The Hysteria: Book 4, The Eddie McCloskey Paranormal Mystery Series (The Unearthed) (3 page)

Turner said, “And not acting herself.”

“That’s why you think she was possessed?”

“She
was
possessed, Eddie. Or she suddenly developed a second distinct personality.”

False choice, but I didn’t call him on it. The client is always right. Until you can show them they’re indisputably wrong.

“Tell me about her. Strongbow said she’s very career-oriented.”

“Very. She works for the government in some capacity.”

That was vaguer than tea leaves. “That’s all you know?”

“Yes.”

He obviously had his own theories. This was a test of sorts. He wanted to see how my mind worked.

I didn’t like tests. But I also didn’t like not doing a good job.

“She has some kind of security clearance then, otherwise she would have been able to share her work with you.”

“My thoughts too.”

“Has to be federal.”

He nodded.

“DC?”

“She has an apartment there but she’s away for long stretches. She’s probably spent as much time here in the last few years as she has there.”

“She came back here recently?”

He sipped his G and T. “About a month ago. She said she’d taken a sabbatical. Obviously I have the room for her.”

I laughed. “Mind if I move in too? You’d never see me, I swear.”

He smiled but made no offers. Damn.

“How does it usually work? When she goes back to DC or goes away for a stretch?” I asked.

“She always tells me. There are no details, but she always tells me.”

“And this time?”

“This time, nothing. I went to bed one evening and the next morning she was gone. All her things are still in her room.”

“Car?”

“Her car is still here.”

“She say anything the night before she left?”

“No.” He folded his arms. “She usually sends me a code through email when she’s going to be away. She didn’t this time.”

“What’s the code?”

“A blank email with nothing in the subject line.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“What was her degree in?”

The change in gears tripped him up. “…Psychology.”

“She speak any foreign languages?”

I could see him thinking really hard about it. “She took French in high school.”

Not exactly a resume that would attract the eyes of Homeland, the CIA, or any of the other intel agencies. Not that I was plugged into their recruiting practices, but still. So who the hell did she work for?

“Okay. Let’s back up.” I pointed at the well-stocked bar. “You mind if I get a water?”

“Where are my manners?” He made a big deal out of pouring it himself for me.

“Thanks. So she came back about a month ago. When did the fainting spells start?”

“About two weeks ago.”

“What did the doctor say?”

“Syncope.”

One of my favorite diagnoses because it doesn’t tell you much of anything. “Transient loss of consciousness accompanied by a change in postural status.”

“Or as I like to call it, fainting.”

I smiled. “Did he say why it was happening?”

“Megan has low blood pressure. If she gets up or changes position too quickly, not enough blood—and therefore, oxygen—gets all the way up to her brain.”

I considered my anecdote about the giraffe being the animal with the highest blood pressure but thought better of it. I knew a lot of useless bullshit like that. It happens when you read too much. If only I could use my powers for good…

“How often was she fainting?”

“Once every few days. It was frightening. One time she was just standing in the kitchen and she went down without any warning.” He brought one hand down on top of the other. “Lights out.”

“You said she was acting differently too.”

“Not differently, Eddie. She was a whole other person.”

“How so?”

He considered his words before speaking. “Megan is a wonderful woman. A strong, beautiful, goal-oriented woman. Only twenty-six but wise beyond her years. Very warm, very caring, but also very focused. She could set her mind to a problem and block out all the noise and take as long as she needed to solve it. And she usually doesn’t need much time. She is the type of person who would have succeeded at anything. She’s just good at whatever she tries, and she’s good with people.”

I waited for it.

“But, when she had these episodes, she became…” Now he was really considering his words. “…remote. Withdrawn. She stayed in her room. When she interacted with us, she was flat. Hollow-like. Almost suspicious.”

“Suspicious?”

“It’s difficult to describe. She became very guarded. She rarely spoke. It was like she was pretending to be aloof but there were moments when she was really watching us, listening to what we had to say.”

“How many times did you see these changes in the last month she was here?”

He bobbed his head side-to-side. “Seven, eight times.”

