Rachel insisted on coming with me to meet Traci Bueller. Partly because she was worried about me investigating anything around a serial killer, but mostly because she’d taken a look at Traci’s profile. Blond hair, blue eyes, and at least two bikini photos. “I’m not letting you alone with her.”
“It’s nice that you still get jealous.” I drove my new Honda Acura. It was a hybrid, and I was still getting used to starting it with a button instead of jamming a key into the ignition, and I could barely work the radio, let alone all the electronics on the dashboard.
She punched my shoulder—gently, so I wouldn’t run off the street. “I just don’t trust you and ghosts. Remember that last time?”
“That was years ago. Anyway . . .” I spotted the address. “Here we are.”
“Hi.” Traci Bueller opened the second-floor door. She walked on crutches, a brace around her left leg. “Thanks for coming. I don’t get out much lately.”
She slumped into a chair next to her computer. “If you need anything, my kitchen’s over there. Feel free.”
“We’re fine.” Rachel looked around the apartment. It was small, with plants everywhere and windows looking out on the street. “I’m Rachel, by the way. I work with Tom.”
Traci nodded. “Nice to meet you.”
“Can I ask what happened?” Rachel sat on the sofa. I perched next to her.
“Hit by a car. Eight months ago. Still doing rehab.” She sighed.
“I’m so sorry.” I hesitated. “I’m sorry to bring up another traumatic incident, but—”
“The murder?” She sighed. “I have more nightmares about getting hit by the car.” She picked up a pack of cigarettes sitting next to the computer. “It was two years ago, but I remember everything—mostly because I had to tell the cops over and over.”
She flared a lighter and lit a cigarette. “Okay. We went out for dinner. Drinks first, me and Meredith and Vanessa and Robyn. First at Dancy’s, I don’t think it’s there anymore. Two guys tried to pick us up. I think the cops found them, but they weren’t involved. Then we went to dinner—Applebees. Then we went to another bar called Killjoys. It’s still there.”
She puffed on her cigarette, enjoying the smoke as it calmed her nerves. “Everything was fine. The bartender was nice. His name’s Will. Nobody tried to hit on us. Meredith and I left first. Robyn said they left together a half hour later, but she got into a taxi first. That’s—it.”
Traci shook her head. “I don’t know what happened after that. I got home, everyone texted each other, except for Vanessa, but I didn’t much about it until the next day, when . . .”
She looked at the floor. “I should have—I know. I should have called. But it was late, and I was a little drunk. And then the next morning . . .”
She stabbed her cigarette out and lit another. “She was dead.”
I nodded. “So when did Vanessa start taking over?”
She stiffened. “I don’t—I don’t know, exactly. I started having dreams maybe a week or so ago. I was in an alley somewhere, with a bag over my head, and someone was stomping on my foot.” She winced, and her left leg twitched. “And like I said, I woke up in front of my computer one day. I just figured I was sleepwalking or something.”
I’d woken up in my office at three in the morning a dozen times with my computer on. Sometimes work, sometimes—okay, porn. I’m a guy. “But today? You found your computer open to her Facebook profile. And you saw her messages. And then you—”
“Hang on.” Rachel stood up. “Like I said, I work with Tom. I’m sort of—well, psychic. Does that sound crazy?”
Traci shook her head. “Not right now.”
“Can I—hold your hand for a moment?”
Traci glanced at me, nervous. Then she sat back and held out a hand. “I guess.”
Rachel sat down next to her. They held hands.
“It’s all right.” Rachel smiled. “It’s not like the Vulcan mind meld or anything. Just . . . relax for a moment.”
Traci nodded. Rachel closed her eyes.
Watching Rachel do this stuff always made me nervous. She’d been possessed by demons once or twice. I waited, ready to pull their hands apart and slap their faces, or—whatever.
Rachel’s head jerked. Her eyes closed, then sprung open again, blinking rapidly. She looked around the apartment, peering at the windows and the plants as if trying to figure out where she was. Her hazelnut eyes zeroed in on me—as if she didn’t recognize me at all.
Then she slumped on the couch.
“Traci?” Her voice was lower, almost a whisper. “Is that you?”
Traci kept her eyes closed. “Van—Vanessa?”
She nodded. “Yeah.” She stretched her neck and shoulders, breathing deep. “Who is—who am—where am I?”
Traci exhaled. “You’re inside—her name’s Rachel. She’s—she works with that guy. Where are you?”
“I’m here. With you.”
I leaned forward. “Why are you here? Now?” I wasn’t even sure Vanessa could hear me.
“I can—feel him.” Rachel’s arms shuddered. “He’s close. He came back.”
“Who is it?” I didn’t think I could convince the police to listen to anything a ghost told me, but it might give them something to go on.
“It’s—it’s him. I didn’t see him, but I can feel him.” Rachel looked up and down, as if a bat was flying across the ceiling. Then she jerked back and looked at the door.
It opened. Someone obviously had a key. “Hello? Traci?”
Rachel yanked her hands away. Traci dropped her arms, her body sagging against the back of the sofa.
The guy walked forward. “Who the hell are you?”
I stood up quickly. “Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective. This is Rachel. Traci is helping me on a case.”
I knew how it sounded, so I kept my distance before he could hit me. Then Traci sat up. “Will? It’s okay. What are you doing here?”
“I don’t have to be at work for a few hours. I just thought I’d—” He glared at me. Then shifted his eyes to check out Rachel. “Okay. Who are you people?”
Rachel smiled. “Hey, Will. Long time no see.”
He frowned. “Do I know you?”
Good question. I’d never seen this guy before. But—wait a minute . . .
The bartender was nice. His name’s Will.
“Wait.” I looked at Traci. “Was he the bartender at, what, Killjoys? The night Vanessa was murdered?”
“He was . . .” She lowered her head. “It took me forever to go back there. And then he was he was just there, a few nights ago. Like nothing ever happened.”
I looked at Will. “So where were you?”
Will stepped forward. “I don’t have to answer anything from you. Get out.”
It seemed like a good idea. He was big and muscular, with thick shoulders and long arms. Fictional P.I.’s laugh in the face of danger. I usually try to run away. I held out a hand to Rachel. “Come on, Rach. Let’s go.”
“It’s okay.” Rachel staggered to her feet and shook her head, as if to clear the last vestiges of Vanessa away. She gazed at me and smiled. “Tom, right? She likes you.”
All right. I looked at Traci. “I’m sorry.”
Will glared at me.
Rachel rubbed her eyes, then grabbed my wrist. “It’s fine. Let’s go home.”
Rachel was silent in the car, pulling herself together. “It’s him.”
Oh hell. “Does Traci know?”
“No. Vanessa does.”
“But she didn’t see—”
“She felt him! Like a smell. When he came into the room.” Rachel pounded the dashboard. “It’s why she came back to Traci. She knew—she knew . . .”
She started to cry. Rachel never cries. I held her shoulder until she blew her nose.
“Sorry.” She tossed the handkerchief on the floor as I reached for the key—then remembered and hit the power button.
“No problem.” It didn’t make sense. “Does she like him? Traci, I mean?”
“She likes him okay. I got a sense of relief when he came in the door. Like she was grateful for him coming over to check on her.”
“Her foot’s broken.”
She shook her head. “Will didn’t do that.”
“Maybe he has some kind of foot fetish.”
She punched my arm. “Let’s just go home.”
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