Ghost Talker (9 page)

“Okay. So you're going to look through your aunt's journals on this. Today.”

“I do have Texas Jack—”

“You talked to him this morning. If you want to go up this evening for the poltergeist show, let me know and I'll join you.”

She stilled. “I see. You want me to ask Desiree for a ride home from here?”

“I could drop you at home before I head for the office. Going to dig into various backgrounds. It's better I access some databases under Rickman's supervision, or have him get me in. I texted him earlier.”

“Oh. Looking into the background of Maurice Poche?”

“That's right.”

“Kurtus Welliam?”

“Yes.”

“
Me
?”

He shook his head. “Clare, I know pretty much everything I need to about you.” He certainly knew how great she looked naked, how her skin felt against his palms, how her lips tasted.

“And you probably did a background check on me when we first met,” she said in a resigned tone that tugged the truth straight from his gut—or maybe his heart.

“I knew all I needed to know about you, Clare Milena Cermak, from the moment I looked into your eyes.” Her intriguingly shadowed eyes, which had drawn him, made him feel like she could understand him at some deep, instinctual level.

And that he hadn't even admitted to himself.

Clare relaxed her stance, took a step toward him. The fine muscles of her face eased and the corners of her mouth tilted slightly upward. “But you ran my background anyway.”

Zach raised his hands. “I didn't have to. Rickman did it for me.”

Now he saw a full smile. “Of course he did.”

“I will remind you that I asked you to look online for info about me.” He couldn't keep from leaning a little on his cane. This woman, this lover, had been one of the few who'd never glanced at his crippled leg. At least he'd never seen her, sensed her, doing that—a miracle. He hadn't wanted to tell her that particular story, how he'd made a bad mistake that had gotten him shot below the knee, and destroyed his career along with his peroneal nerve.

But he had ended up telling her some of his stories. Had listened to hers. “When did you look up my stuff?” he asked.

She flushed slightly more, as if recalling the videos online of the aftermath of the shooting. A TV crew had been close to the scene. Last time Zach had checked, the videos were still available on the net.

“I don't recall when I, uh, checked you out,” Clare said.

“Not the night of the day we met, when I told you to?” he asked, knowing the answer that continued to warm him. She'd trusted him, thought more of him in person than any images and words or events she'd seen on the Internet.

She shook her head. “No, I didn't search for data on you that night.”

“Or for several days afterward?”

Clare spread her hands. “Not that I recall.” Her eyes met his. “It didn't matter.”

His shoulders relaxed, though he kept his expression serious. “We know each other, Clare.” Almost, he told her that he loved her, but she'd withdrawn a little. He wouldn't use that to lure her back into a better frame of mind with him.

She nodded. “Yes, we know each other.” Lifting her chin, she said, “You're ready to go, then?”

“Let me get my computer.” He grabbed the briefcase with the notebook in it from the far end of the breakfast bar counter, and saw vulnerability peek through her eyes. “What?” he asked.

“Um, do you have enough clothes at my place . . . at home . . . for work tomorrow, too? Do you want to spend the night with me?”

He took the time to smile slowly at her. “Of course I want to
sleep
with you. And I've got clothes.” So, they'd negotiated, as usual, this bump in their relationship. Their differences made life interesting, and didn't compare to the amount of stuff they had in common. “My work hours are flexible.”

“I noticed.” She grimaced. “So are mine; definitely not nine-to-five anymore. A
lot
of overtime.”

“I'm going in today on this freebie . . . ah, pro bono case . . . to keep relations between me, as a rep for Rickman's agency, smooth with the DPD. He continues to cultivate them to get more investigative talent for the business.”

Clare nodded.

“Don't know if Rickman has other cases for me or not.” Zach shrugged. “Guess I'll find out.” He nodded to Clare to head for the exit, and she did, holding the outer door open for him as he set the security alarm then left his apartment. Nice enough and a good guy space, but Clare's home . . . also really comfortable and not too girly. “I have enough clothes in the closet you gave me at your house.” He didn't think she checked that closet like one of his former, too obsessive, live-in lovers had. So Clare didn't know that he'd put in several jackets and some trousers.

