Ghost Hunter (17 page)

THE SMALL, INDIVIDUALLY WRAPPED PACKETS WERE
packed neatly inside the three cardboard boxes stacked inside the old storage closet. The boxes were labeled Toilet Tissue, which struck Cooper as oddly appropriate under the circumstances.

He let himself out of the closet. The two-hundred-year-old basement was walled and floored with stone, but water had seeped in, as water always did in such places, creating a damp, moldy atmosphere.

Water was not the only thing that trickled into the large, dark space, he noticed. A lot of stray psi energy permeated the atmosphere down here, too. Not surprising, given the proximity of the Dead City Wall. Probably a hole-in-the-wall somewhere in the vicinity, just as Elly had suggested.

He used the flashlight to make his way back to a heavy wooden door that looked as if it had been there since the building was constructed.

Opening the door, he went up the old, cramped staircase.
At the top of the staircase, he paused to listen intently for a moment before opening another door and moving into the janitorial storage room.

The shelves were crowded with cleaning supplies, cartons of industrial-sized rolls of toilet tissue, and paper towels.

He crossed the room, selected a few rolls of paper towels, and let himself out into the hall.

The janitorial cart was waiting right where he had left it. He grabbed the handle and went down the corridor and around the corner to a private elevator marked Executive Offices.

Finding the stash of drugs had been easy, he thought. Maybe too easy.

THE ALLEY WAS CHOKED WITH DAMP, GRAY MIST. AN
uneasy chill flashed down Elly's spine and raised the hair on the nape of her neck. The close, looming walls of the buildings that lined the narrow service lane cut off much of what little light the fog allowed to filter through. She could barely make out the shape of the trash container across from her. The thick vapor acted like an otherworldly sound absorber, muffling the engines of the cautiously moving cars on the surrounding streets.

“Perfect cover,” she whispered to Rose. “No one will see us.”

She went forward, unable to suppress an icy prickle of tension.

The fog
was
a good thing under the circumstances, she thought. So why was it making her so nervous?

She found herself listening intently for the familiar clatter of a garbage can lid or the soft thud of footsteps behind her.

From time to time she glanced down at Rose, watching for signs of the dust bunny's second set of eyes.

Rose appeared alert but showed no indication of alarm.

When they arrived at the opening at the end of the alley, Elly felt a sharp sense of relief. The sensation vanished quickly when she discovered that the cramped street in front of her was disconcertingly empty of traffic and pedestrians. The entire neighborhood seemed to be suddenly deserted.

Hurrying across the pavement, she entered the alley that serviced the next block of shops. Maybe it was just her imagination, she thought, but the fog seemed denser and more ominous now. It had a disorienting effect on her sense of sight and direction. Rose rumbled softly in what seemed a reassuring manner.

She paused at the rear entrance of a shop to check the sign, afraid that she might overshoot her goal.

“Stuart Griggs, Florist,” she read aloud to Rose. “Almost there. Bertha's shop is next.”

She looked down at the dust bunny and froze when she saw that Rose was staring very hard at the closed door of the florist's shop. All four eyes were wide open, but there was no sign of any razor-sharp teeth.

Rose rumbled softly.

“What is it?” Elly asked. She looked from Rose to the door and back again. “I know you don't like Mr. Griggs, but I wish you wouldn't growl at his door. It's embarrassing.”

Rose's attention remained riveted on the door. Something was wrong; Elly felt it, but Rose was not acting as if she sensed a threat.

Herschel's comment about the floral shop being closed, too, went through her head.

Tentatively, she tried the doorknob. It twisted easily in her hand. Rose rumbled again, but there was still no sign of her teeth. She had not gone all sleek and dangerous, either, Elly thought. So far, so good.

She opened the door of the florist's back room. The faint hum of a refrigeration unit vibrated in the darkness. Her psi senses tingled gently. The rich, lush scents of cut flowers and greenery wafted toward her.

There was something heavy and unpleasant blended into the mix of floral smells, something that did not belong.

Probably dead and decaying flowers, she thought. Whatever it was, it made her feel queasy. She had to fight the impulse to turn and run.

