Message from Beyond, Part Three

I didn’t sleep much, but at seven o’clock or so I stumbled into the shower, then got dressed and made my way to the office.

            The new Left Foot Killer murder was the top local story online. A young woman, name withheld, had been found dead by a dumpster in an alley on the north side. Her left ankle—or left foot-depending on the story—had been snapped, and she’d been strangled. 

            Why now? After two years? The cops weren’t commenting on that question. 

            Rachel staggered into the office in a T-shirt and panties. “Anything?”

            “Not yet. Maybe not ever.” I went back to Facebook. “I made coffee.”

            “I saw. I’m going to take a shower.” She turned, then looked back. “No checking out my butt.”

            “Who, me?” I grinned. Then I turned back to my computer

But before I could hit any keys, my phone buzzed. A Chicago Police number. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Mr. Jurgen? This is detective Naomi Diaz from the Chicago Police Department. I’d like to talk to you about a murder committed last night.”

            The call Sharpe had predicted. “Certainly, detective Diaz. Should I come down to the station?” It pays to be polite with cops. I might run into her again.

            “Not just now. I’m calling because detective Sharpe told me you’ve expressed in an interest in the Left Foot Killer case.”

            I took a deep breath. “I did ask her about that.” Then I explained why—without naming my client just yet.

            She listened. Then: “So someone is impersonating a victim on Facebook? Why?”

            I hesitated. “Uh, did detective Sharpe tell you anything about me?”

            Diaz snorted. “That I wouldn’t believe anything you said. I know about the vampires, but everything else makes me wonder what kind of drugs people are taking.”

            “I’m clean, aside from too much caffeine. How about this? It’s really Vanessa Scott, communicating from the great beyond.”

            Now she groaned. “You don’t really believe a ghost is using Facebook, do you?”

            “I’ve learned to believe a lot of crazy things. Detective Sharpe has too. You might ask her.”

            “Whatever.” She was skeptical. “Anyway, I need to talk with your client.”

            Nuts. Sam Spade would have told her to go to hell. But this was real life, not a Dashiell Hammett novel. I sighed silently. “Justin Cornell. I’ll have him call you.”

            “No. Just give me his number.”

            She was right. The cops wouldn’t want him to have any warning, even if he wasn’t the Left Foot Killer. I hated to do it, but I gave Diaz the number. She thanked me and hung up.

            I got more coffee. My phone buzzed again as I sat down to the computer. Unknown number. For once I truly hoped for a telemarketer offering me a great new rate on life insurance, my electric bill, or air-duct cleaning. “Tom Jurgen speaking—”

            “Mr. Jurgen? It’s Traci Bueller. You left your number.” She sounded half-frantic. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

            Me neither. “How can I help you?”

            “I just got up. My laptop was on, and I always turn it off when I go to bed. But it was open to Vanessa’s page, and I saw what you wrote to her.”

            “Okay. What can you tell me?”

            “I don’t know! This is crazy! I think . . . I think . . .” She gasped. “Wait a minute . . . Ohh . . . Wait . . .”

            I wondered if I should call 911 to her apartment. But after a second she came back. Her voice was—different.

            “Tom? This is Vanessa Scott.”

            Definitely Traci’s voice, but low-pitched—almost a whisper. “Hello, Vanessa.”

            “I don’t have much time. It’s hard to stay . . . here.”

            I had a dozen questions. Maybe more. Where were you before? What’s it like? Did you see God?Or Satan?

But I tried to stay focused. If she didn’t have much time, I was going to ask as many questions as I could. “So why are you here? Now? Why did you contact Justin Cornell? Why take over Traci?” 

            “He’s going to do it again. He did it again. Justin is—was my friend. So is Traci.”

            “Who is it? Who killed you?”

            “I didn’t see—him. It was outside. I didn’t see . . .” She fell silent.

            Traci came back a moment later. “Oh god. It was—her, wasn’t it? Vanessa?”

            How much was she aware of? “Yeah. It was your friend.”

            “I could hear her—me. Talking to you. From far away. I don’t get this!” Her throat sounded hoarse. “It doesn’t make sense.”

            “These things never do.” I waited a moment. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

            “I—I guess.” Her voice trembled. “What?”

“What happened the night Vanessa was killed?” 

