Living with the Dead (3 page)

ROBYN

Portia wasn't in the washroom. Robyn even peeked under the stalls for her Jimmy Choos, ignoring the outraged chirps of the chorus line reapplying lipstick at the mirrors. That row of young women, shoulder to shoulder, gave Robyn a good idea where Portia was.

While her client didn't mind having her drug problems splashed across the tabloids, she wasn't nearly as open about letting people actually see her using. If the washroom was busy, she'd go in search of a more private place.

Robyn could just head back to the club and wait, but walking – and thinking – was clearing her head.

The first two doors she reached were labeled Private, which to Portia would scream privacy. But both were locked. Robyn continued on. As she neared the end, something clattered around the corner.

She froze, listening.

A low moan. She envisioned rounding the corner to see a couple. She cleared her throat – loudly – and listened for muttered oaths or exclamations. A moment of silence, then running footsteps. She rounded the corner to see the exit door fly open, a woman's figure disappearing through it.

She started going after her, then replayed the pounding footsteps and knew they hadn't come from Portia's four-inch heels. She looked down the hall. There was only one door – half open, dark inside. She guessed that's where the woman – or couple – had fled from, but she should check it for Portia, just to be thorough.

Stepping through the darkened doorway, her foot knocked something. She bent, fingers closing around metal.

A gun.

Her startled brain gave the command to drop it, but she stopped herself. With her luck, someone would find it and use it in a crime... with her prints all over it. Better to find a staff member and hand it in.

As she turned to go, a moan sounded behind her. The hairs on her neck rose. She squinted into the dark room. A pale figure lay crumpled on the floor.

"R-Rob?" Portia's voice was a papery whisper.

Robyn raced forward and dropped beside her, letting the gun clatter to the floor. Her gaze snagged on the dark stain spreading over Portia's blouse.

"Cell..." Portia whispered. "Cell phone..."

"Right." Robyn fumbled for her purse, digging out a handful of crap and dumping it before finding her cell. "I'm calling 911."

"No, my..."

Portia's voice trailed off in a rattle. Then she went still. Robyn shook Portia's shoulder. She didn't blink, just stared. Sightless. Lifeless.

Robyn lifted her phone, fingers trembling as she dialed 911. Then she remembered the figure running out the back door. Portia's killer had just left. Robyn might still be able to catch her, or at least get a better look at her.

The 911 dispatcher answered. As Robyn ran from the room, she quickly explained what had happened – that Portia Kane was shot, wasn't breathing and needed an ambulance. She gave the location as she raced out the exit door. It was shutting behind her when she heard a scream.

Outside the room where Portia lay, a server was looking straight at Robyn. Their eyes met. The girl screamed again, backpedaling, her hands flying up.

"No!" Robyn called. "I – "

She lunged to catch the door. It shut with a clang. She grabbed for the handle. There wasn't one – it was solid metal. She banged a couple of times, but she knew it was useless – that girl wasn't about to open the door to a presumed killer.

Robyn remembered her call. The dispatcher was gone. She started redialing, then stopped. She'd given everything they needed. The best thing she could do right now was keep going and try to catch a glimpse of Portia's killer. She could explain the misunderstanding later.

She took off down the alley.

Well, that hadn't worked out quite as she envisioned...

Robyn stood at the end of an alley, looking up and down a road packed bumper to bumper with taxis and limos, all jockeying for curb space to disgorge their celebrity passengers. The sidewalks were just as full with people jockeying for a look at those passengers. A hundred feet away, a flashing sign announced the opening of Silhouette, the newest "see-and-be-seen scene" in L.A.

She scanned the crowd. Not a single bloodstained psycho killer in sight.

She shook her head, stifling a laugh. Ridiculous to think she actually could have caught Portia's murderer. The woman had a good five-minute head start. Robyn wasn't even sure it
had
been a woman. Maybe a slender young man?

Still, she kept looking down the street. The killer had to have come out here. Robyn had followed the first alley to a second, which led to a service lane blocked by a truck. The only other route had been a third alley... the one that ended here, at this road.

She started stepping out, then stopped herself. Speaking of bloodstained potential killers... Robyn's knees were red from kneeling beside Portia's body.

