The Ghost of Mistletoe Mary
Author: Sue Ann Jaffarian
Date: 2015-12-02 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery; Cozy Mystery; Ghosts; Christmas; Fiction; Holiday; Paranormal; Fantasy
Description: In this all-new novella from the author of Ghost in the Guacamole, Granny Apples, medium Emma Whitecastle, and psychic PI Jeremiah Jones join forces to find a missing homeless woman. When a homeless veteran on LA’s Skid Row claims he’s seen the ghost of Mistletoe Mary, a down-and-out prostitute, private investigator Jeremiah Jones seeks the assistance of medium Emma Whitecastle and her great-great-great grandmother, the spirited Granny Apples, to determine if the woman is merely missing or if indeed someone has murdered her.
Publisher: InterMix

Titles by Sue Ann Jaffarian

Ghost of a Gamble

Ghost in the Guacamole

Novellas

The Silent Ghost

Dummy of a Ghost

The Ghost of Mistletoe Mary

A Ghost of Granny Apples Novella

Sue Ann Jaffarian

InterMix Books, New York

AN IMPRINT OF PENGUIN RANDOM HOUSE LLC

375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014

THE GHOST OF MISTLETOE MARY

An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2015 by Sue Ann Jaffarian.

Excerpt from Ghosts of Misty Hollow copyright © 2016 by Sue Ann Jaffarian.

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INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information about The Berkley Publishing Group, visit penguin.com.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-40811-1

PUBLISHING HISTORY

InterMix eBook edition / December 2015

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Penguin Random House is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity.

In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.

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Contents

Titles by Sue Ann Jaffarian
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Excerpt from Ghosts of Misty Hollow
About the Author

For my brother, Thomas A. Jaffarian, a Viet Nam veteran.

August 24, 1947—May 20, 2015

Chapter 1

Cardboard lean-tos, small colorful tents, and plastic tarps lined the streets like crude Monopoly houses on a cracked and littered game board. Parked next to some of them were shopping carts filled with street debris and the few personal belongings of the occupants of the makeshift homes. Some of the more unfortunate slept out in the open, without the benefit of cover.

The early-morning quiet was disturbed only by the occasional passing vehicle or phlegmy coughing of the street’s residents. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked. The bark wasn’t tough and eager, but plaintive, cutting its way through the gray morning like the whining of a sick child. Jeremiah Jones heard the dog’s bark and recognized it as that of Lola, the tiny scruffy mutt that belonged to Bucket, one of the many broken and discarded people who called the cold streets of downtown Los Angeles home.

Jeremiah was on San Pedro Street where it intersected with 5th Street. The December air was damp and chilly, tainted with the smell of lingering exhaust and urine. The light had turned green but he didn’t move through the intersection. Instead, he sat astride his motorcycle, visor up on his helmet, and continued to take in the atmosphere around him. No one cared that he didn’t move. At six a.m. on a Sunday, with sunrise barely showing, there were very few drivers in downtown LA to complain.

Jeremiah had once called these streets home. It had been for a very short time, no more than six months, right after he’d returned home from Viet Nam, but he’d never forgotten, not for a single day, what it felt like to have an empty belly, a concrete bed, and no hope.

Lola whined again. Jeremiah turned his head in the direction of the sound. He’d come downtown this morning to seek out Lola’s master, but first he wanted to find Red Watkins, the man who had contacted him about Bucket. He shifted on his bike, stretching out his back. At sixty-eight, sometimes riding it was hard on his aging body, but he loved the freedom of roaring down the road astride the hefty vehicle and knew he wouldn’t give it up until he could no longer lift his long legs to mount it.

Downtown Los Angeles was home to several homeless outreach programs, including the well-known Union Rescue Mission founded in 1891 and located at San Pedro and 6th streets just a block ahead of him. Another block to his right was the Los Angeles Mission. Founded in 1936, it occupied a huge chunk of real estate at the corner of 5th and Wall streets. Jeremiah had always found it ironic that in New York Wall Street was the center and icon of financial greed. In Los Angeles, it was in the center of Skid Row.