            “I was—she was . . .” Traci swallowed. “We went out for drinks. And dinner. And drinks again. I told the cops all about it. I left, and Meredith and Vanessa were still there. Then I got a call the next morning . . .” She started to sob.

            My phone buzzed with another call. Cornell. Of course. Damn it. “Listen, I have another call. Can we meet?”

            “S-sure. I guess.” She sniffed. “I’ll text you my address.”

            “Thank you. —Hello, this is—”

            “Jurgen! Goddamn it!” Cornell’s voice trembled. “The police just called me! This isn’t why I hired you! What’s going on?”

            “There’s been another murder.” I tried to keep my voice calm. “I was doing research into Vanessa’s death before it happened. I talked to some police contacts, and—”

            “I was in the hospital all night! With my father. He’s sick. I don’t understand how you could—”

            I was tired too, but I didn’t expect him to be sympathetic. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cornell, but I’m not a lawyer or a doctor or a priest. I don’t have any legal protection here. There’s been a murder. My advice is to call your own lawyer before saying anything to the police.”

            “I don’t have a lawyer! Not for this, anyway.”

            “Then tell the police you won’t answer any questions without a lawyer present. They can’t arrest you, and that’s when everything gets complicated.” I took a breath. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cornell. I’m still looking into this.”

            “Have you found anything? Jesus Christ—”

             I leaned back in my chair and gazed at the ceiling. How to make this sound rational? “Your girlfriend Vanessa apparently possessed her friend Traci Bueller from, uh, beyond the grave?” Oh yeah, this sounded insane. “She sent you those Facebook messages. I’ve talked to her—them. Both.” I paused. “I know it sounds insane.”

            “So Vanessa is still—alive?”

            “No.” Not a ghost but—“Somehow she’s reaching out. She knew the killer was going to strike again. And he did. That’s the problem, now.”

            “Oh god.” Cornell sounded as if he was fighting tears. “I just—we weren’t going to get married or anything, at least not yet. But it was so hard . . .”

            I let him cry. Sometimes being a P.I. is like being a psychologist. 

            After a minute I heard him blow his nose. “All right. I guess I have to go talk to the police now.  Let me know if—you find out anything. If you hear from her. Tell her—Say I’m sorry.”

            What did that mean? I still wasn’t convinced that Cornell wasn’t the killer, even if he did have a solid alibi for last night. But he was still my client. “Sure thing.”

Message from Beyond, Part Four

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.”

Message from Beyond, Part Five

Back home I called Anita Sharpe. “What did you tell detective Diaz about me?”

            She laughed. “That you’re crazy. What did you think? But yeah, sometimes you’re right.”

            That was possibly the second-nicest thing she’d ever said to me. “What if I told her I know who the Left Foot Killer is, but all the evidence is, well, psychic?”

            “She—hell.” Sharpe groaned. “Okay, she might actually listen to you. Anyone here would give their own left foot to find that guy. It’d be worth a promotion, a book deal, and maybe a spot on Oprah.”

            All right. “Thanks. I’ll call her.”

            I left a message. Then I noticed that I had a message from my client. I called back.

            Cornell sounded exhausted, as if he’d been up all night. “Okay, the cops believe I didn’t kill Kristy Long—or anyone else. It helps that my dad and a whole lot of nurses saw me in the hospital all night. Are you getting anywhere?”

            Kristy Long was the name of the latest victim. We’d heard it on the radio driving back. “It’s what I told you. Vanessa is using Traci to speak. I think I know who the killer is, but it’s nothing I can prove. I’m going to stay on this, but I think I’ve done what you hired me for, so you’re off the hook. I’ll send you my report.” And my invoice.

            “Okay.” He sighed. “Thank you. Sorry for getting mad.”

            “No problem.”

            “And let me know what—happens? Okay?”

            “Sure thing.”

            Rachel brought me coffee. “Another happy customer?”

            “Under the circumstances. Thanks.” I sipped.

            “Not going to be a habit. Next cup’s on you.”

            My phone buzzed. Diaz. “Hang on—yes, detective! How’s your day going?”

            “Peachy. What have you got?”

            “Take a look at a bartender named Will at a bar called Killjoys. I don’t know his last name, but find out where he’s been for the last two years.” Since the murder before Kristy Long’s. 

            “Why the hell should I do that?” She sounded impatient. Most cops do.

            “Vanessa Scott feels he’s the killer.”

