Tangled Souls (34 page)

“So what went wrong?” the senior detective asked.

“I’m guessing the dog interfered, and Bradley panicked and ran for it.”

“Then the asshole ran him down?” Zimansky asked after another hit of tea syrup.

“Yeah.”

“So what do you want from us?”

O’Fallon barely kept the wave of relief from showing on his face. “Has the SUV surfaced yet?” he asked.

“No, and it hasn’t been reported stolen. The only reason we know it’s a Cadillac Escalade is the paint they found embedded in the victim.”

“Your report doesn’t mention the picture.”

“So? Why is that so damned important?” Larsen demanded, his voice rising.

Zimansky swirled the glass again, took a long sip, and then swore under his breath. “It’s important because the picture wasn’t where it should have been.”

Larsen waved a dismissive hand. “The kid could have dropped it along the way.”

O’Fallon shook his head. “No; I’m willing to bet it’s in the SUV.”

Larsen perked up. “How much?”

O’Fallon blinked.
What the hell?
“Fifty bucks . . . to the Benevolent Association.”

Larsen gave a shark grin. “You’re on.”

“This goddamned case never felt right to me,” Zimansky grumbled. “No matter which way we went, we never got any traction.” He raised a stubby finger. “We checked vehicle registrations within twenty miles of the crime scene; every black Caddy Escalade was accounted for.” Another finger. “No skid marks.” Third digit. “No witnesses, except the mutt.” Fourth and fifth fingers. “Now you say the girl claims they were followed and that the maid’s car might have been tampered with.”

“And there’s the missing picture,” O’Fallon added.

“Shit,” Zimansky muttered. “Too many holes.”

“You’re buying this?” Larsen asked warily.

“I’m considering it. There is a difference,” Zimansky replied, folding his fingers back in place and resting his hands on the table on either side of his iced tea. “How reliable is this source?” the older cop quizzed.

“As reliable as the grave.”

That earned O’Fallon a penetrating look.

“Will their testimony stand up in court?”

“No, it won’t. That’s the problem.”

Zimansky swirled his glass for a moment and then set it down. “Do you have a suspect in mind?”

“Not in specific. But I think it’s someone connected to the dead boy’s mother. Maybe her dealer or a loan shark. She’s got a hell of a coke habit, and Alliford closed down her credit cards, so she needs cash to keep the blow flowing.”

“You think she planned this?” Larsen asked.

“I’m not sure yet.”

As Zimansky sipped his tea, O’Fallon could almost hear the wheels turning. Had he given them enough to chew on?

The bloodhound nodded. “Okay, you got my interest. We’ll have the grocery store where the maid shopped pull the security tapes, see what we find, and we’ll talk to the little girl.”

“Alliford is pulling together a list of people who knew their routine—gardeners, pool people, folks like that,” O’Fallon advised. He pushed a business card across the table. “Here’s the car-repair place. Ask for Irv.”

“You figured you’d hook us, didn’t you?”

O’Fallon gave a conciliatory shrug. “I hoped I would. I just want to watch that bastard sweat when they sentence him to meet his Maker.”

Zimansky’s eyes narrowed. “That’s two of us.”

“Three,” Larsen added. O’Fallon nodded in his direction, accepting the man’s unspoken apology.

“So who’s your source?” Zimansky asked, leaning forward.

O’Fallon hesitated, then decided against ruining the moment. “I’ll tell you when it’s absolutely necessary. I don’t want it to taint your enthusiasm.”

“Playing this one close, aren’t you?”

“I have no choice.”

Zimansky rose, dug in his wallet, and threw a five onto the table. “The next time you see Avery, say hi for me.”

O’Fallon was at a loss. “You know him?”

“We used to play poker every Wednesday night when we were walking a beat. I hear he’s lugging a cross now.”

“So why did you bust my balls on this?” O’Fallon asked.

“Just because I could,” Zimansky replied. “Besides, it’ll make a great story the next time I see the man.”

As the two detectives exited the diner, O’Fallon waved down the waitress for more coffee and a piece of apple pie. The cops were back on the case. Now it was time for him to deliver the goods.

Heads up!
Bart shouted. It took her a moment to recognize the problem. Bernie caught on immediately.

“This way,” he advised, tugging on her arm. They hurried down a side street as fast as Gavenia’s pace would allow. The car turned the corner, following them, illuminating them in the glare of its headlamps. Wolf whistles came from the vehicle’s occupants.

Not good
, Bart said.

“Just keep walking and don’t look at them. They want to see if they can spook you—make you run,” Bernie said, keeping hold of her elbow.

“No problem there,” she replied, resolutely putting one foot in front of the other. Behind her she could hear the slow crunch of tires on gritty pavement. Car doors opened and then slammed one by one. Gavenia’s blood chilled.

Really not good
, her Guardian warned.

In the distance, the Miata sat under a dim streetlight, a red lily pad in a swamp filled with alligators. All its tires were in place and Gavenia thanked the Goddess for that.

“Keep walking,” Bernie said. “They’re gangbangers. They’re looking for fun. I’ll try to distract ’em.” He started to turn, and she grabbed his arm.

“No, stay with me. We’ll be okay.”

“You got some secret weapon?” he asked, the smell of booze filling her nose.

A thought flew into her mind. “Yeah, I just might. You have any matches?”

He blinked. “No. I gave up smoking. It was bad for my health.”

