Living with the Dead
Page 6
She started stepping out, then stopped herself. Speaking of bloodstained potential killers... Robyn's knees were red from kneeling beside Portia's body.
Portia's body.
Robyn took a deep breath. She hadn't always liked Portia, but there'd been something there, some spark of potential.
If only she'd nurtured it, pushed for Portia to go to that charity event tonight instead.
If only she'd told Damon to stay the night in Pittsburgh instead of coming back so late...
Robyn took another deep breath. This wasn't about Damon. It was about Portia, and the best way she could help her was to get back to Bane and tell the police what she'd seen.
Robyn took her time going back. She wasn't looking forward to explaining why she'd left the scene. She imagined the officers rolling their eyes at the dumb blonde who'd raced off, trying to catch a killer. She'd had no intention of catching her – just catching a better look. But it still sounded a little foolish. Okay, a lot foolish. File under "seemed like a good idea at the time."
As she rounded the corner, she caught a flash of motion. A black-clad figure darted behind a Dumpster. Robyn froze and replayed her memory of the fleeing killer. A slender, light-haired figure in black pants and a dark shirt.
Robyn took a slow step backward. Then she stopped.
Just a look, that was all she needed. Better yet, a picture. She pulled out her cell phone and stepped forward. Gravel crunched under her shoes. She reached down and tugged them off. Then she crept along the Dumpster until she heard the quick shallow breaths of someone trying to control panic.
Robyn turned her cell phone around, camera lens pointing out. Then, finger on the button, she reached around the corner of the bin...
Snap!
A choked gasp. As Robyn wheeled to run, she saw a shadow lunge at her.
Thwack.
Something hit the back of Robyn's head. She spun as a shadowy figure raised a chunk of concrete. It caught Robyn on the cheek. She stumbled back, tripped and went down. As she fell, the cell phone started to slip. She grasped it tighter, pulling her arm under her and landing facedown on it.
"Did you hear that?" said a distant voice. "Call for backup."
A radio squawked. Footfalls sounded in the next alley. Robyn's assailant let her go and ran.
Robyn scrambled to her feet. She slipped and recovered, but when she looked up, her attacker was gone. She heard an officer radioing for backup, saying that they might have found the suspect. Robyn almost called out, saying that their suspect was getting away. Then she remembered who those officers were looking for: her.
She looked down at herself, bloodied and battered. A bump on the head, a scrape on the cheek – proof she'd been in a fight, maybe with Portia. If those officers found her, they wouldn't keep looking for the fleeing killer; they'd presume they already had her.
Robyn took off.
FINN
John Findlay – Finn since first grade when there'd been three Johns in his class – stared down at the body of Portia Kane, lying flat on her back, shirt ripped open, blood-smeared nipple rings glistening under the harsh light.
"This is one photo you wouldn't want in the tabloids," he murmured.
He lifted his gaze from the body and looked around the room for the ghost of Portia Kane, hovering over her body in disbelief or huddled in a corner, pulling her torn blouse closed. Nothing. Maybe she'd headed back into Bane to get in a few more minutes of clubbing before she was trundled off to the great beyond.
He snorted at the thought, earning a wary look from the new police photographer who circled wide, his looks saying he suspected what they said about Finn was true.
A hand slapped Finn between the shoulder blades and he turned to see the beefy figure of Mark Downey, one of the crime scene techs.
"Got that mojo working for us tonight, Finn?" Downey asked.
Finn glanced around, seeing no shimmer of Portia Kane. "Fraid not."
"Don't listen to him," Downey mock-whispered to the photographer. "This guy is a regular Sherlock fucking Holmes. I swear, crime scenes talk to him."
Not crime scenes, Finn mused as Downey wandered off. The photographer kept eyeing him warily. He wondered what the kid had heard. The mildest rumor was that Finn was a crack detective, but somewhat eccentric, and not really a team player – hence the "partner" who'd gone on leave five months ago and never been replaced. Worst were the stories that blamed his partner's absence on Finn – the stress of working with a wacko the department kept on only because of his clearance rates.
It didn't matter how careful Finn was. Every now and then, someone would see him carrying on a conversation with thin air and staring at things no one else could see. He wasn't psychic, he just saw dead people. Not like the kid in the movie, though. With Finn, they usually only appeared at homicide scenes, distraught and confused.
If he was lucky, he'd get a few questions answered before the ghost disappeared. And if he didn't? Then he was shit outta luck, because they never came back. This was, apparently, one of those times he wasn't getting any help from the dead. He took one last look around, then set to work.
One dead celebutante. Apparent gunshot. Possible murder weapon lying beside her. After an hour's work, he knew no more than he had looking in from the doorway. He had a witness, but all she could say was that she'd heard something, come back here and seen a woman run out the exit door. As for what the woman looked like? Between eighteen and fifty, five foot to six foot, not fat, light hair.
She'd agreed to work with a sketch artist, but from the panic in her eyes when he asked, he wouldn't put much stock in the result. Eyewitness accounts were notoriously unreliable, and Finn knew the truth of that better than most. Twice he'd had ghosts give him a full description of their killer, only to have the evidence prove it was someone who didn't look anything like the sketch.
Finn didn't blame the ghosts. Both had been killed by strangers – one jumped in an alley, one catching a stray gang bullet. In that split second before death, they sure as hell weren't taking notes. And in those shell-shocked minutes after, their memory had shown them the face of a monster – bigger and uglier than the reality.
