Whispers of the Dead (Tom Gabriel #2), Page 2

  ‘All right.’

  People seemed to have the idea that he saw and spoke to everyone who had ever died. If that was how it worked, he’d never have any time to do anything else. He couldn’t blame them – it wasn’t everybody who could see and speak to the dead. In fact, apart from him, he didn’t know of one other genuine person who could do what he could do. Oh, there were lots of people who said they could, but they couldn’t. Even his “gift” was something he couldn’t control. Sometimes he saw the dead, but mostly he didn't. Sometimes they spoke to him, but mostly they didn’t. The whole thing was a crapshoot, and he’d lived with it his whole life.

  He sat back down and looked over his notes. Roger Harrison – the manager at the Harbor Bank – had kissed his wife goodnight at eleven thirty on Thursday night and instead of going to bed had promptly disappeared. Why had the bedroom door been locked? Was it to keep people out? Or – knowing that they never locked internal doors – had he locked it deliberately as a message to his wife? Was there another woman involved? Why had he booked two weeks’ vacation and not told his wife. If he had gone on vacation, why hadn’t he taken any clothes or toiletries with him? Why hadn’t he taken his car, or the boat? Why hadn’t he taken any money? Had someone picked him up? Maybe he’d called a cab? As usual, there were a million questions that needed answers.

  He felt a presence and looked up.

  Sitting in the chair that Barbara Harrison had recently vacated was little Sally Stackhouse.

  ‘Hello, Sally.’

  ‘Hello, Mister. How ya doin’?’

  ‘I’m doing fine. What about you?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m okay, ya know. I miss Jimmy Seraphin and Rebekah Snellenberger something terrible.’

  ‘And they miss you as well.’

  She pointed upwards with a finger. ‘Up there’s a bit boring.’

  ‘There must be other children?’

  ‘Lots of ‘em, but none of ‘em want to have any fun.’

  ‘And does that fun involve breaking all the rules?’

  ‘You’re gettin’ the idea, Mister.’

  ‘What brings you here, Sally?’

  ‘Cassie said to say she loves ya.’

  ‘I’m not saying I’m not pleased to see you Sally, but why couldn’t Cassie bring that love herself?’

  ‘Yeah, she said you’d say that. She told me to tell ya she was busy.’

  ‘Busy! Doing what?’

  ‘Stuff.’

  ‘Of course, it all makes sense now.’

  An old woman pressed her face against the window to watch him talking to himself.

  He crossed his eyes, stuck out his tongue and she drifted off.

  ‘Have you forgotten about the other children?’ Sally said.

  ‘No, I haven’t forgotten. You said you’d help me.’

  ‘Yeah . . .’

  ‘I’ll understand if you can’t . . . or if you don’t want to get into any trouble.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. Ya know trouble is my middle name. It’s just that . . . they’re keeping things from me.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Ya know, the ones who make the rules.’

  ‘They don’t want you to tell me anything about the children, do they?’

  ‘No, but I will. I have a name for ya – Joseph Fowler.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s all I could get.’

  ‘I suppose it will have to do then.’

  ‘If I find out anything else I’ll come and tell ya.’

  He was going to give her a message for Cassie, but she had already gone.

  Chapter Two

  ‘What the hell are you wearing?’

  She stood up and twirled around. ‘Do you like it?’

  Instead of the leather bra, studded choker, short skirt and army boots, she had on a pair of dark-blue slacks, a short-sleeved light-blue blouse and flat shoes. Her make-up and jewellery were barely noticeable, and well within the bounds of acceptability, but the tribal art down her arms and the winged dragon on the side of her neck were still visible.

  ‘I was getting used to what you threw on before.’

  ‘What I wore as a cub reporter isn’t suitable for an investigative reporter.’

  ‘You’ve sold out.’

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘Franchetti offered you thirteen pieces of silver and you betrayed everything you stood for.’

  ‘I didn’t stand for anything. I just liked wearing urban clothes.’

  ‘Well, you’re hardly urban now.’

  ‘I know. Mr Franchetti said that if I was representing the paper I had to wear some proper clothes. What choice did I have? I didn’t want to stay a cub reporter my whole life.’

  ‘Well, if it’s any consolation, you look real pretty.’

  ‘It’s not, but I made that bastard give me the money to buy the clothes.’

  He wasn’t surprised when she gave all her father’s property, money and possessions to charity, that was the type of person Rae was. She didn’t want any of it. She called it ‘dirty money’, and she was probably right.

  They were sitting in the Black Molly Grill at 504 West Geoffrey Street in Cobblestone Village at twelve thirty as arranged. He wasn’t sure about the name of the place, until Rae explained it was a tropical fish. He’d wondered why there were stencils of fish on the walls.

  ‘You want to get out more,’ she said.

  ‘I am getting out more.’

  The waitress came over with two mugs and a steaming coffee jug. The aroma shot up his nostrils and dilated his pupils as if he was a user. She filled up the mugs and said, ‘What’ll it be, folks?’

