Living with the Dead

FINN



MS. ADAMS? It’s Detective Findlay. Could you please call me back as soon as you get this message?”

Finn rattled off the number, then went to put the cell phone in his pocket, thought better of it and set it on his desk, on the remote chance that Hope Adams called back.

The detective room was empty. At ten on a Sunday morning, it often was. Anyone working was out on the street. Which is where he should be, and where he would be, as soon as he could haul himself to his feet again.

He’d called Hope Adams three times since last night, leaving three messages. He’d started with the simple call me back. Then he’d moved to the mysterious there’s been a change in the case I need to discuss with you. Finally, urgent: I have reason to believe Robyn Peltier is in danger. No response.

At 8 a.m., he’d called True News, getting a sleepy editor who’d been there all night and offered to leave a message on Adams’s cell phone—the same number Finn already had. At eight-thirty, he’d even borrowed another detective’s cell phone, hoping the unfamiliar number might entice her to answer.

“Still nothing?” Damon said as he returned from eavesdropping on conversations pertaining to last night and the case.

Finn shook his head.

“I hope she’s okay.”

Finn tried to look concerned. He had no doubt Hope Adams was okay. Just ignoring him, listening to each message and rolling her eyes. If that detective thinks I’m dumb enough to help him put my friend in jail, he can think again.

He knew Robyn Peltier wasn’t responsible for the deaths and he was quite certain he’d met the young woman who was, but he couldn’t leave that on voice mail or it could come back to haunt him in court.

Last night he’d rounded up a few witnesses who’d said they got a good look at the girl who’d killed Margie Damascus—the victim.

“We’ve got three similar sketches, Finn,” his lieutenant had said. “And none of them could possibly be your girl in the photo.” He’d laid a hand on Finn’s shoulder, his fingers damp enough to leave a stain. “It’s a common phenomenon. You saw the photograph. You were working through its significance as you followed Peltier to the fair. You saw this young woman acting suspiciously, and the three events merged into one—the girl on the phone was the girl in the photo, who was this girl at the fair.” Lieutenant Balough had squeezed his shoulder. “I didn’t get a degree in psychology for nothing. The mind is an amazing thing. Sometimes, though, it takes a few shortcuts.”

To his credit, Balough had put a rush on the ballistic. But the technician had taken one look at the recovered bullet, which had slammed into a stone monument after passing through Margie Damascus, and doubted he could make a viable comparison.

Finn pulled up the photo on his computer and studied it.

“So she’s walking with an older guy.” Damon moved behind Finn’s shoulder. “Looks like he has money.”

Finn glanced back at him.

“That suit.” Damon pointed. “Top drawer.”

Finn wouldn’t know, but he could tell that the suit fit the man better than his own fit him, so he supposed that was a good sign it was expensive.

“Top-drawer suit means a top-drawer executive,” Damon continued. “I bet he’d be a lot easier to identify than the girl.”

Finn agreed.


COLM




COLM FOLDED HIS HANDS behind his head and watched the morning sun dance across his bedroom wall. The breeze from the open window tickled his chest. He reached out and laid a hand on Adele’s bare thigh. She murmured something and snuggled into his side.

The house was silent, everyone off doing Sunday chores. A good thing, because he would have hated to be stuck out in the back woods where he and Adele usually met. She deserved better than to lose her virginity rolling around in the dirt.

That’s where they’d started—in the forest. She’d found him working in the vegetable garden. He’d caught her watching, and she’d said she liked to watch him work, his shirt off, sweaty and dirty . . .

They’d gone into the forest then. He’d left his shirt off. Maybe that had helped.

She’d pushed him against a tree and wrapped herself around him, kissing him so hard he’d been hard in seconds. She hadn’t pulled back, hadn’t slowed him down like she usually did.

