Ghost of the Past Page 6

  “You got that right,” says Atkinson.

  “Give us a few hours,” says Valdez. “We have some real police work to do, but we will have some results for you in a while. I’ll call you. You should go home and get some sleep.”

  “He does look tired,” says Atkinson.

  “He always looks tired,” says Valdez.

  “I like them,” says Joyce from across the room.

  “Okay, I will be back,” says Elliot. He looks across at Joyce.

  “I am going to stay here and watch them work,” says Joyce. “Go get some sleep. You need the rest. I, on the other hand, am dead, so I don't think that I need to sleep. I will be here when you get back.”

  “Who are you looking at?” asks Valdez.

  “He’s daydreaming again,” says Atkinson.

  “What? Oh, right. I’ll be back. And thank you,” says Elliot.

  “There it is,” says Valdez.

  “The magical two words,” says Atkinson.

  “You’re welcome,” says Valdez.

  “You are most welcome,” says Atkinson.

  Chapter Nine

  Second Negative

  Elliot goes home by himself. The drive seems lonely. There is a lot of traffic, but it is mostly going in the opposite direction, so his drive is calm and quick. The sun has burst forth and there are streaks of orange across the sky, remnants of a great sunrise. In the distance, the clouds glow with a pinkness, which evaporates as Elliot looks at them. By the time he arrives home, the clouds are white and the sky is blue. The warmth of the day is a finger’s touch. Soon it will grab the city in its fist and smother the people inside. For now, Elliot retreats into the cool air-conditioned space of his building. There are no neighbors to nod to and shuffle past as he makes his way up the stairs.

  The apartment is different. It feels as if there has been a change, like two apartments are sharing the same space. This one, the real one, and another, hidden behind space and time. Elliot checks all of the rooms, not expecting to find anything—but then, he had not expected to find the ghost of a woman in his apartment during the night. He checks the top of the dresser for Joyce’s gun. It is not there. He had not expected it to be. How does it work with the gun of a ghost? If she were to fire it, what would happen? It felt real when she had it pointed at me. I would not have wanted her to fire and for me to find out. Can she be hit by a bullet? She can touch some things, but not others. Who knows anymore? Who knows anything?

  Elliot sinks down into his bed, allowing the duvet to suck him downwards into the world of sleep. He had not felt tired as he had made his way home, but now, on top of his bed, he is exhausted. He blinks twice, looking at the ceiling, and after the second blink he is asleep.

  Elliot dreams. He is not in the room, but he knows that the woman is there. He is staring into her eyes. He does not flinch. He does not move. He stays entirely still, willing her to go away. He cannot move. He could not even if he wanted to. She stares back at him. She does not blink. Her face begins to escape into the darkness, leaving only the eyes. The piercing, evil eyes. He tries not to blink. The tears are welling up in them. He can see her eyes smiling, even though her face is gone. The eyes, only the eyes. He blinks and the eyes change. They are new eyes—not hers, but familiar still. He gazes deep into them. There is no fear. The eyes are not evil. The world lights up and the face comes back into focus. Joyce is staring back at him. Her face is soft. Her features are welcoming. He feels safe. She is smiling. He looks into her eyes and finds refuge in them. He smiles back at her. She opens her mouth and a sound comes out. It is not words. It is high pitched, repeating over and over. He does not understand the sound. It is not human. Is it ghostly? He cannot tell. The sound gets louder, repeating over and over. Over and over. Over and over. Until…

  Elliot wakes. He feels the drool in the corner of his mouth. He wipes it away with the back of his hand and blinks furiously, his brain trying to catch up with his body. His phone is ringing on his nightstand. He picks it up and answers.

  “Hello. Okay, I’ll be there soon. No, no, I’m on my way now. I’m on my way!” Elliot hangs up the phone and gets out of bed. He is still fully dressed, but decides to change his shirt. The one he is wearing is wrinkled and sweaty. He splashes some cold water into his armpits before he puts on the new shirt. He thinks about shaving, but he does not have the time, nor can he be bothered.

