Speak the Dead (3 page)

3

S
ally fastened a plastic diaper around Mr. Lombardo's hips and began to whip up a small bowl of shaving cream.

When she was satisfied with the consistency, she brushed the thick cream on his stubbled cheeks and chin with an old-fashioned shaving brush made from genuine badger bristles. She had found the brush along with a matching mother-of-pearl straight razor in an antique shop, and couldn't resist the impulse to buy. It had taken her a while to first sharpen and then master the proper technique of the straight razor, but felt that her guests deserved the best for their final shave.

Besides, even if she wasn't perfect, the odd nick here and there didn't really matter. Her guests didn't bleed.

Once Mr. Lombardo was stubble free, Sally produced a thick sponge and a bottle of liquid detergent to clean any leftover medical residue from his body and legs.

Earlier, his widow had delivered a favorite gray herringbone suit along with a beautiful new silk tie in light turquoise that, in life, would have complemented his eyes. The suit had been dry-cleaned and pressed at Mr. Lombardo's own shop, a downtown fixture since the early Fifties. It almost seemed a pity that Sally would have to slice the suit open in the back before the fitting, but it just never laid properly otherwise.

Sally had just begun dabbing the sponge across Mr. Lombardo's bird-like chest when a loud, piercing scream shattered her serenity. She spun to the small basement windows high on the rear wall that, if they had been clear rather than painted black and barred in iron, looked out on the alley behind the funeral home.

Another high-pitched scream punctured the silence, but this time it was accompanied by the roar of a powerful engine and the ominous squeal of tires.

Instinctively, Sally dropped her sponge, snapped up her straight razor, and ran up the concrete stairs to unlock the rear fire exit.

A third scream was cut short by the sickening slap and crunch of metal upon flesh.

Sally yanked open the heavy door and vanished outside.

On the abandoned
stainless steel table in the mortuary basement, detergent leaked from Sally's sponge in tiny rivulets of phosphorescent green.

The liquid flowed through the coarse, dry hair of Mr. Lombardo's inert chest and spread across his sunken bleached-white stomach.

As the lemon-scented chemical soaked into dead flesh and flowed around old surgery scars, several shimmering words became visible on the corpse's stomach.

The detergent didn't reveal every letter, but anyone with a passing interest in word puzzles would have been able to decipher the two simple words scrawled in a childish hand:
He
knows!

4

J
ersey was already rushing toward the heavy fire doors at the rear of the club when the woman's third scream was cut short.

A fresh rush of adrenaline instantly made his pulse race faster. When he burst through the exit, he was clutching a Glock 26 semi-automatic handgun. Even in uncomfortable leather pants, Jersey never left home without his sub-compact 9mm snugged in an ankle holster.

A flare of brake lights at the end of the alley was accompanied by the ear-piercing squeal of burning rubber as a large four-door, American-made sedan took the corner at a high rate of speed and vanished from view.

Jersey briefly considered chasing after the vehicle when a door directly across from him burst open and a petite woman in a blue lab coat rushed out.

Her exit triggered a pair of bright security lights above the door, and in their dazzling radiance Jersey was taken aback by short, spiky hair the color of fresh snow, a button nose, and perfect Cupid's bow lips. Most startling of all, however, were her eyes. Large with fright, they were the most vivid shade of green he had ever seen.

Although distracted by her understated beauty, Jersey wasn't blinded enough not to notice she was clutching an old-fashioned straight razor in an aggressive don't-fuck-with-me grip. And lying on the ground between them was the broken, unmoving body of a well-dressed woman in a black trench coat.

“Stay back,” Jersey shouted. His gun felt unexpectedly heavy in his hand as he aimed it mid-mass on the attractive arrival.

The white-haired woman stared at him through those enormous eyes, her feet frozen in place, her face pale with fear.

Jersey suddenly remembered what he looked like.

“It's okay,” he said quickly. “I know I don't look it right now, but I'm a cop. Do you work in that building?”

The woman nodded.

“You heard the scream?” Jersey asked.

The woman nodded again.

“Can you put the blade away?”

The woman looked down at the razor clutched in her hand, and her face flushed with embarrassment. She quickly snapped the razor into its handle and dropped it into a pocket of her lab coat.

Satisfied that she wasn't a threat, Jersey lowered his gun and moved to the crumpled form lying on the gravel road. He pressed his fingers to the victim's neck, although the angle of her head and a spreading pool of blood suggested there was little point.

As he expected, there was no pulse.

When Jersey looked up, he found the attractive woman kneeling close beside him, staring in fascinated wonder at the recently deceased.

“Her neck's broken,” said Jersey. “Nothing we can do.”

The woman wiped a stray tear from her eye and Jersey felt an instant, irrational attraction. He was used to the public recoiling in horror, screaming hysterically, or even vomiting at the sight of death, but this tiny stranger displayed none of that. And for someone who dealt with violent death on a daily basis, her reaction was a powerful, if not totally appropriate, aphrodisiac.

