Fade to Black Page 15

  “Here’s hoping. Because you all seem just fine with it,” Marnie said.

  “You will be, too, eventually,” McFadden said softly. “Lock up?” he added to Jackson.

  “You bet.”

  McFadden excused himself. Marnie jumped up. He took her by the shoulders and looked down into her eyes, smiling gently.

  “We’re going to solve this—all of it!” he promised her.

  She nodded weakly.

  He headed out, and Jackson followed him to lock the door.

  “It really will be okay,” the FBI field director told Marnie when he returned to the kitchen.

  She sank back into a chair at the breakfast nook. He sat at the table across from her.

  “Why?” she asked weakly. “I’ve gone my whole life, and now...now, all of sudden, Cara appears before me. Dead. Her ghost. Why?”

  “Because she needs your help, and evidently she really loved you. She really wants you to be able to have a life.”

  “But...why now? I’ve never even felt a shiver down my spine before.”

  “Perhaps it has always been there—the ability. But we have abilities we only develop when we need them. And right now, Marnie, it seems you need the dead.”

  * * *

  The Los Angeles County Department of Medical Examiner-Coroner was massive, and county officials often dealt with a backlog of fifty to a hundred bodies.

  They were in luck that day, Vining told Bryan. The examiners were fairly caught up—and the body from the pool had taken precedence over those who were elderly and had died alone, and a few other cases that could be put on hold.

  Bryan wasn’t sure what those cases might be, but the office of the chief medical examiner in every county was responsible not just for suspected murder, but for suicide, and to answer any questions when someone had died alone.

  They had donned scrubs, and Vining led Bryan and Sophie down a hall, then stopped to open a door that looked as if it was for a very large refrigerator. Inside the room were row after row of silver gurneys, all holding the remains of someone who had lived and breathed not long ago. They were covered with sheets that appeared to be thin plastic, faces hidden.

  They were all awaiting attention.

  In death...flesh and blood, so much meat.

  Bryan braced himself. He’d seldom seen ghosts in a morgue. In his experience, they only sometimes frequented morgues, burial grounds or cemeteries. They weren’t happy places, though many did feel compelled to attend their own funerals. Some tried to comfort those they’d left behind—some determined to know if they would at the very least attract a good crowd of those who then wished they’d been better friends in life.

  No essence of a soul lingered in the refrigerated room of corpses.

  “Yes, I can see they have a few people who need an ME’s tender care,” Bryan said.

  “Crazy cities here, crazy county,” Vining said. “Thankfully, on this, we have some real help. Doc Priss is the best. She came in last night and made sure we had fingerprints from the deceased put through the system. We can hope for something, at least in the way of an ID. We’ve taken pictures we could release, but I’d rather not go that route. I’d prefer we find out on our own, if possible. But if we don’t get something by tonight, I will get his image on the news.”

  Doc Priss called to them from where she was waiting at the end of the hall.

  “Initial cuts in place, my friends. My dernier—assistant—is waiting. If you will? You don’t have to be here, but if it is your desire, it is time to get moving.”

  They hurried down to join her. While the room where the autopsy was taking place was sterile, it wasn’t private. Two other autopsies were taking place at the same time; LA County certainly was busy with the care of the dead.

  “Sophie told you I did the prints last night?” Doc Priss asked. When Vining and Bryan nodded, she swept a hand through the air over the body and continued, “We are looking at a man who had been in his prime. Fine muscle tone, every organ in his body in great shape. Except, of course, for where the bullet ripped through his gut, where it tore out chunks of liver and lung.”

  She clicked a little button on a wire around her neck; the rest of what she had to say would be recorded. “Ripped through his gut” not being a medical term, she had apparently chosen not to record until after she had said the words.

  She went on in detail that was fit for the recording, noting colors and temperatures and the weight of the heart and what she believed to be the remnants of a hamburger and fries in his stomach. The contents would be tested later.

  “Hamburger,” Vining said, shaking his head.

  “Hey,” Manning protested. “This is LA—that could have been one expensive hamburger!”

  “Exactly. Expensive hamburger joints have sprung up everywhere. I doubt if we’ll get a real take on where he’d been from some half-digested chopped cow.”

  “Barely digested cow,” Doc Priss corrected. “Our John Doe here had a meal not more than an hour and a half or two hours before he was killed.”

  Doc Priss went on. She was thorough and clear. In the end, however, not many of the details were helpful.

  The man had been in his mid to late thirties. He hadn’t been a drinker, nor had he abused drugs. He had most probably attended a local gym—if not, he had a home gym or played an active sport such as soccer or football.

  Bryan didn’t believe the weight of the victim’s brain was going to help them at all. If only they could narrow down a restaurant where he’d had his last meal, they might trace his steps the hours before and up to his death.

  And if they were able to find his identity through fingerprints, that would be an amazing step in the right direction.

  Bryan waited patiently for Doc Priss to finish.

  Once outside with Manning and Vining, he put forward his theory.

  “I believe the dead man killed Cara Barton,” he said.

  “You mean he was killed by the man who killed Cara Barton,” Vining corrected.