As for Clare's walk-in closet, like the house itself, it had plenty of space for additional things.

She slanted him a look and smiled back at him. “I like having you in my house.” She glanced at the not-so-hidden security camera aimed at the door of his apartment, then dropped back to his far side where he'd block her from the recording and murmured, “And I like you in my bed, very much, Jackson Zachary Slade.”

“Yeah. We're very good together.”

As they drove away, he saw crows, but they took off too quickly for him to count them. Maybe they were real crows. Maybe.

With a deep breath and dragging feet, Clare entered the office on the second floor of her home that she'd set up for her ghost seer “gift” . . . work. One wall held a thick corkboard with a mounted map of metro Denver. She'd outlined in red the bad zones thick with ghosts—where she couldn't drive. She'd also stuck golden pins, only four, of ghosts she'd helped transition, and none of those had been major projects, just phantoms she'd moved on while coming into her gift. That main map dominated, but others hung, too. Of Colorado, of the Old West, and old maps, too.

The room smelled exotic, both from the perfume her great-aunt Sandra—and Clare—loved, and the furniture she'd inherited from her relative. Great-Aunt Sandra had liked burning incense. Straight ahead sat two bookshelves full of her great-aunt's journals—books the woman had sitting around in every room, much like Clare had clocks, and would write in at whim.

Once more Clare deeply regretted not spending more time with the woman she loved but had considered a flake. Not only had she missed wonderful times with Sandra, but she hadn't let the woman groom her for this vocation.

Her teeth hurt, and she found she'd been grinding them.

She didn't want to be here. Didn't want to open her old, heavy laptop and look at the pages of the journals she'd transcribed. Sit in the folding chair with a pillow on it.

Who would? It occurred to her that if she made the place more comfortable and less intimidating, reflecting more of her than just her gift, she might feel better about being in the space. And about her gift, and her new vocation. She should swap out this tiny room for the larger one where she'd optimistically set up her accounting business office. She hadn't had time for more than an easy client or two.

Yes, the other office, with prettier windows and more light, painted a cream-yellow, her favorite cheerful color, with some new art she bought and loved, as well as maps . . . a pretty desk and an excellent ergonomic chair, maybe a soft loveseat, even . . .

A new project, perhaps a new procrastination, but now she didn't underestimate the mental lift that working in a place she enjoyed being gave her.

Since she'd just moved in three weeks ago, it would be a pain messing with painting and changing furniture around, but she could afford to hire that out instead of doing it herself. She
had
begun to spend more money on herself—and Zach—and, face it, with the ghost cases coming so quickly, she had more money than time. She couldn't afford to paint and rearrange furniture herself.

Another steady breath and a determined nod. She
must
make her workspace more appealing, especially as her business expanded as her name and abilities became more well known. She didn't like the thought, but believed more publicity was inevitable.

Marching the couple of paces to her great-aunt's journals, she scanned the colorful backs. If she were Sandra, which might she have used to record a spectral wound?
Red-spined
, Clare thought, putting a hand to her side and rubbing it,
if Sandra hadn't had another closer
.

Sighing, she pulled out three red journals, kept them in one arm, and stuck a packet of multi-colored sticky tabs in her pocket, then scooped up her laptop in the other. She headed downstairs, her feet echoing hollowly on the polished wooden treads. The whole house felt empty without Zach. He really did infuse it with a vital energy.

So she trucked out of her house along a sandstone footpath, through the backyard to the old carriage house, which she'd decided would be her ghost “client” place. Texas Jack had refused to meet her here, but other ghosts hadn't. She hoped to keep phantoms out of her home.

Yes,
this
place would be fine to work in . . . in every season but winter. She didn't see herself using it when she had to shovel a path from the house through the snow, thus the office near her bedroom.

For now, it pleased her, and she set her laptop on the glass bistro table along with the thinner red volumes. She settled into an overstuffed chair that also smelled of Sandra's perfume, got out the sticky notes, and began to read, tabbing each entry in a color according to subject.

