“Robbery in progress. Hostage situation, too. It’s Alphonse Wheeler, back to his old habits. He came into the bank wearing the same old jacket and hat—even brought the bouquet of flowers. At first the tellers thought the robbery was a joke, but then he fired a few shots into the ceiling. A couple of vampires had rented the floor above for a coupon-clipping service, and they weren’t thrilled about the gunfire. They phoned it in.”
“There’s got to be some mistake,” Sheyenne said. “Mr. Wheeler’s a nice man—he wouldn’t rob a bank.” Then she caught herself. “Oh, of course he would.”
“Bigger question is why,” I said. “He has no use for the money. He just gave his entire stash to the MLDW Society.”
“We can ask him after we arrest him,” McGoo said.
News vans arrived. Reporters turned their cameras toward the stymied police, the silent front door of the bank, the continually ringing alarm.
The back doors of the Special Response Unit van flew open, and two hard-looking human cops worked their way out and unloaded boxy equipment that looked like stereo speakers, which they set up with the flat panels facing the entrance of the bank. The second man erected a tripod, then unfolded mesh butterfly petals of something akin to a satellite antenna.
The police chief yelled, “All right, get everyone back, especially the ghosts. Let us do our work.”
“You better leave, Sheyenne,” McGoo said with an expression of concern on his face. “There could be a ripple effect.”
I didn’t recognize the equipment, was surprised the department had a budget to buy large high-tech gadgets. Sheyenne beat me to the question. “What is all that?”
“A new acquisition—high-powered ectoplasmic defibrillator designed for emergency situations like this.”
“One of Jekyll’s zappers?” I asked.
“He’s got the patent,” McGoo said, “and these things are supposed to be effective against violent ghosts. Senator Balfour presented it as a gift to the department, and the chief accepted it.”
The very idea sent a chill down my back. Sheyenne was even more upset. “No, you can’t just use that on Mr. Wheeler!”
“Not my call,” McGoo said. “But Wheeler won’t talk, and he won’t come out. He’s got hostages. We’ve already verified that he’s the only ghost inside, so there won’t be any innocents harmed.”
Sheyenne got that determined look on her face—I think she’d been learning it from Robin. Before we could stop her (not that we could if we’d tried), she flitted forward, ignoring the shouts of the policemen, and drifted straight through the front door of the bank.
“You can’t turn that zapper on now,” I said to McGoo.
His face had gone pale. “Shamble, get her out of there! This is a crisis situation.”
“You think Spooky listens to me?”
The police chief was clearly flustered. He was eager to test the department’s new toy, and Sheyenne had just spoiled his opportunity. Trying to demonstrate that he was in charge, the chief took up the bullhorn. “Now, you come on out of there. We haven’t got all day.” I couldn’t tell if he was talking to Alphonse Wheeler or scolding Sheyenne.
“No!” Wheeler called out, his voice audible even above the ringing alarm.
“Give us a minute,” Sheyenne shouted, also from inside the bank. “We’re having a conversation here.”
The Special Response officers looked impatient now that they had set up their ectoplasmic defibrillator. Just to be safe, I walked over and tore out the power cord.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” said one of the men.
“Making sure you don’t get itchy fingers on that power button. That’s my girlfriend in there.”
Both officers said something that made even my dead ears burn, and then set about reconnecting the cable. So I unplugged the second cord for good measure.
Sheyenne soared back out through the bank’s front door amidst a chorus of shouts and cheers from the onlookers. Smiling, she drifted right up to me. “It’s a tense situation in there, but Mr. Wheeler says he’ll talk. Beaux, he’s agreed to let you come in and negotiate—you and only you.”
I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect. “I’m not a hostage negotiator.”
The chief was also miffed, but McGoo said, “May as well try, Shamble. What’s he going to do, shoot you?”
“I’ll do it, on the condition that you stay far back.” I pointed to Sheyenne, then added to McGoo, “And you make sure those guys don’t start blasting with the defibrillator.”
“You got it, Shamble.” McGoo walked over and yanked out the cables the Special Response officers had just reconnected.
“Only Chambeaux—nobody else!” Wheeler called. “And approach the door slowly!”
“That’s my primary speed these days,” I said as I moved forward in my stiff-legged gait. I needed to put in some time at the All-Day/All-Nite Fitness Center to limber up again.
Wheeler opened the bank’s door for me, waving his gun offhandedly at the three tellers and four customers who were still inside the lobby. He looked depressed, not the jaunty and cheerful man I had met previously.
“You’re having a bad day, Mr. Wheeler.”
“The worst—and just one of many.” He closed the door behind me and waved the gun at my chest.
I pointed to the repairs in my sport jacket. “Let’s not resort to threats. I’ve been shot before, and in my line of work it’ll probably happen again. That gun isn’t going to scare me off. How about instead you tell me how we can wrap this up? Do you have a list of demands?”
He seemed surprised. “That’s the best you can do as a negotiator?”
“I’m an amateur. You asked for me, so take what you got. Now, what seems to be the problem?”
He looked deeply sad, blew out a long imaginary exhale. “So now you’re my psychiatrist?”
“Private detective. That’s my calling in life, and I’m trying to figure out what you have to gain by robbing a bank. Makes no sense to me.”
“At least it’s something I can do.” The ghost let out a low moan. “There’s not much else. I spent so many years in jail that I don’t know how to handle unlife on the outside. And now that I’m a ghost, I can’t enjoy a good meal, can’t taste a good drink, can’t make love to a pretty lady. When I first came back, I bought a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine, poured myself a glass—and all I could do was look at it.”
“Bummer,” I said. “But what are you going to do with the money anyway? It makes no sense.”
“I don’t need to do anything with it!” He waved the gun around, making the tellers cringe; the hostages put up their hands in surrender. “I just want to have it.”
“That’s kind of pointless.”
Wheeler groaned again. “Story of my afterlife. They’re just going to put me in jail again, but no jail can hold me. I’m a ghost!”
Apparently, Wheeler didn’t understand the true danger he faced. “They don’t plan to put you in jail—they’re going to defib you,” I said. “Judges have gotten a lot harsher since that poltergeist terror spree a few months back, and Senator Balfour is pushing to impose extreme punitive measures on any unnatural who steps out of line. You know that. They already have the equipment set up outside.”