“Now there’s irony for you,” she said. So much for crafting a makeshift Molotov cocktail out of Bernie’s bottle and slinging it at the gangbangers’ car to buy some time.

Three of the hunters were on foot now, jiving in front of the car. The driver cranked the stereo, the bass ricocheting off the nearby buildings like musical artillery. The dead hovered around the edges of the scene, watching and whispering to one another.

Gavenia halted, turned, and put her hands on her hips. “Stop following us,” she shouted to the live threat.

Oh, there’s a plan
, Bart observed.
Confront the crazies.

The answer she received was laced with expletives. One of the guys cupped his crotch and then pointed at her, making a lewd gesture impossible to misinterpret.

“Well, that didn’t work. How far are we from the car?” she asked her companion in a low voice.

“About a hundred, hundred fifty feet,” he said without looking back. She envied his cool behavior. There was more to Bernie that met the eye.

Suggestions?
she asked her Guardian.

Not be here
, was the reply.

Not helpful. You’re my Guardian—give me an idea how to survive this.

If you’d listened to me in the first place—

SUGGESTIONS?
Gavenia shouted through the mental link.

Distraction.

Such as?

Act like a Shepherd.

She frowned. That only worked if the guys were dead. Given that the three outside the car had guns tucked into the waistbands of their oversized pants, she’d be needing a Shepherd sooner than they would.

The trio held their ground, joking with one another about the situation—one old man and a crippled woman. Out of the corner of her eye, Gavenia saw one of the ghosts detach itself from the entourage and step forward. He was a black youth clad in gang colors.

Tell them you can see me
, he said.

Who are you?

Antwoine. That’s Jerome, my cousin
, he said, pointing to the apparent leader of the trio. He’s called Easy J.

Gavenia stood taller and called out, “Hey, Easy J, why are you hassling us?”

That got the trio’s attention, and the one she’d addressed signaled for the driver to turn off the radio. The resulting silence was eerie, the thunderous bass replaced by the booming of Gavenia’s heartbeat in her chest.

“How you know my name, bitch?”

“I know a lot of things,” she said, pushing the bravado.

The kid snorted. “You don’t know dick.”

“I can talk to your cousin.”

“The fuck you can. No one can talk to him. He’s dead.”

“I know. Antwoine’s here, but you can’t see him,” she said, gesturing toward the young ghost.

“You lie.” Easy J flicked open a switchblade in a fluid motion, as if it were an extension of his hand. “I’m gonna cut your motherfu—”

“Antwoine says you shouldn’t jump up Deon.” The words pouring out of her mouth made little sense, but apparently they did to Easy J. He stared.

“How you know that?”

“Simple. Your cousin’s here, talking to me.”

“I’ll jump up Deon if I want to,” he said, puffing up. A couple of the other guys traded uneasy looks.

Gavenia gingerly liberated her car keys from a pocket and passed them behind her back to Bernie. She whispered, “Walk to the car nice and slow, like you’re wandering off. Press the button twice. It’ll unlock the doors.”

“But—”

“Just do it. I’ve got an edge right now and I’m not sure how long it’ll last.”

Bernie nodded, took a drink from his bottle, either for show or for courage, and shuffled down the street as though they’d amicably parted ways.

“Where’s he goin’?” Easy J asked, frowning.

Gavenia shrugged as if she didn’t care. “So what do you want to know from Antwoine?” she demanded in a loud voice. “I got things to do, and standing around talking to your sorry ass isn’t one of them.”

Behind her she heard the sound of Bernie trudging to the car, one shuffling footstep at a time. He was humming to himself, like a drunk would.

“We gonna do you,” Easy J said, moving forward, waving the switchblade back and forth like a conductor’s baton.

Antwoine, I need some help here
, Gavenia called.

The ghost moved in front of her, waving his hands in an apparent attempt to stop his cousin.

“He can’t see you,” she said, not realizing she spoke aloud. The other ghosts filed in front of her, facing the menace, forming a supernatural barrier.

“I wonder. . . .” Gavenia popped open the cane, drew the sword, and tucked the scabbard into the back of her jeans. Holding the sword upright, she let the pale streetlight illuminate it, as if she were a great warrior facing the ultimate battle. In some ways she was. It was a hell of a bluff—one that would either save her or make her death really messy.

The sword stopped her hunters in their tracks.

“Look at that, it’s like that
Star Wars
dude,” one said, and then elbowed the other.

Easy J wasn’t buying it.

Fake it
, Bart advised.

She gave him a sharp look as she rampaged through her brain for something awesome to say.

“I am a Shepherd. I walk with the Dead; I hear Them and Speak for Them.” She paused and then eyed the hunters. “Fear me.”

For a second she thought they’d bought it, and then loud guffaws of laughter erupted. Behind her she caught the telltale click of the remote control which meant Bernie was at the car. Fortunately, Easy J didn’t appear to hear it.

“This isn’t working,” she whispered. Bart wiped his brow with a shaking hand, his face pale even for a ghost.

“I don’t fear no dead people,” Easy J said, swaggering forward.

Gavenia dropped the sword to waist level. “You get much closer, you’ll be able to talk to Antwoine in person.” She looked over at the young ghost. “Now would be a good time to show these guys you’re here.”

A quick movement of the ghost’s hand sent his cousin’s cap flying.

“How’d you do that?” Easy J demanded.

“I didn’t. That was Antwoine.”

“You lie, bitch,” he said, moving forward, knife in hand.

The ghosts shifted, closing ranks in front of her.