Living With the Dead

by Kelley Armstrong

  And then...

  That's the case-breaking question, isn't it, Bobby? What happened next?

  Robyn closed her eyes and pictured that dark hall at Bane. She heard a moan. Then footsteps. Light footfalls. A slender figure with light hair... one that could pass for Adele Morrissey.

  Did Adele see Portia snap the photo and freak out because she was supposed to be the one behind the camera? That was crazy. No one would kill for that.

  Robyn thought of her scrapbook, filled with stories of senseless death, ones that made you shake your head and say: "That's crazy. No one would kill for that." But they had.

  Still, there had to be more to it, a motivation she was missing.

  Motive is secondary, Bobby. Follow the clues. Find the who and the how, then worry about the why.

  She stood and moved to the window, looking outside for a pay phone. This time, she was out of luck. She walked to the counter instead and asked to use their phone. She called information first, and got the office number for True News. Being a Saturday, there was only one person in the small office. Fortunately, it was an editor.

  "Hello," Robyn said. "This is Monica Douglas. I represent Jasmine Wills."

  The editor obviously recognized the name, and asked how Jasmine was doing, in light of the recent tragedy. Robyn could picture him, pen poised, straining for a juicy sound bite on Jasmine's reaction to Portia's murder. Robyn gave the standard line about what a tragedy it was and how devastated her client was.

  "I'm calling about Adele Morrissey," she said. "I believe she sells photos to you."

  "Adele, yes. Of course. Excellent photographer. And another person who will feel Portia's death, no doubt. She was Adele's favorite subject."

  "That's actually why I'm calling. Jasmine is something of a fan of Ms. Morrissey."

  "Oh?"

  Robyn laughed. "Well, she did get Portia a lot of page space, if not exactly the sort I'd endorse..."

  "Yes, of course."

  "With poor Portia gone, Jasmine thought Ms. Morrissey might be interested in a new subject, particularly a more willing subject."

  "Ah, I see."

  "Jasmine insists I set up a meeting with Ms. Morrissey as soon as possible, but I'm having a horrible time tracking down contact information."

  The editor chuckled. "Yes, she's elusive, our Adele."

  "I was hoping you could help." She paused. "Jasmine would be very grateful."

  In other words, they'd owe him a hot exclusive.

  A moment's silence, then the editor cleared his throat. "I'd love to, but when I say 'elusive,' I'm not exaggerating. We don't have contact information for Ms. Morrissey. She calls us when she has a photo and we wire the payment. I've never even met her."

  "Oh, that is unfortunate. I'd really hoped - "

  "But I'm sure she'll call in soon. I could relay a message then, asking her to contact you."

  "Would you? That would be wonderful. Have her call my office." She gave the number on the cafe phone.

  She signed off and hung up. It had been worth a shot. And if the editor wasn't being entirely honest, Robyn was sure his weird-tales reporter could dig up the information. Once Hope knew she was looking for a paparazzo who sold to True News -

  Robyn's finger froze on the keys. She flashed back to that office complex, Hope shaking with fear, Karl covered with blood.

  It didn't matter that Robyn knew who the girl in the photo was. Their investigation was over, and she sure as hell wasn't tossing Hope another lead, then traipsing off to the safety of a police station.

  She stuffed two dollars into the tip mug, and thanked the server for letting her use the phone before heading back to her table.

  This Adele Morrissey lead wasn't going to anyone except Detective Findlay. She'd show him the photo and say she recognized the young woman as Portia's paparazzo stalker. If this detective was as good as Judd had claimed, he'd run with it. No one ever needed to know that Hope and Karl had been involved.

  Robyn took one last mouthful of cheesecake, washed it down with a swig of latte, then strode to the door.

  * * *

  ADELE

  Adele closed her eyes as she fingered the silk shirt folded inside her jacket pocket. She caught a vision of Robyn Peltier sitting in a cafe across the road, as she had been the last two times Adele checked. The first time, Adele had been in a cab, racing toward the nearest police station when she'd seen Robyn at the table. She'd spotted the cafe name on a napkin, and had realized Robyn was miles away, near a different station.