The only thing that held her there, poised on the step, was the realization that Rose was still not displaying any indication that she sensed an imminent threat.

“Mr. Griggs?”

There was no answer. She knew then, deep down, that she had not expected a response.

The smell intermingled with the floral fragrances was that of death.

ORMOND RIPLEY CHECKED HIS AMBER-FACED WATCH AS
he went past his executive assistant's desk. “Please tell Maitland I want to see him in my office in half an hour to go over the new set of financials.”

“Yes, Mr. Ripley.” The assistant reached for the phone. “Mr. Dugan called while you were out. He said to tell you that he's found a new, very hot act for the club. The group will be auditioning at four this afternoon if you want to check it out for yourself.”

“Thanks, I'll be there.” He went to the door of his office. “Send Maitland in as soon as he arrives.”

“Yes, sir.”

He opened the door and walked into his office, savoring as he always did the hushed atmosphere. In his considered opinion, the room exuded an aura of power and luxury that was infinitely more intoxicating than any drug and more compelling than any woman he had ever met.

The walls were paneled in wave-wood that had been cut and shipped from the jungles of remote islands. The intricately inlaid stone flooring had been quarried in the mountains of the Northern Continent.

The artwork on the walls had once belonged to the private collection of one of the founders of the Cadence Museum. The paintings had been destined for the museum's galleries, but Ormond had made certain that they ended up here, instead. He was no great fan of the softly hued works of post–Era of Discord modernism, but that was not important. What mattered was that the art of that period was considered by connoisseurs to be brilliant and extremely valuable; in short, the province of the most elite collectors.

He had come a long way from the dusty, backwater mining town where he had been born and raised, he thought, and every time he walked into this office he took a moment to reflect on that journey.

His dissonance-energy para-rez talents had been his ticket to a good-paying job as a Guild man. He'd had no family connections to lean on, but an aptitude for internal politics and an intuitive ability to choose the winning side had helped him rise within the Guild to the status of Council member.

But he had known from the start of his career as a hunter that he wanted to do more with his life than chase ghosts through the catacombs. His driving goal had been to establish his own empire. The Road to the Ruins was the culmination of his ambitions, and he gloried in the most minute details of the day-to-day operations of his kingdom.

He started toward the heavily carved wooden desk at the far end of the room.

The door of his private bathroom opened almost but not quite soundlessly. Startled, he turned on one heel.

He scowled at the janitor lounging in the opening.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “That bathroom is never cleaned at this time of day unless I request it.”

“We need to talk,” the janitor said, leaning on his mop. “Better have your assistant hold your calls for a while.”

“Who are you?”

“At the moment I'm the only thing standing between you and an extended stay in prison.”

“Not my vacation destination of choice. What's going on here?”

The janitor took a small packet out of one pocket. “I think you've been set up to take the fall for dealing the crap they call enchantment dust.”

“What in the name of green hell?” Ormond held out his hand. “Let me see that.”

The janitor tossed it to him without comment.

He caught the plastic bag and unsealed it cautiously. There was no need to taste or sniff the powder inside. His parapsych senses were very acute. This close to the drug, he could feel the faint tingle on the paranormal wavelengths to which he was attuned.

So much for the possibility that the janitor was bluffing.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, buying some time to think while he resealed the bag. Visions of his hard-won personal empire crumbling before his eyes flashed through his head. He had not come this far only to lose it all now.

“Found it down in the old basement. Place leaks like a sieve, by the way, water and psi energy. Got a rat hole down there?”

Ormond ignored that. “I don't sell drugs.”

“Going to be tough to prove if the cops raid this place and find the stash that I just found.”

“There's more of this junk down there?”

“Three large cardboard boxes filled with little packets like that one.”

Ormond went to stand behind his desk, trying to collect his thoughts.

“You really think someone is trying to frame me?” he asked finally.

“That's how it looks.”

“Why not assume that I've gone into the drug-dealing business?”

“I did a little research before I came here today.” The janitor's smile was cryptic and cold. “If you did decide to deal drugs, I don't think you'd pack them in nonwaterproof boxes and then stash them in an empty closet in a damp basement. You're smart, and you're a strong para-rez. You'd be far more likely to conceal them in the catacombs where the odds would be against anyone finding the stuff.”