Red Watkins managed City of Angels Veterans Outreach. A small nonprofit that started up during the Viet Nam War, it didn’t provide services as much as helped homeless and poor veterans maneuver the various agencies offering such services so that the veterans could find and receive the help they needed, such as food and shelter, legal assistance, and healthcare. Red and his small team helped their clients fill out and file forms and often provided rides to doctor appointments. They held legal clinics and collected warm clothing and personal hygiene articles to pass out. They even coerced local produce companies and restaurants to give them food earmarked for disposal, which was then distributed. For those veterans not strung out on booze or drugs or whose emotional problems could be stabilized, they cleaned them up and helped them find jobs. The goal of Angels was to get as many veterans, men and women who had sacrificed so much to serve their country, off the streets and back into mainstream society to live productive lives.

Jeremiah Jones was one of their success stories. He’d returned from Viet Nam suffering from PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder—and depression. Over time, Angels helped him get the help he needed. He not only returned to his family, but married and went on to become a Los Angeles homicide detective. Now that he was retired from the police force, he operated his own private detective agency. Jeremiah also believed in giving back and often gave his time to Angels whenever they needed him. Red had contacted him yesterday looking for help with Bucket.

Bucket’s staked-out spot was on San Pedro just beyond the intersection, but Jeremiah turned his motorcycle right and slowly headed up 5th Street. At Wall Street, he turned right again. The offices of City of Angels Veterans Outreach were located in an old storefront on the left just a few yards from the intersection and just around the corner from the Los Angeles Mission. Small convenience stores and dumpy businesses selling shabby clothing, knock-off electronics, and other cheap items, lined the streets in this area, including around the office of Angels. These wouldn’t open for a few hours yet, their roll-down security gates currently shut tight like rusty silver eyelids closed in sleep. Almost all blank walls in this area were covered in graffiti, some of it talented artwork, but mostly it was garish vandalism.

Jeremiah pulled a U-turn in front of the Angels office and stopped at the curb. Its large glass window was mostly painted over with its name and the types of assistance it provided, but the lights were on and cast a hopeful but tenuous shine onto the dingy street. In a nod to the holiday season, colored lights outlined the window on the inside in red and green for their Christian clients and in blue for their Jewish clients. Elsewhere on the street, in windows and hanging from lampposts, were other signs of the impending holiday season. On the sidewalk on either side of the Angels office, people wrapped in dirty sleeping bags and rags lay on the ground or sat propped up against the buildings next to carts filled with their belongings. Some stirred, but others were still asleep, most likely sleeping off drunkenness from the night before. None took much notice that the holidays were upon them.

In a narrow space between the buildings housing Angels and its neighbor, a tall black man dressed in old jeans and a worn olive-green field jacket over a gray hoodie was peeing against one of the walls. When he was done, he emerged from the space, walking with a pronounced limp, and lit a stubby cigarette butt with a cheap plastic lighter the color of canned creamed corn. Jeremiah watched him. He’d seen him before while volunteering at Angels. His name was Sloan, Jeffrey Sloan, but he preferred to be called simply Sloan. He wasn’t much more than thirty and had fought in Afghanistan. The limp was from a prosthetic leg that didn’t fit properly. Sloan didn’t appear to be hungover from either drugs or booze this morning, although Jeremiah remembered him having a drinking problem. Jeremiah called him over. “Hey, Sloan, want to make a few bucks?”

The man looked at Jeremiah warily, like a stray dog worried about Animal Control, before taking a few awkward steps toward him. “What do I have to do?” If he recognized Jeremiah, he didn’t show it.

“Watch my bike for me,” Jeremiah told him as he dismounted and took off his helmet. “I have a short meeting inside with Red Watkins.” He jerked a thumb toward the Angels’ window. “I’ll give you five bucks.”

After a few seconds, Sloan said, “Yeah, that’s cool. I’ll do it.” He came closer and his dull brown eyes sparked for a second with recognition. “Hey, I know you. Didn’t you and I talk a couple of times at Angels?”