  Now pretending to read, she sat on a bench between the cafe and the police station where she presumed Robyn would head when she got around to it.

  Adele had no idea why Robyn would pick this particular station. She must have known someone there and hoped for special treatment. As for why she'd stopped in a cafe first, maybe she was waiting for advice from that cop friend. And in the meantime, she might as well kick back and enjoy a coffee and some cheesecake -

  Adele stopped. By the gods where had that cheesecake come from? How long did Robyn plan to camp out there? Adele slumped, the book nearly sliding from her fingers.

  She closed her eyes and found the vision again. Robyn was digging into the cheesecake as she folded a piece of paper. Adele bet it was a surrender speech. Someone as perfect as Robyn Peltier couldn't even turn herself in without rehearsing.

  Adele released the vision and turned the book page.

  The situation wasn't ideal - a busy street on a weekend afternoon, cop shop within shouting distance - but she had a plan. She'd intercept Robyn and ask to use her cell phone. It hadn't worked with Portia, but Robyn wouldn't want to raise a fuss so close to the station because if she brought a cop running, she'd lose any brownie points to be gained by turning herself in.

  If anything went wrong, well... Adele patted the bulge under her jacket.

  Adele glanced at her watch. How much longer was she going to stay in there? Adele touched the shirt again, focused and found Robyn. She was on her feet, finally, at the counter, shoving bills into a mug labeled Tips.

  Okay, Robyn, you've done your duty. Now move your ass...

  Robyn returned to the table and, still standing, sliced off a chunk of cheesecake, then lifted it to her mouth.

  By the gods! Was she thinking of all those starving kids in Africa who didn't get enough cheesecake? Pack it up and send it to them!

  The vision clouded, and for a moment, Adele saw one of Robyn Peltier in an alley, sprawled on the ground, blood pooling around her. She smiled. Too bad clairvoyance didn't grant the gift of prophecy, because she'd love to see that image in person - a fitting payback for the crap Robyn had put Adele through.

  The cafe door opened. Out stepped Robyn Peltier. Good. If only she didn't decide she needed a damned pedicure on the way.

  Robyn didn't seem inclined to stop for anything. She came out that door and strode, purposefully... in the opposite direction.

  Robyn stopped at the light and waited for the signal, even as jaywalkers jostled past her, taking advantage of the gaps in traffic. When the light changed, she crossed, chin lifted, posture perfect, walking like she was on her way to an important business meeting, elegant and poised even in ill-fitting sweats and a baseball cap.

  Adele stopped grating her teeth and pictured Robyn in prison garb instead. Cheered, she got into position behind a trio of teenage boys who looked like they weren't going anywhere for a while. Robyn drew closer, closer...

  Adele stepped into her path. Robyn pulled up short, her eyes going to Adele and widening, as if shocked to see someone there.

  "Can I borrow your phone, ma'am?" Adele gave a sheepish smile and waved her cell. "Mine's dead and I really need to tell my dad where to pick me up."

  Robyn kept staring.

  "Ma'am?"

  Robyn's lips parted and she said a single word swallowed by a laugh from the teen boys. It sounded like "cell."

  "Right, I need to borrow a cell phone. Can I use yours? I swear it's not a
long-distance call."

  Robyn stared at Adele as if she was a beggar asking for her last buck. Adele glanced down at Robyn's side. No purse to snatch. Damn, the phone must be in her pocket.

  Adele stepped closer. "Please. I really need to call my dad."

  She reached down and pulled her jacket open. Robyn inhaled sharply as she spotted the gun.

  "Your cell phone?" Adele met her gaze.

  Robyn's hand slammed into Adele's chest, knocking her into the boys. She smacked into one and he shoved her back. She stumbled, recovered and wheeled to see Robyn disappearing down the alley.

  In that moment, as she tore after her, she saw Robyn's lips move again, heard that single word and knew what it had been.

  Adele.

  * * *

  FINN

  In twenty minutes, Finn would meet Robyn Peltier's elusive friend, and he wasn't looking forward to it.