  The journey back to the precinct is also devoid of traffic. Driving his car when it is not rush hour gives him an uneasy feeling. The traffic and rage are part of his morning routine and the easy drive is ruining it. He will have to find something else to fuel his rage.

  Elliot arrives back at the station. The precinct has become its usual hive self, with people buzzing in and out of the door. He pulls out his phone and checks the time. What? I slept for four hours. Come on Elliot, get it together.

  He hears his name being called out as he enters the precinct. He waves his hand in the air and heads downstairs. Valdez and Atkinson are expecting him. Joyce wanders over. She has a look of amazement on her face.

  “These two are geniuses,” says Joyce. “You would not believe what they can do. I will not even try to explain it. You probably would not understand anyway.”

  “Thank you,” says Elliot.

  “You’re welcome,” says Valdez.

  “Where were you?” asks Atkinson.

  “People were beginning to worry,” says Valdez.

  “The Chief is not happy,” says Atkinson.

  “When is he ever happy?” asks Elliot.

  “He is always very courteous to us,” says Valdez.

  “Depends on the person,” says Atkinson, looking at Elliot.

  “So what did you find out?” asks Elliot.

  “Not much,” says Valdez.

  “At first,” says Atkinson.

  “We started running the prints. No matches came up. You know how long it takes to run a print, right? Well, we can do it twice as fast as most people,” says Valdez.

  “Which is no mean feat,” says Atkinson, “but still a time-consuming process, especially if you are running fifteen prints. Anyway, the first ten gave us nothing.”

  “The next one, however,” says Valdez, “did throw up a match. An interesting match. David Arquez.”

  “I know that name,” says Elliot.

  “You should,” says Atkinson. David Arquez is a bodyguard for hire. He costs a lot, but he is apparently worth it. He has been arrested countless times, and each time he has been released in under twelve hours. His record is seventeen minutes.”

  “If he was in the hotel room, then he was there with someone who can afford to pay for him. No way would he be there by himself. Not his style,” says Valdez.

  “Of course,” says Atkinson. “There is no way to tell if he was there on the night in question.”

  “It had to have been him,” says Elliot.

  “Ask them about the remaining five sets of prints they had to run,” says Joyce.

  “What about the other five sets of prints?” asks Elliot.

  “Nothing,” says Valdez. Elliot looks over at Joyce.

  “Just thought you should be thorough, that is all,” she says.

  “Elliot,” says Atkinson.

  “Yeah?” says Elliot.

  “You know that this means nothing. Fifteen sets of prints. One belonging to a person of interest, but nothing tying him to that night, to the crime scene, and if I know him, nothing to tie him to that woman. If he was there, and that is a big if, then there is no way to prove that he killed the woman,” says Valdez.

  “Don’t take this to the Chief, okay?” says Atkinson. Elliot nods.

  “I gotta go,” says Elliot, looking over at Joyce. She nods in return.

  “You’re weird today,” says Valdez.

  “Weirder than normal,” says Atkinson.

  “Always a pleasure,” says Elliot. He leads them back up the stairs and out into t
he sunshine. Elliot shades his eyes, Joyce does not need to shade hers. The heat of the day is becoming stifling. Elliot takes out his phone and dials a number. Joyce can hear it ringing as he holds it to his ear. It rings three times and then Elliot hangs up.

  “What now?” asks Joyce.

  “Follow me,” says Elliot. They walk down the street. Joyce would be annoyed at how fast and frantically people are moving, if they were not passing straight through her. Elliot is bumped into a few times, but he takes it in his stride, like it is part of being.

  “Is everyone this rude?” asks Joyce.

  “In Brooklyn? Yeah,” says Elliot.

  “I mean, look at them. All moving so quickly, like they have somewhere important to go, yet their faces are furled up in grimaces, like they do not want to get there. People all look so unhappy. So frantic and sad. No wonder you live here. You fit right in. It was not like this in my day. Wow, did I just say that? Have I become my parents? I suppose it only took death to transform me into my parents. Go figure. You know, back when I was walking these streets, there were criminals, sure, but everyone was so happy. So chipper and full of hope. What happened?”