“Yes,” Jeremiah said with a single nod. “How’ve you been doing, brother?”

Sloan took a deep drag from his cigarette, shrugging as he exhaled. “Some days are better than others, hear what I’m sayin’?”

“Ya, it’s like that,” Jeremiah agreed.

“Red has me in an AA program for vets. I’m trying to work it. He says if I can stay off the booze and drugs, he might be able to get me a steady job. He’s hooked me up with a part-time one for now.”

“That’s a great goal. Something worth shooting for.”

Sloan shrugged again. “Yeah, I’ve been sober almost six weeks, but it ain’t easy, man. Especially out here.”

“I know what you mean,” Jeremiah said with encouragement, “but keep it up.” He studied Sloan’s face. His eyes were clear, no sign of drug use or impairment of any kind. He also wasn’t as dirty as some of the others on the street and neither were his clothes. If Red was working with Sloan, then he was also providing him with regular showers and access to clean clothing. It was part of Red’s process of easing homeless people with promise back into mainstream society. It was a system based on rewards. As long as Sloan kept up with the AA meetings and stayed sober, he would earn simple but important rewards like showers and clothing, more and better food, and eventually even some part-time paid work and a safe but humble place to crash. Once he proved he was ready, he’d be set up with job interviews.

The administrators at Angels had learned over the years that homeless men and women couldn’t be dumped back into society without rehabilitation, especially if they had been on the streets for any length of time. They had to be eased back into it and coached in things as simple as manners and speech, and given counseling. Some of their candidates had washed out, but the rewards system had more successes than failures. The men and women had to prove they were ready, and by earning the opportunities they also built pride and confidence in themselves. Red also preached pay-it-forward, and many of Red’s successes returned to help their fellow veterans make the same transition or to provide support and help for those who never would.

Jeremiah knew that if Sloan was almost two months sober and working part-time, he might already be set up in some sort of temporary housing, like a group home or a shared subsidized apartment nearby, where he could start rebuilding his life. Angels was careful not to overload their clients with too much stress at first. They wanted to avoid triggers that might send the people they were helping back to the waiting arms of their addictions.

“Thanks,” Jeremiah said, as he passed Sloan and headed for the door of the outreach organization. “I’ll be out as soon as I can.”

“No problem, man,” Sloan said, positioning himself closer to Jeremiah’s motorcycle. “I got no place to go until breakfast at the Mission.”

The offices of City of Angels Veterans Outreach had had a makeover in the last year thanks, in part, to vandalism. The place had been broken into and nearly destroyed, bringing the tiny cash-strapped nonprofit to its knees and close to closing. That was when Rose Carson, the office manager, set about to fight her own war by strong-arming local politicians, celebrities, and business owners to finance the cleanup, literally begging for every dollar. It was slow going with most of the cash coming in dollar by dollar from people who couldn’t afford it, but Rose and Red refused to give up. Then the plight of Angels caught the ear of a local journalist who did a human interest story for the Los Angeles Times. It had been buried on the back page, but had still managed to catch the eye of a local celebrity with a social conscience. He’d set up a page for Angels on GoFundMe.com and spread the word. Soon the organization had over eight hundred thousand dollars in its coffers, along with donations of repair supplies and new office equipment. Angels had been spared and along with it many desperate lives.

“Hey, Jeremiah,” Red Watkins said as he unlocked the front door and let Jeremiah in. He locked the door after him. Angels wasn’t open for business yet and wouldn’t be for a few hours. Red had asked Jeremiah to come in early so they could speak privately. The two men embraced warmly. “Thanks for coming.”

