Ghost of the Past Read online

  What are you doing, Elliot? A woman breaks into your house, points a gun at you, and then you leave her in your room with her gun and yours? You are the one who is batshit crazy. She’s definitely on the force, that much is clear—or was on the force. Does that matter? Is that the mark of an upstanding citizen? Would you trust yourself? Plenty of dirty cops around. Hell, half the force is dirty in some way or another. If she is crazy enough to break into your apartment, she is crazy enough to kill you. Do I trust her? Is that it? Because she is a woman? Because a woman would never hurt anyone, would they?

  “Hey,” says Joyce as she joins Elliot in the living room. She has put on a pair of pants and a blouse, giving her a simple elegance, but with a hint of action. She holds herself in such a way as to be able to move quickly if she needs to. Elliot cannot see the gun—not in her hand or concealed on her person.

  She could have the gun on her still.

  “Excuse me,” says Elliot. “Bathroom.” He gets up and walks to the bathroom. Joyce sits on the couch and watches him go. As he walks past the bedroom, he looks in and sees his gun sitting on the dresser. Her gun is not there. So she does have it on her.

  He can feel her watching him as he makes his way to the bathroom and decides against picking up his own gun. He has always been a good judge of character and for some reason, he trusts her. He does his business in the bathroom and emerges to see her in the same spot on the couch. As he passes the bedroom, he looks in again.

  Gun is still there. That is good. Wait. Why did I suggest she put on more clothes? She is in my apartment. Where would she get more clothes? Yet that is exactly what she has done. Did she bring a change of clothes with her? There is something about this situation that I don’t like, but I like her. What other woman breaks into your apartment and points a gun at you, all while wearing her undergarments? She has gumption. Gumption? What am I? A 1940s cop? I’ve been standing here too long. She’s still staring at me.

  Elliot makes his way back to the living room and sits down in his chair, turning it round slightly to face Joyce. He offers her the glass, but she declines.

  “So where do we begin?” asks Elliot.

  “Tell me what is going on,” says Joyce.

  “I have no idea what’s going on,” says Elliot. “I moved in here last week, but you seem to think that this is your apartment.”

  “It is my apartment,” says Joyce.

  “Did you live here at some point?” asks Elliot.

  “I live here now,” says Joyce.

  “Obviously you don’t,” says Elliot. Joyce gets up from the couch and looks out of the window.

  “Same street outside,” she says to herself. “The place is the same, but different. Same paint, carpets, everything—but the boxes, how did the boxes get here? And where did they go?”

  “Where did who go?” asks Elliot.

  “I was not talking to you,” says Joyce. “If you moved in here a week ago, then why have you not unpacked your boxes?”

  “I don’t know,” says Elliot. “Too busy, job takes priority. You’re on the force—you know that too, right?”

  “Yes. How did you know?” asks Joyce.

  “I can just tell. Been around so many cops that I have a sense for it,” says Elliot.

  “You are on the force?” asks Joyce with a hint of incredulity in her voice.

  “Yeah. Don’t believe me? Want to see my badge?” asks Elliot.

  “No. It's fine. I believe you. I just did not think…”

  “Did not think what?” asks Elliot.

  “Does not matter,” says Joyce.

  “No?” asks Elliot.

  “No,” says Joyce. She stares out of the window again and remains silent. “Something is wrong with this scene,” she says to herself again. “Something that I am not seeing.”

  “Don’t tell me you're a detective too,” says Elliot.

  “Too,” says Joyce. “You are a detective?”

  “A good one, too,” says Elliot.

  “I hope so,” says Joyce. “No place for bad detectives on the force. You don't seem surprised that I am a detective.”

  “Why should I?” asks Elliot.

  “Most men are. Most men think that the force is no place for a woman, let alone a detective,” says Joyce.

  “I’m sure you are a great detective,” says Elliot.

  “Yes I am,” says Joyce. “Better than most of you. You have to be good to even be in with a chance. It's not easy becoming a detective.”