            “The ghost?” I could hear a snort of contempt. 

            “It’s not like you’re going to call her at the trial, okay? Just check the guy out.”

            “Fine. But if your next clue comes from a Ouija board, don’t bother calling me.” She hung up. 

            I sat back in my chair. “Our public servants are grateful for our assistance.”

            Rachel snorted at her desk. 

My phone buzzed in the middle of dinner—ravioli and salad. It was a text message. From Traci:

CHECK FACEBOOK.     

            Damn it. I showed it to Rachel. “Come on. Sorry about dinner—”

            She punched me. “There’s a serial killer on the loose!” Then she laughed. “I feel like I’m on TV.” 

            In the office I logged onto my profile. I had a private message from Vanessa:

Vanessa:He’s going to do it again. Tonight.

What the hell? I tried to imagine calling Diaz about this. So instead I sent a reply:

Me:How do you know?

Vanessa:He spent all day here. He just left. Traci’s asleep.

Me:He just killed someone last night. If it’s really him.

Vanessa:It’s him. I could finally see inside. When they were—doing it.

Me:Does Traci know?

Vanessa:No. Maybe. I don’t know.

Hell. I wouldn’t have believed this scenario if I’d seen it in a movie. And I’ve seen The Sixth Sense. Also Ghost. But movies don’t have to make sense. People do.

Me:Wake her up. Have her call me.

            No response. Rachel was leaning over my shoulder. “Now what? Dinner’s getting cold. But I don’t think I have an appetite.”

            “Me neither.” I sat back and crossed my arms. “Let’s see.”

            She pulled her chair over and sat down. Two minutes. Five. Then—

            “Mr. Jurgen?” Traci. “I just woke up from this dream. It was Vanessa, telling me to call you.”

            I made sure the phone was on speaker so Rachel could listen. “She was just on Facebook with me.”

            “Yeah . . . my laptop’s open on the bed. What’s going on?”

            What to say without spooking her—or making her hang up on me? “Where’s Will right now?”

            “He—he had to go to work. He’s there until 10. Why?”

            I glanced at Rachel. She nodded.

            “Vanessa thinks he’s the Left Foot Killer. The guy who murdered her.”

            “What? That’s crazy! I can’t . . .” Then she gasped. She was silent for a long time, and then we heard her coughing, hacking—throwing up. 

            “Oh my god.” Her voice was raspy. “I just—Vanessa—she told me. Just now. When she saw him today—oh my god . . .”

            “Traci, it’s Rachel.” She leaned in. “I felt it too. Once he came in. It’s not your fault.”

            “Oh god, oh god, oh god.” Traci managed a deep breath. “I just—walked into Killjoys a few weeks ago. After the accident. And Will was there, and I remembered he was nice. It was the first time since—since Vanessa, and I don’t think he remembered me, but I recognized him. And he was so nice about my foot. My—left foot.”

            “Okay.” I tried to sound reassuring. “We’ve already talked to the police about him. They’re checking into his background—and where he’s been for two years—”

            “He said he was in California, but he was always vague about where and what he was doing. I think—I don’t know. I don’t think I know anything right now.” She started to cry.

            He could have been out of the country—or in jail on some other charge. Back in Chicago at his old job, he might be making up for lost time.

            “Traci, it’s okay.” Rachel kept her voice calm and soothing. “Just relax. Try to rest. Don’t let Will in. Stay safe.”

            “Rachel’s right.” I looked at her. “We’ll take care of this. By the way, what’s Will’s last name?”

Message from Beyond, Part Six

Rachel and I stood outside Killjoys on North Lincoln Avenue at 9:30. Vanessa Scott’s body had been found just a few blocks away. Kristy Long had been found a mile south.

            “What are we doing here again?” Rachel peered through the window in the door.

            “It’s called surveillance. You know, detective stuff.”

            “Ooh, you sound so professional.” She elbowed my arm. “Did you take a correspondence course?”

            I held the door for her. I’m a gentleman, always.

            I’d called Diaz. I’d told her that there might be another Left Foot murder tonight. She seemed skeptical—not a surprise. But she’d checked into Will’s background. His full name was Will Scheer. He’d done 20 months in Indiana for dealing marijuana, dating from a month or so after the last Leftie murder until yesterday. 

            She promised to check him out personally. But I wanted to do the same thing.

