Ghost Wanted (20 page)

“Let me fix you an ice. I'll flavor it with blue raspberry. Like the time we went to Hawaii.”

The woman shook her head, a tiny suggestion of movement. “Can't do any more.”

Jeanne sat in a straight chair close to the bed, gently grasped limp fingers. “The doctors are encouraging. Only four more treatments, Bebe. Please. I'll help you. You know I'll be with you.”

Bebe gazed up. “Need to let me go.”

“No.” Jeanne was brusque, her voice deep. “You can do it, Bebe. Please. For me.”

Bebe moved uncomfortably. “Tried . . . so . . . hard. Last year. Now again. And the money. It costs so much mo—”

“Damn money.” Jeanne was harsh. “What's money when it's your life? We're managing. Everything is fine. I've got enough money.”

Bebe closed her eyes, sank deeper into the pillow.

When I'd seen the shabby house, I'd almost turned away. Blackmailers can afford to keep a home in good repair. I'd expected to step into slovenliness, but the interior of the house reflected care and thought and effort. Jeanne would do everything in her power to maintain nurturing surroundings for this very sick woman. Did Bebe notice the disarray of the exterior? Perhaps Jeanne brushed off any queries with reassurances:
Those repairs would make too much noise now, be disruptive; you need peace and quiet.
Bebe was too frail, too ill, to press her.

I found a businesslike metal desk in an alcove near the kitchen. It didn't take long to see that bills were stacked high and that some creditors were pressing her. Could the fruits of blackmail have been her answer to the ravening need for money?

A little cuckoo clock marked the quarter hour. Fifteen minutes after two. Minutes and hours fled before me. If I had time, if I had the resources of the police, I could determine the financial backgrounds of Jeanne Bracewell and Eleanor Sheridan, though it was quite possible that a canny blackmailer had very effectively hidden any unexplained sums of money. I didn't have the luxury of time and financial inquiries.

Tomorrow morning the acting chief would order Michelle Hoyt's arrest, this time on suspicion of shooting Ben Douglas, unless I discovered and trapped JoLee's
she.

Perhaps I could lure Ben's killer out of hiding if I set a trap with irresistible bait.

Going from there to here in a heartbeat is a ghostly perk. Uh-oh. Wiggins does abhor the term
ghost
. Excuse me, Wiggins. In case you are listening, I meant simply that incorporeal travel moves one instantly to the desired location. Think and go. Which has a nice ring to it.

The instant I entered Chief Cobb's office, I knew all hell—excuse me, Wiggins—had broken loose. Howie Warren looked like he'd been plucked from the golf course in a watermelon pink polo over pink and green tartan Bermuda shorts. His face was red from both sun and irritation. He paced up and down, jabbing a stubby forefinger occasionally toward Detectives Smith and Weitz, who stood stiffly in front of the blackboard. Smith was as tall, dark, and handsome as ever but his lips were closed in a grim line. Weitz stared stonily in front of her. She stood with her shoulders back, her dark eyes hot with anger.

“. . . and somebody's going to get canned. Who the hell's been using my computer?”

I raised an eyebrow.
His
computer? That would be news to Chief Cobb.

Warren's amber-colored pig eyes looked at Smith and Weitz, then swung toward a half-dozen officers crowded near the door. “Who's tired of being a cop? I want fingerprints made of everybody in this building and we'll run them against the keyboard—”

Honestly, I was surprised at Howie's acumen. If a wayward cop had been responsible for the e-mails I'd signed as acting chief, likely the culprit would have been revealed by fingerprints. However, Howie wasn't going to find any prints on that keyboard other than his and those that remained from Sam Cobb's last use.

“—and somebody's going to get his butt kicked big-time.”

Chief Cobb would be appalled at Howie's language. “Crudity diminishes a message.” My tone was stiff.

Howie's head jerked up. He looked at Weitz and three uniformed female officers. “Who's being cute? That's what I want to know. Which one of you said that?”

Smith's face folded in a frown. “Not Weitz. I'm right here. I would've heard her.”

A tall, thin woman with sharp features was brusque. “None of us said a word.” She looked at the male officer nearest the door. “That right, Jed?”

Jed looked like he wanted to be in the break room, but he took a quick breath, and said quickly, “Not a peep from over here, sir.”

I couldn't resist. I intoned in my best sepulchral voice, “Tomorrow all will be revealed. Await instructions.”

Howie's round face puckered in fury. “Okay. The joke's over. I'm not stupid. I'll find the ventriloquist, but right now I want an APB out for that student. Wanted on suspicion of murder. That cock-and-bull story about somebody trapping her in a house is so much crap. She stole that book. They found it in her apartment. She must have gone back to get something else when she shot the night watchman . . .”

I didn't have time to make the phone calls from the police station that I felt sure would lure
she
out of hiding. I had to find Michelle. Before the police did.

Inside Michelle's apartment—I didn't wait on the nicety of appearing and knocking—I called out, “Michelle? Joe?”

George lifted his furry head from a cushion in a window seat and regarded me sleepily.

No answer. No movement.

Thunderous knocks sounded at the door. My heart lurched. An APB must have gone out already and a nearby patrol dispatched.

George flew to the floor.

“No problem for you, buddy.” I took a moment to give him a reassuring pat.

I felt a huge sweep of relief when I reached Old Ethel, high on its hill, and saw no flurry of official activity there, no police cars, no officers on foot surrounding the building. Detectives Smith and Weitz might eventually remember Michelle's association with Joe Cooper, but right now Michelle should be safe in Joe's office, if indeed that's where she was.