  “Tell me about it,” says Elliot.

  “Are you serious?” asks Joyce. “It was not easy for you? Try being me.”

  “What are you talking about?” asks Elliot.

  “Forget about it,” says Joyce. She looks around the room, taking it all in, trying to make sense of it all. She paces in a circle around the room. Elliot watches her as best he can. He knows that she is carrying the gun, but he is also sure that she won’t use it. Joyce stops at the kitchen table.

  “My bracelet,” she says. “Why is it here? I had it on this evening. How did it get here?”

  “I don’t know,” says Elliot standing up and walking over to the table.

  “I'm not talking to you,” says Joyce. “Be quiet for a minute. I had it on. Now it is here. The boxes in the apartment are obviously not mine, suggesting that I should not be here, but the bracelet is here, on the kitchen table. It must have dropped off my wrist, but someone has picked it up. It was not me. Where did it go? What is its story?” Joyce reaches out to pick up the bracelet, but hesitates and draws her hand back. She looks over at Elliot, who stares back at her as if she is crazy. She reaches out once again and touches the bracelet. Instantly a spark flies from the bracelet and her hand shoots back. Elliot jumps back from the table and reaches for his gun automatically. It is not there.

  “Static?” asks Elliot.

  “I do not think so,” says Joyce. She tries again to touch the bracelet, but once more a spark of electricity forces her hand back.

  What the hell is going on here?

  “It doesn't hurt,” says Joyce. “I just cannot touch it. Something is forcing me away.” Elliot walks over to the table and hesitantly reaches for the bracelet. As he gets close, he slows down, waiting for a shock. Nothing happens. He picks up the bracelet and wraps his hand around it. He dangles it over his finger and takes a look at the bracelet. Joyce does the same, but does not try to touch it again.

  “It is definitely mine,” she says.

  “Look,” says Elliot. “We are both detectives. We know how this all works. We can figure stuff out by looking at the clues, but what do you do when the clues are messed up? What are we supposed to do with this?”

  “The shock was for me and me alone, so we start with me. Treat me like a suspect. What would you do next?” asks Joyce.

  “I don’t know. Run your record—but you won’t have one. You are on the force, so I would contact your precinct. Which precinct are you from?” asks Elliot.

  “The 36th, on Wilson St.” says Joyce.

  “What? There’s no precinct on Wilson St.” says Elliot.

  “What are you talking about?” asks Joyce.

  “Okay, let’s try the next best thing: Google,” says Elliot.

  “I have no idea what you just said,” said Joyce. Elliot reaches for his laptop and opens it up. Joyce stares on in fascination. “Joyce Green?” he asks.

  “That's right. No ‘e’ on the end of Green.”

  “Got it. Thanks for the help in spelling Green,” says Elliot.

  “You would be surprised,” says Joyce.

  Elliot taps a few more keys and then stares at the screen. Joyce watches him. She cannot see what he is looking at. She picks up the case file that Elliot has been working on and begins to leaf through it. Elliot looks over at her. She is deliberate in her movements and is looking intensely at the documents.

  “Who are you?” asks Elliot.

  �
�Who moved the table?” asks Joyce.

  “What?” asks Elliot.

  “The table. It was moved. Look.” Joyce shows Elliot the picture of the room. In the center lies the body of a woman. She has been shot through the head. She is lying on the ground. At her feet is a table, a small square coffee table. Elliot looks at the table and then back at Joyce.

  “It was moved,” she says.

  “How do you know?” asks Elliot.

  “Look at the room. The set-up of the furniture is perfect, but this table, it is in the wrong place. It has been moved from between the two sofas. Not much—a few feet maybe. It was moved before the murder. It could not have been there when the woman was killed, or she would have fallen on it and the room would be different. I am presuming that you found no prints?”

  “No, no prints,” says Elliot.

  “Suggesting what?” asks Joyce.

