Living with the Dead (4 page)

ROBYN

Robyn stood across the road from Bane. She looked down at her cell phone for the umpteenth time, as if the image she wanted was just slow in materializing, like one of those old Polaroid cameras. It was a great shot... of the blurred top of a light-haired head.

She looked at the club – at the growing crowd, at the reporters, the TV vans, the police cars, the ambulance... and she realized that every step she'd taken since finding Portia's body, as right as it had seemed at the time, had only made her situation worse.

She'd left her prints on the murder weapon. She'd been spotted fleeing the scene. She'd maybe even been spotted running down the alley. And now, to turn herself in, she'd have to pass the gauntlet of reporters and news cameras.

A primitive voice in her head screamed for her to run, but she silenced it. That would be the worst thing she could do.

She imagined a client calling her with this situation. She'd tell him to prepare for a trip to the station... just as soon as she'd made a few calls and gotten professional advice on how to proceed.

That's what she needed now: professional advice.

She didn't call ahead, just showed up on Judd's doorstep and prayed he was home. Judd Archer was a contract bodyguard Portia hired when she needed extra security, or wanted to look as if she did. He was much in demand in Portia's circles, not so much for his security abilities – which were top-notch – but for the extra services he provided.

Judd was an ex-cop. Robyn wasn't completely sure what his story was, only that he'd been screwed over by the department. And he was mad as hell about it, which meant he was happy to exact some revenge by advising his clients on ways to deal with the law.

Judd answered the door on the second ring. Dressed in sweatpants, he rubbed his fist over his bleary eyes.

"Rob?" He blinked hard. "What's wrong? Portia in trouble?"

"Not her. Me."

He frowned, as if he must have misheard.

"Portia's dead," Robyn said. "And they think I killed her." He backed up and waved her inside.

They were in the kitchen, Robyn on a stool at the island, Judd behind it making coffee.

Judd had loaned Robyn a sweatsuit. She'd changed into it and carefully folded her dress into a bag, so the police could test it for gunshot residue. Then she told Judd everything.

"Did you get a look at the detectives?" he asked. "I knew most of the homicide guys in that division."

"One guy in a suit came out to talk to the officers guarding the scene. Big guy with a craggy face. Dark blond hair in need of a trim. Early thirties, maybe?"

"Did he have an accent? Texan, I think. Or Oklahoma... No, I guess you wouldn't have been close enough to hear. But it sounds like John Findlay. Hopefully it is. He's a good cop. Might look like a cowboy, but he isn't, not when it comes to police work. Slow, steady and thorough. He won't jump to conclusions or railroad you into a confession."

Robyn stirred her coffee as she took a deep breath. "Okay."

"It's not like you have a lot of choice, Rob."

"I know. I just feel like an idiot. I ran from a crime scene."

"Trying to get a look at a fleeing killer.
After
you called 911. And when that girl saw you, you tried going back to explain. Even banged on the door. You've got scrapes and bumps to support your story, ones that wouldn't come from a run-in with Portia. And you have a photo."

"Oh, yes. The amazing photo." She took the cell phone from the table, looked at the blurry picture again and put the phone into her pocket as she shook her head. "I'm not even sure that
is
the killer. For all I know, I accidentally ambushed a street kid."

"But it still supports your story."

Robyn wasn't so sure. She knew Judd was trying to make her feel better. Like he'd said, she didn't have much choice. She had to turn herself in.

"Can you call the detective now?" she asked. "Get this over with."

Judd had phoned a contact at the station and discovered that Detective Findlay was indeed assigned to the case. He left a message with the dispatcher. Findlay would call him back.

"So," he said as he sat again. "Do you have any idea who this woman might have been?"

"If it
was
a woman. I didn't get a good look. But I still wouldn't know. Portia didn't make enemies. People loved to hate her, but no one really hated her."

"Maybe someone wanted something?"

Robyn shook her head. "If they did, she gave it to them – she was so desperate to be liked."

