Realistically, for ghosts, all imprisonment is voluntary, but even so it was a nice gesture.
The penal system worked tirelessly to improve methods of spectral incarceration. While effective lockup methods had been instituted for garden-variety unnaturals such as zombies, vampires, and werewolves (both the monthly and the full-time types), criminal poltergeists and convicted ghosts posed the biggest hazard. Mediums and exorcists offered stopgap spirit-containment measures, but most of those didn’t work.
With the momentum of his Unnatural Acts Act, Senator Balfour had announced that solving the ghost-felon problem was his next crusade, advocating that the only punishment a ghost criminal deserved was a clean and straightforward disintegration, an eternal death sentence. He had already commissioned numerous ectoplasmic defibrillators from Harvey Jekyll and was ready to use them.
“It is the only compassionate method,” Balfour had said, not sounding the least bit compassionate. “We’re helping those troubled ghosts go to the light.”
Wheeler did not contest the fact he had committed a crime and needed to be punished. He promised to remain inside the jail for whatever sentence the judge decided to impose, provided it wasn’t eternity.
When Robin, Sheyenne, and I visited him in prison, Wheeler seemed comfortable and right at home, far less anxious than when we’d first met him in our offices. His ghost now manifested with a prison uniform instead of his checkered jacket. He liked the familiarity of incarceration and said he looked forward to making new friends.
“I’m sure you’ll fit in, Mr. Wheeler,” Robin said, as we sat across from him at a plain metal table in the community room.
Muted conversations blurred together at other tables. I saw a vampire woman holding hands with a convicted vampire felon, telling him that their request for conjugal visits had been denied.
A werewolf raised his voice, pounding his fists on a table. “But if they’re not twelve werewolves, then it’s not a jury of my peers!” His public defender cringed and told his client to calm down.
A bored and skeptical attorney took notes as a zombie covered with gangbanger tattoos insisted, “I swear, I just found the stuff! It wasn’t mine! I was going to give it to charity.” He glanced over at Alphonse Wheeler. The translucent robber gave him a thumbs-up. “Yeah,” the gangbanger zombie continued, “I was going to donate it to MLDW so they can keep doing good work.”
These were the cases we didn’t take on at Chambeaux & Deyer.
Wheeler leaned closer to us and said, “I want MLDW’s resources to go toward helping people like that. As for me, I’m in here for the duration . . . unless I decide to escape. Wouldn’t that be exciting? Alphonse Wheeler, legendary bank robber, in a great prison break?”
“It’s not all that exciting if you can just walk through the walls anytime you like, Mr. Wheeler,” I pointed out.
“Don’t take all the fun out of it for me.” He leaned back in his chair. “Let me get serious for a moment. You’ve helped me, and I want to return the favor. Now that we’re here, with no one eavesdropping, I should warn you. . . .”
Robin, Sheyenne, and I gave him our full attention. When a ghost feels the need to deliver a dire warning, it’s a good idea to listen.
“Word gets around the Quarter—I know the cases you’re working on, the sweatshop golems you freed, the antidiscrimination suit against the Smile Syndicate and the Goblin Tavern, the murder of the pawnshop gremlin. I even heard you bid against Missy Goodfellow’s assistant at the estate auction, and before that you stopped by Smile HQ to talk with Missy?”
“Just introducing myself,” I said.
He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t know the can of worms you’ve opened. Who do you think I used to work for in the old days? I robbed banks and gave half of my money to Oswald Goodfellow just to keep him happy.” He looked intently at all three of us. “The Smile Syndicate might have a pretty logo and a cute name now, but trust me—they’re still the mob. Don’t let Missy Goodfellow’s sweet face fool you.”
I pictured the cold ice queen with the dyed goldenrod hair. “I never actually thought of her face as sweet.”
Wheeler rested his elbows on the table, though he miscalculated and sank partly through. “Believe me, the Smile Syndicate is filled with the sort of people who have kitten-drowning contests and wear coats made of baby seal pelts.”
Robin gasped. “Monsters!”
Wheeler shook his head. “No, just humans.”
The guard informed us that the visit was over, and we rose from our chairs. Wheeler drifted up, ready to be escorted back to his cell, and he lowered his voice to say one last thing. “Don’t tell Missy I warned you. I may be here in prison, but that doesn’t mean I can’t get shanked—if anybody figures out how to do it.”
“We’ll keep your advice in mind, Mr. Wheeler,” I said.
Thinking of the sinister harassment Neffi had encountered at the Full Moon—the threats, the broken black-glass windows, the smashed cat sarcophagi—I wondered if the Smile Syndicate was trying to move into more unnatural activities than the Goblin Tavern and kitschy souvenir shops. I definitely wasn’t smiling at the thought.
Chapter 37
I found myself heading back to the Full Moon again, although this time my reasons weren’t quite as clear cut, certainly nothing that would have convinced Sheyenne. I told myself that many threads of current cases tangled in and around the brothel, and if I were to dig through Neffi’s client records, I would find clues to various mysteries. (At the very least, the information would be fascinating.)
My main reason for going there, though, was to check on the sad succubus whose life seemed to be falling apart. I wanted to make sure Ruth was all right, to see if she had found alternative employment. I tried to tell myself she wasn’t my problem—I barely even knew her—but I wanted to take her under my wing, see that she lived happily ever after. Somebody deserved that.
My feelings were altruistic. I was just being an upstanding citizen, a Good Samaritan. Nothing wrong with that. I was convinced I hadn’t been the target of some kind of succubus glamour.
Probably not, at least.
It wasn’t the sort of problem I could discuss with Spooky.