Jersey tried to clear his mind, to focus on the dead rather than the living. It didn't work. While the woman's gaze was riveted on the victim, Jersey's was focused on her. This lovely stranger was a good eight inches shorter than his own six-foot-two-inch frame, but there was a palpable heat in her fragile beauty that made his breath catch in his throat. He instantly wished they were meeting in a different place at a different time when he didn't look like such a clown and there wasn't a dead woman on the ground between them.

He foolishly tried to inhale the scent of her, but all he could smell was blood, excrement, and death. Jersey forced himself to break away.

“I'm going to call it in,” he said. “Don't touch anything.”

The woman offered a gentle smile and simple nod that made Jersey feel light on his feet and eight-feet tall.

Jersey rolled up his pant leg to expose an ankle wallet containing a cellphone, his detective's shield, a credit card, and a couple of neatly folded twenties. He removed the cellphone, stood up, and made the call.

instead of retreating,
Sally inched closer to the dead woman for a better look.

She was in her early sixties with professionally colored and styled auburn hair. Her moderately expensive periwinkle pantsuit, flowing black raincoat, and simple but elegant jewelry reflected a comfortable stage of life. Her eyes were open and clear, but her face reflected the pain she had experienced at death with lips curled in an agonized grimace.

It was a frightening way to leave the world and not a visage, Sally believed, she would want to leave her children.

The dead didn't frighten her, but Sally was never around them this close to the moment of death. She wondered if she could alter the muscles before they became locked in place by rigor mortis.

Sally reached out to touch the woman's lips, undisturbed by the blood that pooled in her mouth and overflowed at the corners. But the instant her fingers connected with the woman's mouth, a flash of impossibly bright light exploded in her brain.

Sally tried to scream, but she was no longer in control of her own body. In fact, she didn't believe she was still
in
her own body. She lifted a hand and squinted against the glaring light. Shadows appeared around the edges and a shape began to form.

The sight made her gasp.

A large car was hurtling toward her, the chrome grill of its radiator like the teeth of a hungry shark. There were two people in the front seat, but before she could make out their faces, the car struck her legs and sent her flying over the hood.

The pain in her shattered limbs was blinding, but before it could fully register, her head hit the windshield with a sickening crunch. Sally's neck twisted beyond the breaking point and then her body went limp as it skidded lifelessly over the roof and crumpled to the ground behind the vanishing car.

And then, she was somewhere else.

The light faded and Sally found herself alive and kneeling safely beside the dead woman. The oddly dressed detective was crouched beside her, his strong hands gripping her shoulders to hold her steady. He had removed her hands from the woman's mouth and wiped the blood from her fingers with his ridiculous T-shirt.

Sally shivered from a cold sweat, her teeth near chattering as though she had been doused in ice water.

“ARE you okay?”
the detective asked. “You went awful pale.”

Sally nodded numbly, her vocal chords refusing to work.

“I asked you not to touch anything,” he said, but his concerned tone betrayed no anger. He sighed. “Do you need a bottle of water or something?”

Sally swallowed. “Sure.” Her voice was much softer than she planned.

The detective turned toward the club just as another leather-clad punk rocker opened the door and stuck his head out, curious.

“Get me some water, will you, Johnny?” the detective called.

“What's going on?”

“Hit and run. Get me water.”

“Okay, sure thing.”

Johnny disappeared inside the club.

“Come on.” The detective lifted Sally to her feet. “There're a couple crates we can sit on while we wait for the lights and sirens brigade.”

Sally allowed herself to be escorted across the alley to a pile of wooden beer crates stacked outside the nightclub.

She hugged herself as she sat on an overturned crate, while the detective made himself comfortable on another. He tilted his chin to indicate the building across the alley.

“That's a funeral home, right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You always work so late?”

Sally shrugged. “I get the guests ready for the day's services. I like to work when it's quiet.”

“Guests?”

“The dead.”

“Oh.”

Sally lifted her gaze and took in the husky man with the unusual streak of white in his hair. His villainous wardrobe and smeared ebony eyeliner didn't suit him at all. The corners of her mouth lifted in a smile.

“You don't look like a cop.”

The detective grinned back.

“I moonlight in a band. We were playing tonight.” He indicated the fire door behind him. “In there.”

“What are you called?”

“The Rotten Johnnys.”

Sally laughed. “Are you that bad?”

“Yeah.” The detective grinned wider. “Actually, we try not to be. We took our name from the Sex Pistols as we do a lot of covers of their stuff. But we also throw in some other cool bands: a little Clash, if we're feeling ambitious; dash of The Monks; Electric Chairs; Dead Kennedys; Ramones; Boomtown Rats; Joe Jackson… whatever gets people boppin'. We're also trying out some angry Celtic stuff that I really enjoy: Flogging Molly, The Pogues, that kinda thing.”

The fire door opened and Johnny appeared with two bottles of water. When he handed them over, his eyes went wide as he caught sight of the broken and bloodied woman lying alone in the middle of the alley.

“Jesus Christ, Skunk! Is she dead?”

“Hit and run. I told you.”

“You didn't say she was fucking dead. Why aren't you doing anything?”

