“Is your wallet really that tight?”
I resisted the urge to wince. “I’m on my own. The money I get is from the restaurant. Most of that goes towards rent and utilities. I make what I can out of the rest.”
“You work for God. He can’t cut you some slack in the employment department?”
That made me smirk. “You would think so. Anything familiar yet?”
“Nope. Maybe I really was a street…walker…” He stopped and then whirled around.
I stopped dead in my tracks, confused. “What is it?”
His eyes darted through the crowd wildly as if he were searching for someone. “I thought I saw something.”
“Something or someone?”
“Someone. A man. He had dark hair. When I noticed him, something felt weird,” Michael muttered, looking back and forth down the sidewalk.
I threw up my hands. “Feel free to specify at any time.”
“I’m sorry, I just…” Michael shook his head a bit, still frowning. “Forget it. Maybe I’m seeing things.”
He kept walking, careful not to bump into anyone. I couldn’t help but feel worried. I cast my own gaze into the people on either side of me. It was clear to me that this street and whomever that mystery man was had something to do with Michael’s death. Sometimes I had to take a ghost to more than one site to help their memory return but for him, this seemed to be a hot spot. Still, there was an uneasy feeling in my gut that I had never felt before when working on a case.
When I caught up with Michael, he was peering at the sign for a store called Guitar Center with a glazed expression. He didn’t speak, but he stepped up to the glass and watched a brunette with purple bangs shelve different kinds of headphones. I had to step close to hear him whisper, “Chloe.”
“Chloe?”
He blinked a couple times, snapping out of whatever vision he’d just seen. “Yeah. It’s weird. Her face just sort of clicked in my mind. I think I knew her when I was alive.”
“Couldn’t hurt to ask.” The door jingled to indicate my entrance, and I made my way through the aisle to find the girl. She was a little shorter and thicker than me with wide pink lips and too much mascara. Still, she smiled prettily when I walked over and welcomed me to the store.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah. Is your name Chloe?”
“Mm-hm. What’s up?”
I fought the urge to glance at the poltergeist to my right in confirmation. “I’m Jordan. Do you know someone named Michael? Six foot one, brown hair, green eyes?”
“Yeah, sure. He’s a friend of mine. Does he need something?”
Uh oh. She didn’t know he was dead. This little interview could get real bad real fast. I licked my lips and thought of the least harmful thing to do.
“Would you mind giving me his cell phone number? I have an important call for him.”
“Sure, no problem.” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure her boss wasn’t hovering around before taking out her iPhone and showing me his number. I copied it down on the notepad. It was indeed a local cell phone number, and maybe the first bit of good news for the day.
“Ask her how she knows me,” Michael prodded. Couldn’t blame the guy.
“By the way, how do you know him?”
“Oh, he comes in here all the time to try out the new guitars. He practically lives here. His band plays on weekends over at that club down the way. Sometimes I drop by to see the performance, but he disappeared after the first big concert a couple nights back. He’s always been like that, though. You interested in him?”
Naturally, my face went hot with a blush. Michael spared me a sly little smile.
I faked a laugh. “No way. He’s dead wrong for me.”
“Oh, real nice. Gimme a second to go make a rim shot on the drum set over there,” Michael grumbled, crossing his arms across his chest.
I bit back a snicker and addressed the girl again. “Thanks for your help. I really appreciate it. I may need some more help from you pinning him down—”
Cue another immature chuckle from the Peanut Gallery. “—would you mind telling me the store hours?”
She gave them to me, no questions asked. Nice girl. I waved and left the store, heading for the nearest quiet spot. There was a clearing across the street with a few tables underneath a group of trees, so we scurried over the crosswalk to take a seat. I dialed Michael’s number, putting it on speakerphone so I could write any new information down. Instead of ringing, the phone belted out lyrics to Oasis’ “Falling Down.” At the very least, the guy had good taste in music.
“You’ve reached the voicemail of Michael O’Brien. If you leave your name and number, I’ll be sure to get back to you if I actually give a shit. Konnichiwa, bitches.” BEEP.
I arched an eyebrow. “So you really were a charmer while you were alive.”
Michael grinned. “Make fun of me all you want, I don’t care.”