Inspector Specter (15 page)

Suddenly, I saw what must have scared the living hell out of the people who crossed Harry Monroe in life. His eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped to a menacing rasp. “Are you saying I'm a rat?” he said.

Josh must have seen my reaction, because his own expression became considerably more concerned. “Are you okay? What's he saying?”

I answered Harry, not Josh. Because I didn't know if I was okay. “I'm saying that you're not giving me a reason to think anything else.”

“A reason,” Harry said darkly. “Who are you that I should give you a reason?”

“One of the few living people left on the planet who can see and hear you,” I answered, my voice considerably bolder than my digestive tract at the moment. “So if you want me to communicate your message, I need to know what that message is. How did you know Martin Ferry?”

Harry's lip curled a little, but just a little. The cute-grandpa act he'd been putting on had vanished. This was the killer, now quite literally stone cold.

“He was a cop, and I was someone in a business that didn't care much for cops,” he said. “But we got along okay.”

My eyes closed briefly. I was pretty sure I didn't want to hear what was coming next. “What do you mean, you got along okay?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“I mean we got along okay,” the old mobster shot back. “Do I have to get in touch with some of my colleagues who are still alive?” His voice got deeper. “Or some who aren't but can get to where you live?”

Josh was not looking like his usual amiable self; he couldn't hear what Harry was saying, but he could see the effect it was having on my face and my posture. He stood closer to me and put an arm around my shoulder, which was damp from the spray and starting to feel cooler now that the sun was almost down. He looked in Harry's general direction.

“All this woman wants to do is help you, Mr. Monroe,” he said. “Tell her the truth, and she can help. She has helped ghosts get through this transition before. If you ever want to get out of the ocean, she is one of the few people who can offer you assistance. So you threaten her, and you lose any hope you have of getting past this stage of your existence.”

Harry ‘the Fish' Monroe stared at Josh for what seemed like an hour and a half but was probably three seconds. “This guy your husband?” he asked me.

“He's someone who cares,” I said. “Tell me about you and Martin Ferry.”

“Martin Ferry was a cop,” he answered. “Not all cops are Boy Scouts. Is that clear enough for you?”

It was clear enough.

“This is not good news,” Paul said.

Josh and I had filled him, Dad and Mom in on our visit with the dead Fish. Oliver was fast asleep in his portable crib by now, and Melissa was upstairs, ostensibly getting ready for bed but more likely communicating with her friends online. In any event, she knew better than to come downstairs and participate in this powwow. I'd get her up to speed the next morning.

Meanwhile, Stephanie and Rita had come back from dinner more than an hour earlier, reporting no new hat sightings. Rita still looked a little nervous.

Don and Tammy Coburn had retired to their room, which I think of as the bridal suite, our most spacious guest room on the first floor. They said they'd had a lovely day at the boardwalk, where Don had won Tammy a giant stuffed tiger by spending enough tokens on Skee-Ball to pay off a car loan, from the sound of it.

Nobody had seen Joe Guglielmelli or Bonnie Claeson for a few hours. If the Harbor Haven police didn't call, I could only assume that each was taking in the town in his or her own way. I don't require my guests to account for every moment of their time with me as long as they're getting what they want out of the visit.

Maxie was nowhere to be seen. She'd told my parents that she was out on another of her visits to her mom, so she could be anywhere. Literally. To his credit, Josh had reminded me to call Kitty in the car on the way home, but I'd been too busy texting Phyllis (oh yes, Phyllis texts) to see if she could explore the possibility that Harry had in fact drowned rather than having a heart attack in his car.

Phyllis's first reply text, “You think he drowned in his car?” had required more of a response than I'd planned, so Kitty had gone uncalled. But it was on my mental agenda.

“I'm aware it's not good news,” I told Paul. “But what's really disturbing is that Harry Monroe seems to be saying Martin Ferry was a dirty cop.”

Paul, his finger in the power slot of a large-screen TV I'd bought for the new movie room (even larger than the monitor the TV crew had left in my den) but not yet installed, looked downtrodden. “I don't understand,” he muttered. “This television doesn't draw a large amount of energy. I should be able to power it.”

“Maybe you need more fiber in your diet,” I said, then waved a hand to get his attention. “Hey, remember? Martin Ferry? We're trying to help Lieutenant McElone? Harry the Fish is saying Ferry was on the take, and now even if we find McElone, I'm going to have to tell her that.”