"Hear that?" Downey cocked his head, meaty jowls quivering. "The wolves are baying at the door. Think we should toss them a few scraps?"
Portia's body.
Robyn took a deep breath. She hadn't always liked Portia, but there'd been something there, some spark of potential.
If only she'd nurtured it, pushed for Portia to go to that charity event tonight instead.
If only she'd told Damon to stay the night in Pittsburgh instead of coming back so late...
Robyn took another deep breath. This wasn't about Damon. It was about Portia, and the best way she could help her was to get back to Bane and tell the police what she'd seen.
Robyn took her time going back. She wasn't looking forward to explaining why she'd left the scene. She imagined the officers rolling their eyes at the dumb blonde who'd raced off, trying to catch a killer. She'd had no intention of catching her – just catching a better look. But it still sounded a little foolish. Okay, a lot foolish. File under "seemed like a good idea at the time."
As she rounded the corner, she caught a flash of motion. A black-clad figure darted behind a Dumpster. Robyn froze and replayed her memory of the fleeing killer. A slender, light-haired figure in black pants and a dark shirt.
Robyn took a slow step backward. Then she stopped.
Just a look, that was all she needed. Better yet, a picture. She pulled out her cell phone and stepped forward. Gravel crunched under her shoes. She reached down and tugged them off. Then she crept along the Dumpster until she heard the quick shallow breaths of someone trying to control panic.
Robyn turned her cell phone around, camera lens pointing out. Then, finger on the button, she reached around the corner of the bin...
Snap!
A choked gasp. As Robyn wheeled to run, she saw a shadow lunge at her.
Thwack.
Something hit the back of Robyn's head. She spun as a shadowy figure raised a chunk of concrete. It caught Robyn on the cheek. She stumbled back, tripped and went down. As she fell, the cell phone started to slip. She grasped it tighter, pulling her arm under her and landing facedown on it.
"Did you hear that?" said a distant voice. "Call for backup."
A radio squawked. Footfalls sounded in the next alley. Robyn's assailant let her go and ran.
Robyn scrambled to her feet. She slipped and recovered, but when she looked up, her attacker was gone. She heard an officer radioing for backup, saying that they might have found the suspect. Robyn almost called out, saying that their suspect was getting away. Then she remembered who those officers were looking for: her.
She looked down at herself, bloodied and battered. A bump on the head, a scrape on the cheek – proof she'd been in a fight, maybe with Portia. If those officers found her, they wouldn't keep looking for the fleeing killer; they'd presume they already had her.
Robyn took off.
FINN
John Findlay – Finn since first grade when there'd been three Johns in his class – stared down at the body of Portia Kane, lying flat on her back, shirt ripped open, blood-smeared nipple rings glistening under the harsh light.
"This is one photo you wouldn't want in the tabloids," he murmured.
He lifted his gaze from the body and looked around the room for the ghost of Portia Kane, hovering over her body in disbelief or huddled in a corner, pulling her torn blouse closed. Nothing. Maybe she'd headed back into Bane to get in a few more minutes of clubbing before she was trundled off to the great beyond.
He snorted at the thought, earning a wary look from the new police photographer who circled wide, his looks saying he suspected what they said about Finn was true.
A hand slapped Finn between the shoulder blades and he turned to see the beefy figure of Mark Downey, one of the crime scene techs.
"Got that mojo working for us tonight, Finn?" Downey asked.
Finn glanced around, seeing no shimmer of Portia Kane. "Fraid not."
"Don't listen to him," Downey mock-whispered to the photographer. "This guy is a regular Sherlock fucking Holmes. I swear, crime scenes talk to him."
Not crime scenes, Finn mused as Downey wandered off. The photographer kept eyeing him warily. He wondered what the kid had heard. The mildest rumor was that Finn was a crack detective, but somewhat eccentric, and not really a team player – hence the "partner" who'd gone on leave five months ago and never been replaced. Worst were the stories that blamed his partner's absence on Finn – the stress of working with a wacko the department kept on only because of his clearance rates.
It didn't matter how careful Finn was. Every now and then, someone would see him carrying on a conversation with thin air and staring at things no one else could see. He wasn't psychic, he just saw dead people. Not like the kid in the movie, though. With Finn, they usually only appeared at homicide scenes, distraught and confused.
If he was lucky, he'd get a few questions answered before the ghost disappeared. And if he didn't? Then he was shit outta luck, because they never came back. This was, apparently, one of those times he wasn't getting any help from the dead. He took one last look around, then set to work.
One dead celebutante. Apparent gunshot. Possible murder weapon lying beside her. After an hour's work, he knew no more than he had looking in from the doorway. He had a witness, but all she could say was that she'd heard something, come back here and seen a woman run out the exit door. As for what the woman looked like? Between eighteen and fifty, five foot to six foot, not fat, light hair.
She'd agreed to work with a sketch artist, but from the panic in her eyes when he asked, he wouldn't put much stock in the result. Eyewitness accounts were notoriously unreliable, and Finn knew the truth of that better than most. Twice he'd had ghosts give him a full description of their killer, only to have the evidence prove it was someone who didn't look anything like the sketch.
Finn didn't blame the ghosts. Both had been killed by strangers – one jumped in an alley, one catching a stray gang bullet. In that split second before death, they sure as hell weren't taking notes. And in those shell-shocked minutes after, their memory had shown them the face of a monster – bigger and uglier than the reality.
"Hear that?" Downey cocked his head, meaty jowls quivering. "The wolves are baying at the door. Think we should toss them a few scraps?"