“I called it in. There's a unit on the way.”

Johnny sputtered. “B-b-but she's dead and you're chatting up a groupie like there's nothing—”

The detective jumped to his feet and shoved Johnny against the metal door. “She's not a groupie. She works across the alley in the funeral home. She's a witness.”

“Okay, okay, take it easy, shit.” Johnny scrunched up his face as if he was about to be sick. “I'm going back inside.”

Johnny slammed the door behind him, and the detective returned to his crate.

“Sorry about that, Miss, err…”

“Wilson,” said Sally. “Sally Wilson.”

The detective offered his hand. “Jersey Castle.”

Sally took his hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. His grip was firm and dry without being so loose as to be insulting or too strong to be intimidating. In fact, Sally thought, it was just right.

5

T
wo patrol cars, an ambulance and a fire truck arrived simultaneously, followed within minutes by an ugly brown Ford with twin dented front fenders and a long, paint-blistering scratch running horizontally across the driver's side.

Jersey cringed when he saw the Ford and absently began tucking his ripped T-shirt into his leather pants. The rapid movement made the chain bandoleer that crossed his chest jangle noisily. He quickly pulled it over his head and tossed it out of sight behind one of the wooden crates.

When Lieutenant Noel Morrell stepped out of the Ford and stopped to stroke his impressive ginger moustache, everybody stopped breathing. Despite the lateness of the hour, the lanky lieutenant looked as though he had stepped fresh out of the Hugo Boss catalogue—all sharp lines and aggressive stance. With shined shoes and pleated slacks, Morrell took a few moments to process the scene before striding forward at a brisk and measured pace.

The other officers on the scene didn't start breathing again until after he strode past. When he stopped in front of Jersey, the detective reluctantly lowered his eyes in supplication.

“What in tarnation are you wearing, Detective Castle?”

“I'm off-duty, sir.”

“Is that what I asked?”

“No, sir.”

“So answer the damn question.”

“It's my stage costume.”

“Costume?”

Jersey shrugged.

“Are you a closet fairy, Detective Castle? Do you enjoy being chained and whipped by degenerates?”

“I play drums in a punk band, sir, but I don't believe you're allowed to question my sexuality, whatever it may be.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes, sir. I recall the memo.”

“Quite.” Clearing his throat as though to dislodge something distasteful, Lieutenant Morrell turned his attention to the dead woman's mangled body in the middle of the alley. He wrinkled his nose. “So what do we have here?”

“Hit and run.”

“You saw the vehicle?”

Jersey squirmed. “Just the tail end as it turned the corner. Four door, American made. Possibly a Dodge.”

“Registration?”

Jersey glanced at the club's rear entrance, searching for the telltale sign of a close-circuit security camera. Something he should have paying attention to instead of… becoming distracted.

“Not yet,” he said. “I—”

Sally stepped between the two men and handed Jersey a piece of crumpled paper.

“This might be the license plate you're looking for,” she said.

“You saw it?” Jersey asked.

Sally nodded, her eyes looking away.

“But you came out after—”

“Well,” Morrell snapped. “Is this the registration or not?”

“I believe it is,” said Sally cautiously. “It took me a moment to remember. Detective Castle was very patient.”

Morrell snorted. “Hmmm, well, good.” He turned to the closest uniformed officer. “Get a BOLO alert out to all patrols on this number immediately.”

Morrell turned to Jersey and stroked his moustache again. “Good work, detective. Just don't let this punk business interfere with your caseload.”

“No, sir.”

“I'll be watching.”

Morrell spun on his heels with such precision he could put a Marine Corp drill sergeant to shame, and marched back to his car. As he started the engine to back out of the alley the other officers held their breath again.

A sudden squeal of brake and crunch of metal made everyone cringe as a large trashcan was sent flying off to one side. Morrell reacted by stepping harder on the gas and quickly backing the rest of the way out of the alley.

“Amazing,” said one of the uniformed officers after Morrell's car had vanished from sight. “He only hit one can.”

The other officers laughed, including Jersey.

Sally looked at him quizzically.

“He's the worst driver you've ever seen,” Jersey explained. “No peripheral awareness. His car has been under the hammer more times than I've been out of tune. When he's driving, fire hydrants get so scared, they leak.”

Sally's eyes sparkled in amusement. “He's keeping strange hours for a senior officer.”

“His daughter is about to give birth and has moved back home,” explained Jersey. “He's feeling useless there, so he's driving everyone crazy out here instead. The other night he decided to inspect a stakeout that Vice was running and nearly blew the whole operation.”

Jersey turned as he caught sight of the Emergency Medical Technicians moving toward the body with a stretcher. He rushed forward and held up his hands.

“We're treating this as a potential homicide,” Jersey said. “We need photos and a full work-up before transport. Sorry, guys.”

The EMTs looked disappointed as they retreated to their ambulance and sat on the rear bumper to wait for the coroner and a forensics crew to arrive.

Jersey turned back around to ask Sally how she had managed to see the car's plate number, but she was gone.