Dad, hovering near my mother as usual, turned his eyes into slits, which I knew meant he was thinking. He got the same look on his face when trying to decide what grit sandpaper to use on a decorative wooden banister. “I don't think that's what Mr. Fish was saying at all,” he said. Dad was a terrific handyman and his clients loved him, but remembering names wasn't his best thing.

“Of course it is,” I said, turning my head.

Josh noted the move. “Is that Jack?” he asked, and I acknowledged I was talking to my father. Josh had known my dad in life—Dad used to visit Josh's grandfather Sy's paint store (now Josh's paint store), which is also where Josh and I first met as kids. He waved at Dad, who smiled broadly and raised a compound knife I'd left on the floor by way of greeting. “Good to . . . well, I can't
see
you, but you know what I mean,” Josh said in the knife's direction.

“He's a keeper, Alison,” my father repeated. Mom, if she could have nudged him in good-natured embarrassment, would have done so. With all her years of interacting with ghosts, I was surprised Mom hadn't developed the ability to touch them.

I had to get the room back on topic. “What do you mean, Dad? You don't think Harry was saying Detective Ferry was on the take?” I asked.

“What you told me is that this Fish guy said some cops are not Boy Scouts. I think that's what he wants you to think,” Dad explained.

That was a stretch at best. “We're going to exonerate Ferry based on a mobster's syntax?” I asked. “I don't want Ferry to have been a dirty cop, either, but like Paul always says, we can't make the facts fit what we want them to fit. They lead us where they go. Right, Paul?”

Paul, looking concerned, actually had his tongue stuck out, into the power port of the TV. “What?” he tried to say. It came out, “Blurrth?”

“Will you quit trying to be a backup generator and concentrate on the case?” I scolded him. I didn't have time to dwell on the irony that
I
was the one demanding that
Paul
pay attention to an investigation. It probably would have made my head hurt. “First of all, I don't know how to find McElone, and secondly, even if I do, I don't know what to tell her.”

Looking properly chastised, Paul floated over from the television. “The problem at hand is twofold,” he said. “The most important matter in the short term is to locate the lieutenant and determine that she is all right. No member of the team can ever be left behind.” He likes to say stuff like that, as if we were a real team and McElone was a member of it.

“So what can be done?” It was only the fifty-third time I was asking, but somehow it felt old already. (New Jersey's national language: Sarcasm.)

“We all should concentrate on our strengths. I will try to raise Detective Ferry again, since he was unwilling to speak to you on the subject of Monroe when you were there the last time. I'll also make a discreet check . . .” He seemed to catch himself midsentence, about to say something he shouldn't.

“A discreet check on what?” Mom asked.

“On Lieutenant McElone,” I told her. “Paul wants to make sure she isn't on his side of the line now.”

“You think . . . ?” Josh narrowed his eyes and seemed to be running his tongue over his front teeth. That's Josh being concerned. Then he shook his head to banish the thought.

Mom looked shaken. “Oh.”

“All possibilities need to be explored,” Paul said.

“What about me?” I asked.

“I think it might be time to start asking questions of the Seaside Heights police,” Paul said. “And I think we have to assume that Lieutenant McElone's husband will be calling you in the morning. Meet with Malcolm Kidder as soon as you can and see if you can find out where the lieutenant was going. Be respectful, but we also need to know if there were personal problems between them. Circumstances don't always mean that the most obvious scenario is correct.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Josh asked when he'd been told Paul's instructions for everyone else.

“Keep an eye on Alison,” Paul said. “We don't know who we're dealing with yet, but there are certainly unsavory types involved here.”

I turned to Josh. “He says there isn't much else that can be done, but he'll let you know if something appropriate comes to mind,” I said. And off Mom's look, which was a little incredulous at my duplicity, I added, “You have a store to run. Run it.”

“That's not what I said,” Paul said. I gave him a look that indicated I was aware of that fact, and he stopped his protest right there. Josh's eyes flickered for a second, but he knew better than to go behind my back right in front of my face. He did not ask Mom for confirmation.

“I don't want you to do anything dangerous,” he said.

