Ghost of a Chance

“Who?” Alex and Callahan said at the same time, leaning over to see the name at which Detweiler pointed.

The portly Lieutenant looked back and forth between them before throwing up his hands.

“You know, for a couple of smart guys, you dummied up pretty quick,” he growled. “Nancy Sinclair. Now called by her married name, Nancy Banes.”

“Wife of Mayor Claude Banes?” Callahan said with raised eyebrows.

“The same,” Detweiler confirmed.

“That’s why you thought the list came from that hack at the Sun,” Alex said, finally understanding. “His paper’s been trashing the Mayor’s wife for months.”

“And you expect me to believe you didn’t know?” Detweiler said, glaring at Alex. “If I run with this, we’ll have to put extra guards on the Mayor. The papers will have a field day and I’ll be public idiot number one if nothing happens.”

“Or,” Alex pointed out, “if you ignore the list, the Mayor will make sure you rot if his wife gets killed.”

Detweiler crumpled the paper in his hands.

“It’s a nice box you’ve put me in, the both of you,” he growled. “If this is a bum steer and I end up looking the fool, I’ll make sure they put you away, Lockerby. I’ll make sure they throw away the key.”

“You’re welcome, Lieutenant,” Alex said with an easy smile. “Just don’t forget to mention my help when the mayor gives you the key to the city.”

Callahan struggled to hide a smirk so hard he looked like he might pop his collar button. He managed to master himself before Detweiler looked back at him.

“Callahan,” he said, nodding at the big man, then he turned toward the door but stopped. “If you find out anything else about this case, scribbler,” he growled at Alex, “I’d better be your first call. Got me?”

Alex put his hand over his heart with a wounded expression.

“Of course, Lieutenant,” he said. “My word of honor.”

Detweiler looked like he wanted to comment on what Alex’s honor was worth, but he apparently thought better of it and stormed out of the office.

“You’d better run while you can,” Callahan said to Alex once Detweiler was gone.

Alex had a sneaking suspicion he was right.

“Can’t,” Alex said. “I promised Danny to look over that list of thefts and see if anything pops.”

Callahan dug through the folders on his desk for a moment, then extracted a thick one and opened it.

“Here,” he said, handing Alex a single sheet of paper. “That’s a list of everything missing and where it was taken from,” he said. “I’ll have Danny call your office when I see him; now get going. I don’t want to have to explain to that secretary of yours why you’ve been locked up. She’s scary.”

Alex chuckled at that. Leslie had managed to get information out of cops for him before, mostly by being gorgeous. When that didn’t work, however, she’d use the force of her considerable, take-no-prisoners personality.

“Terrifying,” Alex agreed, folding up the paper and tucking it into the back of his red rune book. “I’ll make sure Danny gets this back to you.”

“Go,” Callahan said as a commotion erupted at the far end of the hall.

Alex skipped the elevator and made for the stairs, disappearing through the exit door just as Detweiler and a pair of uniforms rounded the far corner of the hallway, heading for Callahan’s office.

15 The Truck

The lobby of the Central Office of Police was still mobbed with reporters when Alex emerged from the stairwell. He didn’t want to spend any more time in the lobby than he had to; after all, he wouldn’t put it past Detweiler to come down after him. Still, he was at a dead end with all his current cases, and it was far too early to go see Jessica.

He resolved to go to Anne Watson’s house and dig through her husband’s files. It probably wouldn’t yield anything, but now that he had a list of the ghost’s potential victims, maybe he’d find a further connection.

“Hey,” a voice said, loud in his ear.

Someone grabbed his shoulder, and Alex tensed, fearing that Detweiler’s men had caught up to him. When he turned, however, he saw the face of a man in his mid-twenties. He had a broad smile under a narrow nose in the middle of a boyish face. A dimple in his left cheek increased his youthful look and his eyes were brown and inquisitive. He wore a brown suit that looked made for hard wear and a tag had been stuck into the band of his trilby hat that read, Press.

Alex suppressed a sneer when he saw the press card. He knew a couple of decent guys at the Times, but most reporters treated P.I.s like bumbling incompetents our outright competition.

“No comment,” Alex said, yanking his shoulder free and turning back toward the door.

“Wait,” the man said. “You’re that consultant, Lockerby. The runewright detective. Is it true that you’re working with the cops to find the ghost?”

“I said no comment,” Alex said.

“Aw, come on, pal,” the reporter pressed. “The whole city is scared to death over this thing. I mean, he seems to be mostly killing rich folk, but there was that one guy in Harlem. People are scared.”

Alex looked back at the man with his boyish grin.