Portia's body.

Robyn took a deep breath. She hadn't always liked Portia, but there'd been something there, some spark of potential. If only she'd nurtured it, pushed for Portia to go to that charity event tonight instead.

If only she'd told Damon to stay the night in Pittsburgh instead of coming back so late...

Robyn took another deep breath. This wasn't about Damon. It was about Portia, and the best way she could help her was to get back to Bane and tell the police what she'd seen.

Robyn took her time going back. She wasn't looking forward to explaining why she'd left the scene. She imagined the officers rolling their eyes at the dumb blonde who'd raced off, trying to catch a killer. She'd had no intention of catching her – just catching a better look. But it still sounded a little foolish. Okay, a
lot
foolish. File under "seemed like a good idea at the time."

As she rounded the corner, she caught a flash of motion. A black-clad figure darted behind a Dumpster. Robyn froze and replayed her memory of the fleeing killer. A slender, light-haired figure in black pants and a dark shirt.

Robyn took a slow step backward. Then she stopped.

Just a look, that was all she needed. Better yet, a picture. She pulled out her cell phone and stepped forward. Gravel crunched under her shoes. She reached down and tugged them off. Then she crept along the Dumpster until she heard the quick shallow breaths of someone trying to control panic.

Robyn turned her cell phone around, camera lens pointing out. Then, finger on the button, she reached around the corner of the bin...

Snap!

A choked gasp. As Robyn wheeled to run, she saw a shadow lunge at her.

Thwack.

Something hit the back of Robyn's head. She spun as a shadowy figure raised a chunk of concrete. It caught Robyn on the cheek. She stumbled back, tripped and went down. As she fell, the cell phone started to slip. She grasped it tighter, pulling her arm under her and landing facedown on it.

"Did you hear that?" said a distant voice. "Call for backup."

A radio squawked. Footfalls sounded in the next alley. Robyn's assailant let her go and ran.

Robyn scrambled to her feet. She slipped and recovered, but when she looked up, her attacker was gone. She heard an officer radioing for backup, saying that they might have found the suspect. Robyn almost called out, saying that their suspect was getting away. Then she remembered who those officers were looking for: her.

She looked down at herself, bloodied and battered. A bump on the head, a scrape on the cheek – proof she'd been in a fight, maybe with Portia. If those officers found her, they wouldn't keep looking for the fleeing killer; they'd presume they already had her.

Robyn took off.

FINN

John Findlay – Finn since first grade when there'd been three Johns in his class – stared down at the body of Portia Kane, lying flat on her back, shirt ripped open, blood-smeared nipple rings glistening under the harsh light.

"This is one photo you wouldn't want in the tabloids," he murmured.

He lifted his gaze from the body and looked around the room for the ghost of Portia Kane, hovering over her body in disbelief or huddled in a corner, pulling her torn blouse closed. Nothing. Maybe she'd headed back into Bane to get in a few more minutes of clubbing before she was trundled off to the great beyond.

He snorted at the thought, earning a wary look from the new police photographer who circled wide, his looks saying he suspected what they said about Finn was true.

A hand slapped Finn between the shoulder blades and he turned to see the beefy figure of Mark Downey, one of the crime scene techs.

"Got that mojo working for us tonight, Finn?" Downey asked.

Finn glanced around, seeing no shimmer of Portia Kane. "Fraid not."

"Don't listen to him," Downey mock-whispered to the photographer. "This guy is a regular Sherlock fucking Holmes. I swear, crime scenes talk to him."

Not crime scenes,
Finn mused as Downey wandered off. The photographer kept eyeing him warily. He wondered what the kid had heard. The mildest rumor was that Finn was a crack detective, but somewhat eccentric, and not really a team player – hence the "partner" who'd gone on leave five months ago and never been replaced. Worst were the stories that blamed his partner's absence on Finn – the stress of working with a wacko the department kept on only because of his clearance rates.

It didn't matter how careful Finn was. Every now and then, someone would see him carrying on a conversation with thin air and staring at things no one else could see. He wasn't psychic, he just saw dead people. Not like the kid in the movie, though. With Finn, they usually only appeared at homicide scenes, distraught and confused.

