Ghost of a Chance

The half of the rune on the torn paper wasn’t much, but it was the only clue available. He didn’t recognize it, but then he had no way of knowing how much was missing. It was a rune of the geometric school, which let out the glyph runewrights, but that didn’t make him feel much better.

Taking out his notebook, he copied the half-rune as exactly as he could. Later he’d go home and draw it bigger; maybe then he’d recognize it.

“Lockerby!” Detweiler shouted, his tromping footsteps coming up the hall. “Get out here!”

Alex had no idea what the Lieutenant was upset about, but he didn’t want to be caught flat footed, so he blew out his lantern and dropped it and the oculus into his kit.

“What’s the matter, Lieutenant?”

Detweiler rounded the corner with a crumpled paper clutched in his hand. His face had gone red again and his teeth were bared.

“Duane King is not the ghost,” he shouted, throwing the crumpled paper at Alex. “That telegram just arrived from Florida. King died in Miami six months ago.”

Alex unfolded the paper and read the neat typewritten words. According to his parole officer, King had been killed in a fire in boarding house. His body was buried in a common grave in the city cemetery.

Alex read the telegram again, just to make sure he’d actually read it right. He wanted to say something reassuring, something that would make this information make sense, but nothing came to mind.

“That’s it,” Detweiler said, somehow angrier at Alex’s bewilderment. “You’ve been messing this case up from the start, leading us around by the nose, leaking to the press, and generally making me look the fool.”

“Lieutenant,” Alex began but Detweiler cut him off.

“I’ve had enough of your antics,” he shouted. “Preston, get in here and arrest this meddler.”

24 The Cooler

The basement of the Central Office of Police was a series of rooms, cages, and holding cells known collectively as the Cooler. After Officer Preston had put Alex in handcuffs, he’d been driven to the Central Office and thrown unceremoniously into a large open cage with a few drunks and a sullen-looking pickpocket.

The police had confiscated all his possessions, including his suit coat with its shield runes. Apparently they’d dealt with runewrights before and had procedures for handling them.

There wasn’t a clock anywhere, so Alex had no idea how long he’d been there. Not that it mattered. He’d been so sure that Duane King was the killer. As far as Alex could tell, he was the only person with a real motive.

That you know of, he reminded himself.

Seth Kowalski and his confederates at North Shore Development probably swindled dozens of people out of their land, buying up small farms and scrubland before anyone knew rich people were looking to build their summer homes in the area. Seth and his friends probably made millions before anyone knew better. There could be hundreds of people who wanted them dead.

No, the contrarian part of his brain protested. Word would have gotten around fast that rich people were buying up land. Even if North Shore wanted to swindle people, they really didn’t have the time.

Alex thought about the building permit North Shore filed for the parcel of land that included Duane King’s property. That permit had been filed just a few weeks after the tax sale.

Duane King’s five acres of land was right in the middle of the twenty-two acre parcel. North Shore wouldn’t have been able to sell the parcel if they hadn’t gotten King’s piece. That had to be it, they were desperate. That permit was one of the first they filed; if that deal had fallen through because they didn’t have King’s land, they’d have probably lost everything. That sale gave them the capital they needed to buy up the next bit for the next fat-cat looking for a beachfront home.

Alex had already figured out the rest. They told Duane King the land was worth less than what was owed for the taxes, so he’d let it go to tax sale, and then manipulated the sale to be sure they got it.

“So unless there’s another phony tax sale on the books, King is probably the only person they actually swindled,” Alex said out loud.

“What?” the nearest drunk mumbled looking up. “You know a king? Really?”

“Go back to sleep,” Alex told him, then got up and started pacing around the cage.

None of this made sense. Everything pointed to Duane King, but that simply wasn’t possible. If the ghost was using escape runes to leave the scenes of his murder, he’d be purchasing his revenge with his own life. Who, other than Duane King, would be motivated to pay that kind of price?

And yet, King was dead. Dead and buried in a pauper’s grave.