Inspector Specter (5 page)

Melissa and Wendy were standing there, looking just a tiny bit puzzled.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“I can't find Maxie,” Liss said.

“That's funny,” I answered, although I didn't much feel like laughing. “I can't find Paul, either.”

A thorough search of the house, from attic to basement, turned up no sign of either ghost. It was possible that they were down near the beach or in the large backyard, but a quick glance out through the beach doors turned up Rita and Stephanie and no one else.

In Maxie's case, that wasn't entirely unexpected—unlike Paul, she can leave the property, and she had said (however unreasonably) that she was going to take the morning off and go visit her mother. Paul's absence was more troubling. He didn't have the ability to leave my property and didn't spend much time outside. I knew that his inability to move freely bothered him. Paul had come to New Jersey (when he was alive) by way of Toronto, Canada, but had been born in England and had something of a restless spirit. Or
was
something of a restless spirit.

“I'm worried,” Melissa said. “There's no place Paul could have gone, but he isn't anywhere.”

“Paul's fine,” I said, completely unsure of whether I meant it. “He's probably just gone into hiding somewhere.”

Wendy, the very soul of optimism, suggested that we might have been looking in one room while Paul was in another. The fact that Wendy couldn't have seen Paul even if he were standing a foot away from her was not brought up.

“There's only one thing to do,” I told the two girls. They didn't ask what that thing was, which was good, because my thought process being what it was, I would have come across as seeming far too self-involved and not concerned enough about our friend. But the question remained: Once you're dead, can something really bad happen to you anymore?

Without considering that too deeply, I put my only course of action in play: I went over to Joe to inform him that, unfortunately, the morning spook show had to be canceled. “Don't worry,” I told him. “The one this afternoon will be that much more spectacular.” He nodded with a sly look and said he understood; Joe was an understanding if skeptical guy.

Since I had unexpectedly freed up some time, I got in touch with Lieutenant McElone and told her I'd be on my way. I did not tell her that I'd be bringing two eleven-year-old guests, since she might object, but I didn't have a babysitter on standby at the moment. It is illegal in the state of New Jersey to leave a person under the age of twelve alone and unsupervised.

On the way to the police station, though, I did ask Melissa to call my mother to see if she could meet us back at the house by eleven thirty. For one thing, that would free me up for whatever activity McElone might have in mind (if any) or to drive over to Kitty Malone's house to locate Maxie for the afternoon ghostfest and perhaps for a line on where to find Paul.

Wendy packed up what little overnight stuff she had—since she hadn't expected to stay over, it wasn't much—and called Barbara, who agreed to meet us at the Stud Muffin after our visit to the police station. She couldn't get there
before
the visit, and that was actually fine with me. I like to bring other people with me when I visit Lieutenant McElone. There is strength in numbers.

We arrived at the Harbor Haven Police Department a little before nine thirty. I found an actual parking space around the corner and was careful to feed the meter to its time limit. The one place you're sure to get ticketed for illegal parking is around the corner from a police station.

McElone was not outwardly thrilled to see the two girls with me when the dispatcher in the reception area buzzed us through to the bullpen, where she has a cubicle. But being a mother of three (the only pictures she displayed on her disgustingly neat desk), she did not grouse about it, as she would about virtually anything else. In fact, she welcomed the girls, told them that she and I had to discuss some business that she preferred they not hear about—I respect people who speak honestly to children—and asked them to sit in a waiting area nearby, still visible but not within earshot.

I could see Melissa bristle a little at the move, because she believes herself to be a valuable and helpful asset to an investigation, which is indeed true. But Melissa also knew she had no chance of winning an argument with the lieutenant, so she led Wendy to the waiting area. It was quiet in the bullpen, and no one paid much attention to the girls.

McElone made sure to keep her gaze trained on them. “Did you really think it was a good idea to bring a couple of fifth-graders in to consult?” she asked once the girls couldn't hear.

“What did you want me to do, leave them home with the ghosts?” I can usually use Paul and Maxie as a deterrent to any argument the lieutenant might make. She doesn't have enough ghost knowledge to contradict me. “Enough, anyway; they're here. So what's the emergency you called me in to discuss? I told you I haven't been able to contact Detective Ferry yet. It might still be a couple of days.” I didn't reiterate that it might be never; I knew McElone would remember me saying that.

She did, however, look around with a slightly concerned expression. Her voice dropped down to a murmur. “Let's not broadcast that,” she said urgently. “Remember, this is not official police business, especially not in Harbor Haven.”

I understood that she was right, and nodded. “Sorry. What can I do to help, Lieutenant?”

McElone made a sound that was somewhere between frustration and exasperation. “I've been told by the Seaside Heights department that the investigation into Martin's death is being ended. They're ruling it an accident and closing the file.”

That wasn't good news. But I was also baffled as to how that required my presence here. All McElone wanted me to do was contact Ferry if he showed up on the Ghosternet. Beyond that, if the department where Ferry had worked was ending its investigation, that meant no one besides McElone (and, in theory, me) was looking into his death. More distressing was the idea that McElone would not be able to draw on the work and the conclusions of the Seaside Heights police and would probably not be able to access their files to help her in her investigation.

“I'm sorry to hear that, Lieutenant,” I said. “So . . . what's that got to do with me?” Tact. My middle name. Alison Tact Kerby.

