Betrayers(4)

That left her with one other option: a face-to-face with James, a prospect that didn’t appeal to her any more than it would to him. Hostile witness. Man hadn’t wanted anything to do with her since he’d tried to hit on her back in his gangsta days and she’d blown him off and wounded his pride. Liked her even less, he’d told Vonda, after she’d gone to work for a white detective. It wouldn’t be easy dealing with James, if she could get him to talk to her at all. They were like a couple of pieces of flint whenever their paths crossed: friction and sparks.

And if she couldn’t get anything useful out of James? Well, she’d figure something out. No way that slippery bastard Lucas would get away with walking into her life, turning it upside down again, and then walking out free and clear to mess up somebody else’s. Somehow she’d find him, find out his real name. No matter where he was. No matter how long it took.

And then she’d be there, front and center, when a cell door slapped his sorry black ass on the way inside.





2


There’s a short story by John D. MacDonald called “I Always Get the Cuties,” about a cop named Keegan whose specialty is solving cases in which amateurs devise elaborate plans to commit the perfect crime. He calls them his “favorite meat.” They’re a lot easier to work on, he says, than cases involving professional criminals.

Seems like I always get the cuties in my profession, too. Different kinds than Keegan’s, but cuties nonetheless. Only they’re not my favorite meat by any stretch. Give me a simple skip-trace, insurance claim investigation, employee background check, or any of the other routine jobs that make up the bulk of the agency’s caseload. But for some reason, we seem to draw more than our fair share of the cuties, and even though I’m semiretired now, they usually fall into my lap. Screwball stuff. Like the one where a successful and seemingly rational businessman suddenly began attending the funerals of strangers for no apparent reason. Or the one I’d had recently that started off with the allegedly impossible theft of some rare and valuable mystery novels and ended up with cold-blooded murder in a locked room. Keegan would have loved that.

Or the one that had walked into the agency offices this morning.

A new cutie with seriocomic overtones, no less. A little of this and a little of that all mixed together into what was bound to be a not very appetizing stew. City bureaucracy, real estate squabbles, nocturnal prowlings, petty vandalism, threatening phone calls, poisoned cats, and, ah yes, one more ingredient that had been left out of the recitation of the original recipe . . .



Young man,” Mrs. Abbott said to me, “do you believe in ghosts?”

The “young man” surprised me almost as much as the question. But then, when you’re eighty-five, a man in his early sixties can seem relatively young.

I said politely, “Ghosts?”

“Poltergeists, malevolent spirits?”

“Well, let’s say I’m skeptical.”

“Loved ones from the Other Side?”

“Likewise.”

“I’ve always been skeptical myself. But I can’t help wondering if it might be a ghost who is responsible for all that has happened.”

Beside me on the sofa, my client, Helen Alvarez, age seventy and likewise a widow, sighed and rolled her eyes in my direction. She hadn’t mentioned ghosts in my office; this was the ingredient that made the cutie even cuter.

She smiled tolerantly across at Mrs. Abbott in her Boston rocker. “Nonsense. When did that notion come into your head?”

“Last night. I’ve been reading a book.”

“A book? What book?”

“About spirit manifestations and the like. It’s quite a fascinating concept.”

“It’s a load of crap,” Mrs. Alvarez said.

“I can’t imagine why a poltergeist would suddenly invade my home. Carl, on the other hand . . . well, that does seem possible.”

I said, “Carl?”

“My late husband. His shade, you see.”

Mrs. Alvarez emitted an unladylike snorting sound.

“Don’t you think it’s possible, Helen?”

“No, I certainly don’t. Carl has been gone ten years, for heaven’s sake. Why would his spirit come back now?”

“It could be he’s been angry with me since he passed over.”

“Why would he be angry with you?”

“I’m not sure I did all I could for him when he was ill. He may blame me for his death—he had a nasty temper, you know, and a tendency to hold a grudge. And surely the dead know when the living’s time is near. Suppose he has crossed over to give me a sample of what our reunion   on the Other Side will be like?”