Inspector Specter (12 page)

“There has to be something wrong,” she said finally. “Lieutenant McElone really believes Detective Ferry was a good officer. She's never wrong about things like that.” Liss was right. In fact, it was rare that McElone was wrong about anything. She's very prepared and professional, and doesn't speak when she doesn't know what she's talking about.

Don't tell her I said that.

Josh walked back in, and I kissed him in thanks for putting Oliver to bed. He didn't ask what was going on. He knew I'd tell him when I could.

Paul, pacing furiously in thin air now, looked over at Melissa. “The lieutenant might not be thinking rationally about the case,” he told her. “She is seeing her friend, not the man who might have done some things wrong.” Paul is good at talking to Liss; that is, he doesn't treat her like an idiot just because she hasn't had the good sense to live past the age of majority yet.

But Liss shook her head. “I don't know. It doesn't really add up.”

I checked my phone again; no message from McElone. She must have been on to something fairly serious. I'd try her again tomorrow. There was, however, a missed call from Jeannie. Her, I'd have to get back to and let her know Oliver was okay, or she might dive off the ship and swim back to Port Elizabeth, New Jersey, in a panic.

Nobody spoke for a while; we were all lost in our thoughts and unable (based on the silence) to come up with much that was useful. I got Josh up to speed on the situation with some help from Melissa. Paul was listening closely, which he does to help him get perspective. He says hearing the facts from someone else's mouth makes him consider them from all sides.

“Well,” Josh said. “It seems like you really need to see Detective Ferry tomorrow. Are you sure you don't want me to come along?”

“No. You need to keep your business going. Don't worry, there's no danger involved.”

“I'll go,” Liss said.

“The heck you will.”

“I would if I could,” Paul told me. “We should talk to Maxie again.”

“Maxie's not interested,” I said. “She made that clear. Everybody needs to stop trying to protect me from something that isn't dangerous. I'll go alone.”

“Have I met Detective Ferry before?” my mother asked.

Don't ask how Mom got involved in the trip to Ferry's apartment. Let's just say she's my mom, she's a force of nature and there isn't much one can do when she decides she's going to take part in something.

We'd come by way of the Fuel Pit, where I'd gassed up my centuries-old Volvo station wagon (actually Marv Winderbrook, who owns the station, gassed up the Volvo—Jersey girls don't pump gas, by law) and looked around for Everett Sandheim, eventually finding him hovering just beyond the gas pumps.

“I've been able to go on maneuvers beyond my home base,” he replied to the simple “How are things going?” I'd offered. “I am still adapting, but I'm more efficient than when you saw me last, Ghost Lady.” I've given Everett permission to call me that, since that's how he remembers me from when he was alive.

“I'm so glad to hear it,” I told him. “I was concerned about you for a while.” It was true: Everett's initial reaction to the news he was a ghost (which I'd been present to witness) was very sad and fairly awful, so I'd made it a habit to check in on him to see the slow but steady progress he'd been making. “But I'm here to ask a favor.”

Everett, already in a standing position, straightened as if called to attention. “How can I help?” he asked.

“That's a nice man,” Mom noted in approval at Everett's reply.

“Sooner or later, everybody in town comes through this gas station,” I said. “I'd like you to keep your eyes out for someone named Buster Hockney. I don't know what this guy looks like or who he'd be with, but it'll help if you can give me a description and any information you can pick up. Can you do that?” I didn't really think much would come of this, but Maxie, who had been helping Everett navigate his way out of the men's room, had told me a few weeks earlier that Everett did best when “given a mission.” So I was giving him one.

He stopped short of saluting, but nodded vehemently. “I'll keep my eyes peeled, Ghost Lady. You can rely on me.”

Why more men can't be like that, I'll never understand.

Now, Mom and I were walking from my car to the front door of Ferry's apartment building, and even in this heat, Mom was primping her hair and smoothing out the shift dress she was wearing to look nice. I was going to kid her that Ferry wasn't her type, given that he was dead, but then I remembered that Dad was, too, and that didn't seem to be slowing the two of them down any.

Dad had begged off the trip, saying he'd go hang with his painting buddies at Josh's store for the day. Which is what he'd occasionally do when he was alive, too. Sometimes Dad needs a little time off. Maxie had not been visible after the morning spook show, when I'd left to pick up Mom, no doubt off to see Kitty again. And I'd left Oliver at Wendy's house with Melissa because Wendy's mom, Barbara, said she was trying to talk her husband out of the idea of having another baby and thought Oliver could help.

“I think you might've met Ferry when we were asking about Big Bob,” I reminded her. Mom thought for a second and then gave a nod. Ferry had visited the guesthouse late in the game on that case, and I think he and Mom ran into each other, but it's not like they struck up a close and important friendship.

This morning had gone like most mornings this week at the guesthouse: Don and Tammy Coburn had taken off early for another sightseeing trip (I could only hope the air-conditioning in their car was efficient); Joe Guglielmelli had been thrilled by the morning spook show, during which Maxie had covered her hand in chocolate syrup and flown through the den, pretending to try to grab him once or twice; Stephanie had stayed for the show and seemed to enjoy the hand thing, but Rita, no doubt still a little shaken by her encounter with a flying hat, had opted to get some breakfast in town instead.

As usual, Bonnie Claeson had slept in. Thank goodness for Bonnie Claeson.

“I should have worn something else,” Mom said as we started up the stairs to the second floor (it was a three-story building with no elevator). Mom was walking slowly because of her knee but wasn't letting on that it was hurting. In turn, I was not letting on that I could tell, and I slowed down my pace a bit.

“You look fine,” I said. “We're not here to flirt.”