People with mental disease were often drawn to the study of psychology. Probably explained why I was. But with my limited, amateurish knowledge I couldn’t pin a diagnosis on Megan. Dissociative identity disorder was rare and hotly-contested in the psychiatric community. My knee-jerk diagnosis was bipolar disease. But that didn’t work either. Turner had described her as focused. Not exactly an adjective fitting manic behavior. Depressed people were often distant, their affects suggesting hopelessness or apathy. So maybe Megan was depressed. But then she rebounded too quickly from it, seven or eight times in the last month, to a non-manic state. Also, the suspicion suggested paranoia or schizophrenia.

Either way, I decided to keep my amateur psychology to myself. Because I was probably way off.

“Tell me about her ex-husband.”

Turner finished his drink. I could see him thinking about another. “He’s a good man.”

I was taken aback.

Turner continued. “A really good man. They just weren’t compatible.”

“He’s still around?”

“Yes. He works in the finance department of one of the big insurers.”

Turner practically glowed when he spoke of his ex-son-in-law. Odd talk from a father about the man who’d divorced his daughter.

“I’ll need his information.”

“Strongbow might have it.”

So he was more than a driver. “Tell me about the guys that came around.”

“How do you know there were?”

Time for a bit of flattery. “I saw the family portraits in the hallway. Your daughters are all beautiful women.”

One corner of his mouth smiled. That was all.

“Megan has maintained several of her friendships from high school. Several of her visitors fall into that category. There was also a new man, whom I’d never met before.”

“I’ll need all the info, but who was this new guy?”

“His name was Anthony Bostwick. Early thirties, not a hair out of place, always well-dressed.”

“Who was he?”

“He worked for a software firm in the city. They’d met on one of those professionals-only dating sites, according to her.”

“But?”

He grimaced like he was about to say something distasteful. “Megan has never lied to me in her life. Not even in high school when you’d have expected her to. When I caught her behaving inappropriately, she always owned up to it and took her punishment. We’ve never kept anything from each other, with the exception of her work. But, there was something about that man.”

“What?”

“I couldn’t put my finger on it. He didn’t act like any software designers I’d ever met. I don’t know. I have a lot of connections locally and statewide. I put the feelers out and not much came back on him. Just his name and business.”

“How long were they dating?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if it started before she came back or if they met a month ago when she got back. But I saw him, five or six times.”

I thought it all over. I had three pages of shorthand. I’d make sense of them later.

“Mr. Turner, I’m still confused that you asked me to find Megan. This isn’t what I do.”

“Are you refusing?”

The way he said it made it sound like he’d never been refused anything in his life.

“Not yet. I’m just trying to understand the thought process here.”

“If it’s money, I can—”

I held up a palm. “This isn’t about money. This is about me making sure I can be of service. You see, in the last few years, I grew this thing called a conscience.”

He put his drink down and wiped his palms on the bar towel. “Come with me.”

***

We passed the chair he’d deposited Melanie in. It was empty. But I could still smell her perfume.

He led me down the hallway Strongbow had taken. We took stairs up to a second story. We rounded a corner and there were a row of bedrooms. Megan’s was the last. He opened the door.

“After you.”

I didn’t know what I was going to find in there but I hoped it wasn’t sex toys.
Awkward
.

Megan had a four-poster bed that looked like it had never been slept in. Heavy drapes over the windows. Her own bathroom. A dresser, a bureau, a walk-in closet. Nothing jumped out at me as weird.

Then I took note of her bookshelves.

Not only was she a big reader like me, she shared my eclectic interests. Various tomes on the paranormal, including the classics and some new ones I’d heard of but hadn’t gotten to yet.

Then I saw it.

A copy of
The Unearthed
, non-fiction book co-starring Yours Truly. I picked it up.

“She kept tabs on you,” Turner said.

“Me?”

He nodded. “It’s why I called you.”

I said nothing and went back to looking at her collection. Many texts on psychology and paranormal psychology. The DSM-IV got its own shelf. Some medical texts too, like Gray’s Anatomy and Rosen’s Emergency Medicine. There were two books on remote viewing too.

Turner’s voice almost made me jump. “She was very interested in your field, Eddie. And she always maintained that this house was haunted.”

