Living with the Dead

FINN



FINN’S PHONE RANG at 3:45 a.m. He answered on the second ring.

It was Luis Madoz, one of the detectives helping on the Kane murder. Another officer had picked up a guy trying to fence a diamond bracelet to an undercover officer. The officer ran it and discovered it was registered. The owner? Portia Kane.

When they’d brought the guy in, Madoz had noticed he was wearing shoes with a distinctive tread that seemed to match a partial print found in Kane’s blood.

“I’ve sent it to the lab for a definite answer, but it sure as hell looked like it to me. And the guy still has a stamp on his hand from Bane Thursday night. Thought you might want to come down.”



WHEN FINN ARRIVED, he found himself looking for Trent. He wasn’t really hoping to see him, but he wouldn’t have been disappointed if he did.

Madoz updated him as they walked through the station. They’d lifted a single set of prints from the gun, but until they had Robyn Peltier, they couldn’t test for a match. Her record was spotless—not so much as a traffic ticket.

The dress they’d found at Judd Archer’s—matching the one Peltier had been seen wearing—was being tested for gunshot residue. If it came back positive, great. Otherwise, it didn’t prove anything. The residue wouldn’t necessarily transfer onto a dress with short sleeves.

As for the gun itself, the serial number had been filed off, but poorly, and the techs still hoped to lift something. The missing serial number suggested premeditated murder or, at the very least, someone who carried a gun presuming he might need to use it.



NEIL EARLEY WAS A JUNKIE college kid, a type that, in Finn’s opinion, wasn’t nearly uncommon enough.

Finn had gone to college himself—Oklahoma State—and it had been a struggle. Not the work itself. He was no genius, but he showed up and did the work, and most times that was all it took to succeed at anything in life. The tough part had been paying for it. His family couldn’t afford college, and where he came from, credit wasn’t an option. You paid your way up front. Paying for tuition himself meant he sure as hell showed up for every class and got his last nickel’s worth. Drinking and shooting up and clubbing your way through college? Made no sense to him.

Maybe in ten years, these kids would look back and regret it. Or maybe they’d look back and yearn for those carefree days. One thing this particular kid would regret was being at Bane that night, heading for the bathroom, hearing a hysterical server telling her colleague that there was a dead girl back there who looked like Portia Kane.

Earley hadn’t been too stoned to see an opportunity. He’d snuck back, cell phone in hand, ready to take pictures of the dead celebutante. Then came regret number two—that he’d invested his money in drugs instead of a better cell phone. The pictures had been too dark—Finn could barely make out the shape of a person let alone identify it as Kane.

As Earley had been looking for a light switch, he’d heard people coming and saw, glittering on Kane’s wrist, the second opportunity to profit from her misfortune. Having no idea how to sell a diamond bracelet, he’d gone to the only criminal contact he knew. His dealer was another college boy who knew zip about fencing jewels, but had offered to ask around for a cut. So Neil Earley had ended up in an alley, offering the bracelet to an undercover cop.

Finn would make sure someone followed up on the kid’s story and charge him with theft—maybe that would make him appreciate college more—but he had little doubt Earley was telling the truth. That meant he needed a suspect, and Robyn Peltier had regained her spot as the person he most needed to question.

“We’ve got her family,” Madoz said as they grabbed coffee. “They’re in Philly. Parents still married, still residing in the same house where Peltier grew up. He’s an engineer. She’s a nurse. No criminal records for either.”

“Shit,” said a voice behind Finn. “You’d better get the SWAT team up there, pronto. I’m sure they’re harboring their dangerous fugitive daughter, got the place rigged up like Waco.”

Finn looked over to see Trent sitting on a desk two rows away.

“Good thing I came back,” Trent continued. “Because, man, if you were any farther a field, you’d be standing in the parking lot.”

“If she’s innocent, why’d she run?”

“I . . . don’t know,” Madoz said, eyeing him as if this was a pop quiz. “Do you think she is?”

“Sorry. I was thinking out loud.”

Madoz tried to look as if this didn’t bother him and failed miserably.

“She ran because she’s scared,” Trent said. “She’s never had any trouble with the law and all of a sudden she’s caught over the body of her dead client. She panicked. Now she’s trying to figure out how to fix it, and splashing her photo across the papers isn’t going to help.”

“Finn?” Madoz said as Finn listened to Trent.

“Sorry, you were saying about the parents . . . ?”

