Nightwalker (8 page)

She laughed. “I pretty much
never
do. I grew up here, went to school here, and now I work here. Timothy is the only family I have left. I have friends, of course, and I love working with kids. There you have it. My life. Let’s hear about yours. Rumor has it you’re a secret agent of some sort. So what’s the truth?”

“Hardly a secret agent,” he said, hiding his surprise that she’d been talking to someone about him. “It’s certainly no secret that I’ve been hired by Emil Landon.”

“But that’s not what you usually do,” she said flatly.

“I’m basically a free agent—licensed, of course,” he said. “These days I work for a business called Harrison Investigations, headed by a man named Adam Harrison who hires people from around the country—around the world, actually. My roots are here, though. My folks are gone, but I have family who live not too far away. The case came up, Adam suggested I take it, so here I am.”

“Why?”

Dillon hesitated.
Why? Because the ghost who hangs around with me wanted me to take it, and Adam thinks if a ghost has a feeling about something, it needs to be looked into.

“I’m not exactly sure,” he said. That much, at least, was honest.

“Does your family live on reservation land?”

“Some of them, and some on private.”

“Why is your employer so secretive, and what are all the jobs he supposedly does for the government?” she asked.

“Adam’s been called in over the years to investigate various crimes, some of them federal, and he’s cultivated a lot of contacts in the various law enforcement agencies around the country. I don’t know everything about him, or even about my fellow agents or the cases they’ve worked. Sometimes a few of us work a case together, and sometimes things are handled on a smaller and more personal scale, and they’re settled. There’s nothing undercover about us, though Adam doesn’t seek publicity. And he chooses our cases carefully, or sometimes a particular investigator chooses a case, that’s all.”

“But Adam Harrison suggested you take Emil Landon’s case. And I think that’s interesting,” she said. “Why do you suppose he chose the case of a powerful man who has lots of money but, from what I hear, few scruples?” The question was a challenge, he thought. She sounded as if she wanted to find out that there was something not quite legit about him.

“I don’t know yet. Hopefully, by the time I get to the bottom of things, I will. So far, I’ve met Emil Landon and his retinue, and now one of his bodyguards is dead—a death you were involved in through no fault of your own. That’s why I can use all the help I can get.” He watched her eyes, her face, hoping for a sign of trust. The slightest possibility that she might admit to seeing a ghost.

Nothing.

Instead, she stood suddenly. “Forgive me, but I’m exhausted right now. I’ll think about it. I’ll try to remember if he said anything, but as I said…I never saw the man before. Technically I work for Emil Landon, too, but I’ve never met
him,
either. I’m sorry.”

She started to walk away, then returned, blushing. “I forgot. The check—”

“Please. I asked you to meet me.” She blushed harder, as if she didn’t want him to get the impression they were on a date. “Consider it a business expense. Our mutual boss will pay it.”

He watched her go, torn. He wanted to follow her through to the garage and make sure she got into her car okay. Whether she knew it or not, she was being followed by Tanner Green, and though Dillon was certain the specter had no intention of doing her harm, someone
had
murdered the man, she had been there when he died, and that meant she could be in danger, too.

“I’m on it, sagebrush,” Ringo said.

Dillon had actually forgotten about the ghost’s presence. But now Ringo followed Jessy Sparhawk from the restaurant, the barely perceptible jingle of his spurs and the slight breeze of his passing causing frowns of confusion as he passed.

Jessy walked quickly through the bustling casino toward the garage elevators. The place was full of activity, even though things wouldn’t really be in full swing until later. Still, bells were ringing, people were
laughing and talking loudly to be heard over the machines, and hawkers were advertising certain games.

She stepped into the elevator along with a musician in Mexican attire carrying an acoustic guitar, a couple who clung to one another and giggled constantly and a man from a pizza-delivery company. The door started to shut, then opened again, as if a latecomer had triggered the sensor.

Except no one was there.

“Ghosts in the machine,” the deliveryman offered with a laugh.

The giggling couple giggled louder, and even the musician smiled. The door slid closed again, and Jessy felt as if a cold draft was wafting around her.