  At first, she'd seemed surprised by his call, but that quickly passed, as if he'd caught her off guard and once she considered it, wasn't so surprised after all. She'd agreed to come to the station right away and talk to him. And, yes, she'd bring her boyfriend - he was with her already.

  So it wasn't the prospect of a hostile interview making his stomach sour. He could chalk it up to the coffee. He hadn't meant to drink all of it, but the more he sipped, the more disgusted Damon got, until the ghost finally went his way, leaving Finn alone to research his upcoming interview without his input.

  It was the research that made him dread the interview. Hope Adams wasn't a celebrity-chasing tabloid reporter. He should have guessed that when he discovered she was on a transfer from True News's Philadelphia headquarters - a city not known for its glitterati.

  Adams chased another kind of target, one just as entertaining and just as elusive - supernatural encounters. As a guy who could be one of her targets, the idea made him mildly uncomfortable. But only mildly... at first.

  The more he dug into Adams's career, the more that feeling grew.

  She'd been at her job since graduating from college. She couldn't expect to start out on the staff of the Philadelphia Inquirer, but to be in the same job now suggested there was a reason she'd been twenty-three before she graduated.

  So Adams could be written off as a hack. Or, considering her background, more like that college druggie he'd interviewed - a rich kid slacking her way through life.

  That had settled his worries... until he read a half-dozen of Adams's articles. Her writing was on par with big-paper journalists and, unlike most of them, she was entertaining. On the surface, her pieces were breezy and fun, the language uncomplicated and informal, yet beneath that, she'd obviously done her research.

  She took her job seriously, but not earnestly. If readers didn't believe in the paranormal, they could interpret that light tone as "we both know there's no such thing as vampires, but sit back and let me tell you a good story." If they did believe, though, there was nothing condescending. She never talked down to her readers, and she treated her sources and witnesses with respect. If you knew, like Finn, that the paranormal wasn't pure fiction, then you could come away with the sense that, maybe, just maybe, she believed, too.

  By the last article, Finn was as nervous as a corrupt politician about to meet a journalist specializing in exposes. He knew he was overreacting. Adams was here to be interviewed. He had nothing to worry about... unless she'd done her research on him as well, and learned of his reputation.

  He was reading an article about a haunted inn in Vermont when he got a call. Someone had recovered Robyn Peltier's cell phone from a pawn shop earlier. It had now been processed for prints, and those prints matched a set on the gun.

  Right now, Finn was more interested in getting a look at Robyn's cell phone, which the techs said came with a personal organizer. Contact names, schedule, notes... there had to be something of interest there.

  He'd made it as far as the hall when Jane peeked from the front.

  "Finn? That True News reporter is here to see you. Hope Adams?"

  He waved for Jane to send her back.

  "Hope Adams?" a detective said behind him, looking up from his work. "I talked to her a couple of years ago. I was investigating a kidnapping. She was investigating it, too... as a possible alien abduction."

  A wave of laughter from the room.

  "Hey," someone called. "What's she want with you, Finn? A feature?"

  More laughter. Finn shut the door to the detectives' room as Jane rounded the corner, followed by a couple. Finn introduced himself, then quickly got them into an interview room.

  Finn didn't get past the preliminary questions before realizing he didn't need to worry. Adams was no ruthless reporter. Maybe it was just the circumstances - her concern for her friend overriding her journalistic instincts - but Finn couldn't imagine ruthless was ever a term applied to Hope Adams.

  Living in L.A., Finn had learned not to be dazzled by a pretty girl. Adams had an easy, offhand beauty that asked you - politely, he suspected - to pay it no heed. So he didn't. He tried, too, not to let her size make an impression. She was small and fine-boned, with an air of fragility. There wasn't any fragility in her manner, though. She was steady and articulate, answering every question concisely and completely. Cooperative without tripping over herself to prove it. In short, the perfect witness.

  The boyfriend - Karl Marsten - was another matter. His good looks came with the polished sheen and casual arrogance Finn was more accustomed to in L.A. Without so much as a word, he made it clear that he considered this interview a waste of his afternoon. Finn could deal with that. It was the hard edge underlying the casual arrogance that got under his skin.