Ghosts didn’t kidnap people, though. Nothing in it for them. “What else did she say, about the haunting?”

Turner stepped into the room. He went to her bed and carefully touched one of the posters like it was an exhibit in a museum.

“That it was a benevolent spirit. She referred to it as…residing?”

“Residual.”

“That’s it. Though she later started to believe it was intelligent.”

“You think there’s a connection between this ghost and her disappearance?” I didn’t. At least not yet. Look for the rational explanation first, and always, and last.

“I’m not sure. I don’t know what to think.”

And then he was crying.

I’d seen clients break down before but it never got any easier. I gave him a moment. He needed more than a moment. I went to her bookshelf and inspected her literature more closely. He blubbered for another minute. I felt bad.

“Excuse me,” he said.

I faced him. “You said she studied psychology in school?”

He nodded. “She was always a great student.”

“Just curious. What was her senior thesis on?”

He used a handkerchief to wipe away the tears and blow out the crying snots. “She loved abnormal psychology. Her thesis is a bit esoteric so you’ve probably never heard about it. About fifty years ago there was a laughing epidemic in Africa, the village girls couldn’t stop. They were in hysterics.”

I knew all about it. But rather than impress him with my wide and deep reading habits, I filed that tidbit away and added it to my picture of Megan.

His eyes got that faraway look. “She’s a great person. Very driven, very passionate about life and work and family. She could have been anything she wanted and she ended up being exactly what she wanted. She could have coasted through school and sat on her trust fund but instead she signed up for dangerous work. She…”

He started blubbering again and I was almost there myself.

“Morgan, I don’t know if I can help you. But I’ll try my damnedest.”

Chester Leonard was driving a new BMW convertible and was in the middle of moving into a new office building. A wall-length aquarium filled one side of the reception area. Movers carried brand new furniture in. The place was already overfurnished but respectable-looking.

Chester himself wasn’t. He was a big, heavyset man who didn’t carry the extra pounds well and had a tiny head and a weasely face. He was a low-talker of the worst kind. I had to ask him to repeat everything he fucking said.

“Yeah, I looked for Megan.”

He didn’t volunteer any more information.

Like Morgan Turner, Leonard’s online photo was embarrassingly out of date. On his website he looked about thirty-five. In person, closer to forty-five.

“Look, pal, I’m trying to help Morgan out and I don’t want to waste my time or Morgan’s money retreading already well-trodden ground.”

“You making a crack about my weight?”

“Jesus, no. So what’d you do? Who’d you talk to?”

He said nothing.

“Come on, one professional to another.”

He grunted, swiveled in his chair so he was forty-five degrees to me, steepled his sausage-like fingers. I could understand his reluctance. Nobody liked somebody else looking over their shoulder.

He started talking and I immediately cut him off and told him to speak into the mike.

He started again. “First, any more East Coast attitude out of you and you can take a hike.”

“Okay, fine.” I calmed down. Pissing this guy off wouldn’t get me closer to Megan. “Tell me what you know.”

He grunted. “One professional to another, my enormous ass. You
hunt ghosts
, apparently. I provide a real service. One professional to another.”

He was a big repeater, like he’d seen one too many David Mamet movies. “You didn’t provide much of a real service for Morgan, did you?”

Every once in awhile you come up with a good zinger. Most of the time, it happens after the conversation is already over. But sometimes, it comes to you at the perfect moment.

Leonard’s eyes bulged and his blubbery mass didn’t shoot so much as rise like a great whale coming out of the ocean. “For a man holding his hand out, you got a lip.”

“Cut the shit. I’m trying to find a woman. Now you can help me or you can be an asshole.”

He remained standing. “I spoke to her ex-husband. I spoke to her local friends. I tried IDing her employer but couldn’t get a beat on them. I spoke to her sisters. I checked out her usual haunts.”

“And, nothing?”

He shook his head.

“Not a single lead?”

He shook his head again.

“Nobody had any idea?”

“Do I have to shake my head again?”

I shook my head.

“Now you know what I know. So beat it. I have work.”

This guy and his cheap paperback talk were annoying me. But not as much as the fact that I didn’t believe a word he was saying.

