Alex spent the next hour examining every glowing site in the room, but came away with nothing. Every fingerprint and stain seemed to have a reason for being where it was.
Defeated, he put out the light and returned his lantern and oculus to his kit. He was sure that Watson hadn’t killed himself but if anyone else had been in the room with him, Alex couldn’t find any evidence of it.
“Done?” Callahan’s voice cut through the static in Alex’s mind. He was sitting in a chair in the hall and Alex found it disturbing that he had no idea how long the big Lieutenant had been there.
Alex nodded.
“Find anything?”
“Just that Mr. Watson made his money in land,” Alex said, pointing to one of the glass cases with a display of surveying equipment, land maps, and pictures of enormous, beautiful homes.
“So, nothing?” Callahan said, coming into the room.
“Not nothing,” Alex insisted, packing up his kit. “You said it yourself, he had no defensive wounds, so Watson clearly knew his attacker.”
“Or someone surprised him,” Callahan countered.
“And the wife didn’t hear anything?” Alex said. “She was in the house the whole time.”
Callahan thought about that for a moment, but didn’t seem willing to concede the point.
“Speaking of Anne,” Alex said. “I should probably let her know what I’ve found.”
“Her lawyer got here about an hour ago,” Callahan said. “He had her go to a hotel for the night.”
“So Detweiler didn’t have her arrested?”
“No,” Detweiler’s voice came from beyond the door. A moment later he sidled around and into the room. “Her lawyer is a real son-of-a-bitch. Said if I arrested her on such thin evidence, she’d sue for police harassment.”
“He’s right,” Alex said. “Didn’t you check out the blood on her clothes?”
“Yeah,” Detweiler sneered. “Callahan told me about your little theory. What if she stabbed her husband, then crawled through the vent, then held her husband’s body as a show for the officers?”
Alex shrugged, admitting that Detweiler’s theory was possible.
“Did you take her blouse as evidence?” he asked.
“Of course we did,” Detweiler said, irritation in his voice. “You seem to think we’re idiots.”
“Did you turn the shirt inside out and check it?” Alex asked.
Detweiler’s irritation shifted to confusion.
“Why?”
“Because,” Callahan interjected. “If she got any blood on the blouse before it got dirty, it would have soaked through to the inside.”
Detweiler thought about that and shrugged.
“We’ll look into it,” he said. “Since you don’t like the wife for this, Lockerby, why don’t you tell me who you think did kill Mr. Watson.”
Alex glanced at Callahan but the Lieutenant just shrugged.
“I think a ghost killed David Watson,” Alex said with a grin.
Detweiler’s face screwed up in anger but before he could explode, Alex hurried on.
“One from his past.”
Callahan hid a smile behind his hand and Detweiler growled.
“Consider the way he was killed,” Alex explained. “Stabbing is an up close and personal way to kill. Intimate even. Whoever did this wanted Watson to know who it was that killed him, to look into his eyes.”
“That could be anybody,” Detweiler said.
“Not really,” Alex said. “How many people have genuine enemies? Ones who want them dead badly enough to do something about it? Mr. Watson is the fourth victim of this killer; whoever is doing it is trying to make a point.”
“What point?” Detweiler asked.
“No idea,” Alex admitted. “But I suspect if you dig into James Watson’s life, and the lives of the ghost’s other victims, you’ll find a connection. That will give you your killer.”
“Gee,” Detweiler said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “We detectives never would have thought of that. Thanks, Lockerby.”
“You’re welcome, Lieutenant,” Alex said as sincerely as he could. “Glad I could help. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“You wait by your phone, Lockerby,” Detweiler said with a sneer. “We’ll be sure to call you.”
He turned and left the room. Alex looked at Callahan and the big lieutenant was shaking his head and chuckling to himself.
“What?” Alex asked.
“Nothing,” he said innocently. “I’m just really glad you don’t work for me.”
4
The Missing Man
Alex arrived late to his office the next morning. Callahan had given him a ride home the previous night, since he didn’t have the money for a cab, but he still didn’t get to bed until well after midnight. Then, in the morning, Iggy had wanted the full report about Alex’s findings in the matter of the ghost killer. He agreed with Alex’s conclusions but had nothing substantive to add.
“You’re late,” Leslie said as he walked in. She stood in front of her desk, smoking Alex’s last cigarette. He was about to chastise her but something was off. Leslie was usually dressed immaculately. Her beauty queen days had given her a keen eye for fashion. Today, however, she wore a light blue blouse with a green, knee-length skirt. Alex was no expert, but they didn’t seem to go together.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. His danger sense was telling him to tread lightly.
“Oh, this?” Leslie said, indicating her ensemble. “These are the last clean clothes I own,” she said, her voice hard. “It’s been three weeks since I’ve been paid, and I can’t afford to get my laundry done.” She regarded him with a hard stare. “The Bickman job was supposed to solve all that. I don’t suppose there’s any chance they’ll be paying you soon.”
Alex put on a smile and moved over to where Leslie was fuming. He had the distinct feeling that he was stepping inside a tiger’s cage.
“Mrs. Bickman is off the hook,” he said. “But they’re still fired.”
Leslie’s eyes went hard and he could hear her grinding her teeth.
“But there is some good news,” he went on quickly. “I may have got them a new job.”
“Can you get one for me?” Leslie asked, no trace of humor in her voice. Alex knew she wasn’t serious, but he hated the fact that she was suffering for his problems.
“Take it easy,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Call Bickman and tell him to go over to Sorsha Kincaid’s office after noon. She says she knows someone who’s looking for help.”
“Wow,” Leslie said, a sardonic smile creeping onto her face. “Things must be bad if you called the Sorceress for help.”
“Funny,” Alex said. “I was just looking out for you and your laundry,” he continued. “I can’t have you looking anything but your best; after all, you represent me.”
She elbowed him in the ribs, hard, and he winced.
“How much does your laundry cost?” he asked.
“Three-fifty,” she replied.
“I’ve got a few bucks at home. Call Bickman and I’ll go home at lunch time and bring back enough for your laundry and two packs of smokes for you.”
Leslie glared at him.
“Better bring me a fiver,” she said. “I’d like to eat this week, too.”
Alex nodded.
“A fiver, two packs of smokes, and an invitation to dinner at the brownstone this week.”