Two hours later, she stood and stretched, glad she'd made it that far through the journal without becoming restless. The stories of the Chicago mobster-era ghosts Sandra had helped transition onward had been interesting, but had barely given Clare any more knowledge of the rules governing her gift, and there was no mention of the spectral wound, either receiving it or dealing with it, or how it had healed.

Clare paced around the lower floor of the carriage house, looked at her cell that hadn't rung, let alone lilted with the tune she'd programmed for Zach, then ran upstairs to the empty bedroom space and back down for a little exercise.

After making another cup of coffee, she sat down and began reading again and finally found it.

Oh, owie, OUCH! Those last transitions—those ghosts—mean as snakes. Of course they would be, and for some reason, John was no use whatsoever. He simply froze when it came to deal with the maelstrom of those seven spirits!

I seem to have gotten a tear in my own spirit, my etheric body. It hurts! I'm not sure exactly how this happened, but it must have occurred when I fought those mad specters. Nasty things. I swear some of them had sharp teeth and long yellow nails that felt like claws!

I'm rubbing the spot now, a shallow rip, like a long scratch, from the ball of my left shoulder straight across to my breastbone. Owie, it hurts. Rather a cold ache, too, and I have noticed that when John or those needing to cross over are around, the injury throbs and might not be healing.

This will take some thinking on. If I can't practice my business without hurting, I must stop for a while. Then again, it's been a while since I took a good long break. Maybe soaking myself in the sun could help the wound and I should go somewhere warm. Heaven knows, Chicago in February is not warm even at the best of times.

Jal and Viva and their children are in the South of France. That sounds fabulous, and I need to become closer to little
Clare, since I think that precious girl will be my heir.

At least I think the family is in the South of France. They were Tuesday, but they might have moved on by now . . . Those two have itchy feet.

Clare could almost hear her great-aunt's sigh. One Clare had often exhaled herself. She'd
hated
all the traveling around, getting settled in a place, then heading off again on a whim or after some dramatic clash, more likely for strange quarters with strange people. The memory of her peripatetic childhood made all her muscles tense, and she leaned back, closed her eyes, and breathed in the scent of this place all her own. One her parents—still nomadic—probably didn't know of. Yet.

Sunlight, dry Denver weather, the hint of Sandra's perfume that Clare loved in the fabric of the furniture, all came to her nostrils and soothed her.

Opening her eyes, she skimmed down to the next unread paragraph.

John, who disappeared last evening as soon as we left the small grassy area, has apologized profusely for just standing there. He said the continual echoing sound of machine guns and the cycle of seeing the men fall reminded him of his own death that, I understand, he doesn't like to think about. We shouldn't have come so close to the day of the actual massacre, I suppose, but it's always better to pay attention to dates. And how was I to know until I got there that it was the moon phase that mattered for those particular ghosts!

February. Massacre. Chicago gangsters. Had to be the St. Valentine's Day Massacre of Moran's North Side gang by Capone's South Side men. Great-Aunt Sandra had handled the transition of
those
ghosts? That impressed Clare, and no wonder they'd been violent.

As far as John and I can tell, the only thing that will heal this scratch is time.

Clare turned the page to look for more information on the wound, and found the next entry to be six years later. No doubt another journal picked up where this one left off, but who knew when she'd find it?

Standing, she stretched, leaned over, and let her body fold naturally. Turning her wrist, she checked her watch. If she hurried, she could make the next beginner yoga class. She'd feel better after that, and maybe she'd continue to make friends of a more open mindset than her old ones . . .

*   *   *

After class, when she pedaled her bike back into the garage, she found Enzo sitting and grinning on the step into the house. Already humming with good vibes from yoga, the sight of him added to her pleasure. “Hey, Enzo, good to see you.”

I love you, Clare.
He hopped to his feet and ran toward her.

“I love you, too.”

You don't need me as much, so I can explore when I want?

Reaching down, she petted his head. “Absolutely.”

Thank you, Clare. I WILL be there when you help Texas Jack move on. For ALL of your cases.

