Living with the Dead

FINN



FINN HAD NEVER BEEN TO A SPA.

No, that wasn’t true. He’d once had a crime scene at a spa. The ghost claimed to have been bludgeoned to death by her romantic rival as they awaited some hot new treatment guaranteed to make them irresistible to the D-list actor they were both pursuing. As it turned out, the young woman had been pawing through a shelf of discounted hair products when a massive bottle of conditioner had fallen and hit her in the head.

Finn doubted the ghost had intentionally lied. She’d been bending over, felt a blow and made up her own explanation. If her version made her death feel less pointless, she was welcome to it.

Today he was tracking down witnesses. The death of Portia Kane was a high-profile case. The death of Judd Archer was just as big—at least for the cops involved. Whether the two were connected remained to be proven. A team had been hastily assembled, pulling in resources from everywhere. Other detectives would work the Archer angle, in case his death was related to his undercover work. Finn would lead the team working on Portia Kane, which included finding Robyn Peltier. Another team member was handling the press side—that really wasn’t Finn’s thing.

He’d also assigned a pair of detectives to look into Robyn Peltier’s life—conducting interviews, checking her apartment, gathering background. Her husband had been killed six months ago in Philadelphia. Shot to death. Finn doubted there was a connection, but he had people working on it.

As for him, he’d spent most of the day tracking down people who’d been at the club with Portia Kane. He’d started with Marla Jansen, gotten three names from her, found them, learned nothing but got another name, and so on. Half the time, all they could say was that they hadn’t seen anything unusual, but you should talk to their good friend Tina. Ask for Tina’s last name, though, and apparently their friendship hadn’t reached the exchange of surnames stage.

Finally, Finn’s persistence had paid off. He’d followed a trail to these two young women who’d been with Portia’s crowd at Bane. Madelyn and Kendra. And they had a lead for him. Robyn Peltier hadn’t gone to Bane alone. She’d brought a friend.

As for details on that friend, though, that’s where things got fuzzy. They agreed she was eastern—from the eastern U.S. by her accent and from an Eastern ancestry by her looks. Middle Eastern or East Indian? They bickered over that until Finn assured them a final call wasn’t necessary.

As for a name, neither had caught it. And they got into another fight because their friend “Chas” claimed he recognized the girl from some high-society charity ball back east a couple of years earlier. He’d mentioned a name, which they’d forgotten, except that it was “totally Anglo, like Jill Smith,” which Madelyn claimed proved Chas was too wasted to see straight and had mistaken the girl for someone else. Kendra disagreed about the “wasted” part, but admitted Chas might have just been angling for an introduction to an attractive young woman.

An attractive young woman who had come with her boyfriend, as it turned out. Now him they remembered.

“He was white,” Madelyn said. “Older. Maybe thirty-five. He looked like a banker or a stockbroker. A money guy. Portia was all over him. Normally not her type, but he was very fine . . . for his age.”

“Was that a problem?”

“His age?”

“Portia being ‘all over’ this other young woman’s boyfriend.”

“She didn’t care. Probably used to that. The culture, you know? Arranged marriages, multiple wives . . .”

Kendra sighed. “The girl was obviously as American as you.”

Madelyn dismissed the idea with a snort. Finn wrapped it up and jumped to his own dismissal after getting this “Chas” guy’s cell number.

He was in the outer room when a deep voice behind him said, “Whoa. Those chicks were brutal. Meow.”

A man stood across the room. Finn’s cop eyes assessed him, spitting out vital stats. Roughly thirty. Six foot two. A hundred ninety pounds. African-American. Dark hair and eyes. Short beard.

“Look sharp,” the man said. “Corporeal being at one o’clock.”

Finn turned as Kendra hurried from the spa room, still dressed in her robe and turban. She shut the door behind her

“I wanted to say I think Chas did recognize that girl. Madelyn’s just jealous ’cause he was checking her out. But you might have trouble getting hold of him. He took off to Ibiza this morning, and he always ‘forgets’ his cell, so his dad can’t bug him. If that number doesn’t work, call me—I have his e-mail address somewhere.”

When Kendra was gone, Finn turned back to the man, who was leaning against the wall, arms folded, humming under his breath.