            So we walked into Killjoys.

            It seemed like a typical neighborhood bar on a weekday evening. Not crowded, not too noisy, just folks perched at the bar and groups and couples sitting at tables clustered around the room. Music on the jukebox, and a baseball game on TV.

            I picked out a table in a corner where we could watch the bar, the door, and the game. The White Sox were down 2-1. Will was working alone.

            I headed up to the bar. Will started to smile as I approached, then frowned. “What are you doing here?”

            “We’re always looking for a nice bar.” I checked the beer taps. “Two Heinekens?”

            He obviously didn’t believe me, and for a moment I thought he’d tell me he didn’t want my business. Then a blond woman at the end of the bar waved a hand and pointed a finger at her glass.

            He poured some Chablis for her, then yanked the Heineken tap. “We’re just friends.”

            “You have a key to her apartment.”

            Will shrugged. “We’re just dating. It’s nothing serious.”

            They’d slept together this afternoon. But maybe that didn’t count as “serious” these days? Or maybe I’m just an old-fashioned guy in his mid-forties. “How long?”

            His gaze hardened. “None of your business.” He filled two glasses. “How about you drink your beers and leave. Twelve dollars.”

            I gave him fifteen. It seemed rude not to tip, even if he was a serial killer.

            I carried the beers over to our table. “Anything?”

            Rachel shook her head. “Not from here. Want me to go hold his hand? Maybe limp a little bit?”

            I shuddered. “He’d probably like that too much.”

            We nursed our beers. At 10:15 Will’s relief showed up, just as the White Sox were going for a relief pitcher themselves. Will wiped his hands on a towel and they shook hands.

            The woman drinking Chablis closed out her tab, and Will added her tip to his bag. Then he headed to the back room.

            The woman made a call on her phone, then stood up and headed for the door.

            “Well, this date has been a bust.” Rachel finished her beer. “At least the Cubs are winning.”

            “That’s the White Sox.” Did this place have a back door? Or would Will leave through the front? But Rachel was right. “Yeah, not much of a date. Do I have any chance of getting lucky?”

            She smirked. “Maybe. The night is young.”

            Out on the street, the blond woman lifted a hand for a cab. Then Will came through the door behind us. He wore heavy boots with steel toes. 

            “Oh god.” Rachel grabbed my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

            Half a block away, we stopped in front of an all-night convenience store.  Will and the blonde were chatting in front of a taxi. He tried to hold her hand, but she pulled her arm away, laughing. Then drop down and slid back, closing the door.

            The cab pulled a U-turn on the street. Will watched it go, then spun on his heels and sauntered away.

            I clutched her wrist. “Come on.”

            “Isn’t this stalking?” Rachel giggled.

            “Only if we get caught.” 

            At the next corner Will stopped, looked in all four directions, then turned right and crossed against the light. We dodged cars to get across the street, and barely spotted him in the distance under the streetlights. 

            “What are we going to do if we catch him?” Rachel was breathing steadily, while I was panting. “Citizen’s arrest?”

            “You’ve got your stun gun, right?” My feet hurt. 

            She patted her jacket. “Always. Especially on dates with you.”

            Will stopped for a cigarette. Rachel and I huddled in front of a dark furniture store.

            Then a voice startled us: “What the hell are you doing here?”

            I jumped. A little. Rachel swung around, reaching into her jacket.

            It was the blond woman from the bar. “Uh, just taking a walk?”

            “Tom Jurgen.” She glared at me, then flicked her eyes at Rachel. “And Rachel Dunn. The psychic girlfriend.”

            “I’m a lot more than a girlfriend.” Her hazelnut eyes blazed. “But I am psychic. You’re a cop.”      “Diaz. We talked on the phone. Come on, get going!” She pushed my elbow.     

            Will dropped his cigarette on the pavement. I smirked. “At least we’ve got him for littering.”

            “Shut up.” Diaz darted ahead of us. “Stay back.” She tapped her ear and muttered into her phone.

            A cab crawled down the street beside us. The same one Diaz had boarded. 

            “I’m thinking they’re on top of this.” I huffed and puffed as we trailed Will and Diaz. She was already half a block ahead of us. I had to start working out more.

            “Maybe we can go home now, old man?” She pulled on my arm.

            I tried to catch my breath. “Some days I don’t know what you see in me.” 