“You sure about that?” Ormond asked. “Maybe I was going with the hide-it-in-plain-sight theory.”

“A possibility. But there's something else that makes me think you're not involved in this.”

“What's that?”

“Like I said, I checked around.” The janitor gave the expensive room an assessing look. “You've worked hard to build this place, and you've been damn careful to stay inside the legal zone. You're a risk-taker, but I don't think you're the type to put all this on the line for the sake of some short-term drug profits. Not just my opinion, by the way. There's someone else who agrees with me.”

“Who?”

“Mercer Wyatt.”

Ormond went very still. “This is Guild business?”

“Yes. Wyatt said you served on the Council here in Cadence for a few years.”

“What of it?”

“It means you're cleared to discuss blue freaks.”

“There's one involved in this thing?”

“Yes.” The janitor indicated the mop in his hand. “Wyatt asked me to clean up the mess before it becomes a major PR problem for him.”

“Well, hell.” Ormond exhaled and lowered himself slowly into his chair. “You're not the janitor. You're the librarian.”

ELLY PUT ONE HAND JUST INSIDE THE OPENING, GROPED
for and found the lights.

Two overhead fluo-rez tubes came on, illuminating the scene in a cold blue light. Masses of flowers and bunches of decorative greenery filled the room. Arrangements in vases of various shapes and sizes lined the shelves behind the glass doors of the cooler. The effect was funereal.

The body of Stuart Griggs, sprawled facedown on the floor, provided the finishing touch.

There was no sign of blood, she noticed, no indication that the florist had been attacked. Perhaps he'd had a stroke or a heart attack.

She reached into the tote for her phone and punched in the emergency number.

Instinctively she started to turn away from the body on the floor. But the sight of a strip of white bandage sticking out from under Griggs's rolled-up sleeve made her hesitate.

She forced herself to move closer to the body, ignoring Rose's warning grumble.

Holding her breath and fighting her roiling stomach, she leaned over, caught hold of the sleeve with the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, and twitched the fabric back a couple of inches.

There was a wide, white bandage wrapped snugly around Stuart Griggs's lower left arm.

“Oh, damn,” Elly whispered.

COOPER SAW THE FLASHING AMBER AND RED LIGHTS OF
the ambulance when he turned the corner onto Ruin Lane. They created an eerie, strobelike effect in the fog.

An uneasy sensation gripped his insides. The emergency vehicle was almost directly in front of Bertha Newell's shop. There was a police cruiser in front of it.

He had been driving slowly because of the fog, but now he lowered the Spectrum's speed to a crawl. When he got closer he could make out the small group of figures gathered on the sidewalk. His tension eased slightly when he realized that they were watching the open door of the floral shop.

He spotted Elly immediately. She stood with Garrick Lattimer and Phillip Manchester.

He brought the Spectrum to a halt at the curb, got out, and walked back down the sidewalk to join Elly and her friends.

Rose was perched inside Elly's tote, watching the action. Her head swiveled around abruptly. She rumbled a greeting when she noticed Cooper approaching.

Elly and the two men turned to look at him, too.

“There you are,” Elly said. She had a strained, shadowed expression on her face. “I was getting worried.”

He nodded at the two men. “What's going on?”

Garrick angled his chin toward the front door of the floral shop. “Stuart Griggs, the owner of that business, died sometime this afternoon. Elly found him a short while ago.”

Cooper looked at Elly's withdrawn, unreadable face. “How did you come to find the body?”

“I was taking a note to Bertha's shop to hang in her window.” She gave him a meaningful look. “People have been wondering where she is.”

“Got it,” he said quietly.

“When I went past Griggs's back door, Rose started making odd little noises. I think she sensed that something was wrong. So I tried the door. It was unlocked. When I opened it, I saw the body on the floor.”

Two medics emerged from the front of the shop. They carried a stretcher with a draped figure on top.

“I heard someone say they think it was a heart attack,” Phillip volunteered.