Morgan Turner wouldn’t have hired some shlub. He’d have made use of his many local connections and gotten a referral on somebody quality. So this guy was quality. And yet, he’d produced exactly zero leads. I was staring at a paradox. Which meant this guy wasn’t quality, or he was lying to me.

Had to be the latter.

“Who chased you off Megan Turner?” I said.

He frowned convincingly. He was a good actor.

“Come on. Your secret is safe with me. One pro to another.”

He pointed at the door. The armpits of his shirt were sweaty.

“Nice new office here,” I said. “But I’ll bet you didn’t get it by being helpful.”

“I got it by outperforming asshat amateurs like you.”

***

I’m not a car guy, but I decided to enjoy my drive to the police station from Leonard’s office. Rather than have Strongbow cart my ass around, Morgan had offered me the use of one of his many expensive cars. I “settled” on the corvette. It wasn’t that comfortable inside but man was it smooth. And fast. I could almost see how some dudes got carried away with cars. Not me, though. I’d lost interest in motors when I was nine.

Drivers out here were unfailingly polite. No tailgating. Relative adherence to the speed limit. Signals used. Lanes not changed unless necessary.

They wouldn’t have lasted one minute on Girard Avenue in North Philly.

Mostly it was country driving. One lane roads. Strip malls separated by long stretches of forest.

The police station looked brand new and was big and modern-looking. The parking lot was half-full of a fleet of cruisers. I parked in Visitor Parking, feeling very important in my corvette. I went inside.

Where I witnessed administrative chaos.

The desk sergeant had a phone to his ear and a palm on his forehead. He didn’t see me come in and didn’t look up when the door shut. Behind him, a dozen uniformed cops were having a heated conversation. Past them, four suits were talking in an office.

Something, or a lot of somethings, was up.

“Help you?” The desk sergeant was now balancing the desk phone on his trapezius.

“Thanks, I was hoping to speak to the Chief.” Desk Guy made a face. “…Or somebody else in management.”

His frown became a scowl. “We’re a little busy, sir.”

“All the more reason I should talk to somebody.” I tried to lie convincingly.

He sighed. “Have a seat, sir. I’ll see if anyone has any time. What is the nature of your visit?”

“Wandering daughter job.”

I’d always wanted to say that.

***

Twenty-five minutes later, one of the suits came out of the office and locked eyes with me. I stood and he walked straight toward me like he was going to arrest me.

“Help you?”

He was tall, broad-shouldered, athletic-looking. He had a couple years on me but the age difference was negligible and only noticeable upon close inspection.

“Somewhere we can talk?”

He gestured with his head for me to follow him. He led me to an empty desk in the far corner of the open floor and sat on the corner of it.

“My name’s Eddie McCloskey. I’ve been hired to do a job and I just wanted to let somebody here know.”

“My name’s Quick.” He looked me up and down like I was part of some museum exhibit. “You private?”

“Sort of.” I looked around. “You guys seem busy.”

He said nothing. He wasn’t sure about me.

“Morgan Turner hired me to find his oldest daughter, Megan. She pulled a Houdini recently. Chester Leonard was on it but he didn’t find anything. Old man Turner called on me.”

“Why you telling me?”

So it was going to be like that.

“You’re the big fish. I wanted to let you know I was gonna play in your pond.”

“Courteous.” He warmed a fraction.

“And to see if you had anything on her. I could start from scratch but then I’d be wasting the client’s money.”

Quick nodded once. I was maybe okay with him. “When’d you get in town?”

“Today. Caught the red-eye from Philly.”

He chewed on that. “We looked into Megan. Not much to go on. And she’s federal. Frequently out-of-town last minute for work. There was no sign of foul play.”

I heard some yelling in the office behind me. Quick pretended not to hear it, just kept his eyes on me.

I said, “But her car’s still there.”

He shrugged. “The Federal government is well-funded. I think they can afford more than one vehicle.”

The office door behind me opened. I turned and watched two suits hurry out, while a Police Chief-looking dude watched them from his desk. His face was red, probably from all the screaming.

I faced Quick again. He watched me with something approaching amusement.

“You know her ex-husband?”