  “No, I mean, I believe this guy was a hired killer, and he killed Cara Barton.”

  “Why would you think that?” Manning asked, frowning.

  “The person in the Blood-bone costume at the convention was about our John Doe’s height and weight, or so I would judge by the video I’ve seen and what I’ve heard. The dead man was in really good shape. I watched the videos. The killer could move and wield a sword well. He was obviously someone who was very fit. I think he somehow failed in what he was supposed to do to, or he then refused to cooperate or went against whoever hired him to do the killing.”

  “That’s pretty vague,” Vining said.

  “It’s a theory. Nothing but a theory.” Bryan thought about telling them he also believed a man dressed as Blood-bone had killed the man who had previously worn the costume. But Vining didn’t seem at all sure Bryan’s theory was in any way plausible.

  He could hardly try to tell him that a ghost claimed to have seen Blood-bone kill the man they had found in Marnie’s pool. He’d need proof, and the only way for that was to get out on the street and canvas as many neighbors as he could.

  “So, what is your plan?” Manning asked him.

  “I’m going to see if I can find anyone who saw anything,” Bryan said. That was the truth.

  “We’ll head back to the station,” Vining said, watching Bryan closely. “I hear we’re going to get official help from the FBI—and it’s something you already know all about,” he added.

  “A joint task force is going to be formed,” Manning said, watching him, too. She looked as if she would have said more—or flatly asked him why it would seem he had been involved with the federal government coming in on their investigation, especially when it didn’t appear anyone was crossing state lines or that a serial killer was at work.

  There was no reason n
ot to tell them everything—everything that he could tell them. “The director for a special unit was good friends with my folks. I have worked with a few members of their team. They all knew I was coming out here.”

  “You must have some pull, then. It’s expensive, sending agents all over the country.”

  Bryan thought Vining was a good guy, a policeman through and through, wanting the best outcome. Now the detective was really curious about him.

  “Friendship can go a long way,” Bryan said.

  “I guess so. Anyway, we’ll call you if we’ve got something. And, of course, we expect the same,” Vining said.

  Manning stood silent, watching him. He smiled at her. “I appreciate that,” he said quietly.

  “One of your friends is at Marnie’s place now, right?” she said.

  He nodded.

  She looked at Vining. “Told you he wouldn’t leave her alone. Dog or no dog, alarm or no alarm.” She turned to him again. “So, are you convinced the killer meant to get to Marnie, not Cara Barton?”

  “Maybe Cara was the target. But since Cara died, someone has tried to break into Marnie’s place. And then someone was killed in her swimming pool. I can’t just see it all as coincidence.”

  “I can’t either,” Manning said.

  The detectives headed off.

  Standing in front of the morgue, Bryan put through a call to Jackson.

  Everything at the duplex was fine. “Do we expect you soon?” Jackson asked him.

  “I’m going to be in the neighborhood, but I’ll be out knocking on doors. Maybe I will come by and get George. Walking a dog might be helpful.”

  Jackson agreed. “People are less suspicious of a dog walker than they are of a man knocking at their door.”

  “Let’s just hope some of the neighbors are out, and they have dogs. Or, at the least, come out for their mail or something,” he said. “I hope to hell someone saw Blood-bone running around.”

  “That won’t give us a clue to the guilty party. What about the dead man? Did you get anything off the body?”

  “No revelations. He ate a hamburger and fries before he died. Was in great shape. Anything happening there?”

  “Miss Davante is lovely.”

  “Yeah,” Bryan agreed. “So all is well?”

  “It is.”

  “See you soon. I’ll be multitasking. We get to find out if an actual living witness saw a Blood-bone, and George gets a nice walk around his new neighborhood.”

  * * *

  Marnie had to admit that if you were possibly being stalked by someone intent on homicide, she was being protected by the right people.

  Jackson Crow was very professional—he was also down-to-earth, approachable and didn’t mind answering any of her questions. She learned the Krewe had been formed in New Orleans when a congressman’s wife had been pitched over a balcony. Jackson had met his wife—Agent Angela Hawkins—on that first case. The team had grown substantially since that time.

  In turn, he asked her about Dark Harbor, about her fellow cast mates and all those related to her work in the past—and what she wanted to do in the future.

  “As I understand it, Cara Barton is the first of the dead to speak to you?” he asked.

  Marnie stared at him.

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  “I know it’s scary at first, but I can’t imagine a life without them now. Ironic, I suppose—maybe not. The living have always needed the dead. The dead are our pasts. They are our mutual history as human beings. I think it’s unsettling for some, often downright terrifying, but...” He paused and shrugged. “They help,” he said. “They see what we don’t. Sometimes they want nothing but to move on. Others...others want to stay. They don’t mind that they’re here—such as they are.”

  “I see,” Marnie murmured. “No, I don’t really see at all.”

  Jackson sat in an armchair in Marnie’s living room, facing the front door. He started to answer her.

  But then he smiled and straightened and politely stood, looking behind her.

  Marnie turned around, rising, as well.

  Cara Barton was with them.

  “Hello, Ms. Barton,” Jackson said.