            Rachel laughed quietly. “Fishing for compliments, jerk?”

            “No, just—wait . . .”  

            Will found a bus stop. A young African American woman sat on the bench, staring at her phone as she waited for a bus. 

            The street was silent and empty. Diaz hid in the shadows of an awning over the entrance to a Mexican restaurant across the street. Her cab sat at the corner.

            Rachel and I leaned against the door to an apartment building, next to a looming dark alley.

            “Next time, just take me to a concert or something.” She leaned against my shoulder. “Surveillance just isn’t very sexy.”

            I got that. “Pick the band. U2, Bruce Springsteen, Jeff Scott, S.J. Tucker, anything but—” I stopped. 

            The woman stood up and looked down the street, as if searching for a taxi. 

Then Will lunged forward and wrapped an arm around her throat. 

            She struggled. Kicked a heel at his crotch. But Will dragged her back—hauling her straight toward the alley next to us. Maybe he didn’t see us, intent on his victim. 

            Will hurled the woman down on the hard pavement next to the building, shadows looming over them. He stomped a boot on her ankle. “Take that, bitch! You won’t walk, you won’t do anything!” 

He leaned down, grabbing for her throat as she squirmed on the ground. “Don’t talk. Don’t do anything. It’s okay. It’ll all be over soon—"

            Rachel jammed her stun gun into his leg. 

“AHHH!” Will roared, rolling over, his body twitching. Rachel hit the stud again, sending a second jolt of juiceinto his body. 

            “Back off!” It was Diaz, with another cop behind her. Both holding very large handguns. “Stand away! You—don’t move! You . . .” She glared at me. “Stay away. Both of you.”

            Will collapsed. Rachel dropped her stun gun and backed away, lifting her hands. 

The victim rolled over, groaning, then kicked at his ribs. “Asshole! Bastard! Take that—” 

Diaz kept her eyes and her weapon on Will as the other cop pulled the victim away, but she flicked a glare at me. “We’ll want to talk to you. On the record. —I said, don’t move, asshole!”

            Will’s eyes burned at me as the taxi cop pulled his arms behind his back for handcuffs. Diaz kept her handgun trained on him until he was secure. Then she slipped it under her jacket.

            “Okay, you two.” She shook her head. “Like I said, I’m going to need a statement downtown.”

            “Sure.” I glanced at Will. “Now do you believe me?”

Diaz smiled. “Nobody like an ‘I-told-you-so.’”

I made my statement downtown, and Rachel gave hers, with all the details. Including everything about Vanessa Scott communicating from beyond the grave via Facebook. The cops could think I was crazy or not, but I always figure telling them the truth is safer than trying to keep any lies straight.

            We got home by 11:30, had a few beers, watched some TV, and collapsed into bed. No, I didn’t get lucky. But I got a good night’s sleep.

            Will’s arrest was online the next morning. “POLICE CLAIM CATCHING LEFT FOOT KILLER.” Our names weren’t mentioned, which was fine with me. 

Rachel and I were in the office when my phone buzzed at 9:30. Sharpe. I put it on speaker for Rachel to hear. “Good morning, detective—”

“Shut up.” But Sharpe laughed. “I had a very fun chat with Diaz this morning.”

“Are they lining her up for Oprah yet?” I sipped my coffee with a grin.

“She’s already talking to agents about a book deal. But I don’t know if she’s going to mention you and Rachel. Diaz says for your girlfriend to stay out of playing police with her stunner.”

            Right. “You know as well as I do that I can’t control her. How’s the perp? Is that the right word?”

She snorted. “Lawyered up. There was no sexual assault in any of the murders, but there’s still plenty of DNA evidence to match. It should hold up. We did find one interesting thing.” She paused.

“What? Are you eating lunch or just building up suspense?”

“His mother had a club foot. She never got it taken care of, for—religious reasons, I guess. So she had it all her life. Guess which foot?”

Eeny, meanie, miney, moe . . . “The left one?”

“Not sure what it means, but—”

“Sounds pretty Freudian.” Rachel leaned behind me, a hand on my shoulder. “Will I get my stun gun back? They’re expensive.”

“Talk to Diaz. Right now it’s evidence. You guys might have to testify. But I doubt if the D.A. will want you to talk about Facebook messages from ghosts, so who knows?”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

After that I called my client. Cornell had read the papers too. “Does this mean Vanessa will stop messaging me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, if that’s what she came here for.”

