Dead Demon Walking (30 page)

“
He needn’t have believed
me.”

“
Dale thought Jack would
return to New York City,” I told Royal. “Jack thought Dale would
come looking for him. When Dale eventually called Jack, the number
had been disconnected.”

“
Because I was already
dead,” Jack put in.

“
Dale took that as a sign
Jack didn’t want to be found.” I hitched my shoulders. “Time
passed, Dale got on with his life. When he took a trip back here,
he couldn’t resist the temptation to look Jack up, see if he still
lived in Clarion.”

Royal nodded meditatively. “So they
lost each other due to a lover’s tiff. Did the meeting help, was it
worth the effort?”

I beamed. “Chatting up a
storm.”

I heard a gusty sigh from Jack “All
those years, lost.”

“
It’s over, then? Done?”
Royal asked.

I made a face.
“
Not
exactly. Dale
wants a reunion next year and Jack’s all for it.”

***

Jack’s voice ricocheted down the
stairs. “My guy Dale he’s a hunk uva male, listen to me brothers if
you wanna hear our tale. We were just. . . .”

“
Sad,” I told
Mel.

“
Verging on
pathetic.”

“
He has no idea, does
he?”

“
That his rap sounds like a
limerick? No.”

Chapter Twenty

I stood to one side as an
officer shepherded Randy Kent through the living room, his hand on
the cuffs which secured Kent’s hands behind his back. Hannah aimed
a kick at Kent’s shin. She put serious effort in it. Pity her foot
didn’t connect.

She rushed in front of Kent, faced him
and tried to spit in his face. She tried twice, until Kent and the
officer walked right through her. She didn’t raise so much as a
minuscule globule of spittle. Dead people can’t spit. How many
times had she attacked him? She knew she couldn’t touch him, but
she gave it one last try anyway.

A neat little man in his
neat little bachelor pad, with delicate features and fine-boned
wrists, black-haired Randy Kent didn’t look like a killer. He
didn’t look strong enough to hurt anyone. At first sight I
thought,
I could swat you across the room
with one hand.
But his apparent fragility
and the way he hunched his body was a deliberate ruse to make
others think him harmless, pathetic even. He wasn’t frail, he was
wiry, and his long-fingered hands had the strength to smother a
woman’s cries, to stop her drawing another breath, to hold her down
as he killed her.

Hannah Worstley, twenty-three, a cute
woman with short, light-brown hair tapered at her nape. Her eyes
were a pale dreamy blue. She liked miniskirts, hand-knitted wool
tops and waistcoats in bright colors; high-heeled stilettos and
chunky gold-tone jewelry. She lived with her older sister Gloria in
a bungalow on the outskirts of West Jordan City and drove a red
Mini Cooper. I won’t describe her expression as Kent left the house
- he raped and strangled her, slowly, and like all victims of a
violent demise, her expression froze on her face as she died. Not
her flesh and blood face, but that of her shade.

A newspaper delivery boy found her
naked body in the alley behind the Hastings Bookstore. West Jordan
Police Department was stumped. They did not have a single suspect
and the killer left no clues.

Gloria remembered Hannah briefly
mentioned several dates with a coworker, although Hannah didn’t say
his name, but not one employee at Cliffhanger Arcade claimed the
relationship and none recalled seeing Hannah with anyone, or heard
rumors. Gloria wondered why the man denied it ever happened. In
Gloria’s book, that made him a suspect.

We agreed with her.

Gloria came to Banks and Mortensen as
a last resort. She hoped someone with unconventional skills could
discover what law enforcement could not.

Not that the police disbelieved Gloria
when she spoke of Hannah’s boyfriend, but they had nothing to go
on. Her coworkers stuck to their stories: Hannah did not date any
of them. So Gloria turned to us.

***

We checked out everyone, male and
female, married and single and found no cause to suspect
them.

