Living with the Dead

FINN



FINN WAS A BLOCK FROM WESTON’S STATION when he got a call from the dispatcher at yet another precinct. One of their bike patrol officers had been phoning in wanting to speak to him, then the line had disconnected and the officer’s partner had returned from a bathroom break to find him dead on the pavement, shot in the back.



AN OFFICER KILLED in the line of duty meant every available tech was there gathering evidence as a dozen officers scoured the neighborhood. Having the shooting happen at sundown in a commercial area only added chaos to the mix, as citizens gathered to gawk.

Finn flashed his badge to a gray-faced rookie with distant eyes, too busy reconsidering his career choice to watch where Finn went, much less direct him to anyone in charge. The person Finn was looking for wasn’t anyone the rookie could have led him to anyway.

As he picked his way through, he took in the wider scene. Hell of a place to shoot a cop. A commercial street in a neighborhood of adult-only condos and retirement villages. In the distance . . . was that polka music?

His gaze skimmed the uniformed officers and came to rest on one, sitting on the curb, ramrod straight, staring at the corpse being zipped into a body bag.

Finn walked over and sat beside him. The officer—stocky, thirtyish, light brown hair—didn’t even glance his way.

“I’m sorry,” Finn said.

He looked at Finn, head tilted, lips pursed.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re talking . . . to me?”

“Yeah.”

“You mean you can see—” He leapt to his feet and took three steps toward the crowd of officers surrounding the body bag. “Gord! Hey, Gord!”

Finn rose and walked over. “He can’t hear you.”

“So I’m . . .”

“Yeah.”

Silence fell. Would Finn ever figure out the right thing to say under the circumstances? The instructors at his academy had said the worst part of police work was breaking news of a death to loved ones. That’s only because they’d never had to do this.

Finn cleared his throat. “I’m John Findlay. You’d phoned—”

The ghost slowly turned.

“But that’s not why I’m here,” Finn hurried on. “I want to find who shot you, and anything you can tell me about what happened here will help.”

The ghost gave an odd snort of a laugh, then rubbed his mouth. “Sure.”

“Can we go . . . ?” Finn motioned to a place outside the tape.

The ghost nodded, eyes still dancing with what seemed like genuine amusement.

“You’re Officer Kendall?” Finn said as they walked.

“Lee. You can call me Lee.” Kendall shook his head. “Man, I hope I remember all this when I wake up.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m out on patrol. Gord takes off for a piss. And who walks up while I’m rehydrating? One of the most wanted suspects in L.A. Turning herself in to me. On my bike. I call it in and, bam, I get shot. Who shows up then? The same detective I’d been calling, who just happens to be able to see ghosts.”

Kendall stopped by a storefront. “It’s Gord’s fault, you know. This morning he was going on about the Kane murder, saying people like that are just asking to get popped. That poor PR chick just got sick of all the bullshit Kane put her through. So after listening to him all day, what do I dream? This.”

Finn nodded. What else could he do? Spend his few precious minutes with the ghost convincing him he was dead? Maybe not the most ethical choice, but Finn had a job to do.

“So Peltier approached you . . .”

Kendall sighed.

“Please. Before you wake up.”

“Fine. Okay. So she came from there—” He pointed to one end of the street. “The street festival.”

“Street festival?”

“Golden Years Jamboree or whatever. An excuse to sell crap to old people. Not that she was anywhere near old enough—she’s younger than me. That’s dreams for you, huh? They never make sense.”

“I guess not. Can you tell me what she looked like?”

His description matched Robyn Peltier right down to the white and navy sweat suit the other officer had seen her wearing earlier. Then Kendall told him what she’d said.

“She was having trouble turning herself in?” Finn repeated.

“Hey, it’s not supposed to make sense, remember? So I made the call. And then . . .” Kendall glanced at his chest, as if expecting to see a bullet hole. “Bam.”

“She shot you?”

His lips pursed. He had big lips, thick and bowed, as if they got pursed a lot and had permanently reformed.

“No, I don’t . . . Let me think. I’m on the radio, asking for you and she moved . . . back. She staggered backward.”

“Away from you?”

“Then I felt the shot.” He pursed his lips again. “Or maybe I felt the shot before that. Hard to say. It’s all a little blurry.”

“But she stumbled around the time you were shot?”

“She fell back, looking at me like I’d smacked her and . . . and there was blood on her shoulder.” He blinked. “She must have been shot, too.”

Finn glanced across the scene at Damon, busy examining the crime scene. Finn had told him to stay away if he found the ghost—it was too much to explain otherwise.

Kendall continued, “The bullet must have gone right through me and into her. Huh.” He pondered this a moment, calmly, as if piecing together a random crime.

“Then what?”

More pondering and pursing. “I’m not sure. Everything went black, then I was standing over my body.”

“Was Peltier around?”

“Nope. It was just me until Gord came running over.”