Living with the Dead

FINN



IN TWENTY MINUTES, Finn would meet Robyn Peltier’s elusive friend, and he wasn’t looking forward to it.

At first, she’d seemed surprised by his call, but that quickly passed, as if he’d caught her off guard and once she considered it, wasn’t so surprised after all. She’d agreed to come to the station right away and talk to him. And, yes, she’d bring her boyfriend—he was with her already.

So it wasn’t the prospect of a hostile interview making his stomach sour. He could chalk it up to the coffee. He hadn’t meant to drink all of it, but the more he sipped, the more disgusted Damon got, until the ghost finally went his way, leaving Finn alone to research his upcoming interview without his input.

It was the research that made him dread the interview. Hope Adams wasn’t a celebrity-chasing tabloid reporter. He should have guessed that when he discovered she was on a transfer from True News’s Philadelphia headquarters—a city not known for its glitterati.

Adams chased another kind of target, one just as entertaining and just as elusive—supernatural encounters. As a guy who could be one of her targets, the idea made him mildly uncomfortable. But only mildly . . . at first.

The more he dug into Adams’s career, the more that feeling grew.

She’d been at her job since graduating from college. She couldn’t expect to start out on the staff of the Philadelphia Inquirer, but to be in the same job now suggested there was a reason she’d been twenty-three before she graduated.

So Adams could be written off as a hack. Or, considering her background, more like that college druggie he’d interviewed—a rich kid slacking her way through life.

That had settled his worries . . . until he read a half-dozen of Adams’s articles. Her writing was on par with big-paper journalists and, unlike most of them, she was entertaining. On the surface, her pieces were breezy and fun, the language uncomplicated and informal, yet beneath that, she’d obviously done her research.

She took her job seriously, but not earnestly. If readers didn’t believe in the paranormal, they could interpret that light tone as “we both know there’s no such thing as vampires, but sit back and let me tell you a good story.” If they did believe, though, there was nothing condescending. She never talked down to her readers, and she treated her sources and witnesses with respect. If you knew, like Finn, that the paranormal wasn’t pure fiction, then you could come away with the sense that, maybe, just maybe, she believed, too.

By the last article, Finn was as nervous as a corrupt politician about to meet a journalist specializing in exposés. He knew he was overreacting. Adams was here to be interviewed. He had nothing to worry about . . . unless she’d done her research on him as well, and learned of his reputation.

He was reading an article about a haunted inn in Vermont when he got a call. Someone had recovered Robyn Peltier’s cell phone from a pawn shop earlier. It had now been processed for prints, and those prints matched a set on the gun.

Right now, Finn was more interested in getting a look at Robyn’s cell phone, which the techs said came with a personal organizer. Contact names, schedule, notes . . . there had to be something of interest there.

He’d made it as far as the hall when Jane peeked from the front.

“Finn? That True News reporter is here to see you. Hope Adams?”

He waved for Jane to send her back.

“Hope Adams?” a detective said behind him, looking up from his work. “I talked to her a couple of years ago. I was investigating a kidnapping. She was investigating it, too . . . as a possible alien abduction.”

A wave of laughter from the room.

“Hey,” someone called. “What’s she want with you, Finn? A feature?”

More laughter. Finn shut the door to the detectives’ room as Jane rounded the corner, followed by a couple. Finn introduced himself, then quickly got them into an interview room.



FINN DIDN’T GET PAST the preliminary questions before realizing he didn’t need to worry. Adams was no ruthless reporter. Maybe it was just the circumstances—her concern for her friend overriding her journalistic instincts—but Finn couldn’t imagine ruthless was ever a term applied to Hope Adams.

Living in L.A., Finn had learned not to be dazzled by a pretty girl. Adams had an easy, offhand beauty that asked you—politely, he suspected—to pay it no heed. So he didn’t. He tried, too, not to let her size make an impression. She was small and fine-boned, with an air of fragility. There wasn’t any fragility in her manner, though. She was steady and articulate, answering every question concisely and completely. Cooperative without tripping over herself to prove it. In short, the perfect witness.

The boyfriend—Karl Marsten—was another matter. His good looks came with the polished sheen and casual arrogance Finn was more accustomed to in L.A. Without so much as a word, he made it clear that he considered this interview a waste of his afternoon. Finn could deal with that. It was the hard edge underlying the casual arrogance that got under his skin.

Again, it was all in the body language. Marsten took the chair directly across from Finn. While Adams talked, Marsten leaned slightly forward, like a lawyer getting between the detective and his client, his cold stare telling Finn he’d damned well better watch his step or this interview was over.

When he’d first taken that chair and fixed Finn with that stare, Finn had inwardly groaned. He’d seen this before. The guy who “protected his woman” by not letting her get a word in edgewise. But Marsten simply stood guard, never interrupting. Even when Finn fished outside the boundaries, he only got a warning look from Marsten, as if he knew Adams could handle it. And she did, deftly avoiding anything that smacked of speculation.

While they were talking, Damon slipped in. He said nothing, just stood off to the side, listening. Adams finished relaying her account of the night Portia Kane died, then came the big question: “When’s the last time you spoke to Robyn?”

Adams’s gaze shifted to Marsten, and Finn knew that night at Bane hadn’t been her last contact with Robyn Peltier. The lies were about to begin.

“An hour and a half ago.”

Finn blinked and repeated the question, sure he’d misheard.