“I won't,” I promised, and meant both words. Then I kissed him, right there in front of both my parents and my ghost housemate.

“Okay, then,” Josh said. He said his good-byes to my folks and Paul, then left.

Paul decided to get back to business. “All right. You have your assignments, and I have mine. If only Maxie were here, I could tell her what it is we need researched.”

“And she could complain about the old laptop for the millionth time,” I said absently. “Wait. Maxie.” I reached into my pocket. “I'm not going to forget this time.”

“Forget what?” Dad asked.

“She needs to call Maxie's mother,” Mom informed him.

This time, I did indeed dial Kitty Malone and got her on the third ring. If Maxie was there, she'd be pissed that I was checking up on her, but I was long past caring.

“Kitty,” I said as soon as the apologies for calling at night were made, “I've been concerned about you, and I just wanted to check in and make sure you were okay.”

There was a long pause at the other end, then Kitty asked me, “Why would you be concerned about me, Alison? I'm fine.”

Well, that was a relief, anyway. “It's just that Maxie's been spending so much time over there lately,” I explained. “I know she loves to see you, but usually you come here. And she gets so upset whenever I ask about her trips there, so I was naturally a little . . . curious. I wanted to be sure you're all right.”

“What do you mean, she's been spending so much time here lately?” Kitty asked, confusion in her voice. “I was going to call you to ask what the problem was, but, well, something keeps coming up when I reach for the phone.”

“Problem?” I asked. “What problem?”

“I assumed there was a problem there,” she answered. “I haven't seen Maxie in weeks.”

I did not need another mystery to solve, and yet Kitty—or, more accurately, Maxie—was providing me with one.

I assured Kitty that I had no idea what was going on with her daughter. When we compared notes, Kitty said that as far as she knew, Maxie had last been by her house almost a month earlier—and that she'd told her mother (via written communication) that she wouldn't be coming by for a while, and that Kitty shouldn't come by the guesthouse either until Maxie told her it was all right to do so. When Kitty had questioned Maxie on the subject, Maxie had written “JUST DON'T COME OVER!!!” on a legal pad, so Kitty had dropped it, and she hadn't heard from her since.

“I'm sorry I didn't get in touch sooner,” Kitty said. “I'm glad you called. I kept telling myself I really should call, but the fact is that I didn't want Maxie to get mad at me again, especially since I didn't know why she got so upset to begin with.”

I'd started off informing Paul, Mom and Dad about everything Kitty was telling me, but as the conversation went on, I simply put the phone on speaker so we could have the discussion in real time. “I know what you mean,” I said. “Maxie's been getting so bent out of shape whenever I asked a question, I didn't want to call you because I thought she would fly off the handle again.”

Paul, who looked absolutely stumped by this turn of events, suggested I ask Kitty if Maxie had mentioned feeling any changes the last time they'd been together, a sense that perhaps she was moving on to some other plane of existence. I didn't want to ask—I knew that after their relatively recent reunion, Kitty would be very upset if she could never talk to her daughter again—but in this case, Paul's obsession with the next phase was relevant.

Kitty was silent for a long time. “She didn't say anything, but maybe she doesn't know how to tell me.”

I wasn't so sure. “I could believe that she wouldn't want to upset you,” I said, “but she'd take great glee in telling me that she would be moving out. She likes nothing better than getting my goat.”

“Paul or Maxie moving on is not about you, Alison,” my father said quietly. “It's involuntary.” That seemed to shake him; he looked away.

I didn't know how to answer him. Instead, I asked Kitty what she suggested we do.

“Well, there is the direct approach, but I'm not sure that's the way to go with this,” she answered. “She'll just hit the ceiling.”

“Or go right through it,” Mom said.

Kitty chuckled. “I really do wish I could see that.”

“So what's the alternative?” I asked.

“Simple,” came the answer, from Paul. I turned to look at him. He raised his eyebrows. “All you have to do is wait until the next time she says she's going to Kitty's house, and follow her.”

“Do surveillance on Maxie?” I gasped.

Kitty, who had heard the suggestion for the first time, snorted a little. “That would be a trick.”

I looked at Paul again. “Maxie can fly,” I reminded him.

“I'm aware,” he admitted. “You can't.” No kidding, Captain Obvious.

“But I can,” said my father.