Originally the office space had been one very long room with a tiny bathroom and kitchenette at the back. Thanks to the recent renovation, the original office space had been carved in half to create more types of space. The front was separated into two areas—the work area, which was crammed with desks, chairs, and file cabinets, and a small waiting area by the door. The two front areas were separated by a railing and a gate. Everything still smelled fresh and, more important, hopeful. Red led Jeremiah through the gate and the open area to the back half where a hallway now bisected a new wall that closed off part of the original space. On either side of the hallway were two tiny offices, one on the left and one on the right, both with glass windows that looked out onto the open area. One was Red’s office. The other was used as a conference room. Red had wanted Rose to take the other office, but she had refused. She felt her place was up front, near the door where she could keep an eye on things, and that’s where her large desk was located. You didn’t buck Rose Carson when her mind was made up. Jeremiah knew that personally. He also knew she wouldn’t be here for the meeting with Red, although she knew about it. Jeremiah had left her asleep back at her place. Last night over dinner, when he prodded her on more details about the meeting with Red, she’d only told him that Red would fill him in about Bucket in the morning. Rose didn’t like work spilling into their private time.

Farther down the new hallway were the small kitchenette, now refurbished, and a small supply room on one side, and on the other side of the hall, Angels pride and joy. The tiny closet-size bathroom with its toilet and small sink still existed for employees and volunteers’ use, but the contractor had added next to it a new bathroom that also included a small shower stall, a stackable washer and dryer, and a small bench. This was where clients could come and get cleaned up, and Jeremiah knew that almost every day there was a waiting list for its use. Both Red and Rose believed that if a man or woman felt clean and were clean, it was the first step to reclaiming their dignity.

“Thanks for coming, Jeremiah,” Red said, showing him to a seat across from his desk. “Coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”

“Sure,” Jeremiah answered as he put his helmet on a corner of the desk and stashed his gloves inside before taking a seat. “Black.”

Red left and returned with two chipped mismatched mugs of hot, steaming black coffee. Jeremiah smiled as he took his first sip, knowing that none of the donated money had gone to luxuries like nice mugs. Rose would not have allowed that even if the organization’s board had approved it. It had gone to remodeling the office and for a few extra items for the people they served. The rest was in the bank as a cushion in the event the usual annual donations dried up.

“So what’s up with Bucket?” asked Jeremiah after they’d each taken several sips.

Howard Watkins, better known as Red for reasons still unknown to Jeremiah, was a portly man in his late fifties. A big meaty nose and loose jowls were the most prominent features on his pasty white face, often drowning out his intelligent blue eyes. His hair was mostly gone and the wisps that remained circling his head were a yellowish-gray. He had once been an ordained Catholic priest, but over twenty years ago he’d given up a comfortable post at a well-to-do parish and the church to marry a woman he’d fallen in love with while counseling her on the loss of her older brother from drug addiction. He and Hope, a teacher in Los Angeles, eventually married and had two boys of their own, and stood firmly committed to fighting drug abuse among young people. For years Red worked as a full-time drug counselor at various rehab facilities. One day while watching the news, Red saw a report on the growing problem of drug addiction, alcoholism, and homelessness among veterans. With Hope’s support, Red left his job as a counselor and went to work as the head administrator of Angels. He’d been with the organization for about seven years. From time to time, Jeremiah and Rose and Hope and Red got together socially. Even then, Rose did not allow shop talk over meals, claiming they all needed to take a break from it to keep their sanity. As usual, the woman was right.

Red leaned back in his chair, which was also a new purchase. His old one, bought secondhand decades before and used by the last two administrators, had been held together with duct tape. “As you know,” he began, “Bucket can be a bit delusional and we fear he’s now suffering from dementia.”

“Is he getting worse?” Jeremiah asked with concern. “Do you think he’s a danger to others or to himself?”

“He doesn’t seem to be violent, more like talking crazy with the crazy escalating last week.”

“His alcoholism is pretty advanced. Maybe it’s that,” Jeremiah suggested. “Maybe we should see if we can get him into a long-term facility?” Jeremiah was surprised by the topic. Usually Red didn’t consult him on such matters. Men and women going into the final downward spiral happened all the time and Bucket was around seventy years old. The fact that he remained alive after all this time given his condition was a miracle on its own.

“I have calls out to find him a place, but no one has an available room right now, not to mention Bucket will not go willingly. He says he can’t leave Lola behind and he can’t take a dog to these places.” Red took a long pull from his coffee before continuing. “This time, there’s something more going on.” He patted the bulge that covered his belt. “I feel it in my gut, Jeremiah, and I wanted you to talk to him and nose around a bit to see if I’m right or if it’s just Hope’s spicy meatloaf talking.”