“I hope so. It kind of freaked me out.”

“Me too.”

Rachel and I went back to work. She was designing a website, and I had background checks to do.

After lunch my phone buzzed again. Traci’s number. But it wasn’t Traci.

“This is . . . Vanessa.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “Traci’s asleep.” 

“Uh, hi.” Phone calls from beyond the grave? No stranger than Facebook messages from the land of the dead, I guess. “I think we’ve caught your killer.”

“I know. Traci’s half-hysterical. I can’t talk to her directly, but maybe you could tell her—I’m sorry?”

“Sure thing.”

“And Justin too. I won’t be back. Already it feels like I’m fading. But it’s all right this time. Now I think I can sleep.”

My reporter’s instincts surged. I had to ask: “What’s it like?”

“Death?” Vanessa hesitated. “It’s like a long, long dream. You don’t know if you’re ever going to wake up. But you don’t care.”

It sounded better than eternal hellfire—or camping out on clouds with the saints forever, for that matter. “Thank you.”

“Thank you. Goodbye.”

She hung up.

“So what is death like?” Rachel had only heard my half of the conversation. “Not that I want to find out soon.”

I shrugged. “Starbucks. Only with cheaper espresso.” 

She hurled a pencil at me. I ducked, grinned, and went back to work.

###

The Gracious Ones

Furies from the ancient Greek myths infest Tom Jurgen’s nightmares, seeking to drive him to suicide. Is it all about a corporate nondisclosure agreement that’s already driven people to suicide—or something worse?

The Gracious Ones, Part One

The three Furies circled overhead, shrieking at me. Chains were locked around my arms and legs as a freezing rain whipped across on my naked body. I screamed back at them, cursing as viciously as I could, struggling with the chains as tears froze on my face.

            <Dream of endless pain!>

            <Dream of eternal torture!>

            <Dream of being ripped apart forever!>

            I tried to scream, but the icy rain filled my throat. I closed my eyes and wished for it all to be over.

***

I don’t usually read the obituaries. They remind me too much of my own mortality. But I was skimming through the Chicago Tribunewhile eating my cereal and recognized a name: Mandie Shannon, 27. 

            A month before I’d been hired by Fort Financial, an investment firm, to tail a woman named Mandie Shannon, an account representative they suspected of giving secrets to a competitor in violation of their strict nondisclosure agreement. There were emails, and their IT software had picked up a download of confidential data. I spent a few days following her to lunch, then after work. Sometimes I rode the bus with her until she got off a block from her building.

            Mandie Shannon was in her late twenties, with short blond hair. She usually wore a messenger bag over one slender shoulder, presumably holding her laptop and papers from work. A water bottle dangled from the side.

            One night she got off the bus halfway home and headed to a bar. She took a table, so I ordered a beer at the bar, as close to her as I could get without looking like I was stalking her. 

            After ten minutes, a man sat across from her. Not a boyfriend—no kiss or hug, just a friendly nod. He ordered a beer as Shannon sipped her gin and tonic. 

            I got a few photos of them, pretending to talk on my phone. After a few minutes Shannon dug into her pocket and dropped a slim black lozenge-shaped item on the table—probably a thumb drive.

            The pictures I got were blurry, but they were enough for Brian Alderson at Fort Financial to recognize the guy when we met the next day. “That’s Ralph Pacetta. He works for CX Holdings.” He shook his head. “Okay, thanks.”

            I stood up. “What will happen to her?”

            Alderson shrugged. “She signed the NDA. Good work. Thanks.” That was it.

            So I went home, emailed my invoice, and a few days later cashed the check.

            Now Mandie Shannon was dead.

            Was it my fault?

Rachel staggered into the kitchen, stretching and yawning in a long T-shirt and shorts. I tried not to stare at her legs. She’s my girlfriend—we live together—with short red hair, hazelnut eyes, and vaguely psychic powers. Which must have told her something about my state of mind. “What’s going on?”

            I was on my laptop, looking for more details. “Take a look.”

            I’d found a three-paragraph story in the Chicago Tribune from a month ago: WOMAN DIES IN BALCONY DIVE.