  Again, it was all in the body language. Marsten took the chair directly across from Finn. While Adams talked, Marsten leaned slightly forward, like a lawyer getting between the detective and his client, his cold stare telling Finn he'd damned well better watch his step or this interview was over.

  When he'd first taken that chair and fixed Finn with that stare, Finn had inwardly groaned. He'd seen this before. The guy who "protected his woman" by not letting her get a word in edgewise. But Marsten simply stood guard, never interrupting. Even when Finn fished outside the boundaries, he only got a warning look from Marsten, as if he knew Adams could handle it. And she did, deftly avoiding anything that smacked of speculation.

  While they were talking, Damon slipped in. He said nothing, just stood off to the side, listening. Adams finished relaying her account of the night Portia Kane died, then came the big question: "When's the last time you spoke to Robyn?"

  Adams's gaze shifted to Marsten, and Finn knew that night at Bane hadn't been her last contact with Robyn Peltier. The lies were about to begin.

  "An hour and a half ago."

  Finn blinked and repeated the question, sure he'd misheard.

  She checked her watch. "Ninety-five minutes. I'd looked at the time just before I got her message, because I was wondering how long the maid had been cleaning our room." She paused. "I suppose that's what you meant - when's the last time we had contact. I didn't speak to her, though. She just left a message where we'd been staying, saying she was on her way here."

  "Here?"

  "To the police station. To turn..." Adams let the sentence trail off, her eyes meeting his. "She is here, right? That's why you called. We were at Bane together, so she gave you our names to back up her story..." Seeing his expression, her hands tightened on the chair arm. She twisted to Marsten, but he was already leaning toward her, his fingers on her forearm, murmuring under his breath. When he turned on Finn, his voice wasn't nearly as gentle.

  "Robyn was turning herself in. If she's not at this station, I'd suggest you start making calls."

  Finn looked at Damon, who uncrossed his arms and straightened, worry darkening his eyes.

  Finn excused himself and stepped out.

  He returned ten minutes later to a quiet room. Too quiet, as if they'd heard him coming and stopped talking. He glanced a
t Damon, but he was lost in his thoughts.

  "Ms. Peltier hasn't turned herself in to any precinct or any officer," Finn said as he sat. "That may have been her intention, but when it came to doing it..." He shrugged. "It wouldn't be easy."

  "I guess not," Adams's admission came slowly, her lashes lowered. "If we're done here, Detective..." She started to rise.

  "I have a few more questions."

  As she sat, Marsten glanced at his watch. "Is it really necessary for us both to be here?"

  If Marsten hadn't noticed anything at the nightclub, then there was nothing he could tell Finn that Adams couldn't, and there might be a few things she'd say without her boyfriend around. So he sent Marsten on his way. As he was leaving, though, Finn discreetly gestured for Damon to follow.

  "When's the last time you saw Robyn?"

  "I last saw her Thursday night, when we left Bane."

  "And spoke to her?"

  "Earlier this afternoon. She called from a pay phone to let me know she was okay and ask for advice. I wanted to meet, but she didn't want to get me involved. When I insisted, she hung up. We went back to our hotel, and that's when we got the message."

  "And before that? Had you spoken to her since Thursday?"

  Adams shook her head. "I tried calling her cell Friday morning, after I saw the paper. Some guy answered. I think he'd found the phone. Anyway, that freaked me out, so I phoned her apartment and left a message. She didn't return it. It's probably still on the machine."

  "And then?"

  "I went into the office for an hour, just doing paperwork. I usually spend Fridays writing from my place, but I wanted to stop by, in case she tried calling me there. I kept hoping she would. But she didn't until this afternoon."

  Finn walked Hope Adams to the front desk and thanked her for her time. As he watched her leave, he saw Damon on the front steps. So much for following Marsten.

  "Lost him?"

  Damon turned, startled. "Ah-ha. Now you're the one sneaking up on me. Payback's a bitch, huh?" His words were light, but no humor reached his eyes.

  "I thought I asked you to follow him," Finn said under his breath.