"What about tonight? Did anything out of the ordinary happen?"

"I spent most of the evening talking to my girlfriend. And Portia was too busy flirting with my friend's boyfriend."

Judd's brows shot up. "Your friend couldn't have liked that."

"Honestly, she wasn't the least concerned. He stayed right beside us and didn't flirt back. Portia asked me for his number afterward. I said I didn't have it. She wanted me to get it. Not exactly a fight – she just snapped at me and – " Robyn looked up sharply. "Could they use that against me? Proof of a fight?"

"Just explain it to Findlay before he brings it up."

Judd prodded for recent incidents, but Robyn couldn't remember anything. Portia would have mentioned it – she told Robyn more about her personal life than she ever cared to know.

Eventually Judd said, "We'll leave the speculating to Findlay. He should be here in a few minutes. I'll start another pot of coffee."

ROBYN

Robyn was in the bathroom holding a cold cloth to her face, listening to Judd grinding more coffee beans, when she heard a bang. And the grinder stopped.

She froze, not thinking, not moving, heart slamming against her chest. It couldn't be what she thought. She had guns on the brain and her nerves were shot. She opened her mouth to call for Judd, but she couldn't get his name out.

She crept to the door and opened it just enough to hear footsteps. Heavy footsteps. Judd had been in bare feet.

A loud crack, like a door smacked open.

"Damn it," someone muttered. A male voice, young, and definitely not Judd.

She backed away from the door, clicking off the light. The footsteps and mutters continued. He was searching the house.

As she retreated toward the shower, she scoured the counter for a weapon. Not much to choose from. She grabbed an aerosol can of deodorant and a heavy silver toothbrush holder.

She set one foot in the tub and stopped. Hiding behind a shower curtain? Was she nuts?

Robyn crept to the door. Across the hall she could see a bedroom. There had to be better hiding places in there. She took one step... and the footsteps moved toward the hall. She darted behind the door and shrank back, the aerosol can lifted to eye level, her finger on the trigger.

The footsteps continued past the door, then squeaked as they turned into the spare room where she'd left her dress. Robyn slipped out. As she tracked the footsteps to make sure they stayed in the spare room, she hurried toward the kitchen. The front door was on the other side of it. Get to the end of the hall, make a left –

The footsteps squeaked again, coming back toward the hall. Robyn dashed through the nearest doorway. The living room. She spun, looking for a place to hide. As she turned, she saw through the hall to the kitchen. Judd's bare feet lay on the floor, sticking out from behind the island.

The footsteps kept coming.

Robyn tore her gaze from Judd. As she turned, she saw patio doors across the room. When she yanked the handle, the door hit the stopper with a
bump-bump
that sounded as loud as a crash.

The footsteps stopped.

Robyn dropped to a crouch. Hands shaking, she tugged out the stopper. As she straightened, she noticed a pair of old sneakers by the door. She scooped them up with one hand as the other pulled open the door as slowly as she could. The footsteps had started again, slow, measured, as the searcher listened for another sound.

Robyn almost got the door open far enough to squeeze through, then it let out a piercing squeal. She yanked it open and stumbled out. Running footsteps sounded behind her. She lurched across the deck and nearly fell off, missing the edge in the dark. As she jumped down, the door squealed again. She turned to see a slender figure silhouetted in the dark doorway, his hand going up.

Robyn dove as the gun fired. She hit the damp grass and skidded, almost dropping the shoes. The figure raised the gun again. She rolled as the second shot sounded. Lights flicked on in the house behind Judd's. The figure backed into the house.

Robyn pushed to her feet and ran.

The plan, like all her plans that night, had seemed so simple. Get away from the gun-toting killer. Take cover. Call 911 to get help for Judd. Then go back, find Detective Findlay and turn herself in. But again, the universe conspired against her.

Judd's attacker had only retreated into the house for a moment. Then he'd come after her. He hadn't tried shooting her in the open again, but he'd chased and he'd chased until finally Robyn managed to fake him out by hiding and letting him run past.