“The cop came over here to talk to us for a few minutes,” Garrick added. “Actually, it was Elly he wanted to speak with, because she was the one who found Griggs. He said there were no obvious signs of violence except for a bad cut on the florist's arm that was mostly healed.”

Cooper frowned. “A cut?”

“The cop figured Griggs had probably injured himself sometime in the past couple of weeks with one of the tools he used to trim flowers,” Phillip explained.

Elly turned back to watch the stretcher being loaded into the back of the ambulance. She did not speak.

He touched her arm. “Let's go home.”

“Yes. Good idea.” She spun toward him, clearly relieved to have an excuse to leave.

He bundled her into the car. As soon as she was settled Rose elevated out of the tote and drifted up onto her favored perch on the back of the seat.

Cooper got in on the driver's side, rezzed the engine, and pulled away from the curb.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes. What about you? Did you find the drugs? I've been worried sick all afternoon.”

“I found the stash. I also had a conversation with Ormond Ripley.”

“The owner of the casino?”

“He's a former member of the local Guild Council. I can't rule out the possibility that he's the dealer, but I'm inclined to agree with Wyatt that it's very unlikely. I'll tell you all about it later. What exactly happened back there? I'm getting the feeling I haven't heard the whole story yet.”

“Very perceptive of you.” She cleared her throat. “It's a little more complicated than it appears.”

“How much more complicated?”

“Do you remember me telling you that there had been an attempted burglary in the neighborhood about ten days ago?”

He found a parking place in front of St. Clair's Herbal Emporium. “I remember.”

“Yes, well, I left out one tiny little detail.”

He de-rezzed the engine and turned in the seat. “
What
tiny little detail?”

“The shop that was broken into was mine.”

His insides clenched. “You never said anything about a break-in to your folks. Your dad would have mentioned it to me.”

“I'm sure he would have,” she said dryly. “And he and Mom would have gone bonkers. I could just see my father picking up the phone and calling Mercer Wyatt, himself, to demand a full-time bodyguard for me. Mom would have started in again, pressuring me to return to Aurora Springs. I'd be getting lectures from my brothers on the dangers of the big city.”

He closed his eyes and scrubbed his face with one hand. “Okay, I get the picture. You didn't tell your family because you didn't want to deal with the fallout.”

“Do you blame me?”

“Hell, yes. But that's another issue. Much as I hate to say it, I think we'd better stay focused here.”

“Cooper—”

“Tell me why you're bringing up the subject now.”

She drew a deep breath. “You're not going to like this.”

“I already don't like it.”

“Brace yourself. Rose and I were home when the burglar broke into my shop.”

He felt as if he'd been kicked in the gut.

“Neither of us was hurt,” she added hastily. “Rose scared the guy off.”

“How?”

“She sensed him the instant he was inside the shop, of course. I woke up when she did, realized something was wrong, and jumped out of bed to lock my bedroom door. But before I could stop her, Rose went flying out of the bedroom, teeth and eyes blazing. She shot down the hall to the top of the stairs. The next thing I know, the burglar's screaming green murder. He sounded panic-stricken. He ran back down the stairs and out into the alley.”

“What about the cops?”

“I called them, of course. But by the time they got there, he was long gone.”

“Naturally,” Cooper muttered.

“I filled out a report, but they made it clear that in cases of that sort there wasn't much hope of turning up a suspect.”

“So you went out and bought new locks.”

“I also alerted my neighbors, and we set up the block watch program.”

“Nothing like a good block watch program, I always say.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Damn. All right, let's keep on track. You're bringing this up now because . . . ?”

She cleared her throat. “When the burglar ran out, I caught a glimpse of him from the top of the stairs. I couldn't see his face. He was all wrapped up in a heavy, dark coat and some sort of stocking cap pulled down very low. But when he ran through a shaft of moonlight, I could see one thing very plainly.”

“What?”

She reached up to touch Rose. “He was clutching his left arm. Later, when I turned on the lights, I found blood on the stairs. I'm sure Rose bit him quite badly.”

Comprehension settled on him like an icy mist.

“On the left arm?”

She looked at him with big, serious eyes. “Right about where Stuart Griggs had a wide bandage covering a recently healed wound.”