Ghostly Investigations Box Set

Chapter 3

“He lives hell and gone from here,” Jon said the next morning, looking at the address Sage had given them for Grant Newton. “If you tell me you’ve got a car…”

“Nope,” Brody replied. “That’s something I don’t think even the oldest of ghosts could master. Besides, can you imagine peoples’ faces when one drove down the street, apparently all by itself?”

Jon laughed. “That would be something to see. We’re flying?”

“Yep. The same as always,” Brody replied. “Remember, we’re not tied to the earth so we can go where we please. The fact his place is almost in the boonies doesn’t matter.”

“And here I thought we might take a bus, or hitch a ride with some unsuspecting car owner.”

“We could, smartass, if you don’t mind spending half the day getting there.” Brody grinned when Jon flipped him off.

“It’s almost ten. Isn’t it a bit early, or late, to go to his place? He should be at work, wherever that is.”

“Which gives us a good chance to check out his house.”

“You make it sound like we’re burglars or something.”

“Think about it, Jon. We can’t search while he’s there. He might wonder why a drawer or a closet door opened on its own.”

“Good point.”

* * * *

Mike got up around eleven, dressed, and ate a fast breakfast. Even though he wasn’t due at work until four, he’d had an idea about how to find out if Grant—no last name—had been at Far Horizon two nights ago, when Watts had been there. To do that, he wanted to be at the club when it opened at noon, with the hope that it wouldn’t be too busy. That way the manager would have time to talk to him uninterrupted.

He was correct on the first point. There were very few people inside the club when he arrived. When he asked Roger—the same bartender he’d talked with the previous evening—for the manager, he found out the man was running late.

“He should be here soon, according to him,” Roger told Mike. He recognized Mike and asked if it had to do with the man he was searching for.

“It does. You being here, too, will help,” Mike replied. “That is if the club has video surveillance.”

“We do,” Roger said. “Why?”

“I want to see the videos from two nights ago, to find out if the other men we talked about were here.”

“Your best bet would the ones on the front door,” Roger said. “But then, you probably know that.”

Mike nodded. “I do.”

Roger looked at the front door when it opened again, then beckoned to the man who entered. “Alan,” Roger said when the man came over, “this is Detective Harris. Detective, this is Alan King, one of our managers.”

“Please call me Mike,” Mike said, almost at the same moment that Mr. King told him to call him Alan.

“How can I help you, Mike,” Mr. King asked.

Mike explained, then asked if it was possible for him to see the surveillance videos.

“Of course. If you’ll come with me.” Mr. King took him to a room at the back of the club. There was a large monitoring screen that showed the views from the four cameras in the club simultaneously. The man watching it glanced over at Mr. King in question.

Mr. King introduced Mike, then said, “Bruce, he wants to see the videos from two nights ago.”

“Just the one from the camera covering the front door, please,” Mike said. “Unless people can come in through the back, too.”

“No,” Mr. King replied. “It’s only an exit, with an alarmed panic bar.”

Bruce moved over to a computer and a moment later said, “Here you go.”

“Before we start, I need Roger here, too. If you don’t mind,” Mike told Mr. King.

“I’ll get him.” He did. Then, with Roger standing beside him, Mike began watching the video as Bruce ran it.

“If you see any of the men you said were with Watts a month ago, let me know,” Mike told Roger.

“No duh,” Roger replied, grinning a bit. “There,” he said a few moments later.

Bruce paused the video. It showed a blond man.

“I need a screen capture of this,” Mike told Bruce. “Printed out.”

“No problem.” Bruce did as he’d been asked, then handed it to Mike. It was surprisingly sharp, much to Mike’s relief. There was a timestamp—nine-fifteen and twenty seconds.

“Him,” Roger said a moment later. The video showed a dark-haired man. Mike asked for another print out.

When the video got to nine-thirty, Mike saw Watts entering the club. He asked for a capture of that, as well. “Can you speed it up? I need to see when those three men left.”

Bruce did, stopping when the timestamp showed it was ten-thirty-seven and the dark-haired man left. Watts exited the club at ten-forty. Mike made note of the times, then again when the blond exited at ten-forty-five.

“That should do it. Thanks for your help,” Mike told the others.

