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

“Found him where?”

“Sorry, Magnum, need to know basis only.” Quick folded his arms. “When’d Megan go missing again?”

He already knew, he was just testing me. “According to my client, two weeks ago.”

I watched him do some mental fact-checking. It jived with what he knew.

If they won’t answer one question, ask another. “So how’d Mr. Bostwick shed his mortal coil?”

Vargy grabbed the heavy linen sheet covering Bostwick and pulled it down to reveal his torso.

Up until this point I’d been okay. From the neck up, the corpse could have been a living, breathing man that was just resting for a moment.

From the neck down was a different story.

He’d been carved up. His innards were exposed, and some of them looked like they’d been…removed. Not professionally, mind you. The steady hand and sharp scalpel of Vargy, M.E., hadn’t done this to Bostwick.

“Disemboweled.” Vargy didn’t mind putting too fine a point on it.             

I felt my lunch coming up. Time for a little humor. I looked at Quick. “You guys have ruled out seppuku, right?”

Quick almost smiled. Someday I’d get him to laugh. “This was definitely done to him.”

The walls were closing in on me. I had to get out of there. I thanked Vargy and told Quick I’d meet him in the hall. I found a bathroom and managed to get all my puke in the bowl.

Quick followed me back to Turner’s estate. Bastard tailgated me the whole way, like he was trying to get me to speed. In character, I did the opposite. Slowed down to a crawl. Didn’t bother him though. He kept his fender three feet off my rear bumper like we were the fucking Blue Angels. Prick was asking for it. I decided to test him. I made a call on my cell. I watched the rearview. He waved a lone finger at me but he didn’t pull me over.

“Morgan, it’s me, Eddie. I’m on my way back to your place with a cop named Quick. He’s going to grill you about Megan.”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, McCloskey?”

I almost drove off the road, I was so surprised by the outburst spewing from the man who had been so professionally calm earlier, except the brief minute he’d shed some tears over his eldest daughter.

“I’m giving you a heads-up is what I’m doing. If you’re not home yet, I need you to meet us there.”

“Why the fuck are you bringing Quick here? What the fuck is going on?”

“He’s coming over because Megan’s boyfriend, Anthony Bostwick, is dead. Somebody went hari-kari on him.”

“I see.” Except he was still yelling. “When did
this
happen?”

I felt like asking to speak with the real Morgan Turner, not this pod person impostor. “Late last night or early this morning.”

“Fucking great.”

Click.

We were ten minutes away and I needed to rinse the bad taste of the last call out of my mouth. I called my oldest buddy, Stan.

“Eddie, it’s after 9:00 here.”

“Bed time?”

“If you ever have a kid, you’ll understand.”

“Guess I’ll never understand then. Hey, listen. This job I told you about? It just got a lot weirder.”

“I’ve got some dirt for you.”

I could always count on Stan to be proactive and research the people or town I was about to investigate. He liked to bitch about not having any time to do anything because of his toddler. But as a retired lottery winner, I knew he could find some time in his day if he looked hard enough.

“There’s been a few murders here the last couple of weeks,” I said.

“Yeah, you’re not going to believe this.”

“Stan, I’ve seen more weird shit in the last two years to fill a lifetime.”

“The killings out there? They happen in bunches.”

“Bunches?”

“Yeah.” I heard him tapping his keyboard. “Three years ago, there were three murders in a three week stretch. Two years ago, six murders in a three week stretch. Last year, ten murders over a month.”

“Yeah but what’s the average?”

“Excluding these clusters, you’re looking at three or four a year for the last thirty years. Don’t have good data before that.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You’re the PI. I’m just the numbers guy…unless you want me to come out there.”

“Oh yeah. I ask you to come out here, you get killed, Moira kills me. Sound about right?”

“I was just being gallant. I don’t want any part of this one, pal.”

I laughed. “There’s honesty.”             

“I’m serious. I think you should get out of there.”

“Take it easy, Chicken Little. You’ve told me to back off the last two big gigs.”