Madoz hesitated, making sure Finn’s attention wasn’t going to wander before answering. “I’ve persuaded a couple of Philly detectives to stop by and talk to the parents, save us the trip. Is there anything specific you want?”

“Ask if they know Robyn’s friends. I’m specifically interested in a young woman who might be in L.A. right now. Probably Indo American. Could be a journalist. Maybe high society.”

“Sounds like a gossip columnist.”

“Just tell them to take down information on any friend who could pass for Indo American.”

Trent sighed. “You are so far out in left field, you’re—”

“Can you hold on a sec?” Finn asked Madoz. “Be right back.”

“Rule one,” Finn murmured when he and Trent were in the empty hall. “Don’t talk to me with others around.”

“Hey, you don’t have to answer.”

“Rule two, if you’re going to take off, warn me.”

“I didn’t take off. I tried to get your attention when you left that apartment, and you couldn’t see me. Then I lost you, so I hung around the apartment, seeing if I could find anything you missed before coming to the station to wait.”

Finn had a good sense for when people were telling the truth and when they weren’t, and one glance at Trent told him the split was about fifty-fifty.

Trent hurried on before Finn could call him on it. “While I was at the apartment, though, I saw something. There was a kid trying to break into Robyn’s apartment after you left.”

Finn stopped walking. “Break in?”

“With lock picks, no less. One of your guys spotted him, but he hid those picks and spun a story so fast your officer let him go.”

“I’ll follow up on that.”

“Good, because this woman you seem so set on—”

“Trent?”

“Yes?”

“Did you see me interviewing a kid a few minutes ago?”

“The dumb-ass college boy? Sure, but—”

“He’s being processed. Go keep an eye on him.”

“But—”

“Go.”



FINN WALKED BACK into the detective room and found Madoz at his desk.

“Do you have the paperwork on Robyn Peltier’s husband?”

“Right here.” Madoz thumbed through his stack. “I don’t see a connection. Just a random act of stupidity. Classic case of why it might not be wise to let Joe—or, in this case, Jane—Citizen carry a gun.”

“What happened?”

“Woman was mugged by gangbangers. Gets herself a gun. Few months later, she’s on the highway at night, blows a tire. Guy pulls over to help. She sees a black guy coming at her car with a tire iron and shoots him.”

“Black guy . . .”

“With a tire iron. Like maybe so he can change your tire, you dumb bitch?” He handed Finn the file. “The guy was a junior high teacher coming home from a conference. Wearing a dress shirt and slacks. Driving a Honda. Clearly a badass carjacker.”

Madoz kept talking, but Finn didn’t hear him. He opened the file. There, on the top, was a picture of Robyn Peltier’s dead husband: twenty-nine-year-old Damon Trent Peltier.



THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Madoz had left and Finn was at his desk working when his ghostly partner returned.

“How long do you want me to sit on this—” “Trent” saw the open file on Finn’s desk, and the photo in it. “Shit.”

Finn didn’t look up. “Is there something you want to tell me, Damon?”

“Shit.” Damon slouched into the nearest chair. “I’m sorry.”

“What? That I figured it out?” Finn turned his chair to face him. “Did you really think I wouldn’t?”

“No, I was just hoping it’d take a little longer.”

“Like long enough for you to plant false leads and throw me off your wife’s trail?”

“What? No. Absolutely not. I knew you’d figure it out soon, but before you did, I wanted to prove I could be useful—give you real leads. Like that one with the kid. That’s totally legit. I can give you his description, the description of the officer he spoke to, hell, I can probably recite their conversation if you’d like.” He walked over and sat on Finn’s desk. “I’m here to help you find the truth, which I already know—that my wife had nothing to do with this. I don’t need to throw you off her trail.”

“Just try to sway me off pursuing her as a suspect.”

“I—” He stopped. “Okay, that was stupid. Understandable, but stupid, and it won’t help my cause or Bobby’s.”

“Bobby?”

“Robyn. Sorry. From here on, I will try to keep my opinions to myself and if I slip, you can tell me to shut up. And if I don’t help you, if I mislead you or I’m a nuisance, you can tell me to get lost and I will. I just . . .” He shifted on the desk. “I need to help her, Finn. She’s—”

Finn held up a hand. “For the next twenty-four hours, we’ll see how it goes. Then you can tell me your story. For now—”

“Just shut up, do what I’m told and try to dig my way out of this hole.”

Finn nodded.