They’d been going into the woods for almost a year now and he could usually get his hands up her shirt, but only twice under her pants, sliding his fingers into her, so hot and wet . . . He’d spent a lot of time in the shower with those memories, but they didn’t compare to the third, just a few days ago, when he’d shot that undercover cop for her. She’d forgiven him for losing Robyn Peltier, saying they’d find her and he’d been so brave, so strong, protecting her. She’d leaned against him, nuzzling him, breasts rubbing his chest. Then unbuttoned his fly, her hand sliding inside, stroking him, tentative at first, saying she hoped she was doing it right. When he’d assured her she was, her confidence had sprung back, stroking him, her grip so firm and hard that he’d . . .

But she’d said that was okay. It proved how much he loved her, how much he wanted her.

He only hoped he hadn’t taken advantage of her. She’d been so excited, the way she’d clung to him, kissed him, the heat of her mouth, her skin, her wetness, her soft moans urging him on, whimpering if he slowed down, pressing against him, wriggling on his fingers, whispering, “We shouldn’t, Colm. You’re too young. We should wait. Oh, God, Colm, don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

He’d been gentle. He had been there when the men in the kumpania had coached Hugh before his wedding night, telling him it wouldn’t be easy the first time, that he might hurt Lily a little. So Colm knew he had to be careful, but Adele had been so excited that when he’d hesitated before that first thrust, she’d pulled him in, arching up to meet him, letting out only the smallest cry and if it had been pain, she seemed to have forgotten about it quickly enough. So he’d done well, and he was proud of himself. He—

The smallest sniffle stopped him midthought. Adele still lay on her side, her back pressed against him. She was quiet, asleep it seemed.

Another sniff. He scrambled up as she sat, wiping her eyes.

“You’re crying,” he said.

“No, I just—”

“Did I hurt you? Gods, Adele, if I did, I’m so sorry. I tried to be gentle—”

“You were.” She smiled through her tears. “You were perfect, Colm. It didn’t hurt at all.” The smile twisted. “Well, maybe just a little, at first, but it was worth it. That’s not why I’m crying.”

“You regret it. You wanted to wait and now—”

She took his hands and pulled him to sit beside her. “Never,” she said fiercely. “I love you. I don’t care if this isn’t right, if you’re too young. I can’t wait anymore. I love you so much. If I can’t be your wife yet, I want to be your lover. If that’s okay . . .”

“S-sure.”

She kissed him, still clasping his hands. Then she lowered her gaze and a fresh tear slid down her pale cheek. He freed one hand and wiped it away, then leaned down, trying to meet her eyes.

“What’s wrong, Adele?”

She shook her head.

“Please tell me.”

She nibbled her lower lip, then lifted reddened eyes to his. “I understand why you didn’t want to help me last night.”

“What?”

“With Robyn Peltier. I needed your help catching her, so I called and left that message—” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. You’re right. This is my problem.”

“I never said that. If you left a message, I didn’t get it.”

She looked away. “That’s okay, Colm. You don’t need to lie—”

“Lie?” His voice cracked as he got to his feet. “I’d never lie to you, Adele.”

She reached for him, but he sidestepped her grasp.

“That’s not fair, Adele. I’ve never lied. Not to you.”

“I’m sorry.”

He looked away, but let her catch his hand, pulling him back to her.

“I’m sorry. I just thought—” She squeezed his hand. “I wouldn’t blame you. I’ve gotten you into this mess enough already.”

“You didn’t get me into anything. I offered. You were in trouble and it wasn’t your fault. I was happy to help, and I would have been happy to help last night if I got the message.”

“Your mother must have forgotten to tell you.”

His mother took the message? That explained it then. She hadn’t forgotten, but Colm was happy to let Adele think that, and shield her from the truth—that his mother hated her. She’d been trying to discourage friendship between them for years. Then, last fall, when she’d caught them kissing behind the communal building, she’d exploded and gone to Niko. Colm had crept after her and listened.

His mother had wanted Niko to cancel Colm and Adele’s betrothal. She’d said it wasn’t right, a nineteen-year-old girl making out with a fourteen-year-old boy, and that only proved what she’d suspected for years—that there was something not quite right about Adele, something sneaky, manipulative, wrong.

Niko had laughed it off. She was just having trouble seeing her baby grow up and let another woman into his life. After that, his mother had worked on Colm directly, trying to convince him Adele couldn’t be trusted.