Many elements are involved in solving
a case and sometimes one is plain, old-fashioned luck. Royal and I
were in his truck, parked across the street from Randy Kent’s condo
when we saw him at his living room window, and I saw Hannah right
behind him.

You have an edge over other
investigators when your partner is not of this world, but we didn’t
use Royal’s otherworldy skills. We did use a set of good lock
picks. We waited till Randy left the house at six o’clock that
evening. Royal whipped across the street, got the front door open
and the alarm disconnected in a flash and took off after the guy,
leaving me to talk to Hannah. If Kent headed for home before I left
his house, Royal would come back and get me out.

Unethical? You want ethical or you
want a killer behind bars?

Some serial killers can’t resist
souvenirs - not the kind you get on vacation, the T-shirts and mugs
- I mean their victim’s personal possessions. Hannah showed me
where Randy hid his little keepsakes.

I’ve worked a number of
police cases in Utah and that gave me a little leverage when I
talked to Mike Warren. I didn’t approach West Jordan PD, they don’t
know me like Mike does. I’m well aware that both I and the police
walk on slippery ground when I’m involved in an investigation. No
matter what I say, they are leery of making an accusation without
proof of guilt, so sometimes I
have
to stretch the truth. I told Mike that Gloria
hired us, we were staking out Kent’s house, same as we did his
coworkers, and I got a strong
reading
from Hannah from inside. Then
I saw Kent through his living room window as he looked at his
mementos. Mike talked to West Jordan and encouraged them to take me
seriously.

Two days passed until West Jordan got
a search warrant, during which I fretted Kent would suspect
something and leave town, or destroy the evidence.

I couldn’t tell the officers where
Kent hid his souvenirs, because then they would suspect I broke
into his home, which in turn meant I could have planted them. I
pretended to need a clearer reading from the shade of Hannah
Worstley and for that I had to go in the house.

When an officer started on the screws
which held the bathroom mirror to the wall, I wanted to jump in
there and tear it free with my bare hands.

A carved wooden box in the niche
behind the mirror held a whole lot more than Hannah’s ankle
bracelet.

***

For a moment I was the only living
person in the room.

“
Do you know how I felt,
watching him eat and watch TV, invite his friends here for the
evening, enjoy a long, hot shower?”

I mutely shook my head.

“
And now I’m stuck here, in
his house.”

Mindful of the officers in the other
rooms, I kept my voice low. “Not forever, Hannah. Just hang on to
that thought.”

Which was useless advice. So I said
nothing more while she raved. At least she would not be alone. The
three other women Kent murdered would keep her company.

I hoped someone would kick me out soon
because I knew one of the others would start in when Hannah wound
down. All four wanted to vent and they would never get another
audience like me.

Not once have I got
gratitude from a dead person. Not one said, T
hanks for catching my murderer, Tiff
.
More often they rant, but I know it’s not directed at me. They rail
at whatever cruel fate or circumstance made them a victim, at being
stuck in the here and now until their killer dies.

***

The house was locked up, the police
armada drove off and I walked away, like everyone else. Royal
waited in the truck with the passenger door open for me. As I slid
across the smooth leather seat, he lifted his right arm so I could
nestle into his side. The big truck pulled away from the curb with
a rumble. Street lights curved an amber glow over one high
cheekbone as he moved his head to check the rearview
mirror.

We got off the interstate, through
Peak City and left streetlights behind as we drove through
farmland. The terrain rose in great grass folds, often dipping down
to protected meadows. To the west, spotlights from the White Basin
resort climbed the mountain, where people took advantage of the
late-night gondola rides. In the east, away from the glow of
artificial light cast by Peak City, stars like cold white diamonds
spat in the black night. I rolled down the window; the familiar
smell of desiccated sagebrush and dying wild grasses greeted me.
Forgetting Utah is a desert is easy here in the north, but every
year this distinctive aroma reminds me.

The truck growled to the crest of the
ten-mile incline and the lights of Clarion spread below us on the
other side.