“No problem,” Mr. King replied. “I hope you find the killer.”

“So do I,” Mike said, taking a folder Bruce handed him for the printouts.

* * * *

“I don’t know why, but I expected something…fancier I guess,” Jon said when they were inside Grant Newton’s house.

The house was one of many similar ones in a residential neighborhood at the edge of the city. It had a small living/dining area, a kitchen, and a room Grant obviously used as a home office on the ground floor. Upstairs there were two bedrooms and a decent sized bathroom.

“Let’s start with his office,” Brody said.

Since Jon had only been a ghost for two days, there was no way he could do anything other than watch while Brody went through the desk drawers. “Anything?” he asked.

“Nothing that helps us,” Brody replied in disgust. “Let’s see if I can get into his computer.”

He did, much too easily, he told Jon. “If he’s got anything to hide, it’s not on here.”

“Where else would he put something to keep anyone from finding it?”

“In a safe, maybe.” Brody turned slowly, studying the room. “I’ll check behind the books, you look under the rug.”

“Me?”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“I feel useless,” Jon grumbled.

“Maybe you can’t move things, but you do have a pair of eyes. Use them.”

“Yes, sir. If I knew what I’m supposed to be looking for…”

“Anything out of the ordinary,” Brody told him as he removed, then put back the books on the shelves. “Start with the living room.”

Jon did. If there was anything strange about it, he wasn’t seeing it. He went into the kitchen. It held the usual appliances. He supposed there could be some secret hiding place in one of the cupboards but there was no way he could check. He said as much when Brody joined him a few minutes later, so Brody did—and came up empty.

They searched upstairs as well, with nothing to show for it. In the end, they decided if Grant had anything to hide, he wasn’t doing it at the house. They did find out where he worked, thanks to a couple of emails Brody discovered on Grant’s computer.

“Our next stop,” Brody said.

“He’ll be there. We can’t search while he is.”

“We can this evening,” Brody replied.

“Something to look forward too,” Jon said sourly. “I stand and watch while you do the work.”

Brody laughed. “It could be worse. You could be doing this on your own.”

“Which would be pointless, considering.” Jon paused. “I know I haven’t said it, but thank you.”

“No thanks needed. It gives me something worthwhile to do, for a change. And a nice guy to do it with.”

If he’d been alive, Jon had the feeling he might have blushed, even though he was sure Brody meant that as a compliment and nothing more.

* * * *

As soon as Mike got to the station house, he went in search of Leon, the detective who handled the facial recognition program. He found him in what was laughably called the break room, getting coffee.

“I need you to run these,” Mike said, handing Leon the folder.

Leon looked at the photos. “Which men?”

“Yeah, that would help. These two.” Mike showed him.

“Okay. With luck, they both have driver’s licenses, which will give us a good start.”

“I know. Once you get names and addresses, I can go from there.”

They went up to Leon’s small office. Mike tried to curb his impatience while Leon did his thing. He knew it would take time, so when Leon got a hit on the blond few minutes later, he was somewhat surprised.

“He’s one Grant L. Newton.” He printed out the information on Newton’s driver’s license then went back to his search, telling Mike, “No wants or warrants for him. Now for the other guy.”

Mike paced, which he knew wasn’t helping either of them when Leon shot him a look and told him to sit and behave. With a small laugh, Mike did.

“Okay. Your dark-haired man is Thomas Irwin. He’s been arrested three times for having drugs with intent to sell. He beat the charges twice. Good lawyer, I suspect. He did six months the third time. Things must have gotten better for him since then. He lives in a high-security high-rise downtown.” Leon printed out the information.

“Interesting. Why was he with Newton and Watts? I wonder if they know he’s a dealer?”

“No clue. You’ll have to ask them.”

“Hard to do with Watts. He’s dead.”

“That could present a problem. At least you know where to find Newton.”

“I do, and I’m going to have a long talk with him.”

* * * *

“He’s an accountant?” Jon said when he saw the sign on the door of the company where Grant worked.

“Why are you surprised?” Brody asked.

Jon shrugged. “From what little I remember of him, he didn’t seem the type. You know, buttoned-down and serious.”

“I bet most accountants aren’t, in real life. They’re merely people who are good with numbers and can make money juggling them for their clients.”