An account manager a financial services firm apparently leaped from her 17^thfloor condo balcony in what authorities are describing as a suicide. The woman, 32, had exhibited signs of mental illness in recent days, according to family members, including hallucinations and inappropriate behavior, but no issues were reported before then. Streets around the condo building were closed off for several hours during the investigation . . .

            The article had a picture. Definitely her.

Rachel peered over my shoulder at the screen. “Right. I remember this one. All you did was take a few pictures.”

            “And she got fired. So now she’s dead.”

            “Maybe she just broke up with her boyfriend.”

            “After getting fired.” I pushed my cereal bowl away. “I have to check into this.”

            “You’re not responsible for everyone in the world.” Rachel refilled my coffee and poured her own mug. 

            “Just my little corner of it.” I sipped my coffee. “Thanks.”

            In the office I share with Rachel I called Alderson. “Have you heard about Mandie Shannon?”

            “Yeah.” He groaned. “It’s not our fault. Things happen. It’s a high-pressure job.”

            “Was she fired?”

            “I can’t talk about that. Hell, they didn’t even tell us anything, except for an email that she was no longer with the company. It’s all handled through the lawyers and HR.”

            “Has anything like this happened before?”

            “I can’t talk about that, okay? Look, I’ve got another case coming up for you, if you’re interested.”

            As long as it didn’t lead to any more suicides. “Sure. Call me.”

            I’ve killed vampires and other supernatural creatures, including a dragon, and been indirectly responsible for some human deaths. Even if they had it coming, they gave me enough nightmares that I was on medication for a while.  

            This was different.

            Rachel came in as I was doing a search on other Fort Financial employees who’d died recently. “Feeling better?”

            “Not really.” I stared at my screen. “Three other Fort Financial employees have committed suicide over the last year.”

            “Oh, hell.” She peered over my shoulder. 

            “There might be more.” I didn’t have a complete list of Fort employees, and the news media doesn’t always indicate that a death is a suicide. So I‘d listed all the suicides I could find—and that was a depressing exercise—and then cross-checked them with LinkedIn profiles, looking for Fort Financial. That’s how I found my three. Two men, one woman, not counting Mandie Shannon.

            So what the hell was going on? Demonic possession? Ghosts? Bad coffee?

            Maybe I was overthinking this. Bad things happen. Suicides come in waves, although this wasn’t high school. And dealing with clients’ money had to be stressful.

            I’m not psychic, like Rachel. But I’ve picked up a certain spidey-sense about the supernatural over the years. 

            So I sent a few emails. I wasn’t sure they’d even get through. But it seemed worth a shot.

By midafternoon I’d finished all the current work I had—background checks, mostly, and I didn’t have any cheating spouses to tail today. Rachel was trying to fix a website she’d designed that wasn’t working properly, and she was swearing viciously with every click of her mouse. 

So I went in the living room and slouched on the sofa, playing Minecraft on my laptop.

            At around 3 p.m. my phone buzzed. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

“Mr. Jurgen? My name is Amy Birks. You emailed me about my husband’s suicide.”

Steve Birks. He’d killed himself three months ago. I saved my game and sat up. “Thanks for contacting me, Ms. Birks. Like I said in my email, I’m not looking for any money, and I’m, uh, terribly sorry for your loss. I’m just on my own here, but I’m looking into the, uh, scattering of suicides that seem to be happening over the last year at—”

“Fort Financial. Yeah, I saw the story in the paper today.” She paused, and I thought I heard her swallowing a drink. “Mandie Shannon? Steve was her—her mentor for a while. She was a nice kid. It sucks. What do you want?”

“Did your husband’s—death—have anything to do with Fort Financial?”

She groaned. “They said he stole $150,000 from his clients. Asshole. They said he was lucky he didn’t go to jail. Instead, the company made up the money to pay off his clients, and then they just—sent him home.”

“They fired him.”

“Suspended without pay.” A bitter laugh. “He spent the first few days getting drunk and watching porn on the computer. He wouldn’t come to bed. Then when he did come to bed, he had nightmares, and he couldn’t sleep. So he got up and drank more, and then he had hallucinations.”

Just like Mandie Shannon. “What kind of hallucinations?”

“He was being chased by angels. Women with wings and claws, shrieking at him. All night. He couldn’t sleep—I couldn’t sleep. All day, he was waving his arms around, like birds or hornets were buzzing around his head. I couldn’t think. He was screeching, and then he was just lying on the couch, moaning like he was too sick to move.” 