*   *   *

“I haven't been sleeping much,” Malcolm Kidder said to me the next morning. He was not the kind of man I'd have pictured as Lieutenant McElone's husband. Slim, almost slight, he had a goofy grin and a boyish manner that I would have bet money would draw an eye roll from the lieutenant as I knew her. Clearly, there were many sides of McElone I had not gotten to see before. Malcolm was one of them.

We were sitting on a bench outside the Stud Muffin, Harbor Haven's artisanal bakery and café. Oliver was entertaining himself climbing up the bench and back down again, just to see if he could. He could. It was only eight in the morning, so not yet stifling. Malcolm had suggested sitting outside while we could, to enjoy the early respite from humidity, and because the Stud Muffin was bustling (when better to enjoy a muffin or scone?) and a little noisy, with its high ceilings and bare walls.

Iced coffee seemed like a good idea. Mom, Dad, Paul and I had been up fairly late debating the merits of Dad's following Maxie around. It wasn't that we were worried about his safety—there wasn't much that could hurt Dad at this point—but it would be a really bad thing if Maxie were to realize she was being followed, mostly because Maxie is not a pleasant being when she's even a little bit irritated.

Maxie herself had wandered in about midnight in a strangely detached mood. When Paul had tried to engage her with new instructions on Internet research in the Martin Ferry murder, she had nodded a lot, but it was clear she wasn't listening. Paul had me write down the instructions and give them to Maxie, who grumbled about being treated like a secretary, not that we were doing that anyway.

Paul mostly wanted her working on decoding McElone's password to read the file on Harry Monroe, and after a while of staring blankly at everyone, Maxie said she would go out on the roof, where the Wi-Fi would still work but where she wouldn't disturb Melissa, and get cracking. I'm not sure anyone believed her.

Then we'd broken up the board meeting. Mom and Dad had headed home (leaving instructions for Paul to let Dad know if Maxie was about to “visit Kitty”); Paul had gone into the basement, where he does most of his Ghosternet communication; and I had straightened up the library, the den and the front room, keeping the baby monitor with me at all times, with not a peep from Oliver. It was too late to start in on more renovations in the movie room, so I'd once again promised myself to get an early start.

Then Malcolm had called at seven, saying he was sorry for the early hour but he couldn't wait any longer, and I'd packed Ollie up in his car seat and headed to the Stud Muffin. Having rousted Melissa out of bed, I asked her to greet the guests when they got up, and she grumbled a bit but agreed after I'd put out the coffee urn and the ice bucket. She probably made herself the first iced coffee of the day as soon as I was out the door.

“It must be nerve-racking,” I said to Malcolm. Oliver steadied himself on the bench and took some chances, letting go with his hands to see if he could stand. Check. Walking was no doubt on its way. “When is the most recent time you heard from the lieutenant?”

Malcolm smiled. “I appreciate your avoiding the word ‘last' in that sentence,” he said. “Anita called me two nights ago and said she was on to something but she couldn't say what just yet. She was driving to Belmar, and she'd probably not be back until the morning. I haven't heard from her since.”

“Okay, Belmar.” I stole a glance at the voice recorder I had on the bench next to Malcolm. “I hope you don't mind this; I like to use it to remember everything I need.” The truth was that I used the recorder so that I could play my interviews for Paul when I got back to the guesthouse, so he could tell me what everything I heard actually meant.

“Not a problem,” Malcolm answered.

“How have your children been holding up?”

He looked a little embarrassed. “They're fine. I, um, I told them that she was away at a convention in Atlantic City,” he said. “I'm hoping this is over before they figure it out.”

“Did she mention what she thought might be going on in Belmar?” One of the hardest-hit areas by Hurricane Sandy, Belmar was still recovering. There were homes in splinters that still had to be carted away, others that were being jacked up a few feet to better protect against any future disasters and some businesses that had simply never reopened.

Malcolm shook his head as Oliver reached out his hands to me and said, “Uh.” I picked him up and sat him on my lap.

“All I knew was that she was trying to find out who killed Marty. She insisted it wasn't an accident like the Seaside Heights cops claimed, and she thought she could find out more after the two of you went to Marty's place. But where it led, I have no idea. Anita tends to tell me things after they happen. I don't know how much she ever tells the kids.” He looked over at Oliver and chucked him under the chin. “Aren't you something?”