They went into the waiting room for what turned out to be a suite of offices, each one with a name on the door. Grant’s was halfway down the long hallway.

“Very…staid,” Jon commented.

“I think accountants have to make it seem as if they have propriety and dignity if they’re going to impress the people who hire them.”

“I guess, but there aren’t even any pictures on the walls.”

Brody shrugged as he began searching for anything that might give them an idea if Grant was doing something nefarious, as Brody put it. He was immediately stymied by the fact Grant’s computer was well secured. “Not surprising, but frustrating,” he commented dryly.

There were file cabinets along one wall, all of them locked. “And me without lock picks,” Brody grumbled. He searched the desk to see if Grant was the kind of person who left the keys to the cabinets in one of the drawers—with not luck.

“If we had a list of his clients, it might help,” Brody told Jon.

“And you know that would be on his computer.”

“Exactly. If he was cooking the books for someone, there’s no way we’ll find out, even if we knew how to tell he was.”

“Even if he was, what would that have to do with my murder?” Jon asked. “There’s no way he would have told me.”

“True, that. Do you remember anything the two of you talked about?”

“The normal stuff, I guess. Getting to know each other better.”

“What about the other guys?”

“I told you, I wasn’t really paying attention to them. They were just there. I was more interested in Grant, for all the good it did me.”

Brody tapped his lip. “You might not have paid attention to them, but it’s possible one of them thought you were. Did you use your phone at any time that night?”

Jon closed his eyes, trying to bring back the evening and what he’d done. “Yeah. Twice. Once to call a cab, since I didn’t drive to the club. I might not be a drinker, but I figured there was the possibility I would, if Grant insisted I have a beer or something.” He sighed ruefully. “I guess I was that desperate to make an impression on him that I figured it would be worth breaking a habit if it made him happy.”

“Hey, we all have those moments. What was the other call?”

“Believe it or not, my mother. She chose that night, of all nights, to decide to check up on me.” Jon shook his head. “We almost never talked. Not since I left home. Well, except for holidays.”

“She didn’t approve of your life-style?”

“More like she though a son should stay close to home, to take care of her in her old age. She’s in her sixties now, and divorced. I was supposed to be there for her—” he rolled his eyes, “—forever. When I moved here, which is halfway across the country from where I grew up, she pretty much wrote me off as a bad son.”

“Ouch. Okay, back to the calls. It’s possible the other men though you might be taking pictures.”

“And? People do that all the time. It’s called selfies. Something I never got into as I told you, but still…”

“If you had been, and caught one of them doing something they’d rather not have people know about—or if they thought you had.”

“Why wait a month to kill me?”

“Because they didn’t know where to find you? Did you give Grant your address as well as your phone number?”

“No. Just the number. I’m not in the habit of handing out my address to people I don’t know well. That could be asking for trouble. Not that I go out that much anyway, other than once in a blue moon. I told you, that’s how I met Grant the first time—during one of my rare excursions to a club, because I was feeling lonely.”

“You didn’t actually tell me why. Only that you did.”

“Yeah, well…” Jon sighed. “I’m not…I wasn’t generally a people person, except at work. But every once in a while, I needed to get out and be with people, if that makes sense.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“I know I’ve said this more than once,” Jon said, trying to ignore the look of compassion in Brody’s gaze. “Now what do we do?”

Brody thought for a long moment. “See if Sage can arrange a meeting with Harris.”

* * * *

It was six-thirty when Mike arrived at Grant Newton’s home. The car in the driveway told him Grant was there, so he rang the doorbell and waited. When no one answered, he tried again, with no result. Figuring maybe Newton was in the bathroom, he waited ten minutes before trying one more time. He thought he heard movement on the other side of the door, but it didn’t open.

“Mr. Newton? I’m a police officer. I’d like to talk to you about Jonathan Watts,” he called out.

Nothing. Then he heard a door slam against something. It sounded as if it was at the back of the house. He raced around, getting there just in time to see someone disappear down the alley. He started after them, heard the roar of a car engine, and got to the alley in time to see brake lights as a car made the turn onto the street, heading away from the house. All he got off the plates was A6.