If he was lucky, he'd get a few questions answered before the ghost disappeared. And if he didn't? Then he was shit outta luck, because they never came back. This was, apparently, one of those times he wasn't getting any help from the dead. He took one last look around, then set to work.

One dead celebutante. Apparent gunshot. Possible murder weapon lying beside her. After an hour's work, he knew no more than he had looking in from the doorway. He had a witness, but all she could say was that she'd heard something, come back here and seen a woman run out the exit door. As for what the woman looked like? Between eighteen and fifty, five foot to six foot, not fat, light hair.

She'd agreed to work with a sketch artist, but from the panic in her eyes when he asked, he wouldn't put much stock in the result. Eyewitness accounts were notoriously unreliable, and Finn knew the truth of that better than most. Twice he'd had ghosts give him a full description of their killer, only to have the evidence prove it was someone who didn't look anything like the sketch.

Finn didn't blame the ghosts. Both had been killed by strangers – one jumped in an alley, one catching a stray gang bullet. In that split second before death, they sure as hell weren't taking notes. And in those shell-shocked minutes after, their memory had shown them the face of a monster – bigger and uglier than the reality.

"Hear that?" Downey cocked his head, meaty jowls quivering. "The wolves are baying at the door. Think we should toss them a few scraps?"

Finn listened to the dull roar of the press firing questions to the officers guarding the perimeter. The club had been very helpful, even calling in off-duty bouncers to help them with crowd control. They must have had a few infractions on the books, hoping their cooperation might make those disappear.

He knelt beside the items that had been scattered beside the body. Women's things – makeup, a compact, tissues.

"I figure that belongs to the victim," Downey said. "Her purse was empty – dumped."

Finn surveyed the small mound of items, then glanced at Portia Kane's purse, barely big enough to hold a pack of smokes. "All this didn't fit in there."

"Hey, you should see all the crap my wife squeezes into hers. I swear, those things are magic."

Finn nodded, as if he understood. He wasn't married. No girlfriend, not for... well, it had been a while. It took all his time and energy to do his job – a life spent in service of the dead.

He could resent it, but he'd never really seen the point. He'd been given this gift, and it was his duty to use it.

Finn sorted through the purse debris with a gloved hand, looking for insight into the woman who'd left it behind. A young officer tapped him on the shoulder and said Marla Jansen wanted to speak to him. From the way he said it, Finn knew he should recognize the name, but he considered himself lucky to know who Portia Kane was.

He followed the officer – Tripp – into the hall and found a young woman with stop-sign-red hair bouncing on her tiptoes, trying to see into his crime scene.

"The body's been removed," Finn said.

"Oh!" Jansen's dark eyes widened with put-on horror. "I didn't want to see – " She shuddered. "Eww."

An actor. In this town, one learned to identify them at a hundred paces. From her exaggerated expressions, he would peg her as a wannabe – and likely to stay that way – but if Tripp knew her, she must be semifamous. Finn just hoped she didn't expect him to ask for her autograph.

"Officer Tripp says you saw something."

Jansen launched into a lengthy account of being in the club with Portia then sending Kane's PR rep – a woman named Robyn Peltier – to find her when she'd been gone too long.

"Portia Kane goes clubbing with her publicist? Does she expect to need her?"

"Of course not. Portia feels sorry for the chick. She lets her tag along with us sometimes. I always told her you shouldn't socialize with the hired help, and now look what happened. The chick flipped out and killed Port in a jealous rage."

"Was there an issue?"

Jansen fluttered her hands. "There's always an issue with people like that. They hate us. Finally it just bubbles over and... boom."

"Boom?"

"Or 'bang,' I guess. Anyway, they were fighting."

"About what?"

"How would I know?"

"When did this happen?"

"Right before Portia left us," Jansen said smugly. "The PR chick said something and Portia didn't like it. She told her to call the driver and went to the bathroom."

Didn't sound like much of a fight to Finn.

Jansen nibbled a purple-painted fingernail. "Do you think I should, like, get a bodyguard?"

"I doubt it's an epidemic."

Her brow furrowed, trying to figure out what he meant. Then she gave up and pulled out her cell phone. "I'm going to get one. Maybe two. You can't be too careful."