  “Life happened,” says Elliot.

  “Makes me glad to be dead,” says Joyce. “I cannot imagine living in a world as gray and lifeless and angry as this. Just look at people. Am I really the dead one? Looks like a lot of walking dead around me. Can someone tell them to cheer up? This world has gone to hell.”

  “This way,” says Elliot as he leads her down a back alley.

  “I would be afraid to go down a street like this. I would do it all the time, but I would be afraid all the same. Seems like seventy percent of all crimes happen down a back alley.”

  “Okay, keep quiet and let me do the talking. My CI will be here soon,” says Elliot.

  “No one can hear me, Elliot, remember? I can shout as loud as I want! And no one can hear a damn thing.”

  “Shh, I can. I’m losing my train of thought just listening to you. Please,” says Elliot. Joyce does not say anything more.

  After a few minutes, a shifty-looking young man walks down the alleyway, towards them. He is short and wiry, with a weaselly face. His hair is long on top. Not long enough to hang over his eyes, but long enough to look permanently unkempt. He is wearing a black leather jacket and holding a cigarette. The cigarette looks like it is for show, looks like it hangs from his fingers, permanently lit, and never sucked on. He walks towards them with a swagger, checking behind him as he walks.

  “This is your CI?” asks Joyce. Elliot does not say anything. He does not even look at her, keeping his eyes on the young man. “Wow, talk about stereotypical. Did you buy him at the ‘ready-made, shifty CI store?’ Could he look more like a criminal who talks to the police? He would sell you out in a heartbeat. I am surprised that he hasn't already,” she says.

  “Detective Lankford,” says the young man. His voice is raspy. It sounds like he is on the brink of coughing.

  “James,” says Elliot.

  “So what do you need?” asks James.

  “Just some info, word on the street. If anyone knows, then it’s you,” says Elliot.

  “Detective, you flatter me, but I will be needing payment,” says James. He holds out his hand, palm up. Elliot pulls a twenty from his pocket and presses it into his palm. James holds onto Elliot’s hand for longer than is comfortable, then lets go, disappearing the money into his jacket.

  “Thank you, Detective. Now, what do you need to know?” asks James.

  “David Arquez. What is he up to?” asks Elliot.

  “David? The bodyguard? Whatever he's up to is none of my business. Here, take the money back. It’s nothing to do with me. I gotta go.” James throws the money at Elliot and turns quickly.

  “Hit him,” says Joyce. Elliot looks at her. “Quickly, before he gets away.” Elliot takes a step towards James, pulls him around by the shoulder, and hits him square on the nose. James tries to scream out but Elliot covers his mouth, stifling the scream. James brings his hand up. There is no blood.

  “Look, I don’t know nothing,” says James.

  “Hit him again,” says Joyce. Elliot punches him in the face again. This time James does not scream out, but looks at Elliot with a look of betrayal. “And again,” says Joyce. Once more, Elliot hits James. This time, the blood begins to trickle from his nose. A slight blackness is appearing below his left eye.

  “What was the third one for?” asks James. Elliot looks at Joyce. She shrugs her shoulders.

  “I don't like his face,” says Joyce.

  “Who is he working for?” asks Elliot.

  “Please,” says James. Elliot lifts his hand one more time. “Okay, okay, but this did not come from me, okay? If it gets back that I did, then I’m a dead man. Some politician hired him a few months ago as part of his campaign for re-election. I don’t know who he is. Not long in politics, but his family don’t want for anything, if you know what I mean. Rich daddy and mommy. Spoilt little kid, from what I’ve heard.”

  “Give me a name,” says Elliot.

  “David Clarkson,” says James. Elliot finally lets go of James’ jacket, James slides down the wall and sits on the ground.

  “The twenty?” asks James.

  “If you had answered when I asked,” says Elliot. James nods to himself as Elliot walks away. Joyce takes a final look at James and then follows Elliot out of the alley. They go back to the station. Joyce follows Elliot into the precinct, looking around at the people working.