***

Royal parked in the resident’s parking
lot. We crossed Twenty-Second Street to his apartment
building.

We stood on the sidewalk, taking in
our surroundings as day segued to night and the street wound down.
The faux Victorian lamps glowed brighter as stores darkened, the
odd neon sign here and there blared garish green or glaring white.
A few stores, bars and the Comedy Club were still open. Looking
east, stoplights climbed the hill where old avenues intersected,
all the way up to the East Bench. Clarion Station with its stunning
Art Deco façade dominated the skyline in the west.

Royal paused at the bottom of the
wrought iron staircase which climbs to his apartment. “They put up
our signs.”

Slanting black letters on a ten by
twenty inch polished brass sign attached to the brick wall said:
“Banks and Mortensen. Private Investigators.” I stepped back,
turned my face up, and saw the same announcement stenciled on our
office windows in bold black lettering.

“
We should have stopped for
creamer,” he said.

Creamer for me. Royal drinks his
coffee black with an inordinate amount of sugar, but I like mine
with liquid creamer. I don’t care for the powdered kind. I glanced
behind me. The Open sign hung on the Manic Moose’s door. “You go on
up. I’ll see if the Moose has any to spare.”

Royal went up the steps. I took
another minute to look at the signs before walking across the
street. With luck, the Manic Moose’s proprietor would let me have
some mini plastic cups of flavored creamer. If not, they sold milk
in small chug bottles.

A customer came out as I reached the
I. Behind him, Mimi saw me coming and held the door open. “Just
closing, Tiff. What can I get you?”

I slipped inside. “Are you sure? I
don’t want to keep you.”

She flipped the sign on the door to
CLOSED. “I’m late as it is, but a few more minutes won’t hurt.” She
nodded at the departing man. “Thought he’d never leave.”

I stood at the counter. “I appreciate
it. Royal and I just got back from West Jordan. We forgot to pick
up creamer.”

Mimi rounded the counter and stooped
behind it. She came up with a wicker basket half full of tiny
plastic containers. “Take what you need.”

She sounded a little grumpy. I didn’t
blame her. It was late and she should have closed shop half an hour
ago, and she had to clean up before she could call it a day. So I
didn’t pick through the bowl for my favorite creamer, just took
four containers off the top. “How much do I owe you?”

She smiled then, tiny lines crinkling
around her tired eyes. “You know better. Come over tomorrow, buy a
pastry and we’ll call it even.”

I smiled in return. “You got a deal.
I’ll see you then.”

She followed me to the door. As I
stepped outside, she engaged the lock and pulled down the
blind.

I paused on the sidewalk to let
Twenty-Second’s ambience wash over me. It was good to be
home.

I looked up at Royal’s apartment. The
door between his living room and our office must be open because
light shone hazily through the office windows.

A low boom. The window panes cracked
and fell in large shards. I dropped behind the two trash cans in
front of the Moose, folding my arms over my head as glass exploded
on the pavement, spraying a billion, glittering
particles.

The backs of my hands stung. Glass
crystals fell from my arms, my shoulders, and sparkled on the
ground around my feet as I came up in a crouch. I saw a dull, angry
red glow in Royal’s apartment.

***

I don’t know how much time I lost,
standing on the sidewalk, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. Can
shock do that to a person? Trapped in a bad dream, a nightmare of
sirens and flashing lights, I tried so hard to break free. I knew
if I could, I’d wake in Royal’s bed, nesting into his warm
body.

The vacuum popped, noise suddenly
assaulted me and I could no longer pretend. Two fire trucks
screeched to a stop in front of Royal’s building. I stood like a
zombie as one crew fought with the hose between them, trying to get
in position so they could direct a stream of water through our
office windows, from which ugly black smoke plumed. The other crew
went up the wrought iron staircase. Police were setting up
barricades two blocks to the east and west, and bystanders already
pressed against them, trying to get close as possible to the scene.
Paramedics attended to three bloodied people who sat on the
sidewalk. Royal was not with them.