  He ordered the Ol’ Hickory burger with a side of fries, onion rings and salsa dip. Rae had the Chicken Caesar salad as it came.

  She took a swallow of coffee. ‘Well, how’s Tom Gabriel Investigations going?’

  ‘I have a case.’

  Her forehead creased and her eyes crinkled up. ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re pleased for me.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You don’t sound it, and you definitely don’t look it.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d help me with my story.’

  ‘You want me to work for you for free?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I’m quite sure your expense account can’t absorb three hundred dollars a day plus expenses.’

  Her eyes opened wide. ‘Is that how much you’re charging?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m in the wrong job.’

  ‘You could come and work for me for free instead.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then there we have it. You’re an investigative journalist, and I’m a private investigator. It’s been nice knowing you, but now we have to go our separate ways.’

  ‘Or . . .We could help each other.’

  ‘How would that work?’

  ‘Sometimes, I get the idea that you should be in the old folks’ home.’

  ‘That sounds like my kind of place.’

  ‘You help me with my stuff and I help you with yours.’

  ‘I don’t need any help.’

  She put her elbows on the table and her chin in the palms of her hands. ‘Is that right?’

  The waitress brought their food. ‘Enjoy.’

  They began to eat.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said, stuffing a dipped salsa fry into his mouth.

  ‘So, you’ve now learnt how to work your phone? You’ve bought yourself a tablet and can carry out complicated research on the internet? You can . . . ?’

  ‘I could pay somebody to do all that for me.’

  ‘And that would cost you more than your three hundred bucks a day plus expenses.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘Remember, you’re the last surviving dinosaur. All the other dinosaurs are extinct, but somehow you survived. The trouble is, while you’ve been frozen in time, the world has become technologically advanced.’

>   ‘I’ll get the hang of it.’

  ‘Contrary to urban legend, nobody can teach a decrepit old mongrel new tricks.’

  ‘I should sue you for slander.’

  ‘Or . . . I could help you with the technologically advanced stuff, and you could help me with the investigative stuff.’

  He carried on eating.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m eating . . . and thinking. I always think better while I’m eating.’

  The waitress came over and re-charged their coffee mugs. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘Great.’ She moved on to grill some other customers.

  The place was comfortably full. The noise level wasn’t too objectionable.

  He cleared his plate, wiped his mouth on the napkin and called over the waitress.

  ‘What’ll it be?’

  ‘The pumpkin roll with sweet cream cheese filling, please.’

  ‘And you, lady?’

  Rae shook her head. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Coming right up.’

  ‘Well?’ Rae asked again after the waitress had left.

  ‘We work out of my office?’

  She leaned across the table and hugged him. ‘You won’t regret it.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  The waitress brought his pumpkin pie. ‘Enjoy.’

  ‘So, what’s this case you’ve got?’ Rae asked him.

  He told her about Barbara Harrison and the “mislaid” husband.

  ‘Do you think he’s been kidnapped by bank robbers?’

  ‘That was my first thought, but it doesn’t explain why he booked two weeks’ vacation.’

  ‘Maybe they threatened to hurt his wife unless he did. If he’s on vacation from the bank he won’t be missed and they won’t get suspicious.’

  He hadn’t thought of that.

  ‘You’re going to the bank, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s on my list.’

  ‘You might want to tell them to disable all his passwords and access until he returns to work.’

  He hadn’t thought of that either.

  ‘And I presume the bank vault is in the basement, so I’d get them to look at the blueprints and find out if there are any weak points in the security system. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a gang down there with tunnelling equipment, explosives and computers.’

  ‘How do you know all this stuff?’

  ‘More to the point – how do you not know all this stuff?’

  She was right. Since Cassie’s death, he’d been frozen in time. The technological world had passed him by while he’d been waiting to join his beautiful wife.

  ‘Anyway, that’s what I’m doing – what about you?’

  She grinned. ‘I thought you’d never ask. Laura Jordan – the Medical Examiner – contacted me.’

  ‘I know Laura. Did I ever tell you about . . . ?’

  ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m trying to tell you about my story.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘So, Laura . . .’

  ‘Why did she contact you?’

  ‘I asked her to.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m an investigative journalist now. I was cultivating my contacts.’

  ‘You’ve changed.’

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘I liked the rebel cub reporter you were before.’

  ‘You’ll get used to the new me. Do you want to hear about my story, or not?’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘So, I asked Laura to contact me if anything interesting came her way.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as a John Doe in the morgue.’

  ‘There’s always a John Doe in the morgue.’

  ‘This one’s different.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you . . .’

  ‘Have you been to look at Mr Doe?’

  ‘That’ll be your job under our new working arrangement.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘He was discovered last Friday morning . . .’

  ‘And you’re only just telling me?’

  ‘I only found out late yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was found at six-thirty on Friday morning at Porpoise Point on Vilano Beach by a paper boy on his way home. When the police arrived, the man was lying on the sand with his head resting on the seawall, and his feet crossed and pointing directly toward the sea, and that’s as much as they know about him.’