  Cara clapped her hands delightedly. “He sees me, too,” she said. “And, oh, he’s so cute!”

  “And so married,” Marnie said, smiling.

  Cara waved a hand in the air. “I am all about same-sex and interracial and interfaith marriages! But seriously, Marnie, dear, don’t be a dunce. The dead really can’t get too carried away with the living. But that’s not the point at all here. Sir, who might you be?”

  “Special Agent Jackson Crow, Ms. Barton, here to work on the investigation into your death.”

  “My murder,” Cara said grimly. “Thank you. I heard about you last night from the other tall, dark and handsome. So, has he found the Blood-bone who killed the fellow in the backyard yet?”

  “Blood-bone! Blood-bone isn’t real,” Marnie whispered.

  “Right now, so it seems, Blood-bone is very real,” Cara told her.

  “What did you see happen here last night?” Marnie asked.

  “Blood-bone shot and killed that man and stood watching until he went into the pool, until he was absolutely certain the man was dead.”

  9

  “I’ll go with you,” Marnie said.

  Bryan shook his head. He’d returned to the duplex and was ready to take George for a nice long walk around the neighborhood.

  “It’s better if you don’t,” Bryan told her, glancing over at Jackson.

  The field director picked up his cue.

  “The man in your pool was shot. We have no idea if someone was out there hoping you’d come home—”

  “No, come on. We know what went on yesterday, thanks to Cara Barton. She saw a Blood-bone character was here, and whoever it was dressed up as Blood-bone, that person apparently lured the other man here so he could shoot and kill him and leave him in my pool.”

  “That doesn’t really matter. What matters is a man was shot. A killer out there has a gun. If someone is going to jump in front of you to stop a bullet, they have to know the bullet is coming,” Bryan explained.

  Marnie flushed. “I don’t want anyone to have to stop a bullet for me.”

  “Then let me take the dog,” Bryan said. “Are Bridget and Angela back yet?”

  Jackson shook his head. “They should be another hour. The alarm installers will arrive just about the same time.”

  “I’ll be back in an hour,” Bryan promised.

  “If they do arrive, I am here,” Jackson reminded him.

  “Of course,” he said quickly. He had never meant to imply that his friend—field director for an ever-growing unit of special agents—wasn’t capable of keeping Marnie safe while an alarm system was installed.

  And yet, in a way, he had done so.

  Ego or something else? he asked himself.

  He never would have imagined it—with his parents being who they were, growing up he’d come across tons of beautiful people, some of them talented, some of them nothing more than gorgeous egoists—but he was definitely being affected by this particular beautiful person.

  And that meant he was being foolish. He was not the only one who could keep her safe.

  Jackson was watching him, the hint of a smile on his lips.

  “Cara was here again,” Marnie interjected. “She was here, in fact, until just a few minutes ago. And then...”

  Marnie lifted her hands into the air, indicating Cara had disappeared into thin air.

  “Ah,” Bryan murmured. “Well, then, George and I are off. Even here, between Universal Studios and Hollywood, I keep thinking someone would have noticed a guy walking around in a costume like that.”

  “One would hope,” Jackson said.

>   Bryan had George on his leash; they headed off down the walk.

  Barham and the surrounding streets were busy—with cars. It didn’t appear anyone was out. Then again, he hadn’t expected people to just be standing on their sidewalks.

  He didn’t want to get too far from Marnie’s place. By pretending to allow George a tremendous interest in a palm tree, he loitered just down the block from the duplex long enough for a woman in a casual halter dress and flip-flops to come out of her house with her garbage. She looked at him. He waved.

  She went back inside.

  He headed halfway down the next block.

  This time, George was allowed a keen interest in a cherry shrub.

  A man drove his car right past Bryan into his driveway, parked and clambered out with groceries. He looked at him a long time.

  He was going to be helpful, Bryan thought.

  “Hope you’re going to pick up after your dog!” he said.

  “Yes, sir, I intend to do so,” Bryan replied.

  Then, oddly, the man stuttered as he kept staring at him. “S-sorry. I mean, I just... Well, if you don’t pick up after your dog, not to worry. I’ll come out and handle the situation.”

  Why the sudden fear?

  Bryan gave George a gentle tug on the leash and started toward the man’s yard.

  “Don’t hurt me!” the fellow said.

  Curious and frowning, Bryan paused and studied him. The man was about forty-five. He had most of his hair, and while not any kind of a bodybuilder, he seemed in good enough shape. But his face had gone white.

  “I have no intention of hurting you. Are you all right? Has someone threatened you?” Bryan asked.

  The man swallowed and shook his head. “You’re just...tall. And yesterday...at the TV star’s place...a man was killed,” he ended in a whisper. “Isn’t that wild? But there was a monster walking around the neighborhood right when it happened—can you figure that? A...a tall monster. You’re, uh, tall.”

  Bryan nodded. “I’m actually working with the cops on it. I’m not any kind of a monster. Really. But what monster did you see?”

  The guy was still studying him. He’d set his groceries down. He remained uneasy. He seemed to realize it was too late to try to get out of speaking with Bryan. He was evidently wishing he’d never spoken.