She took a deep, hoarse breath. “It lasted two days. I almost called an ambulance—twice. I should have.” She sniffed, and then I heard her blow a nose. “I should have. The next morning he wasn’t in the house, and I went out to the garage, and he was . . . hanging from the garage door opener.”

I leaned forward, my guts churning as Amy Birks sobbed. 

So two people had broken Fort Financial’s rules, suffered from hallucinations, and killed themselves. I remember Alderson’s words about Mandie Shannon—“She signed the NDA.”

What was in that NDA?

Amy Birks caught her breath. I swallowed and asked, “Again, I’m very sorry for your loss. And for bothering you. I don’t really have an angle here. I’ve done some work for Fort Financial, including something involving Mandie Shannon. Now I just—” I didn’t know what to say without sounding like I was just trying to justify myself. My own guilt. “There’s a nondisclosure agreement that apparently everyone signs, right?”

“Oh, yeah.” She snorted. “Steve stayed up one night looking it over and over again. For a loophole, maybe.”

Wait—I’d signed an NDA myself when I took the Mandie Shannon job. It was fairly standard when working for organizations. Mine was probably different than the one Birks had signed, since I was a contractor and not a fulltime employee.

I asked Amy Birks is she could send me a copy of her husband’s NDA. Then I went looking for my own.

The nondisclosure agreement read like the agreement you have to click to upgrade your software, as long as you sign over your firstborn child in a clause hidden in the seemingly legitimately legal mumbo-jumbo that no one ever looks at. This was only three pages, and basically prohibited me from discussing any of my work for Fort Financial with anyone outside the firm, with the exception of associates of my business, whom I had to name. I put down Rachel’s name because she helps me on my cases, although she didn’t play an active role on the Mandie Shannon surveillance. So talking to her probably didn’t put me in violation of the NDA. Probably. 

The consequences of violating the NDA were possible refunding of fees and ending the relationship with regard to any future cases. But there was also a vaguely-worded arbitration clause:

Contractor agrees to arbitration (6) on issues relating to disclosure violations. Arbitration is binding and may not be rescinded, and contractor agrees to abide by its judgment without appeal.

Fine, except I couldn’t find footnote six anywhere. Just four footnotes on the last page, defining the contractee (Fort Financial), the contractor (me), acceptable associates (Rachel), and terms of payment. My actual fee was part of a separate agreement. 

            Rachel stood up and stretched. She wore a tank top and yoga pants, which distracted me for a moment. “You want a cup of coffee?”

            “Do you speak lawyerese?” I held up the NDA.

“I took French in high school. But I get these in my work.” She hunched over. “I think it all basically means ‘You will be thrown into the pit of Hell to be consumed by dragons if you steal a co-worker’s lunch.’ Which will also happen if you don’t stop checking out my butt.”

            Oops. I looked up. “What about the arbitration? And the missing footnote?”

“Arbitration is a bitch.” Rachel stood behind my chair. “I had to go through it twice. I got paid the one time because I could show I actually did the work, but the other time they ruled against me because the guy harassing me was the CEO’s nephew—”

“Wait, what?” My spine stiffened. “Someone tried to—”

            She slugged my arm again. Hard. “Shut up. You don’t need to go full vigilante on me. It was a long time ago, and I got through it. End of story.”

            “Sorry.” I was angry at the thought that someone had harassed Rachel, but I couldn’t do anything about it now.

“It’s sweet that you care.” She rubbed my arm. “Coffee?”

I grinned. “I’m going to check out your butt again.”

She stuck out her tongue, then swung her hips as she headed for the kitchen. “Da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da-dum . . .” She winked over her shoulder.

My phone buzzed again. “Tom? Brian Alderson? Are you up for another job?”

“Sure.” It was an automatic response. “Uh, I’d like to talk to you about this NDA.”

“We all sign them. There’s nothing to worry about. Look, I’ll send you the details and the contract. Are you in?”

This might be a way to figure out what was going on. “Yeah. Okay. Send it to me.”

Rachel set a fresh mug of coffee in front of my computer screen. “Good news?”

“Maybe. Another case.”

“Same place?”

I sipped. “Uh-huh.”

She groaned. “Just be careful.”

“Always.”

She didn’t slug my shoulder, but only because I had hot coffee in my hand.