“I'm sure,” she murmured.

Enzo wagged his tail, grinned.
That's my job.

Hers, too.

*   *   *

Zach worked in the conference room on his laptop, with Tony Rickman watching at his elbow. Mutual trust or not, Rickman had the security clearance to access more databases than Zach, and sat and observed Zach's searches for info on Maurice Poche.

Rickman, like all his operatives, came from a military background and did security evaluations, alarm systems, and body guarding—ah, personal protection. Zach thought the “investigations” portion of Rickman Security and Investigations was mighty thin. That is, the investigative department of the business was Zach himself, though he didn't know whether Rickman had had anyone on the payroll before him.

As it was, Zach explained his theories, processes, and actions to Tony and the man took notes and followed along.

None of the more esoteric databases had data on Poche, but the FBI files revealed a gold mine—several previous personas and scams, though no arrests. In those particular cons, Poche had targeted seniors for financial investments and there hadn't been any who'd actually wanted to testify against him.

He'd hit Denver about eight years before and began building his “entertainment” career steadily. His website looked good, professional, and his consultation prices were steep enough to make Zach's brows rise and Rickman give a low whistle. Welliam must have dropped a bundle.

The Denver Police Department kept an eye on Poche, but so far he hadn't stepped over any lines.

A deep background search by Zach and Rickman only took twice as long as it would have if Zach had done it by himself. But Tony—who was excellent in the security area but had never done any investigation—was a good student and learning the ropes.

Then Zach, Rickman's only trained investigator, did some phone work with his local police contacts. Give-and-take about the poltergeist situation up on Lookout Mountain—no, the police did
not
want to open a case on that formally—and some talk about Janice Schultz. She'd graduated from the Denver Police Academy three years before and was considered a solid, if not brilliant, cop.

During the long shooting-the-breeze session, Rickman had taken a couple of calls, then nodded to Zach and left for his own office, working on Sunday, as usual. But Zach figured that often happened to a man with his own business if he wanted to grow it.

When Zach finished with his little investigation into Janice Schultz—born and raised in Denver—he did a few minutes of quick and dirty research on Texas Jack Omohundro. Enough to follow Clare if she talked in detail about him, and enough so he wouldn't make a fool of himself if he actually talked to the frontiersman himself, which he planned on doing, maybe even that evening.

Late afternoon had gone and he headed home for an early dinner with Clare.

*   *   *

The next morning, Clare awoke as light filtered in the long western windows framing the French doors to the balcony. Too late for dawn or to reach Lookout Mountain in time to watch the poltergeist throw another tantrum at Buffalo Bill's grave.

Clare glanced at her bedside clock and blinked. Late, indeed. The day must be cloudy because the time read after eight. She just stared. Even a month after she'd given up her accounting job, she'd rarely awakened at such a late hour. The thought sifted from the depths of her mind that sleeping in
could
be an advantage to her new career, a luxury.

When Zach mumbled and his arm around her waist tightened, delight at staying in bed burst through her. She turned in his arms to face him, snuggled under his chin, and murmured, “How come you don't wake up at the same time in the morning?” He could, she knew. She'd never been with a man so disciplined in mind and body.

“Worked different shifts,” he mumbled, his hand going to her bare butt. Her sleep shirt had ridden up again. “My last shift was night—” He ended and she felt him tense, no doubt remembering the shooting.

So she distracted him by sliding her hand to his morning erection and stroking it.

He awoke fast and demonstrated his excellent motor skills until she screamed with pleasure and felt him follow her into the shattering sky of ecstasy.

Yes, setting her own schedule of rising and bedtime was a serious advantage of her new life.

*   *   *

They played in the shower, too, then ate quiche and ham and fruit in the sitting room beyond the master bedroom and bath. They'd nearly finished when Zach's phone, facedown on the table like hers, rang.

She narrowed her eyes at the Sousa march. “You've started assigning ringtones for the new people in your life.” More often than not, she'd heard a standard buzz from his cell.

“Yep.”

“Who's that?” Though she could guess.