  ‘I’m sure they know a bit more than that.’

  ‘No, that’s what’s so weird.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Laura thinks he’s between forty and forty-five.’

  ‘You said they didn’t know anything else about him.’

  ‘They obviously know things like that, but they have no idea who he is or where he came from.’

  ‘What do you want me to do about it?’

  ‘Did I tell you that all the labels on his clothes had been cut out, and that he has no dental, fingerprint or DNA records anywhere . . . ?’

  ‘Maybe he’s . . .’

  ‘. . . Anywhere in the world. It’s as if he never existed.’

  ‘So, they actually know a whole lot more about him than what you’ve led me to believe. Have you been to see Laura?’

  ‘No, I thought . . .’

  ‘. . . You’d leave it to me.’

  ‘Yes. I only want to visit the morgue one time.’

  ‘And you think there’s a story to this John Doe?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have called you otherwise.’

  ‘Has Laura carried out an autopsy?’

  ‘So she said.’

  ‘Did she give you a copy . . . ?’

  ‘I haven’t seen her. As I said, she called me late yesterday afternoon to tell me about the John Doe, and suggested that there might be a human interest story in it.’

  ‘And you thought of me?’

  ‘Who else would I think of?’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘What?’

  The waitress floated by and filled up his mug again. ‘Anything else, folks?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No thanks.’

  She slapped the bill on the table and moved on.

  ‘I won’t get to Laura until tomorrow . . .’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Paying customers come first.’

  ‘I suppose I could go and talk to the paper boy, and also find out if anybody else saw the man.’

  ‘That sounds like a productive use of your time. After I’ve been to the Harrisons on Water Street, I’ll swing on by the Police Department and speak to Mona.’

  ‘And find out what the police know about our John Doe?’

  ‘Among other things.’ He passed his phone across the table. ‘Put Laura’s number in there, will you?’

  ‘And mine?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She pressed the buttons. ‘Your phonebook is empty.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You should be an exhibit in the Natural History Museum.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She passed his phone back. ‘Try not to mess it up.’

  He picked it up. ‘Now what?’

  She sighed and took the phone back. ‘You press this, then this, then this . . . it dials the persons’ number. When they answer, you speak into the mouthpiece. Also, when anybody in your phonebook calls you, their name will be displayed on the screen.’

  He scooped the phone off her outstretched hand. ‘Very kind.’

  ‘Try it. Ring Laura now.’

  He eventually found Laura in his phone book and called her.

  ‘St John’s County . . .’

  ‘It’s Tom Gabriel.’

  ‘I heard you’d escaped from the retirement home.’

  ‘It was touch and go for a while, but I made it.’

  ‘And you’ve called to warn me that the bodies will star
t piling up soon?’

  ‘I don’t ever recall you being so cynical, Laura.’

  ‘It’s been a long day, and it’s only Tuesday.’

  ‘How are things with . . . what’s-his-name?’

  ‘Marshall and me drifted apart. Now, I’m spending some quality time with myself.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I thought you and what’s-his-name . . .’

  ‘So did I. What can I do for you, Tom?’

  ‘You called Rae about a John Doe?’

  ‘And you’re working for her now?’

  He grunted. ‘More like the other way round.’

  ‘I’m sure. And you want everything I have on the deceased?’

  ‘How would it be if I came on by about twelve tomorrow, and took you out for lunch?’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you then.’

  The call ended.

  Rae screwed up her face. ‘Lunch?’

  ‘A man’s got to eat.’ He stood up. ‘Anyway, I have to go now.’

  ‘I could come with you.’

  ‘To the Harrisons?’

  ‘No . . . to lunch tomorrow with Laura.’

  He shrugged. ‘Sure, why not?’

  ‘I’ll call you.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ***

  He pulled up at the double electric metal gates outside seven Water Street, and was about to climb out of the Nitro to announce his arrival when the gates began to open. He looked, saw the CCTV camera on a pole beyond the gate and his lip curled up.

  His negotiations with the insurance company had been partially successful. They wouldn’t replace the Dodge Nitro with a new one, which was just as well because Dodge had stopped making them in 2012. What they were willing to do was go halves with him for a used Nitro – it was what he liked and what he was used to. He found a 2011 Nitro Detonator for $17,995 with only 51,700 miles on the clock, but there were two problems. First, he had to catch a Greyhound bus to the other side of Jacksonville to collect it. Second, it was bright yellow with go-faster stripes down the sides – not exactly the low-profile model he had in mind for stake-outs. But when he saw the SUV, he knew that it was the one for him, and gave the dealer a check for the full amount.

  Barbara Harrison came out to meet him. She’d changed into a long flowing light-green dress that plunged to her waist at the front and the back, and left little to his imagination when she moved. He could understand her taking a shower and putting fresh clothes on, but wondered why the clothes had to be so revealing.