Living with the Dead

FINN


JOHN FINDLAY—Finn since first grade when there’d been three Johns in his class—stared down at the body of Portia Kane, lying flat on her back, shirt ripped open, blood-smeared nipple rings glistening under the harsh light.

“This is one photo you wouldn’t want in the tabloids,” he murmured.

He lifted his gaze from the body and looked around the room for the ghost of Portia Kane, hovering over her body in disbelief or huddled in a corner, pulling her torn blouse closed. Nothing. Maybe she’d headed back into Bane to get in a few more minutes of clubbing before she was trundled off to the great beyond.

He snorted at the thought, earning a wary look from the new police photographer who circled wide, his looks saying he suspected what they said about Finn was true.

A hand slapped Finn between the shoulder blades and he turned to see the beefy figure of Mark Downey, one of the crime scene techs.

“Got that mojo working for us tonight, Finn?” Downey asked.

Finn glanced around, seeing no shimmer of Portia Kane. “Fraid not.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Downey mock-whispered to the photographer. “This guy is a regular Sherlock f*cking Holmes. I swear, crime scenes talk to him.”

Not crime scenes, Finn mused as Downey wandered off. The photographer kept eyeing him warily. He wondered what the kid had heard. The mildest rumor was that Finn was a crack detective, but somewhat eccentric, and not really a team player—hence the “partner” who’d gone on leave five months ago and never been replaced. Worst were the stories that blamed his partner’s absence on Finn—the stress of working with a wacko the department kept on only because of his clearance rates.

It didn’t matter how careful Finn was. Every now and then, someone would see him carrying on a conversation with thin air and staring at things no one else could see. He wasn’t psychic, he just saw dead people. Not like the kid in the movie, though. With Finn, they usually only appeared at homicide scenes, distraught and confused.

If he was lucky, he’d get a few questions answered before the ghost disappeared. And if he didn’t? Then he was shit outta luck, because they never came back. This was, apparently, one of those times he wasn’t getting any help from the dead. He took one last look around, then set to work.



ONE DEAD CELEBUTANTE. Apparent gunshot. Possible murder weapon lying beside her. After an hour’s work, he knew no more than he had looking in from the doorway. He had a witness, but all she could say was that she’d heard something, come back here and seen a woman run out the exit door. As for what the woman looked like? Between eighteen and fifty, five foot to six foot, not fat, light hair.

She’d agreed to work with a sketch artist, but from the panic in her eyes when he asked, he wouldn’t put much stock in the result. Eyewitness accounts were notoriously unreliable, and Finn knew the truth of that better than most. Twice he’d had ghosts give him a full description of their killer, only to have the evidence prove it was someone who didn’t look anything like the sketch.

Finn didn’t blame the ghosts. Both had been killed by strangers—one jumped in an alley, one catching a stray gang bullet. In that split second before death, they sure as hell weren’t taking notes. And in those shell-shocked minutes after, their memory had shown them the face of a monster—bigger and uglier than the reality.

“Hear that?” Downey cocked his head, meaty jowls quivering. “The wolves are baying at the door. Think we should toss them a few scraps?”

Finn listened to the dull roar of the press firing questions to the officers guarding the perimeter. The club had been very helpful, even calling in off-duty bouncers to help them with crowd control. They must have had a few infractions on the books, hoping their cooperation might make those disappear.

He knelt beside the items that had been scattered beside the body. Women’s things—makeup, a compact, tissues.

“I figure that belongs to the victim,” Downey said. “Her purse was empty—dumped.”

Finn surveyed the small mound of items, then glanced at Portia Kane’s purse, barely big enough to hold a pack of smokes. “All this didn’t fit in there.”

“Hey, you should see all the crap my wife squeezes into hers. I swear, those things are magic.”

Finn nodded, as if he understood. He wasn’t married. No girlfriend, not for . . . well, it had been a while. It took all his time and energy to do his job—a life spent in service of the dead.

He could resent it, but he’d never really seen the point. He’d been given this gift, and it was his duty to use it.

Finn sorted through the purse debris with a gloved hand, looking for insight into the woman who’d left it behind. A young officer tapped him on the shoulder and said Marla Jansen wanted to speak to him. From the way he said it, Finn knew he should recognize the name, but he considered himself lucky to know who Portia Kane was.

He followed the officer—Tripp—into the hall and found a young woman with stop-sign-red hair bouncing on her tiptoes, trying to see into his crime scene.

“The body’s been removed,” Finn said.

“Oh!” Jansen’s dark eyes widened with put-on horror. “I didn’t want to see—” She shuddered. “Eww.”

An actor. In this town, one learned to identify them at a hundred paces. From her exaggerated expressions, he would peg her as a wannabe—and likely to stay that way—but if Tripp knew her, she must be semifamous. Finn just hoped she didn’t expect him to ask for her autograph.

“Officer Tripp says you saw something.”

Jansen launched into a lengthy account of being in the club with Portia then sending Kane’s PR rep—a woman named Robyn Peltier—to find her when she’d been gone too long.

“Portia Kane goes clubbing with her publicist? Does she expect to need her?”

“Of course not. Portia feels sorry for the chick. She lets her tag along with us sometimes. I always told her you shouldn’t socialize with the hired help, and now look what happened. The chick flipped out and killed Port in a jealous rage.”

“Was there an issue?”

Jansen fluttered her hands. “There’s always an issue with people like that. They hate us. Finally it just bubbles over and . . . boom.”

“Boom?”

“Or ‘bang,’ I guess. Anyway, they were fighting.”

“About what?”

“How would I know?”

“When did this happen?”

“Right before Portia left us,” Jansen said smugly. “The PR chick said something and Portia didn’t like it. She told her to call the driver and went to the bathroom.”

Didn’t sound like much of a fight to Finn.

Jansen nibbled a purple-painted fingernail. “Do you think I should, like, get a bodyguard?”

“I doubt it’s an epidemic.”

Her brow furrowed, trying to figure out what he meant. Then she gave up and pulled out her cell phone. “I’m going to get one. Maybe two. You can’t be too careful.”