Colm loved his mother. His father had left the kumpania when he was two, but he’d never felt the lack. His mother had made sure of that. He knew that she was just looking out for him, but he wasn’t a child anymore and he wished she’d see that and let him lead his own life.

As angry as he was, though, he trusted his mother would come around, and he wasn’t going to say anything to turn Adele against her, so he nodded and said, “Yeah, she must have forgotten. But if you still need my help . . .”

Adele chewed her lip again, hands clasped, gaze down.

“Adele, I’m here for you. Just tell me what you need.”

She did.





HOPE





Hope sat at a diner window, watching the front door of another restaurant across the road. Robyn was inside, having lunch and waiting for Adele Morrissey. They’d considered having her sit at the window, but given that Adele had no compunctions about shooting people in broad daylight, it seemed unwise to tempt her.

Robyn had a new prepaid cell and a panic button. Karl had miraculously produced the button last night, saying he’d like Hope to start carrying it. With that, she knew that even before last night he hadn’t been underestimating the danger she faced.

Karl must have taken the button and receiver last year, when he’d had Benicio Cortez supply it for a job they’d been working. He’d kept it all this time, even bringing it to Los Angeles, where she’d expected to do nothing more dangerous than her regular job. In other words, he’d been waiting for the excuse to pull it out and say, “I think you should carry this.”

He shouldn’t need an excuse. But he wasn’t wrong to think he did, at least not if he expected her to give in without a fight.

If it made him feel better, she’d start carrying it. Time for her to grow up and realize no matter how hard she trained, there would be some situations she couldn’t handle alone.

For now, though, Robyn had the panic button and she’d taken it without question, accepting that this was not something she could handle on her own. So now Hope sat at a diner table, cell phone out in case Robyn called, panic button receiver on her lap. Karl was outside, scouting the perimeter while making a phone call. When he returned, Hope asked, “What did Jeremy say?”

“He’s going to give it some thought.”

She picked a bacon bit from her uneaten salad, hearing her mother sigh about table manners. “You told Jeremy that she suspects what you are, but we haven’t confirmed it, right?”

“Yes.”

“I know Pack Law says any human who learns the truth has to be—”

“That’s not going to happen, Hope. Jeremy wouldn’t consider that unless Robyn did something stupid.”

“Like stealing tissue samples from you and selling them on eBay?”

“Which we both know would never enter her mind. She’s nothing if not trustworthy.”

The knot in Hope’s stomach eased. The Law had always seemed reasonable. The Pack was very careful. Even if someone spotted them as wolves, they’d mistake them for very large dogs, so the chance of anyone accidentally discovering their secret was next to none. So if the Pack had to very, very rarely kill a person to protect themselves and, by extension, the supernatural world, it was a small price to pay. But if that “threat” was her friend, a reasonable rule suddenly became barbaric.

“Do you think I’d let them do that?” Karl asked after a moment.

“It’s Pack Law.”

“The Law can go to hell, and if Jeremy ordered me to do it, I’d tell him he could follow.”

She wasn’t sure she liked that answer much better. The Pack was supposed to be a werewolf’s first loyalty. After a lifetime as a lone wolf, Karl had trouble with that, and it worried her.

He caught her gaze, misreading her lowered eyes. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Hope.”

She picked another bacon bit from under a salad leaf.

“As I said, though, it isn’t an issue. Jeremy understands the circumstances and that it wasn’t anyone’s fault, including Robyn’s. Moreover, if we avoid answering questions, it’ll only make her more curious. He suggested we don’t hold things back—just slow her down, giving her time to take it in and decide whether she really wants to spend her life seeing new threats in every dark alley and wooded path.”

Hope’s cell phone rang. She checked the display. “Lucas.”

Karl took it. Earlier he’d asked Paige to look up a number from Grant Gilchrist’s cell phone, which he’d taken last night. Robyn said someone had called Gilchrist and it sounded like the other person had set him on her trail. They’d tried calling the number—the only one in the call list—to find it disconnected.