“You’re in over your head—”

“That’s when I do my best work.”

“—you don’t track missing persons, Eddie. You ghost hunt and piss people off real good.”

“You forgot to mention I’ve served as an expert witness in a major criminal case.”

“Alright, I’ve said my piece. Anything else I can do for you?”

“Keep digging. Try to find more patterns.”

“That won’t be hard. It’s a suburb. All the dead people probably knew each other.”

We were pulling up to Turner’s mansion. “Thanks, pal. I gotta roll. How’s the fam?”

“Moira’s doing her first marathon next week.”

“You’re not running it with her?”

“I’ll be right there…on the sidelines cheering her on.”

“Thatta boy.”

***

The Turner mansion was lit up against the night. The forest was a dark hump that broke to a purpling sky. Quick parked six inches behind me. We got out.

“I don’t like how you called Mr. Turner on the way over,” he said.

No sense in lying. So I did. “That was one of my girls back east.”

He harumphed. At the double doors, he looked at me like I should just walk in. Instead I knocked. Morgan Turner, still in his penguin suit but with the bow tie undone, admitted us.

“Mr. Quick, good to see you again.” Morgan shook the cop’s hand and smiled.

We went down the long hallway into a study with a bar. Morgan was working on another G and T. He had the look of a man who could hold his bottle. Quick accepted a water and so did I.

Morgan sat on a long couch and put his feet on an ottoman. Quick stayed by the bar. I moved closer to Morgan to let everybody know where my loyalties were.

Quick said, “When was the last time you saw Anthony Bostwick?”

Morgan chewed some ice. “A day or two before Megan disappeared.”

The perfect elocution and manners were back. Gone was the asshole I’d just talked to on the phone.

“Have you heard from Megan?”

A tremor rippled across one side of Morgan’s face. “No, I have not.”

“Do you know how long they were dating?”

“Mr. Quick, I’m not even sure they were dating.”

“He was some kind of investor, right?”

Morgan’s eyes flitted over to me. “He told me he was a software engineer.”

Quick nodded. “Do you know where he is now?”

“I do not.”

“Do you have his phone number or any contact information for him?”

“I do not.”

Quick put his hand in his pocket. “Mr. Turner, I’m going to level with you. Anthony Bostwick was murdered within the last twenty-four hours. He had some kind of relationship with your daughter.”

“Do you think Megan’s been…”

“I hope not.” Quick looked at me. “This isn’t a double bluff, is it?”

I shook my head. “Right. Megan’s been hiding for two weeks so she could Dario Argento her maybe-boyfriend and to cover it up her old man’s hired not one, but two private eyes to find her.”

Quick smirked. “He only hired one private eye, Eddie.”

Morgan waited for me to say something.

“Quick, do you have anything else for my client?”

“Not at this time.”

***

“Motive?” I asked.

I’d walked Quick out to the cars and now we stood facing each other. The day had been warm but the night was getting cold.

Quick knew he was weak on motive, so he went with: “Opportunity.”

“You’re telling me she carved him up?”

“Part of the double bluff.” He hesitated. “Or not.”

“Megan Turner is a psychotic killer? Come on, Quick.”

“You and I both know she was acting funny before she vanished.”

I didn’t want to give him that. “Acting funny is one thing. Butchering is another.”

“You know what they always say, McCloskey. He was the nicest guy on the block, very friendly. You’d never think he was a killer.”

“You can’t have it both ways. She’s a killer in your book if she acts like a loon or doesn’t act like a loon.”

He gave me the once-over. “You’re over your head here, pal. No offense.”

“Taken. And what’s it to you?”

“I think you’re good people.”

“Quick giveth a compliment, Quick taketh away.”

“I don’t need to spell this out for you, but I’m going to anyway. This is an open murder investigation. More often than not, the killer has a relationship with the victim. Usually they’re romantically linked.”

“What comes after A, B, and C?”

He almost smiled. “No interference. And I want to be the first person hears what you have.”

“And vice versa.”