“What’s Bucket saying?” Jeremiah put down his coffee mug and leaned forward. Usually when Red had a gut feeling about a vet, it wasn’t indigestion.

“Do you know a woman down here known as Mistletoe Mary?” Red asked.

Jeremiah nodded. “Sure, I’ve heard of her. Doesn’t she hang out around the Union Rescue Mission. A crackhead prostitute, correct? Emaciated white woman with straggly blond hair.”

Red nodded. “Yes, except she managed to kick the crack a few years back, but not the alcohol. I hear she still turns tricks for booze or a meal. She’s gotten into a lot of fights with several of the other women down here, including a few of our female vets.”

“How did she ever get the name Mistletoe Mary?” Jeremiah asked. “Seems like a warm and fuzzy moniker to me, hardly fitting for someone like her.”

Red took another drink from his mug and rocked in his chair. “Several years ago, she fastened a clump of mistletoe to her hair that she’d stolen from one of the shops and went around demanding that the men kiss her. She didn’t get far before the cops nabbed her for the theft. She spent the night in jail, then was released. After that, everyone called her Mistletoe Mary. Her real name is Mary Dowling. For years before the drugs took over, I believe she worked the streets in Hollywood. Then she came down here.”

“Is she bothering Bucket?” Jeremiah asked.

“You might say that,” Red said with caution. “He claims her ghost is coming to him saying she was murdered.”

Jeremiah straightened in his chair as if his shoulders had been yanked back. “Her ghost?”

“That’s what I said. In fact, Bucket is insistent that it’s her ghost. He rants and raves off and on throughout the day about it. I’ve seen it myself. Oddest thing. One minute he’ll be stark raving mad, yelling about her being murdered, and the next he’ll be meek as a kitten.”

Jeremiah rubbed a hand over the salt-and-pepper stubble on his head as he digested Red’s words. A ghost in the mix put a different spin on the problem, and for a minute Jeremiah wondered if Red knew that he could see and communicate with ghosts. If Red did know, Jeremiah wanted to know how. Only two people knew of Jeremiah’s medium talents—Emma Whitecastle, the famous medium, and Phil Bowers, her fiancé who was an attorney in San Diego. Not even Rose knew. In fact, not even Jeremiah’s dead wife had known. Jeremiah had kept it a safely guarded secret ever since the first time it happened when he was a soldier in Viet Nam. He was pretty sure Emma and Phil wouldn’t say anything. They didn’t even know until he’d crossed paths with them while working a PI case earlier in the year. He’d become pretty friendly with them since and neither had ever mentioned knowing Red Watkins, even when Jeremiah had put the touch on them over Thanksgiving for a donation to Angels for the Christmas season. Both had given generously and without a single moment of hesitation.

One other person did know, he remembered. Granny, Emma’s irascible great-great-great grandmother knew he was a medium, but Granny was a ghost and unless Red could speak to spirits himself, she would have no way of telling him, not that she would. Jeremiah trusted Granny with his secret as much as he trusted Emma and Phil.

“So how would you like me to help?” Jeremiah asked, taking his hand from his head and wrapping it back around his coffee mug.

“I think you could be valuable in two ways, Jeremiah,” Red told him. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “That is, if you have the time. I know you have your own business to run.”

“Right now it’s pretty slow, Red,” Jeremiah told him, “so just tell me how I can help you.”

“First of all, I asked around and no one has seen Mistletoe Mary in a while.”

“What’s a while?” Jeremiah asked. “A month? Two weeks?”

“She a fixture down here,” Red explained. “Hardly a day goes by without seeing her somewhere within these few blocks. If we could find her, we could immediately put this Bucket thing to rest and chalk it up to dementia. So I’d like you to find her or find out what happened to her. Failing that, I know you met that Whitecastle woman from TV. Do you think you could persuade her to come down here and check out Bucket’s story?”