Then she'd put on Judd's shoes, lacing them tight so they'd
stay
on, and found a safe spot to catch her breath and make that phone call. But her pocket was empty. Her cell phone must have fallen out. And it was at that point, as she told herself Detective Findlay would be at Judd's house by now anyway, that it hit her.

Robyn had just fled another crime scene.

FINN

Finn rang the bell again. He imagined Judd Archer inside, trying to calm a suddenly panicked Robyn – he checked his notes again – Peltier.

He stepped back for a better look at the house. Small, maybe two bedrooms. A decent neighborhood. Not good, but decent.

He should buy a house.

He'd been saying that for three years, but hadn't so much as skimmed a real estate page. He supposed that unless the perfect house magically appeared – For Sale sign on the lawn, Realtor at the door – he'd never get further than wishful thinking.

Apartment living wasn't for him. The endless trekking up the stairs or elevator. The noisy, nosy neighbors. Watching his money evaporate with nothing to show for it. Finn told himself he didn't have the time to house-shop, but the truth was that he didn't dare invest his life savings in a place where he might discover he wasn't the sole tenant.

Though Finn rarely saw ghosts outside a crime scene, it did happen, especially in places where he spent a lot of time. Twice he'd had spectral roommates.

The first one, he'd only glimpsed. He'd walk into a room and see the faint outline of a middle-aged woman, who always faded before he could get a better look. She hadn't scared him, but it was like reading with someone hovering over your shoulder. He could always sense her there, was always waiting for her to interrupt him.

The second one he
had
seen. Another woman, this one young, lying naked in the claw-foot bathtub. Not such a bad image... if she hadn't slit her wrists and looked as if she'd been in that tub for weeks. Finn had worked a few floaters in his time, and it wasn't a vision he wanted to see first thing every morning. He'd moved out within two weeks, and lost a big chunk of cash.

That second one still bothered him. Even on crime scenes, the ghosts he saw appeared whole and unharmed as they'd looked before their death. And the drowned woman had never moved, never spoken, never opened her eyes. He'd wondered whether there'd been something he was supposed to have done. He'd researched the case, but never found anything. Just an anonymous death in an anonymous city.

Finn rang the bell a third time, then leaned forward, straining to hear a struggle or an argument. Archer said Peltier wanted to talk to him, but she could have changed her mind.

He should have brought backup. Under any other circumstances, he would have, but here he'd figured he already had it in Judd Archer. He didn't know the guy, but he'd heard his story – ex-cop turned celebrity bodyguard. Not true. Archer had never left the force. He was undercover, trying to break into an organized crime ring through their purported relationship with some glitterati types. If things went bad in there, Archer would be Finn's backup.

Finn wondered whether Portia Kane was one of those celebs who supposedly liked hanging out with young mobsters. If so, that could answer some questions about her death. And this Peltier... Jansen said Peltier hadn't been with Kane long. She could be a plant, maybe a mobster's –

Finn shook his head. He was daydreaming again. One foot in this world, one foot in the next, his mother used to say.

He gave the doorknob a tentative turn. It opened. When Peltier woke Archer, relocking had probably been the last thing on his mind.

Finn called a hello. No one answered. He took out his gun and started forward.

The lights were on in the front hall and what looked like the kitchen beyond. Finn stepped into the kitchen and saw Archer standing over a body.

Finn's gaze flicked from the body to the figure above it. The ghost glanced up. Their eyes met.

"Shit," Finn whispered, and looked away.

Gun poised, Finn began searching the house for Archer's killer. He made it through the front rooms and was heading to the bedrooms, when a voice behind him said, "You want some help with that?"

Finn hesitated then, not glancing back, continued on.

"I know you can see me," Archer said, stepping in front. "You looked right at me in the kitchen. You can hear me, too, or you wouldn't have paused when I spoke."