She had to get a grip, she told herself. Every little shift in the air around her made her feel as if she was being watched, followed, and it was ridiculous. She had to stop being so paranoid or she wouldn’t be any good to anyone.

She was glad when the musician got off on her level, and glad that he wasn’t far away as she headed toward her car. She deactivated the alarm, slid into the driver’s seat and immediately locked the doors. Then she turned around to investigate the backseat, assuring herself that she was alone in the car, even while ridiculing herself for having seen too many movies where the killer waited in the back of a car to attack his unwary victim.

But she was alone.

She turned on the stereo—loudly. Music was a good way to drown out any sounds she might not want to hear. But it was Seventies Night on the local station, and the
minute the DJ introduced Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper” she switched the frequency. She drove out the back way, avoiding the Strip, and headed for Henderson, all the while reminding herself that she was safe. She had locked the doors. She had checked the back.

And still she felt as if she wasn’t alone. As if someone she couldn’t see had followed her. Was right there with her.

But she reached home without incident, then forced herself to walk at a normal pace up the front walk. She quickly closed and locked the door behind her, then reset the newly installed alarm. But even inside, she couldn’t escape the uncomfortable sensation of being watched, of not being alone.

She went first to the kitchen and picked up her heaviest frying pan. She wished that she golfed—a nice strong golf club would have made an excellent weapon, though she was sure that, if need be, she could wield a mean frying pan.

But a walk through her house convinced her that she was entirely alone. She was also desperately in need of sleep, and she thought about taking a nighttime pain-killer, but they left her feeling drowsy in the morning, so she poured herself a large Baileys instead. She was standing in the kitchen, glass in hand, when the phone rang and she jumped a foot off the floor. Laughing at her own foolishness, she picked up the receiver.

“Hey, how’s it going?” came Sandra’s cheerful voice in her ear.

“Fine,” Jessy said, realizing she didn’t sound entirely convincing.

“So everything’s all right with Timothy?”

“It was great, actually. Hoskins was so sure I couldn’t come up with the money that he promised Timothy’s room to someone else. I’m sure they weren’t very happy to find out they couldn’t move in after all, but Hoskins is a jerk and deserves to get reamed out. But Timothy’s just fine.”

“I’m glad to hear that. And how about you?” Sandra asked.

“I’m fine, too.”

“I guess you haven’t seen the news, huh?”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“Oh, nothing more actually
happened
. But you’re famous.”

“What?”

Sandra laughed. “They’re calling you ‘the mystery woman.’ Hang on—Reggie wants to talk to you.”

“It’s so cool,” Reggie said. “No one has used your name, but they all say he fell down and died on top of a mystery woman. A
beautiful
mystery woman. I’d like to be a mystery woman someday,” Reggie finished with a dramatic sigh.

“I’d like to forget it ever happened,” Jessy told her.

Sandra came back on the line. “It’s okay. It will all die down in time. I’m sure the cops will figure it out. It probably had something to do with drugs or revenge or some such thing. Or maybe it was mob related. I’m glad I’m not a cop. I don’t know how they sort through it all. Anyway, I just wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine. I’ve got a show tomorrow, so I’m going to bed. I’ll check in on Timothy in the morning, then head
to work—and hope no one there has heard about the mystery woman,” Jessy told her. “They’ll never stop teasing me if they have.”

They said good-night, with Sandra telling her to call if she needed anything. Jessy hung up, half her glass of Baileys gone, resolved that she was going to get some sleep. As she stood, she thought that she heard a jingling sound but decided it was just the phone giving a little hiccup.

She quickly drank the rest of the Baileys and headed to her room.

She got ready for bed quickly, then surprised herself by pausing before she lay down.

“I’m really tired, and I’m begging you to leave me alone,” she said loudly to the empty room.

Naturally, there was no response.

A few minutes later—and contrary to her own expectations—she was asleep.

Dillon was tempted to call Jessy just to reassure himself that she had made it home safely, but he refrained. Anyway, it was ridiculous to think she was in any real danger. She’d happened to be there when a man had died, but she had no connection to him. Okay, the man’s ghost was following her for some reason, but that didn’t mean she was in any real danger.