“Do you believe in that stuff, Red?” Jeremiah asked, keeping his face as neutral as possible.

Red threw his hands up in the air in frustration. “I don’t know what to believe, but Bucket is stirring up folks. Some think there’s a murderer running around. Others are getting annoyed with his rantings. I’m afraid someone will hurt him just to shut him up. Or that others will get worked up into a frenzy of fear. We’ve called the LAPD and they sent someone down, but without the presence of a body or any witnesses except for a demented old drunk, they had nothing to investigate.”

“I see your dilemma,” Jeremiah said. “Don’t worry, I’ll look into it. I can’t promise to deliver Emma Whitecastle on the ghost part, but I’ll give that a try, too.”

Red let loose a big sigh of relief. Stretching a beefy hand across the desk, he shook Jeremiah’s hand with gratefulness. “Thank you, Jeremiah. I knew I could count on you. Hopefully, Mary’s just moved to a different part of the city. It certainly wouldn’t break my heart if that’s the case since she can be a bit of a troublemaker.”

Once he was back out on the street, Jeremiah pulled some cash out of his pocket and peeled off a five-dollar bill. He held it out to Sloan, who was dutifully still guarding Jeremiah’s motorcycle. He started to hold the money out to him, then retracted it. Peeling off another five, he held them both out to Sloan, who seemed reluctant to take the cash.

“That’s not what we agreed on,” Sloan said.

“No,” agreed Jeremiah, “but I have another job for you. Do you know a woman down here by the name of Mistletoe Mary?”

Sloan nodded. “She’s bat-shit crazy, so I stay clear. Who needs that nasty piece of trash?”

“Do you remember when you saw her last?”

Sloan pulled on the strings of his hoodie while he thought about it, then shook his head. “Not really. Maybe at one of the Thanksgiving dinners. Maybe just after that. But not in the past few days, that’s for sure.”

“Take the money,” Jeremiah told him. When Sloan did, Jeremiah rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a fistful of change. “Here’s a bunch of quarters,” he said, sorting out the larger coins. “Don’t spend them, you hear?” Sloan took the money and nodded. Jeremiah pulled out one of his PI business cards from another pocket. “If you see Mistletoe Mary, you’re to call me. No matter what time it is, call me. Night or day. Use those coins for the pay phone. If for some reason you can’t find a pay phone, ask Red or Rose at Angels here if you can use theirs to call me. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Sloan slipped the bills and change into his pocket before taking the card and studying it, then it disappeared into his pocket. “You want me to ask around about her, too?”

“That would be a help, Sloan. See what you can find out.” Jeremiah slipped on his helmet and straddled his motorcycle. Before he took off, he said to the man on the curb, “Sloan, I was once on the streets myself. Now I have a business and a home. Listen to Red. Stay sober and clean and listen to him. It will take time, but you’ll be okay if you stay the course.”

Sloan was nodding like a bobblehead as Jeremiah took off.

Chapter 2

As Jeremiah pulled up in front of Bucket’s staked-out area on San Pedro Street, Lola greeted him with a small dog’s aggressive snarl. He turned off the bike’s engine and removed his helmet, but didn’t get off. In one hand he clutched a fast food bag containing breakfast sandwiches he’d picked up before searching out Bucket. The street, like the others in the area, was lined with various tarps, tents, sleeping bags, and makeshift shelters. Some of the street residents around Bucket’s area were up and getting ready to go to breakfast at one of the missions. Others were standing around smoking, some already drinking. Others were still curled into balls of rags sleeping off whatever got them through the night.

“Come on, Lola,” Jeremiah crooned to the scrawny, ragged brown animal as he waved the bag closer to her almost white muzzle. “You know me. It’s Jeremiah.” In answer the little dog stopped her snarl and tried to get closer, but she was held back by a leash secured to a nearby grocery cart. “Come on, girl,” Jeremiah tried again. “I’m just here to see Bucket.”