Oliver, believing that he was indeed something, laughed.

“Malcolm,” I said, as gently as I could manage, “I think it's time to call the lieutenant's colleagues at the police department and let them know what's going on.”

He nodded. “I already have. I spoke to the captain, and he assured me they'll do everything they can. But I don't want that to stop us from looking, okay?”

“Sure,” I agreed, admitting to myself that I was thrilled not to be the only living soul searching for McElone. I was going to be, as Paul had put it, “retracing the lieutenant's footsteps,” which sounded like a bad idea to me. If she'd gotten herself missing doing this stuff, why should I expect something good to come of doing the same things? Wasn't there something about repeating an action and expecting a different outcome being the definition of insanity? Hadn't Einstein said that? Or John Lennon?

“Where had the lieutenant started? Had she talked to anyone?”

“You don't have to keep calling her ‘lieutenant,'” Malcolm reminded me. “I meant it when I said you can call her Anita.”

“That just doesn't feel right to me,” I said. I gave Oliver a small toy duck I'd been carrying in my pocket. He looked at it, tried to stretch it and then threw it on the grass in front of us. I took this as a signal and put him on the grass as well. He sat up, grabbed the duck and threw it at me.

“That's not the way Anita tells it,” her husband said, watching Ollie loll around on the grass, considering whether there was anything with which he could pull himself up. If he was standing, he wanted to sit. He saw a dog about twenty feet away, a beagle whose owner was naturally not using a leash, because why would you do that? He (Oliver, not the beagle) tried to muscle his way to his feet. He seemed to have it in his head that he could just walk over to the dog. The fact that he had never walked before didn't really appear to deter him at all.

“She seems to think the two of you make a very good team. She speaks of you with respect and affection.”

I must have given him an incredulous look. “Lieutenant McElone?” I said, gesturing with my hand. “About yay high? Grumpy demeanor? General air of exasperation?”

He laughed. “That's the one.”

“Well then, maybe I'm not who I think I am.” It was a possibility, and it would actually explain quite a bit.

“Anita trusted you with this case,” he reminded me. “That should indicate a certain level of respect and affection. Maybe she just doesn't like to show it to you. She can be kind of embarrassed by such things.”

I thought of McElone and the way she always fidgeted when I pointed out that she was afraid of my house. “But tell me what I can do to help find her.”

“Well, any information you have on what she was doing in the investigation would help. It might point me in a direction.”

Oliver rocked back and forth on the cushy disposable diaper under his blue shorts, trying to build up momentum that would take him to a standing position. This whole crawling thing had been fine for a while, but he was so over it now.

“I know what you know,” I told Malcolm. “Martin Ferry was shot a few days ago. The police in his department believe it was an accident. The lieutenant didn't. She wanted me to . . . consult with some sources on possible information about the shooting, but so far we haven't come up with much to tell her. I knew she was going to conduct her own investigation, but she never told me how she was going to go about doing that. So I'm at a loss. You haven't heard from her in almost two whole days.”

“But the cops, even the ones who work with her, will say we have an adult woman who has taken off and jump to the conclusion that she left because of trouble in our marriage,” he said. “That's what they always assume in cases like this, because most of the time it's true.”

“
Was
there trouble in your marriage?” Well, Paul had suggested I explore that possibility, and Malcolm had left the door wide open for me.

He looked at me with some intensity for a moment. “
No
,” he said. “We're fine. That's why I'm worried sick about this. She never doesn't get in touch. She never doesn't come home at night. She never doesn't talk to her children before they go to sleep. My mind is not going in good directions right now.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I had to ask.”

Malcolm nodded. “I know you did. Anita says you have to ask the questions even if you know the person you're talking to won't like hearing them. Maybe especially then. But we have no trouble in our marriage, certainly nothing that would make her slip away and not tell me where she was going. No, this is about Marty and what happened to him.”

Oliver, meanwhile, had rolled himself onto his back like he was going to spring to his feet from a prone position the way Popeye the Sailor Man used to do. Alas, Ollie had not had his spinach that day (although I was sure Jeannie had sent some for him, assuming correctly that I would have none in the fridge), so he was not able to get himself vertical. He started to fuss. I stood up to let him see me, and that provided enough entertainment to quiet him down for a moment.