A yellow Beetle slammed to a stop in front of Old Ethel, ignoring the adjacent fire hydrant. Moki's Pizza was splashed in psychedelic letters on the passenger door. The motor was still running and a radio blared: “Just in from the news desk. Police are looking for a Goddard student in conjunction with murder of night watchman. Police identify the suspect as Michelle Hoyt. The police said Hoyt is five foot seven and has black hair and brown eyes. Police said she was last seen wearing red-and-white-striped blouse and red slacks. . . .”

I popped into Joe's office. Michelle looked fetching in the redand white cotton blouse and red slacks, although her expression was strained, her dark brows drawn down in concern as she stared at a laptop balanced on her knees. If the pizza delivery man saw her, she was all but in jail.

Redbrick columns adorned the porch to Old Ethel. I paused behind a pillar long enough to appear in a dark gray pinstripe blouse, black slacks, black huaraches with the most attractive cutout at the toes. I opened a shoulder bag in matching gray and pulled out a change purse. I hurried down the steps. A pudgy balding man in his early twenties schlepped up the sidewalk with a pizza box.

“Thank you. I'll take it for Joe.” I stood squarely in his way, reached out for the box. “How much do I owe you?”

He looked startled. “Like I told Joe. Fourteen bucks. That's the double crust with everything.”

I found a ten, a five, and two ones—Wiggins always provided what I needed—and took the box.

“Yeah. Right. Hey, thanks.” He looked toward Old Ethel. “Yeah, I was going to ask Joe if he heard the news—”

The car radio blared: “Police are asking anyone with knowledge of Michelle Hoyt's whereabouts to contact them immediately. Police said the suspect may be armed and dangerous. . . .”

I gave a casual wave, rested the pizza box on one hip. “He's on it. Don't know if he's alerted the cops yet, but the word is that she went to Lake Texoma with friends this weekend.”

The deliveryman's eyes glistened. “Wow. The campus is swarming with cops. I got stopped four times between Moki's and the bottom of the hill, cops asking if I'd seen her around.”

I looked down the hill. A black-and-white cruiser came around the corner. “Good luck getting back to Moki's.” I turned and moved fast, not quite at a run, up the walk. I pushed the door. Locked. I glanced over my shoulder. The Beetle was making a U-turn. I disappeared, moved through the door, pulled it open from the inside, and grabbed the pizza box. The Beetle was running up over the curb, the driver hanging out the driver's window, staring at the door and the box that appeared elevated by itself in the air. I reappeared, gave him a jaunty wave, slammed the door.

A siren wailed.

I ran toward the newsroom, skidded around desks, reached Joe's office, yanked the door open.

Joe Cooper held his cell. “. . . take a look at that JPEG. Did you see—” He broke off, stared at me.

Michelle's head jerked up. “You're back.”

Joe looked irritated. “Hey, I may have a lead—”

I reached over the desk, grabbed the cell, swiped, handed it back. “You can call them back. Cops are coming to arrest Michelle. Is there any place she can hide?” The police would surround Old Ethel, might be approaching as we talked. I felt frantic. Even if we hid her in a closet with a lock, she would be found.

“Downstairs. Quick. I know a way.” Lorraine's high, well-modulated voice clearly came from near the ceiling. “A hidden tunnel leads into the woods. It was an escape route for men when the police raided the boarding house in the twenties. A portion of the wood paneling behind the press opens. You pull on a knothole in the center. Charles was with the police—he was mayor of Adelaide then—the night they raided Old Ethel and closed it down as a bordello.”

I shook my head. “That was a long time ago.”

Lorraine spoke in a quick staccato. “Tunnels don't go away. No one today is likely aware it exists. That doesn't mean it's disappeared.”

Joe was half out of his chair, frozen in a posture of shock as his eyes sought the speaker but, of course, Lorraine wasn't visible. Michelle's dark eyes stared upward.

Another siren.

It might not work, but anything was better than standing here waiting for the police. I jerked a thumb toward the newsroom. “Joe, show us how to find the press. We can try.”

Another siren rose and fell very near now.

Joe took a breath, came fully upright, and charged around his desk. “Never heard of a tunnel. The press is in the basement.” He pulled Michelle to her feet, yanked open the door. Hustling her ahead of him, he hurried us through the newsroom and out into the hallway. Running now, we pounded down the hallway to a door at the end of the hall. He reached for the knob.

I grabbed his arm. “We'll take it from here. Get back to your office. Distract the police for as long as possible. Tell them it's been a while since you've seen Michelle, ask why they're looking for her, delay them with questions.” By this time I had the door open. I flipped on the lights. “Come on, Michelle.”

She started down the steps.

“Try to go a little faster.” Lorraine's soft voice was encouraging.

Michelle stopped, grabbed my arm. “Why do you talk in two different voices?”

“Don't worry about that right now.” My tone was soothing. “Hurry. We don't have much time.”

The pressroom was full of shadows. We moved in half darkness. I followed Lorraine's quick calls. “Down this corridor . . . past the newsprint rolls . . . keep to your left.”

I was holding Michelle's arm. She flinched every time Lorraine spoke.

Finally we came to the far reaches of the basement. There was almost no light here. Lorraine was murmuring, “I wish I'd paid more attention. Charles said the tunnel was in the center of the far wall. After the war, when it was a residence hall, Charles joked that he would be a popular man if he told the vets of a secret way in and out. I shivered and told him I wouldn't want to go into an old tunnel no one had used for years—who knew what might be in there—but he said vets wouldn't be afraid of bats.”