Jeremiah opened the fast food bag and took out a breakfast sandwich. He broke off a piece of the sausage patty and tossed it to the animal. Lola nosed around the tidbit but, much to Jeremiah’s surprise, took her time eating it. The little dog licked more than ate the meat while hunched over, her thin back legs trembling. It was clear to Jeremiah that the dog was old and sick and that could explain why she wasn’t eating with usual canine gusto. If Lola died, he wondered if Bucket would consent to a resident facility.

At the sound of his name, an old man dressed in rags poked his head out from under a lean-to fashioned from a large piece of cardboard that was fastened to the cart on one side and leaning against the wall of the building behind them on the other side. Over the cardboard was draped a dull green tarp that acted as a roof and a door. He stared at Jeremiah a long time, his runny red eyes trying to place the man on the motorcycle.

“Hi, Bucket,” Jeremiah said in a calm, friendly voice. “It’s me, Jeremiah Jones, from Angels.”

Finally, the broken old man offered up a grin of recognition, displaying his few remaining teeth. “Jeremiah, yeah, I know you.”

Dwayne Burkett, known on the street as Bucket, crawled out of his makeshift home and stood, wrapping a dirty quilt around his shoulders against the morning dampness. He wasn’t very tall, maybe no more than five-eight or five-nine, tops, and not much more than a bag of bones. He was African-American like Jeremiah, but with lighter skin, a flat nose, wide face, and gray unruly beard and hair. Also like Jeremiah, he’d served in the Viet Nam war. He’d been shot, and had recovered physically from his wounds, but never emotionally or mentally. He and Jeremiah were only a few years apart in age, but Bucket looked decades older, like a wizened old tree spirit. Jeremiah couldn’t help but think he was looking at himself had he not gotten his life together.

Bucket moved closer, squinting. “You’re that cop that turned PI, ain’t ya?”

Jeremiah was surprised by the clarity of Bucket’s memory, especially knowing how he often was given to ranting and delusions. Jeremiah wondered if Bucket’s brain worked better in the morning. Jeremiah had noticed as he got older, his did.

“I brought you and Lola some breakfast,” Jeremiah said, putting the open sandwich back into the bag and then holding it out toward Bucket.

Bucket came closer and grabbed the bag before Jeremiah could change his mind. The smell of fresh cooked eggs and sausage mingled with the surrounding odors of urine, stale booze, and unwashed flesh, but Jeremiah didn’t flinch. He’d smelled worse in the war and while working homicide cases. He watched as Bucket opened the bag and took an appreciative sniff.

“You don’t have a little morning snort to go with this, do ya?” Bucket asked.

“I have this,” Jeremiah said, plucking a very large takeout coffee secured with a cover from the cupholder on his bike. He handed it to Bucket, who seemed both pleased and disappointed with the beverage. “Be careful with that,” Jeremiah cautioned. “It’s very hot.”

Bucket sat down on the hard curb near Lola and settled the quilt around his shoulders. Opening the bag, he pulled out the opened sandwich, loosened the crumpled wrapper and put it down on the concrete for the dog. “Look, girl,” he said to his pet, “a catered breakfast, just like fancy folks.”

Like with the bit of sausage, the dog snuffled around the food, but barely touched it. Bucket opened one of the other sandwiches and took a small bite. He closed his eyes as he chewed, savoring the taste. After swallowing, he took another small bite and did the same, forgetting Jeremiah until he’d polished off one sandwich and washed it down with some coffee. Jeremiah watched them, but remained seated on his bike. It was the only comfortable seat in the vicinity and he didn’t want to get too close to either the dog or the man. From the way they were scratching while they ate, it was clear both were covered with vermin.

“I was talking to Red Watkins this morning,” Jeremiah said, opening the conversation. A truck rumbled by on the street behind him and he waited for it to pass before continuing. “He said you’re concerned about the woman they call Mistletoe Mary.”

At the name, Bucket’s head shot up. It was the quickest movement he’d made so far. “Do you see her, too?” he asked, his small brown eyes wide in fear and suspicion. He glanced from side to side before settling his gaze back on Jeremiah.