“Prepaid cell phones,” he said as he hung up. “Both Gilchrist’s cell and the number he called.”

Hope looked out at the street. “We’ve had her in there almost ninety minutes. Much longer and if Adele does show up, she might realize it’s a trap. Time to move on.”



HOW DO YOU CATCH SOMEONE who is watching your every move? Let her watch.

If Adele wanted Robyn, then they’d give her Robyn. Maybe she’d realized it was a trap. Or maybe after that long night, she was sleeping. They were counting on the latter. They moved Robyn to location two: a big-box bookstore that encouraged browsing, where she wouldn’t look out of place.

As for the chance that a concerned citizen would recognize her from Friday’s paper, she’d been wandering around L.A. for three days, and no one seemed to notice. It was a big anonymous city. Robyn was young, blond and attractive. Los Angeles was full of younger, blonder and more attractive women.

Their new choice came with an even better surveillance location—a coffee shop on the second floor, overlooking the first, where Robyn sat. They’d been there just long enough to buy coffees when Karl said, “We’re being followed.”

When Hope looked up, he shook his head and touched the side of his nose, meaning he’d smelled someone, not seen him.

“Someone from the diner?” she asked.

“No, from when I was circling the block. I noticed it then because the scent seemed vaguely familiar. Now I’ve picked it up again, so it’s not likely a coincidence.”

“You said it seemed familiar . . .”

He nodded. “I’m still trying to figure out from where. It’s nobody I know—likely just a scent I’ve crossed.”

In other words, someone may have been following them for a while. Not a werewolf, though—Karl would have mentioned that. Hope put out her own feelers, presuming anyone following them would be a supernatural, but she didn’t detect anything.

“I don’t think he’s up here,” Karl said. “I just caught a note of scent. I’m going to scout downstairs.”

He left and she continued watching, her attention divided between the front doors and Robyn, who’d settled in with a history book, seated beside a sign announcing an author signing and giving the store branch name.

There was no sign of Adele. Earlier, when Robyn mentioned that Adele provided photos for True News, Hope had contacted her editor. It turned out they did have a phone number for Adele. Paige was running it now, but tracking its origins was turning out to be an ordeal. Whoever Adele was, she’d covered her tracks well.

Hope’s cell phone vibrated against the table. Probably Detective Findlay. He’d left five messages. The last one mentioned a death at the fair. She’d paid attention only long enough to hear that the victim wasn’t Gilchrist or Adele but an elderly lady. He hadn’t given any other details, telling her to look it up in the morning paper.

A threat. Hope understood that as clearly as if he’d said: “Here’s another one I can pin on your friend.” He’d known Robyn had been at the fair last night. In fact, she wouldn’t put it past the Nast Cabal to manufacture another murder, just to hammer Robyn’s coffin shut.

But when she checked the caller ID, it wasn’t the detective.

“Behind you there’s a hall,” Karl said when she answered. “Down it you’ll find bathrooms and a handicap elevator. Take that elevator to the first floor. Then head right, along the wall, into the children’s section. He’s in the stacks there. See if you can pick up any vibes.”

“Got it.” She stood. “What does he look like?”

“No idea. I can smell him, but I don’t dare get close enough for a look. From where I am, if I step out, he’ll see me.”

“It’s a man, then?”

Karl confirmed that. Hope found the elevator where he said it would be. She presumed he wanted her to take it so if their pursuer was watching her, he’d think she’d just gone to the bathroom.

At the far side of the children’s section, she thumbed through a Disney book. The vision came quickly, blurred at first, like viewing it through a greasy lens. She saw . . . someone standing at a bookshelf?

Damn it. A chaos vision. She shook her head sharply to clear it, startling a preteen girl reading beside her. It was like shaking a snow globe, though—the image obscured for only a moment, then settled back. Someone at a bookshelf. What kind of chaos event was that? She barely had time to wonder before the picture flipped like a slide show, moving to a man walking past a bank of tables. He was just as blurred as the woman, but she recognized him by his stride. Karl.