Besides, Ringo had followed her, and he had over a hundred years’ experience learning to deal with life after death and the rules of spectral existence. He was a real pro, as ghosts went. He could move things—like those dice—even knock them over, if
necessary. He could probably even manage to call 911 if necessary.

To keep himself from thinking about Jessy, he decided to head over to the Sun and interview some of the workers there, especially the bellmen and valet-parking attendants, who might have seen something the night Green was stabbed.

It was Thursday night. The crime-scene tape had been taken down and the casino reopened sometime that morning, which had been an invitation for the place to go wild. It was hugely busy, but Dillon was good at getting people to talk—in this case, that consisted of handing out a lot of tips. The manager of the valet service had been inside his glass box and hadn’t seen anything. Three of the bellmen had been inside at the time, and none of them had seen anything useful. The parking attendants were no help, either.

“The thing is,” one of them told him, “we’re so used to seeing people wander in drunk that if someone was staggering, we wouldn’t have paid any attention. We’ve all been questioned by the police, and I wish we could help. It feels almost ridiculous that we can’t, but you know how it is. Dozens of limos come through here every night.”

“Still,” Dillon persisted, “
this
limo managed to be just out of range of the cameras. As if someone knew where security cameras could reach and where they couldn’t.”

“Yeah, in the far lane, the cops said. Check with Rudy Yorba—I remember seeing him out there that night, waiting to park the next car in line.”

Dillon tracked down the young man named Rudy Yorba and found a tall, thin thirty-five-year-old with a lot of nervous energy.

Rudy was pleased to accept a tip for his time and gave Dillon his full attention. “I’m not sure what I saw, to tell you the truth,” he told Dillon. “That homicide guy was such a jerk, I was kind of afraid to talk to him. He said he wanted facts, not theories, that he didn’t want to know what anyone
thought
they saw, only what they really
did
see, and I couldn’t give him any facts. Said he didn’t want to be chasing his tail following up a bunch of false leads.”

“He’s a cop, I’m an investigator, and I don’t mind chasing my tail,” Dillon assured him. “Nothing else for me to do right now anyway, right?”

Rudy looked at him and nodded. “Okay, well, here’s what I think. I think that guy came out of a white stretch Caddy. I’d looked up cuz I was waiting for a guy to get out and hand over his car, and I saw someone getting out of the Caddy, but I don’t know who. But the next thing I know, there’s this huge hulk of a guy blundering through the crowd. He looked rude, like he was pushing people around. Then I looked down to say something to my guy, and by the time I looked back up, the big guy was gone. So, like I said, I
think
he came out of that Caddy, but I don’t know it for a fact. I
can
tell you for a fact that it came in fast, and it went out fast. I mean, it’s hard for a Caddy that big to burn rubber, but if you ask me, that limo did just that.”

“Thanks, Rudy, thanks very much,” Dillon told him, and handed the younger man one of his cards. “If you think of anything else, let me know.”

“Sure thing,” Rudy said, and shook his head. “You’d’a thought someone would have noticed the knife.” He shrugged. “But, hey, this is Vegas. What gets stabbed in Vegas, stays in Vegas, right?” He laughed weakly at his own grim joke.

“Sad but true,” Dillon said.

Privately, Dillon was certain Rudy was right about the Caddy, which meant whoever had killed Green had plenty of money, enough to hire a pricey limo, and was savvy enough to know just where the security cameras’ reach ended.

Dillon headed back home at that point and turned on his computer, putting the Internet to use to figure out which casinos were currently making use of which limo services. There were six that touted the availability of limos for a price, or gratis for their high rollers.

There were also three agencies that specialized in limo rentals.

He was mulling over the information he had garnered when his cell phone rang. “Wolf here.”

“Mr. Wolf? It’s Rudy Yorba.”

“Hello. Did you think of something else?”

“Yeah, I did. I know the year of that limo. I just remembered it, cuz you got me thinking.”