  “That they wiped the place clean after the murder,” says Elliot.

  “This is an expensive room. Not the sort of place that you would murder someone in,” says Joyce.

  “I know, I know,” says Elliot. “The murder was not premeditated. They rented the room, something happened, the woman was killed, and afterwards, someone wiped the place clean of prints. They covered their tracks well.”

  “How would you move a table like that?” asks Joyce.

  “I would pick it up,” says Elliot.

  “Looks heavy. Awkward position between the sofas,” says Joyce.

  “I would drag it,” says Elliot. “I would reach my hands under and drag it.”

  “Which means?” asks Joyce.

  “That there would be prints under the table,” says Elliot.

  “And if you are covering up a murder, would you remember to wipe those prints?” asks Joyce.

  “It’s worth a shot,” says Elliot. “We need to go there now.” Elliot stops and looks at Joyce. “It’s been three months. What are the chances that we find a print, just one, and it is the killer’s?”

  “Like you said, it is worth a shot,” says Joyce. She walks towards the door, but stops when Elliot does not follow her. She looks back at him with a frown on her face.

  Here goes. “Sit down for a second. I need to tell you something,” says Elliot.

  “Okay,” says Joyce hesitantly. She walks back to the couch and sits down. They sit there staring at each other for a minute before Joyce finally speaks. “So?” she says.

  “You’re dead,” says Elliot.

  Chapter Seven

  The Case

  Joyce looks at Elliot. “Say that again,” she says.

  “You are dead,” says Elliot. “I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry.”

  “What are you talking about?” asks Joyce.

  “I googled you,” says Elliot.

  “You did what?” asks Joyce.

  “Doesn’t matter,” says Elliot. “I looked you up online. You were involved in a murder case. You were the victim.”

  “What are you talking about?” Joyce stands up and turns around. “Look, I know this whole thing is confusing, but we are going to figure it out, okay? Just give me a second to think.”

  “Take a look at the article,” says Elliot.

  “No,” says Joyce.

  “It says here that you were killed in your apartment, wait—”

  “What?” asks Joyce?

  “It was this apartment,” says Elliot. “The address is the same. You were on your way home from work and they believe that a man followed you to the apartment. When they found you, you were lying on the floor, just inside the door. You had been shot in the back of the head—”

  “Just stop, will you!” shouts Joyce. “It is not… how could it be?”

  “You asked me, so now let me ask you,” says Elliot. “What year is it?”

  “What help would that be?” asks Joyce.

  “Just answer the question,” says Elliot.

  “1976,” says Joyce.

  “Joyce, listen to me. It’s 2012,” says Elliot.

  “It is 1976,” says Joyce.

  “Look around you. Look outside. You said there was something you were missing. Look, your picture is here in the article.” Elliot spins the laptop around so Joyce can see it. She does not look at the screen.

  “My family,” she says.

  “They are okay. They were okay. They only targeted you. You were investigating a high profile case when it happened. They concluded that the case you were investigating had no relevance to your death. The case you were investigating was closed a week after you died. I know how that feels, the case being closed, not the… I don’t really know what to say. How are you here?”

  “I don't know. I went to sleep. My family were all sleeping. I woke up and heard a noise, and when I investigated, something was wrong. It was all different. My family were gone, and you were here. I cannot explain it. Am I really dead?” asks Joyce.

  “You are,” says Elliot. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah,” says Joyce. She sits down and her face is in her hands. Elliot can see that she is crying. He thinks about going over to her, but stays in his chair instead.

  “I am sorry,” he says. Joyce does not respond.

  What the hell am I supposed to say? Have I gone crazy? Am I talking to myself here? Is it the bracelet? Do I believe in ghosts now? What the fuck is going on here?!

  Elliot takes a large gulp of whiskey and sets the glass down on the table. He looks over at Joyce and can see her shoulders jerking up and down. He does not go to her. He looks at the darkness outside the window.