“I played ball against him in high school. Son of a bitch was good.”

“He’s still around?”

He nodded. Offered nothing more.

I considered asking him about Anthony Bostwick, but the information exchange was feeling too much like a one-way street.

I said, “Megan ever in trouble with the law?”

“I caught her jaywalking one time. But the DA didn’t think the case was strong enough.”

Why are all cops comedians?

“How about her sisters?”

Quick folded his arms. Way he was dressed and sitting on the corner of the desk, he looked like a school principal.

“Middle one is pretty tame. The younger one is wild.”

“How wild?”

He shrugged. “You’ll have to ask her friends.”

“Where can I find them?”

Really, it was exhausting having to ask the obvious questions sometimes.

“She’s in a sorority. She runs with that crew and also with some high school friends. Underage drinking, usual college stuff.”

“You don’t seem too concerned about it.”

“Some college kids want to goof around, it’s okay with me. Let the two-fives handle it.”

“Two-fives?”

“Campus security.”

I laughed. He didn’t. “What do you work?”

“Homicide.”

“Not too busy around here, are you?”

“I fill my day.”

“Care to elaborate?”

He didn’t.

We stared at each other. I settled on some spin.

“Something big’s going on around here, I can tell. I wouldn’t want to fuck anything up for you, asking around about Megan.”

He said nothing.

I hated having to establish my bona fides but sometimes you have to feed the monkey. “I’ve got a couple cop friends if that would ease your mind, Quick.”

He asked for their info. It was after five here, which meant it was after eight, eastern standard. I hoped he got someone.

Quick made me wait at the unmanned, empty desk for ten minutes while he made calls from his office.

He came back out, marginally friendlier. “Lieutenant Whitmore sends his regards.” He nodded at me. “So you’re an okay guy.”

“I’m okay. Can you let me in, just a little?”

“We’ve had some murders the last few weeks. Including one this morning.”

“Is that a lot for around here?”

He nodded. “Local guys with no known enemies and no known criminal connections.”

“Any ties to Megan Turner?”

“Not that I know of.”

I nodded. “Thanks. I’ll show myself out.”

“Where are you going first?”

He’d gotten off his desk and put his hands in his pockets. Genuine interest.

He’d given me a little so I figured it was time for more quid pro quo. “You ever hear of a fella named Anthony Bostwick?”

His eyes did something funny. “Yeah.”

“Know where I can find him?”

“In the morgue.”

Something in his voice told me that Anthony Bostwick, software engineer, didn’t work part-time for the medical examiner.

***

My first time in a morgue. Just one more thing to cross off the bucket list.

“Breathe through your mouth, shut off your nose. You’ll be fine,” Quick said.

He pushed through double-hinged doors and we entered a dim laboratory with a greenish, antiseptic glow. An Indian woman in scrubs labored over a high table, lab glasses in front of her eyes. She stopped what she was doing and took off the mask.

“Is it bring-a-family-member-to-work day?” she asked Quick, bobbing her head at me.

Quick chuckled. “This is my new best friend.”

“What’s his name?” She snapped off her gloves, tossed them in a can under the table. We were up close and personal now with the corpse. His skin was pale, almost translucent under the light. His eyes were closed, the skin under them looking hollow.

Quick turned to me. “What’s your name again?”

These two were a regular Martin and Lewis. “Magnum. Magnum, PI.”

“You got rid of your mustache.” The woman looked slight under her scrubs. She spoke with an English accent. “Where’s Higgins?”

“Robin Masters took him on safari in Africa.”

“This Bostwick?” Quick asked her. He’d had his fun and now he wanted me out of his police station as quickly as possible.

“The one and only.” She gave me a sly look. “You don’t look like a cop.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“He’s a dick. In more ways than one,” Quick said. “He’s looking for this man’s girlfriend.”

Ah, so Quick knew about the two of them.

“Shame I can’t get him to talk,” the ME said. “I’m Vargy. Short for my last name, Varghese. Nobody around here can get my name right.”

I smiled. “We all have our crosses to bear. How dead is he?”

Vargy looked at Quick, unsure how much to share. He said, “We found him this afternoon. We think he was killed last night or early this morning.”