Finn lifted a finger, telling Archer to wait until he'd finished his sweep. Insensitive but necessary. He'd once been so engrossed in questioning a victim's ghost – and keeping the rest of the team from overhearing – that he'd missed the killer hiding behind the sofa. The only thing that saved him from a bullet was the guy's shock when he leapt out to discover the detective was talking to thin air.

So Finn continued his search, with Archer tagging along, calm and focused, as if he was just another officer on the scene. Finn met two kinds of ghosts: those too distraught to give a coherent account and those whose accounts were eerily coherent. They knew they were dead; it just hadn't sunk in yet.

They'd finished searching the spare room when Archer, heading out the door, went to pull it farther open for Finn, and his fingers passed right through. He stared at them, then did it again.

"Ah, shit." Archer's shoulders slumped.

"I'm sorry," Finn said.

Archer nodded. He kept staring at his hand, and Finn resisted the urge to pepper him with questions, knowing the clock was ticking and at any moment Archer could vanish.

"So what happens now?" Archer said. "Am I stuck here? A ghost?"

"You'll be taken to the afterlife." Finn had no idea where ghosts went when they disappeared, but it was something
after
life, so he wasn't lying.

"I guess this is how you solve all those cases, huh?" Archer managed a small smile. "Insider information?"

"It helps. Can you tell – ?"

He stopped, remembering Archer's body lying on the kitchen floor. The longer he waited to call in the death of an officer, the more fast talking he'd have to do to explain the delay... and fast talking really wasn't his thing.

While he called for assistance, he asked Archer to explain what happened. Unfortunately, this was one of those times when having access to the most important witness wasn't going to help. Archer hadn't seen who'd killed him. He'd been making coffee and, the next thing he knew, he was standing over his body.

"Did you hear anything?" Finn asked after he'd hung up.

"Nah. I was grinding beans." He gestured to a small appliance on the counter. "Yes, I grind my own. I had a girlfriend who got me hooked. Anyway, those things make a helluva racket." He paused. "I may have heard the shot, but it was too late."

"Where do you keep your gun?"

Archer told him, and Finn went to check, motioning for Archer to follow and keep talking.

"Guess I left the front door open, huh?" Archer said. "That must be how the guy got in."

"If the killer wasn't
already
in."

"Huh? Wait, you mean Robyn? No way."

"You didn't see who killed you."

Archer seemed to consider lying, saying he'd caught enough of a glimpse to know it wasn't her. But the cop in him won out and he said only, "Rob had nothing to do with this, unless it was indirectly. If Portia's killer thought Rob was a witness, he or she could have followed her here. But my money says it's unrelated. Someone made me as a cop, decided to take me out."

Finn wasn't buying "tragic coincidence," but there wasn't time to argue.

"Was Portia Kane connected to your investigation?" he asked.

"Nah. She was just an easy client to cement my rep with, you know? She got me access to the people and places I needed."

"And Robyn Peltier?"

"Her PR rep. Not a drug supplier. Not a con artist. Not a mobster's girl. If you knew Rob, you'd laugh at the thought. She's a complete straight arrow. She doesn't smoke, doesn't drink – which is why those few glasses of champagne screwed up her judgment tonight. She treated Portia more like a little sister than a client. Tried to keep
her
straight, and was always there when she needed someone."

"I spoke to an actor who was clubbing with them tonight," Finn said. "According to her, Peltier was a hanger-on. Kane let her party with them, felt sorry for her."

Archer snorted. "Trust me, Rob was the one on pity-duty. Portia wasn't a bad kid, but she was needy, and what she needed most was a friend. She clung to Rob like she'd found her new best buddy."

"Did Peltier resent that?"

"If she did, she could have walked away. She had no ties to L.A. All her family is in Philly. She didn't need this job. She didn't kill Portia and she didn't kill me. My money's on – "

Archer vanished.

Perfect.

Finn waited, but when they were gone, they stayed gone. And Judd Archer was no exception.