for a search warrant, so he got that, collected a couple of officers and went to Robyn Peltier's apartment. And that's where Trent seemed to decide police work wasn't for him. On the way to the apartment, he'd been in high spirits, razzing Finn about his poor choice in radio station, making him change it to jazz, then singing along in a pitch-perfect tenor. When they arrived, Trent had driven him nuts, rocking on his heels, eager to get to work while Finn tried to talk to the landlord. He'd told Trent to go on ahead, scope out the apartment.
Ten minutes later, Finn had found him in there, pacing, anxious. He'd said he'd wait outside and disappeared, apparently having forgotten he was supposed to search the places Finn's warrant wouldn't cover.
The warrant allowed them plain-sight search only. Usually Finn could find something - an address book, a Rolodex, a laptop, a PDA, business cards on the fridge, numbers written on the wall. But this place was as sterile as a model suite.
He'd asked the landlord about Peltier's friend from Bane, but the man didn't recognize the description, and said he'd never seen Peltier bring anyone by.
Finn hoped to find Trent outside. Maybe there was something in the apartment - some smell or aura - that bothered ghosts. But Trent was nowhere to be seen. Finn found excuses to linger, talking to the officers staking out the building, but when he did eventually leave, he was, as usual, alone.
Living With the Dead Page 6