With not enough of a description of the car to call it in, he returned to the house. The back door stood open. Drawing his gun, he entered cautiously, even though he was certain no one was there. At least not conscious, and maybe not alive.

He discovered he was correct on the latter count. The body of a blond man was sprawled on the sofa, one hand trailing on the floor—a gun lying next to it.

Remaining in the doorway to the kitchen, Mike called it in then waited for the crime scene and ME personnel to arrive. They were there within minutes, coming to the back door.

“What do we have?” one of the men—a crime scene investigator wearing a full-body suit—asked handing Mike, latex gloves, booties, and a cap.

“A male. One shot in the chest from what I can see from here.”

“Suicide?” The man pointed to the gun.

“Doubtful, though the ME will be able to tell for certain.”

The team spread out to do their things while the ME began to examine the body. A few minutes later the man confirmed what Mike had suspected. “No powder burns, no stippling. Best guess for now, the shooter was at least three feet from the victim when he fired.”

Mike came over, picked up the gun by the textured grip and sniffed. “This has been fired, meaning the killer probably dropped it there, hoping we’d buy suicide. It happened sometime before I arrived or I’d have heard the shot. Best guess right now, the perp shot Newton then began searching for something. When I rang the bell, he hoped it was a neighbor who’d go away when no one answered. When I announced I was from the police, he ran.”

“You’re certain this man is the home owner?” the ME asked.

“Yes. Grant Newton. He was a possible suspect in a murder I’m investigating.”

“Now you have two,” the ME said with a small smile before going back to work.

“Lucky me,” Mike muttered.

He didn’t leave the crime scene until well after nine that night. When he did, he went back to the station house to write up his report and check to see if Mr. Thomas Irwin—who had been at the club both times when Newton and Watts were—owned a car. Unsurprisingly, he did. The plates were A6395M.

“Got you,” Mike said under his breath. “Now let’s see if you returned home, or are on the run.”

He stopped long enough to pick up two officers to accompany him as backup, and they headed to the high-rise where Irwin lived. The place had a doorman—no surprise as far as Mike was concerned.

“We’re here to see Mr. Irwin,” Mike said after showing his ID.

“He’s not in,” the doorman replied. “He left around five-thirty and hasn’t returned.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes, sir. This is a high-security building. No one, even the tenants, can come in or out without our knowing it.”

“I presume there’s a back entrance.”

“Yes, sir, and a security guard there. He lets me know when anyone comes or goes, no matter who they are.” He pointed to monitor on the desk. “I can also watch from here.”

“Let me see what you have since Mr. Irwin left.”

The doorman’s mouth tightened, but he brought up the video. “See. He didn’t come back that way.”

“Okay. Sorry for doubting you, but he’s a murder suspect.”

“Mr. Irwin?” The doorman seemed shocked. “Never. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

No, but he’ll deal drugs. Something Mike wasn’t willing to tell the doorman. “If he does return, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep quiet about our being here and call me.” He gave the man his card.

“I will.”

* * * *

Mike put out a BOLO on Irwin and his car. He’d barely finished when the desk clerk let him know he had a call from a Mr. Crewe.

“Now what?” Mike muttered before answering.

“Mike? It’s me. Sage.”

“I know. Why are you calling me here?”

“I don’t have you cell phone number.”

“I hope this is important.”

“It is. When will you be home?”

“Excuse me?” Mike replied, one eyebrow rising.

“There’s someone you need to talk to, about Mr. Watts’ murder.”

“So help me God, if you tell me it’s Watts himself—his ghost.”

There was a long, pregnant pause before Sage said, “Tell me when you’ll be home. The person will be with me at my place.”

“Sage…”

“Please. It’s important.”

Mike scrubbed a hand through his hair. “With luck, I’ll be home by one-thirty, if I don’t catch another murder before then. That’s the best I can tell you.”

“I’ll be here.”

“I’m sure you will,” Mike said sardonically, but under his breath, as he hung up.

* * * *

“He said he’d be here at one-thirty…maybe,” Sage told Jon and Brody. “After that,” he smiled dryly, “it’s a crap shoot whether or not he’ll stick around long enough for me to convince him you two are truly here and want to talk to him.”

“With you as the intermediary,” Jon said. “This could be interesting.”