McElone didn't seem to notice. “I'm taking some vacation time from Harbor Haven,” she said matter-of-factly, but in a tone that indicated she wanted the conversation to stay between us. I noticed a couple of uniformed cops a few cubicles away, but they didn't seem to be paying any attention to us. “I intend to use the time to find out who killed Martin. If the Seaside Heights department isn't investigating because they think they know what happened, I'm left to do it myself.”

That was a little stunning, to tell the truth, but it didn't answer my question. She'd get to my role in her own time. I wasn't going to suggest that it would be one of an assistant investigator. The only thing worse than McElone condescending to me would be her laughing at me. I've been there.

“That means you won't be able to find me here,” she continued. “When your . . . informants find out something about Martin, you'll need to call me on my personal cell.” She gave me the number, and I dutifully entered it into my phone. “If you do call, don't tell me anything about the case over the phone. Just say that you have some information, and I'll tell you a place to meet. Okay?”

I nodded. “But you could have called me with this,” I told her. “Why did you need to see me in person?” I looked over at Melissa and Wendy, who were deep in “conversation,” although the exchange appeared to be taking place by text. These kids today, am I right?

“There's more,” the lieutenant answered. “I need to give you something.” She produced from her top drawer a thumb drive with the logo of the borough of Harbor Haven on it. No doubt they made great holiday gifts. “Take this and keep it safe. It's a backup of Martin's case file from the Seaside Heights PD. If I need it, I'll get in touch.”

I took the drive from her hand and put it carefully in my hip pocket. “You act like you're going undercover with the mob for six years,” I said. “Is all this cloak-and-dagger necessary?” I left out the part where I was honored that she'd chosen me to protect the case file. I was, but saying so would not be within the code of behavior McElone and I had established.

“It's precautionary,” she answered. “I don't expect any problems, but I like to be prepared. And there's something else.”

As I waited, Melissa walked over to me. “Okay if Wendy and I head outside for a minute?” she asked.

Before I could answer, McElone stood up. “Why don't we all go outside?” she asked.

That seemed telling, so I nodded, Liss turned back and beckoned toward Wendy, and the four of us headed for the door.

Once outside, we started walking—slowly—toward the Stud Muffin. The girls pretended to be hanging back so McElone and I could talk freely, but I knew that Melissa could, and would, listen to every word we were saying.

“The truth is, I don't want you to know everything,” McElone said. “That's partially because I don't
need
you to know everything. The ghost thing, well, I probably shouldn't have asked. I was emotional. I was upset. But it's out there, and it's too late to take it back.”

“It can be helpful, Lieutenant,” I said. “You can trust that any information I get for you will be accurate, I promise.”

“Maybe. It still seems crazy, like one of those things that seems like a really good idea at three in the morning. I should have waited until I'd had a couple of cups of coffee before I decided to go ahead with it.”

I could feel Melissa's eyes on my back; she is very serious about our ghost connections and impatient with those who treat it as a silly figment of our imaginations. But she wouldn't say anything, especially to the lieutenant. I'd have to hear her fury later, when we got home. It's all part of the service of being a mom.

“No turning back now,” I told her. “What else is there that you want me to know?”

“The Seaside Heights department's decision doesn't feel right. It's too fast; it's too soon. It's like they wanted to get this out of the way as quickly as they possibly could.” McElone was staring straight ahead again, in full detective mode. She is a very efficient cop and normally doesn't allow emotion to play a role in her process. This situation must have been extremely difficult for her.

After all, she was talking to me.

“I don't know anything about the personnel there,” McElone went on. “I wasn't in constant touch with Martin after I left Seaside, and there has been some turnover since then.”

“You two seemed friendly enough when I saw you together,” I noted.

“Yeah, but even then he didn't tell me much of anything. The point is, Martin didn't gossip. He didn't complain about the other cops on the force. He just did his job, and did it well. And he pissed some people off because that was the kind of guy he was.” I felt it was best not to pass along Paul's contention that the afterlife held at least one person who thought Detective Ferry had been working hand-in-glove with the local mob.

“I get it. You don't know the people in Seaside Heights, but you're concerned that they might be sweeping Detective Ferry's death under the rug.” I heard Melissa quicken her step behind me so she could hear better. A thought struck me, and I almost stopped walking. “Do you think someone in the department he was working in might have killed Detective Ferry and covered it up?” I asked.

McElone's mouth might have twitched just a little in irritation; not with me, but with the suggestion. “I'm not saying anything like that. The point I'm making is that I don't know what the situation is here, or there. And that's why I'm not ever going to mention your name to anyone. That, and the fact that if they knew I was checking with a ghost person, they'd laugh me out of the job.”

It took me a moment to decipher what she'd just said, and then I lowered my voice so that Melissa couldn't hear. “You think I might be in some danger?” I asked.

McElone gave me one of her patented sardonic sideways glances. “No,” she said with emphasis. “I'm telling you this so that you'll use the proper caution, though I don't really believe there will be any reason whatsoever for you to put it into use. Understand?”

“Was that sarcasm?” Sometimes it's hard to tell. We're from New Jersey. I've heard people say hello sarcastically.

She shook her head. “I mean it sincerely. I'm giving you some backup folders because this case is not on the books. I'm giving you my cell number so you can find me when I'm not at work. And I'm suggesting that you not mention any of this to people you don't know and trust because I still have no idea who killed Martin. Is that clear enough?”

“Crystal,” I said.

“Good. Now forget everything except the being-careful part until you talk to some ghost who has a story to tell. Then you call me. Got that?”