  “Let’s go,” says Joyce. Elliot looks up in surprise to see Joyce looking back at him. The tears are gone. In fact, it looks like she has not been crying at all. She has a steely look of determination on her face, a look which is not to be argued with, especially when the person behind it is dead.

  “Go where?” asks Elliot.

  “To wherever this room is,” says Joyce. “We have work to do.”

  “Okay,” says Elliot. “Okay. Let me get my stuff.” He walks to the bedroom and picks up his gun, holstering it on his waist. He puts on shoes and a jacket and looks behind him. Joyce has shoes on too, small black flats. They look dressy, but sporty at the same time. I can imagine her chasing down criminals in those shoes.

  She is also wearing a brown suede jacket. It looks dated, but matches her look. Elliot is not sure how she got the shoes and jacket, or where they came from. They were definitely not in the apartment.

  “Ready to go?” he asks.

  “Yes,” says Joyce. They exit the apartment and Elliot locks the door. They move quickly and are soon down the stairs and out of the building. Joyce looks at Elliot’s car with some curiosity as he holds the door open for her.

  “I can open a door,” she says. She sits looking out of the window on the journey to the hotel.

  “I bet this all looks different,” says Elliot.

  “Different, but the same,” says Joyce. “Like someone wearing different clothes. The lights are brighter, but the colors seem more dull. I remember most of these buildings. The streets are the same, which means that the criminals are the same. You drive too fast.”

  Elliot smiles at her and watches in fascination as she scans the world outside.

  “Eyes on the road,” she says and Elliot smiles again, taking his eyes back to the road in front of him.

  “When we get there, let me do the talking,” says Elliot. Joyce says nothing. They reach the hotel and jump out the car. Elliot pushes the door open to the hotel and walks through, letting it close behind him. Open your own door, then.

  He reaches the desk and looks down at the bored receptionist. She is reading a magazine and does not look up. The hotel is upmarket, but at this time of night, the people coming to the desk are not. She flips a page and begins to read the next article.

  “Hi,” says Elliot. “My partner and I need access to the presidential suite.”r />
  “Where is he?” asks the receptionist.

  “Who?” asks Elliot.

  “Your partner,” says the receptionist. Elliot looks at Joyce beside him.

  “She is… doesn’t matter. Look we need to get into the presidential suite.”

  “Can’t do that,” says the receptionist.

  “Look”—Elliot looks down at her badge—“Joy. Joy, that’s great. Give me the key to the suite and I will be back with it in five minutes.”

  “Do you have a warrant?” asks Joy.

  “I can be back here with one in an hour,” says Elliot.

  “Okay, then I will see you in an hour,” says Joy.

  “Listen!” shouts Elliot.

  “Elliot,” says Joyce, “calm down. She does not care about what you want, she only cares about what you are. Can I give you some advice?” Elliot nods. “Okay, repeat this to her…”

  “Joy. I am… sorry for shouting at you. I am working on a case where a young lady was murdered and I want to bring the person responsible to justice. It is… admirable that you are following the law in asking for a warrant. I would only ask that this time, you consider allowing us—me—into that room without one. If we get a warrant, then we will need to get your manager down here, in the middle of the night. The press will be here too. Your manager will be angry at you, even though it is not your fault, but he will want someone to blame. I bet he’s a dick,” says Elliot.

  “He is,” says Joy.

  “You don’t like this job. Hell, who would like it? But I am guessing that you need it, or you would not be here. If he gets flack for this, then he will look to shift the blame onto someone else, and even though none of this is your fault, he will blame you. I only want to find a killer, and help you keep this shitty job. Can we work something out? Please?” Elliot smiles at Joy. She looks him up and down for a few seconds.

  “Sure, what do I care?” says Joy. She grabs a keycard from the desk and programs the details of the room into it. “Five minutes,” she says. “Then this keycard comes back to me.”

  “Five minutes,” says Elliot. He takes the keycard. They walk to the elevator and wait for it to arrive.