“We done here?” He bounded forward, arms uncrossing. “Good. We have murders to solve.”

He started for the door, then noticed Finn hadn’t budged. “I suppose you want an introduction first. The name’s Trent. I’d shake your hand, but we both know that’s not going to work out.”

So he was a ghost. The quip about corporeal beings should have been the tip-off.

Finn said nothing until they were in the car. The ghost—Trent—passed through the door and sat in the passenger seat. Finn never understood how they could do that. If you can walk through a chair, how can you sit on it? Whatever he’d learned in physics, apparently it didn’t apply to ghosts.

“You are a hard man to get hold of,” Trent said as he settled into his seat. “I’ve been following you all day. A couple times you glanced my way, like you saw a flicker, but that was it. That glow you’ve got, the one that says you’re a necromancer? It’s really dim. I suppose that means your powers aren’t very strong. No offense.”

“Necromancer?”

“That’s what they call your sort, isn’t it?”

Finn had no idea what his sort were called. The power to see ghosts ran in his family, skipping most, but hitting one or two every generation, to varying degrees. His mother sometimes caught flashes, but had never actually seen a ghost. His great-aunt saw faint outlines, but couldn’t communicate with them. Supposedly her brother—his great-uncle—had been able to, but he’d died when Finn was in preschool.

His family presumed there were other people who could see ghosts, but they’d never given it much thought. You heard about that sort of thing all the time—spiritualists, mediums, whatever—and his family didn’t see any use in sticking a name on it. It was what it was, and you learned to live with it. Or you didn’t. Your choice.

“What can I do for you?” Finn asked the ghost.

“The question, sir, is what can I do for you. The answer? Help solve this case.”

Finn pulled out of the lot. “You know something?”

An enigmatic smile. “I know a lot of things.”

“Specific to this case?”

The ghost reached for his seat belt, cursing as his fingers passed through. Then he gave a short laugh. “Not like I need that anyway, huh? Old habits . . .”

“Do you know something specific to this case?”

“About what those girls said, Detective—Can I call you Finn?”

“What do you know about this case?”

“This and that.”

“In other words, not much. Look, if you need something from me, ask. I’ll do what I can. But I don’t like games. You don’t need to pretend you can help—”

“You’re right that I don’t know squat, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help.” He faced Finn as they idled at a light. “You like blunt? Okay, let’s be blunt. I’m bored. I’ve been wandering around on the other side for . . . years, I guess. Eventually, I suppose I’ll go wherever it is I’m supposed to go, but in the meantime, I’m bored shitless. So I see you, a necromancer, trying to solve this case, and I see a chance to have some fun and do some good at the same time. Maybe that’s why I’m stuck. I did some time when I was a kid, ran with some people, did some shit I regret. If I do a good deed, maybe I can get wherever it is I’m supposed to go.”

Speaking of shit, Finn could smell it a mile away and Trent reeked. Finn had met rehabilitated gangbangers. If this guy was one, Finn would turn in his badge and declare himself unfit for detective work. Not a scar or tattoo to be seen. Well spoken, obviously educated . . . Finn wasn’t enough of an optimist to think it came from prison classes. And his manner was far too relaxed for anyone who’d had repeated run-ins with the police. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t done things that might keep him from passing over.

When Finn said nothing, Trent went on. “Think of what I could do. You can’t get a search warrant? I’ll pop in and take a look. You question someone who seems jumpy? I can hang around after you leave, see if the guy does anything, calls anyone. You need someone followed discreetly? It doesn’t get any more discreet than me. Best of all? When you solve this, you get all the glory. I’m the perfect silent partner.”

He flashed a smile that reminded Finn of his little brother. Whenever Rick had been trying to cajole Finn into doing something he probably shouldn’t, he’d smile like that—a disarming grin that made Finn feel like a spoilsport for refusing.

Maybe it was the grin, but as Finn considered the matter, he couldn’t see any reason to refuse. He’d been raised to see his power as a gift to be used for good. If he could solve a murder with it, he would. If he could reassure a ghost with it, he would. And if he could use it to help a spirit cross to the other side—or even just make him feel better—he should. So he would, at least until the guy made him regret it.