The image flipped again. The woman. She could make out a long ponytail of black curls falling over a denim jacket. Hope groaned. Really, she should be able to recognize herself a little faster than that, even if she didn’t often see her back angle. The picture returned to Karl, now leafing through a book on a table.

Why was Hope seeing them?

She remembered that night at Bane, catching blurred and disjointed images of Portia Kane and other club-goers. She’d told Karl later she was certain it was the “signature” vision for a supernatural, but had no idea what kind.

Clairvoyants.

Instead of a static signature image, Hope briefly saw what they were seeing with their powers.

The image switched to a third. Another woman, this one with light hair, sitting beside a sign. Robyn.

Hope spun so fast she dropped her book and startled the girl beside her again. She murmured an apology as she hurried past. Her fingers were already hitting her cell phone speed dial, her gaze scanning the aisle, straining to see around the end before she reached it. She got there just as Karl answered.

She stopped abruptly, closing her eyes to vision-check before leaning out.

“Hope?” he said when she didn’t speak.

“Just a sec,” she whispered.

When no vision came, she peered around the shelves. Robyn still sat where they’d left her, no sign of Adele nearby.

“She’s here,” she said. “Adele.”

“Where?”

“I have no idea. I just caught a—” She glanced around, making sure no one was listening in. “—a vision.”

“Okay, I’m coming around the—”

“I see you.”

He was across the store, near the row of cashiers. Robyn was twenty feet away, close enough that he could get to her in a sprint. They held their positions, looking, listening, smelling, sensing.

“No sign,” he said.

“Same here.”

“Head toward the front doors. I’ll cover you. I’ll circle around Robyn and see if I can flush Adele out. If she comes your way, let her leave. We want—”

“To get her outside. I know.”

Hope stepped from her hiding spot, phone still at her ear as she scouted for Adele. As she cut across to the front doors, she picked up the vibes again, telling her a supernatural was close. Then the vision sparked again, the same flipping of scenes, from her to Karl to Robyn.

She slowed and looked around. To her left, a young Latina pushed a stroller. To her right, a knot of girls whispered about a boy she couldn’t see. Just ahead, an elderly man perused the True Crime display. Beside him, another man talked to an employee.

Lots of people. None could pass for Adele Morrissey.

She took another three steps. The vision returned, looping through again, strong as ever.

“Hope?” Karl said.

It took her a moment to respond, having forgotten she was still on the phone.

“Just . . . sensing,” she said.

“I can see you.”

“Anyone else?”

“Not Adele, but perhaps that’s not who you’re sensing. Robyn did say she thought Adele might have a male partner, the one she saw at the undercover officer’s house. And the person following us was definitely male, likely supernatural . . .”

Another clairvoyant? They were one of the rarest races, but clairvoyance was hereditary.

The vibes told her whoever she’d detected was very close. But the only men she could see were the elderly one and the one talking to the clerk. Not to downplay the ability of the elderly, but this guy, despite his interest in crime, was clearly getting his thrills vicariously. He had to be eighty, and leaned on a walker, and while she knew that would make a great disguise, she could pick up mild chaos vibes from chronic pain and depression, and that couldn’t be faked.

The guy talking to the store clerk was rapt in his conversation, paying no attention to his surroundings, open to attack. All no-no’s in the evil-spy handbook.

But because he was the only apparent possibility for those clairvoyant vibes, Hope took a closer look. He was midthirties, slightly under average height.

He looked like a high school gym teacher. Maybe it was his outfit—jeans, a rugby shirt and ball cap, a team jacket on his arm. Maybe it was his build, his shirt sleeves pushed up to show lean athletic muscular forearms. The clerk seemed to think he was good-looking, ignoring the toe-tapping customer awaiting her turn.

Could he be Adele’s partner? Maybe her lover? He was almost twice her age, but Hope knew that didn’t mean anything.

“There’s a guy here,” she whispered into the phone. “Ball cap, dark green shirt . . .”

“I see him.”

“Does he look familiar?”

Karl paused. “No, but I see someone behind him who does.”

Before she could ask “Who?” a figure stepped from behind a display.

“Is that who I think it is?” Karl asked.

It was.