Ghost of a Chance

“I was never working this case with the police,” Alex said. “I understand Lieutenant Detweiler is running the investigation. If you want information, you’ll have to take it up with him.”

With that, Alex pulled away and maneuvered through the crowd to the big glass doors at the end of the lobby.

“Thanks for nothing, mac,” the reported called after him.

* * *

Ten minutes and a short crawler ride later, Alex pushed open the gate to the Watson home. He was surprised to find it locked and empty. There wasn’t even a squad car on the street.

Detweiler must have called off the investigation into Anne when Paul Lundstrom was murdered.

Alex hadn’t anticipated being locked out of the house, but he came prepared. Taking out his rune book, Alex paged to the back. He passed a green and gold rune that would open the lock magically, but the components of that rune cost forty dollars. Alex preferred a much cheaper method of entry.

He tore out a vault rune and, taking a bit of chalk from his jacket pocket, drew a chalk door on the wall of the porch. A moment later he was back on the porch with the beat-up leather doctor’s bag that held his kit.

Alex paused for a moment to wipe away the chalk outline before he opened his kit. Anne Watson was his client after all; no sense in leaving her porch untidy. He took out an ornate pencil case that held the various writing instruments he might need on the job. The case was made of wood with a slender, mahogany tray and a cherry cover. Turning it upside down, Alex pushed his thumb along the bottom of the mahogany tray and a concealed panel slid sideways, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside were several tools for picking locks.

The Watsons’ lock was the newer kind that took a small key with multiple teeth. Setting his kit and the pencil case aside, Alex selected a slim tool with an undulating end and an L-shaped tension tool. It had been a while since he’d been forced to pick a lock, but Iggy kept saying it was like riding a bike. Alex had never ridden a bike, so he wasn’t sure that was true, but the lock clicked open after only a few moments of manipulation.

Feeling quite self-satisfied, Alex replaced the tools inside the hidden compartment of the wooden case, picked up his kit, and went inside.

* * *

Two hours later, Alex sat at David Watson’s enormous desk. It was no longer a shrine to neatness and order. Piles of file folders were stacked from one end to the other and his immaculately organized file cabinets stood open and mostly empty.

With a sigh of disgust, Alex closed the file he’d been reviewing and dropped it on a stack to his left. He’d been through almost every land deal for which David Watson had records, and none of them involved anybody on the ghost’s list. There were many records from Suffolk County, mostly houses David had built.

Alex stood up and went to the wet bar he’d found concealed behind a folding door. Locating a bottle of single malt scotch, Alex poured himself two fingers in a shot glass and sipped it.

It was exquisite.

He closed his eyes and enjoyed the aroma and the taste of the liquor. On his budget, the best he could do was bourbon. Occasionally Iggy would break out the good stuff from his liquor cabinet, but that was a rarity. He reserved that for important conversations and deep contemplation.

“I could get used to this,” Alex said, taking another sip. He looked around the office at the wall with the glass-enclosed shelves. Watson’s old surveyor’s transit and other equipment were there, showing his humble beginnings. The next case held blueprints and photographs of houses, detailing the man’s years as a builder and finally a developer. According to the files, Watson had built some of the biggest houses on the north shore.

Alex took another sip of the whiskey, but it didn’t go down as smoothly this time. Something about Watson’s wall bothered him.

Setting the drink aside, Alex moved back to the desk. Each of the folders had a label on it listing the date of whatever transaction the files detailed. He began staking them up by year and returning them to the file cabinets where he’d gotten them. After an hour of this, the clock on the wall read one o’clock; he was ravenously hungry, but he had a small stack of folders left on the desk.

These folders represented Watson’s work as a surveyor. None of the files detailed his work for the Assessor’s office; those records would be in storage in Suffolk County. The files on the desk represented Watson’s independent work. There were seventeen of them. The eighteenth file, in chronological order, had been the first building Watson had ever built, a glassed-in tennis court for a wealthy family.