Mom took on a droll expression. “I'm not flirting, Alison,” she said.

It had occurred to me that without a key, I had no way of getting into Martin Ferry's home. So before leaving the guesthouse, and after Maxie had agreed to do a little bit of online research before heading out on another mysterious visit to Kitty, I had called the number for the building's owner, who I figured would have probably listed the apartment as for rent by now.

Sure enough, there had been a “vacancy” sign outside the building when we'd arrived, and the real estate agent had agreed to meet us inside the apartment.

“Remember,” I told Mom, “it's going to be your job to distract the real estate agent with questions about the apartment so I can talk to the detective about his . . . situation, okay?”

“Right, chief,” Mom said. “This is a brilliant plan.” She tends to see everything I do as brilliant, when I've actually only been brilliant perhaps three times in my life. Okay, twice that I can think of.

The agent, a downtrodden sort of woman named Alice, opened the door for us, smiling one of the least encouraging smiles I have ever seen. She looked like the truck bringing her lottery winnings had just run over her dog.

“I'm afraid the place isn't entirely cleaned and prepped,” she said before we could even suggest that we had any interest in the apartment. “I'm required by law to tell you that someone passed away here recently, and that's why the apartment is now available.”

“Oh, dear,” Mom said, playing the less confident potential renter (unconvincingly, in my opinion). Our cover story was that Mom was thinking of taking the apartment to be closer to me and her grandchild, although we did not mention the fact that where Mom lived now was probably closer to our house in Harbor Haven than this apartment was. “I hope the poor person wasn't ill for very long.”

“I don't know the exact details,” Alice answered, “but there's no reason to think the apartment is at all unsafe for you. Before anyone else moves in, it will be cleaned and painted from top to bottom.”

“Well . . .” Mom pretended to hesitate while I noticed Ferry sticking his head through his home-office door. I moved toward his location.

“Those are the bedrooms,” Alice told me when she saw my direction. “We'll take a look at those in a minute, okay?”

“Um . . .”

Mom pointed at a cabinet over the refrigerator. “Can you fit something in there, or is it just for show?” she asked.

Alice turned her attention back to Mom, and I hustled into the spare bedroom, where Ferry was hovering, standing straight up, near the window. The light from outside shone through his midsection and made him more transparent than he would have otherwise been, so he looked eerily like a head and shoulders floating over calves and feet.

“Where's Anita?” he asked as I walked in.

“Nice to see you, too, Detective,” I said. “The lieutenant isn't here.”

“So who's the older lady you brought with you? Your mother?” He sneered.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” I said at the lowest volume I could muster and still be heard.

He stopped and his eyebrows arched. “Really?”

“Look, I don't have a lot of time. I pretended to be interested in renting this place because I didn't have a key to the front door, and the real estate agent is going to be walking in here any minute.”

“There's a key hidden in a notch in the molding around the door, left side, about eye level,” Ferry told me. “Even the super doesn't know it's there.”

“Yeah, thanks for helping out, but it's a little late,” I told him. “I need to ask you about Harry ‘the Fish' Monroe.”

It's not often that ghosts are absolutely still, but Ferry did not move at all on hearing that name. His face twisted, though, into the visual equivalent of a growl. “What about him?”

“He's dead.” On Paul's instructions, I wanted to see if there was a reaction.

There was. Ferry's lower lip flattened out in an expression of indifference. “So am I. So what?”

“Exactly,” I said.

“Exactly what?” he replied.

“It's an awfully big coincidence, don't you think?”

Ferry's brow wrinkled. “Wait. You think there's a connection between Monroe dying and what happened to me?”

Outside the bedroom, I heard Mom's voice getting closer, perhaps speaking a little too loudly so I'd be sure to hear through the closed door. “What does the bathroom look like?” she asked.

I wasn't worried about Alice finding me in Ferry's home office, which still had the desk and the daybed inside. She'd see only me, standing in an otherwise empty (of people) room. But I did need to talk to Ferry, and I couldn't do that with Alice watching; she might think it was just a bit unusual, especially when I got answers to my questions.

Ferry, of course, didn't care whether Alice saw or heard me and wasn't paying attention to her. He looked at me and asked, “Why is it so fascinating that Monroe and I died the same day?”

“Come on, Detective. If you were working the case and the mobster was killed the same day as the cop who was investigating him, wouldn't
you
wonder what was going on?”

Ferry shrugged and looked away. “Sometimes it really is a coincidence,” he said in a tone so unconvincing I don't think Oliver would have bought it.

Was he still playing it coy? Was his reputation still an important issue at this late date? I decided to go right at it. “Weren't you on Monroe's payroll?” I hissed.

Martin Ferry looked the way I can only imagine he looked when his police-issued gun went off at him—astonished and angry. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Well, there was the thirty grand in his bank account. “Among other things—”

The door to the room flew open (or at least it seemed to fly open). I caught my breath and looked away from Ferry and toward Alice, who drearily led Mom into the room.

“This is the second bedroom,” she droned. “It doesn't have to have the desk or anything in it. Obviously, we expect you to bring your own furniture. See, there's a closet.” I had to wonder if this woman had ever closed a real estate deal in her life. She would've been so much better suited to a job at a mortuary; it's a very quiet job with very little interpersonal interaction. For most people.

“It's lovely,” Mom said, although it really wasn't. There were cracks in the far wall, and the floor hadn't been sanded and refinished since Martin Van Buren was president. “But I'd really like to see the kitchen again.”

Alice shook her head in wonder. “You seem really concerned about that kitchen,” she said. But she gestured Mom toward the door. “I swear, everything in there works.” They walked out, and I turned to face Ferry to confront him about his hefty savings deposit.

But he was no longer in the room.