  “It's all the same. I can feel it,” says Joyce. Elliot walks over to his desk and begins tapping at the keyboard.

  “No wonder it went cold so fast, if a politician was involved, especially a rich one. You know, just because you have money, does not mean that you can do whatever you want,” says Elliot.

  “Be careful,” says Joyce. “We do not know that it was him. It could have been anyone. Build a case first, then when it comes to an arrest and conviction, it will be a done deal. Take your time and think it through.”

  “David Clarkson. He is part of the New York State Assembly. Not a big player by any means, but his father is very influential. Looks like daddy has big plans for him. In a recent interview—blah, blah, blah—sees his son as the face of New York politics, sees him as the future Attorney General. Wouldn't that be nice for David? Wouldn't that be something worth killing for?”

  “It is not a motive,” says Joyce.

  “Lankford!” shouts Chief Monaghan from across the room. Elliot looks up.

  The Chief is not happy. Presumably something to do with me. “Coming, Chief,” says Elliot.

  “Now, Elliot!” shouts the Chief. Joyce follows Elliot to Monaghan’s office. When he steps inside, the Chief slams the door.

  “Why are you having the lab run fingerprints?” asks the Chief. Elliot stares at him. “I saw you going down there. Checked it out a few hours later and they tell me that you are having them run fifteen sets of prints. What the hell is going on, Lankford?”

  “We got a new lead in the Bridlewood case,” says Elliot.

  “We? There is no we! There is only you. Disobeying my orders,” says the Chief.

  “I know. Listen, I found a set of prints there belonging to David Arquez. You know who he is and you know what he's capable of. He’s working for David Clarkson, a young politician with a rich family and even richer dreams. He’s climbing the political ladder and nothing is going to stop him.”

  “Is that right?” asks the Chief. “Is Arquez working for this politician in secret?”

  “I don’t think so,” says Elliot.

  “And is there anything tying Arquez or the politician to the room that night?”

  “Not yet,” says Elliot.

  “And is there anything tying the two of them to the woman?”

  “I haven’t looked into it yet,” says Elliot.

  “And you won’t,” says the Chief. “Look Elliot
. There is nothing to go on here. Even if there was, do you really think it would end up with you getting this rich kid? You want justice, right? Well in this case, there is no justice—which is the likely outcome, or you only find a scapegoat. Does that sound like justice to you?”

  “So we let him go? We forget about this?” asks Elliot.

  “Sadly, yes, Elliot. Look, I am not going to tell you this again. You drop the case and work on something you can solve.”

  “Chief—”

  “Lankford. If I catch you working this case again, then it will be a suspension. I can’t have you going off and doing your own thing. We are a team here. All of us, except you. You don’t seem to care about working with anyone else. I’m tired, I’m angry, and I’m hungry. Drop the case, Elliot. It doesn’t matter what leads we have, it’s not worth the effort to come up empty handed. I am telling you to drop this case, so you drop the case.” Elliot walks out of the Chief’s office, but this time does not slam the door.

  “You are not going to drop it, are you?” asks Joyce.

  “How can I?” asks Elliot.

  “He is your commanding officer. You cannot just disobey his orders. It is not how we do things. You are going to get yourself suspended,” says Joyce.

  “I don’t care anymore. I can’t just leave this. It’s a solid lead. Would you investigate this or not?” asks Elliot.

  “That is not the point,” says Joyce.

  “Would you investigate it?” asks Elliot.

  “I would want to,” says Joyce, “but if my commanding officer took me off the case, then I would respect that. We do not even know if there is any evidence. We do not know what we have. It's not worth getting suspended over. If you are suspended, then it is one less cop on the streets. Is this one case worth jeopardizing your entire career?”

  “I have to follow this up,” says Elliot.

  “Have you been listening to a word I've said? No wonder the Chief hates you. No wonder you don't have a woman. Or any friends,” says Joyce.

  “What about Atkinson and Valdez?” asks Elliot.

  “Do you see them outside of work?” asks Joyce.