“Yeah, right. I’ll open the department up to an ex-con who’s currently operating as an unlicensed private investigator.”

“Can you let me in, just a little?” I said.

Quick was about to get in his car, but stopped. “Sure. We’re seeing all the usual random shit that suburbia sees. Somebody stole three school buses. Somebody else broke into the meat packing plant and carved up some beef but didn’t steal it. Last week somebody else hijacked a delivery truck and took all the driver’s food. It was a shipment of energy bars and drinks.”

I couldn’t make anything of that.

“That’s why we’re so busy,” Quick said. “All the usual stuff.”

***

Morgan Turner was all apologies. “Forgive my outburst earlier. I’m under quite a deal of stress.”

“No worries. Where can I get something good to eat?”

“In the kitchen. I can have someone make you something.”

“Thanks. You don’t mind if I set up shop in Megan’s room?”

He arched an eyebrow.

“I want to get a sense of who she was, if I inhabit her space, maybe it’ll help me find her.”

The eyebrow was still arched.

“I saw it on a movie once.”

“Very well.”

He thought I was making a joke.

***

Turner was right. His kitchen was a good place to get something to eat. A pretty young maid who was probably green card-challenged brought me chicken parm and a bottled water. I scarfed it down in the dining room by myself then retreated upstairs to Megan’s room.

The door was open, the room dark. I flicked the light.

Daughter Number Two was sitting on the bed.

“I’m Melanie.”

She stood. She was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and capri sweat pants. She could have passed for an Olympic volleyballer.

I said, “We met already. Are you feeling any better?”

She didn’t answer. I’d already put two and two together. She and dear old Dad had talked, he’d shared I was headed to her sister’s room, she’d waited for me. But had she come of her own volition, or had she been prompted by Turner? So far, each member of the family had shown erratic behavior and it was beginning to creep me out. Tonight, I’d sleep with the bedroom door locked and a chair against it.

Melanie fidgeted on the bed. “I’m fine. What are you doing in here?”

“What are
you
doing in here?”

She wouldn’t meet my eye for longer than a second. She clawed absently at the back of her arms. The skin was already fiery red.

“I’m here to find your sister.”

“She’s not hiding under her bed.” She got up and walked to the far corner of the room and would only look at me, briefly, from a forty-five degree angle.

“I’m not here to sniff her underwear.”

She didn’t laugh.

I said, “Is there something you want to tell me?”

She looked at me like a wild animal uncaged.

“Maybe you know something about your sister that could help me. Maybe you heard her say something or you saw something.”

She stayed as far away from me as possible as she went to the door. “You seem okay.”

“Thanks.”

“But stay the fuck away from me. I don’t like you.”

I smiled. “You don’t even know me.”

She scurried out of the room, throwing one last nervous look over her shoulder to make sure I wasn’t following her.

***

I went through Megan Turner’s things. Not her underwear. Not all of it, anyway.

I checked under her bed, searched her closet, looked through her books. There was a rectangular space cleared on her desk that looked laptop-sized. But no laptop.

I checked the empty roller skates box. It smelled of old rubber and old shoes. There was nothing in it.

Except a piece of drawing paper tucked under an interior flap.

I carefully slid it out.

It was a skilled drawing. The pencil had smeared a bit when presumably Megan had put it in here.

In the picture a dozen men and women danced in a ballroom. I could feel the music playing, definitely classical, by the grace of their frozen movements. And they were moving fast. There were motion lines around everyone, suggesting fluidity.

It was a very good drawing. We weren’t talking stick figures. We weren’t talking Degas either, but Megan had some talent.

Two oddities though.

They were in a ballroom, but they weren’t wearing gowns and tuxes. They were dressed willy-nilly, some in suits, others casual, some in workout gear.

And they all had glazed looks on their faces.

At first I thought Megan, amateur artist that she was, just had problems drawing faces. Maybe she was face blind—that was a thing I’d read about. Except the people all had the same face and the same drawn, distracted expression. It appeared intentional.