Ghost of a Chance

“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.”

Her glare finally cracked, and the ghost of a smile crossed her face.

“Now was that so hard?” she asked, slinking around her desk.

“After you call Bickman, call around to the Inner-Ring hotels west of the core.”

Leslie picked up her notepad and pencil.

“Who am I looking for?”

“Anne Watson,” Alex said. “Her husband was murdered last night.”

“And she wants you to find out who did it?” Leslie asked, her ghost of a smile widening into a warm grin.

“Yes, but I don’t think there’s much I can do.” Alex explained about Lieutenant Callahan’s visit and his investigation. “I’m not going to take her money for a job the cops are going to do anyway,” he finished.

“But she does owe you for the work you did last night,” Leslie pointed out. “Those oils you burn in your lantern aren’t cheap, you know.”

“I was there about two hours,” Alex said. “Charge her my usual rate and let her know I’ll come by to see her this afternoon and answer any questions I can.”

“Will do, boss,” Leslie said, sitting down. With the prospect of some money coming in the door, she was much more chipper.

Alex ducked toward his office. He knew he was behind in paying Leslie but he should have known that she hadn’t been paid in three weeks. It was Leslie who handled the money, and the fact that she hadn’t paid herself meant that their situation must be particularly bad. He flirted with the idea of staying on the Watson case for a few days, just to pad out the bill, but he wasn’t desperate enough, or enough of a heel, to skim money from a grieving widow.

Not yet, anyway.

* * *

Once in his office, Alex pulled out the morning paper that he’d stolen from Iggy earlier. One reason the doctor insisted he read the paper every day was that, if a detective were desperate, he could always try to drum up work from the paper. In the classifieds, there was always someone seeking something, or someone, they’d lost, and the police blotter held news of people who’d been robbed. Such folk were excellent prospects for a detective with a good finding rune, and nobody had a better finding rune than Alex.

He read the classifieds, but nothing jumped out at him. One woman was seeking a man she’d met in the Great War, but she had no idea where he might be living. Alex’s rune was good, but he could usually only find things that were still in the city. The lady’s lost love could be anywhere.

Lost dogs were his go-to backup, but for some reason all of New York’s dogs decided to stay home this week. He shrugged and put that section aside. Leslie would have combed through it already anyway, looking for the obvious jobs.

He had just turned his attention to the police blotter when there was a knock at the door and Leslie let herself in.

“You find Mrs. Watson?” Alex asked.