She checked her watch. “Ninety-five minutes. I’d looked at the time just before I got her message, because I was wondering how long the maid had been cleaning our room.” She paused. “I suppose that’s what you meant—when’s the last time we had contact. I didn’t speak to her, though. She just left a message where we’d been staying, saying she was on her way here.”

“Here?”

“To the police station. To turn . . .” Adams let the sentence trail off, her eyes meeting his. “She is here, right? That’s why you called. We were at Bane together, so she gave you our names to back up her story . . .” Seeing his expression, her hands tightened on the chair arm. She twisted to Marsten, but he was already leaning toward her, his fingers on her forearm, murmuring under his breath. When he turned on Finn, his voice wasn’t nearly as gentle.

“Robyn was turning herself in. If she’s not at this station, I’d suggest you start making calls.”

Finn looked at Damon, who uncrossed his arms and straightened, worry darkening his eyes.

Finn excused himself and stepped out.



HE RETURNED TEN MINUTES LATER to a quiet room. Too quiet, as if they’d heard him coming and stopped talking. He glanced at Damon, but he was lost in his thoughts.

“Ms. Peltier hasn’t turned herself in to any precinct or any officer,” Finn said as he sat. “That may have been her intention, but when it came to doing it . . .” He shrugged. “It wouldn’t be easy.”

“I guess not,” Adams’s admission came slowly, her lashes lowered. “If we’re done here, Detective . . .” She started to rise.

“I have a few more questions.”

As she sat, Marsten glanced at his watch. “Is it really necessary for us both to be here?”

If Marsten hadn’t noticed anything at the nightclub, then there was nothing he could tell Finn that Adams couldn’t, and there might be a few things she’d say without her boyfriend around. So he sent Marsten on his way. As he was leaving, though, Finn discreetly gestured for Damon to follow.

“When’s the last time you saw Robyn?”

“I last saw her Thursday night, when we left Bane.”

“And spoke to her?”

“Earlier this afternoon. She called from a pay phone to let me know she was okay and ask for advice. I wanted to meet, but she didn’t want to get me involved. When I insisted, she hung up. We went back to our hotel, and that’s when we got the message.”

“And before that? Had you spoken to her since Thursday?”

Adams shook her head. “I tried calling her cell Friday morning, after I saw the paper. Some guy answered. I think he’d found the phone. Anyway, that freaked me out, so I phoned her apartment and left a message. She didn’t return it. It’s probably still on the machine.”

“And then?”

“I went into the office for an hour, just doing paperwork. I usually spend Fridays writing from my place, but I wanted to stop by, in case she tried calling me there. I kept hoping she would. But she didn’t until this afternoon.”



FINN WALKED HOPE ADAMS to the front desk and thanked her for her time. As he watched her leave, he saw Damon on the front steps. So much for following Marsten.

“Lost him?”

Damon turned, startled. “Ah-ha. Now you’re the one sneaking up on me. Payback’s a bitch, huh?” His words were light, but no humor reached his eyes.

“I thought I asked you to follow him,” Finn said under his breath.

“I did. He went outside.”

“I meant follow him wherever—”

“I did.”

He pointed. Finn followed his finger to see Marsten striding over to meet Adams, thirty feet from the precinct steps.

“That’s as far as he went,” Damon continued. “He made three phone calls. For the first two, no one must have answered because he seemed to be leaving a message. I got as close as I could, but with the noise out here, I didn’t hear much. He’s one guy who lowers his voice on a cell, instead of raising it, and while I’d normally appreciate such consideration, it really didn’t help for eavesdropping.”

Finn watched Adams and Marsten. His hand rested on her back, rubbing it. Reassuring her again, as he had in the interview room.

“You said he made a third call?” Finn prompted.

“Someone answered and they talked for a few minutes. It sounded like business. If you’d like me to speculate on what kind of business . . .”

“Go for it,” Finn said, still watching the distant couple.

“My guess is he called his lawyer. There was some definite legalese going on. As for what, I can probably speculate on that, too . . .”

Finn motioned for him to get on with it.

“I don’t know Karl that well. He’d only been dating Hope for a few months before I got shot, and I could tell he was never going to be hanging out on my couch, chugging beer, watching the game. But I got a decent feel for the guy. He acts smooth, but he’s hard as nails. Guys like Karl know their rights and they don’t give an inch, innocent or not. He’d contact his lawyer to find out what his obligation is, and he’ll give you that much, no more. Anything remotely approaching harassment? You’ll be talking to his lawyer. And if he thinks you’re harassing her—” He nodded to Adams. “Watch out. That’s not a guy you want to cross.”

Marsten had straightened and was scanning the street, as if looking for a taxi. He glanced toward the steps. Their eyes met. Adams turned, following his gaze. She said something. Marsten shook his head and responded.

“What did they talk about earlier?” Finn asked.

“Hmm?”

“When I left the room to make those calls. What did they say?”

“Nothing.”

He turned to Damon. “She just found out Robyn hadn’t turned herself in. They had to say—”

“Zip. They aren’t stupid, Finn. They knew that room was wired for sound. When you left, Karl told her not to worry, he was sure it was a mistake. She leaned over and said something. He nodded. End of conversation. And what she said, I’m sure, is ‘Watch it, that detective could be listening.’ ”

Adams and Marsten were walking away now, ignoring passing taxis, presumably heading to a parked car.

“So do you think your wife lost her nerve?” Finn asked. “Couldn’t turn herself in?”

He blinked his worry away, then said, softly, “No.”

“Neither do they.”

Finn headed down the steps.

“Where are you going?” Damon called.

“Wherever they are.”