Jeremiah looked around, but saw no one but other street residents. A man and a woman, both white and younger and slightly cleaner than Bucket, were leaning against the building just a few yards from them sharing a cigarette. An old black man, even more thin and raggedy than Bucket, had since positioned himself on the corner. He was moving like a robot, his upper body swaying back and forth, while his arms moved in a series of slow jerks. If he’d been cleaned up and standing in a nice area, he would have been considered a street performer and people would have tossed him change and dollar bills. His name was Eddie. He was a fixture down on Skid Row and Jeremiah knew his behavior was caused by a series of strokes and diminished mental capacity, mostly caused by past extended drug use. Every morning, Eddie would show up from wherever he’d spent the night and would stand on that corner until someone steered him back to his place and gave him food. He wasn’t a client of Angels, but Jeremiah knew that Red had often tried to find a care facility for Eddie, and so had other outreach programs, but as with Bucket, there were few spots for so many, so these ailing men and women were left on the streets to fend for themselves or were dependent on the little care they received from their fellow homeless and nearby agencies. There was another man almost identical to Eddie who stood on a corner in Century City on Olympic Boulevard. He had a much nicer street corner, but his ailments were no better than Eddie’s and whenever Jeremiah saw him, he wondered how he got there each day and where he stayed at night. There were lots of homeless scattered about the more upscale sections of the sprawling city, but they were less conspicuous to avoid being driven out.

“No, I don’t,” Jeremiah answered, turning his attention back to Bucket. “I don’t see her anywhere. When’s the last time you saw her?”

“Just last night,” Bucket told him, leaning closer to whisper. A bit of egg and cheese clung to his lower lip. “She wanted to know why no one cares.”

“No one cares?”

“That she’s dead,” Bucket clarified. “Someone ought to care.”

Jeremiah knew what Bucket was getting at, but wanted to tread lightly. He wasn’t going to out himself as a medium just to dig information from a half-demented man. “How could she talk to you if she’s dead?” he asked Bucket.

The old man stopped chewing his food to consider the question. He acted as if he’d never been asked it before. And maybe hadn’t been, although Jeremiah was sure Red would have posed a similar question to Bucket when he first started talking to him about Mistletoe Mary. Jeremiah watched Bucket as he tried to rationally connect the dots between what he’d just told Jeremiah and reality. His mind was working hard, his rheumy eyes darting side to side as if searching his memory bank for the answer, but it was clear no connection was being made. Finally, Bucket said with decisiveness in a loud voice, “She just told me, that’s all.” Next to him, Lola whined. Bucket picked up the animal, unlatched her leash from the cart and moved her to the gutter, where the little dog peed and pooped. When she was done, her master moved her back to the sidewalk and secured her leash.

Knowing that was about all he would get out of him, Jeremiah moved on to his next question, all the while keeping his senses open to the presence of a ghost. He saw and felt none. “If Mary is dead, did she tell you how or where her body is?”

Again, Bucket’s eyes darted in his head, the whites, yellow with illness, were stretched wide with brown dull centers. Instead of answering, he pulled another sandwich out of the fast food bag. Jeremiah thought he was going to eat it, but instead he held it out to Jeremiah. “You want it?”

“No thank you, Bucket. I had my breakfast earlier.” It was a small fib. He’d had only coffee with Red and had left Rose’s place without eating. He’d grab breakfast later. “I brought four, all for you and Lola.”

Bucket considered this windfall, then hoisted his old body upright with loud grunts. He shuffled out to where Eddie stood, moving with jerks and fits. Jeremiah watched as Bucket partially unwrapped the sandwich and secured it in one of Eddie’s hands. “Here you go, Eddie. We got a real treat this morning.” Eddie didn’t look at the food but his hand automatically brought it to his mouth, where he took a large bite and chewed.

When Bucket returned to his spot, he said to Jeremiah, “Eddie don’t like going to the mission for breakfast.” Jeremiah studied the old broken man in front of him. Whatever booze and drugs and the war had done to him, he was still a good and thoughtful human being. Something a lot of folks didn’t see when they looked at him.

Jeremiah decided to ask the question again, this time dividing it to cause Bucket less confusion. “Did Mary tell you how she died?”

Bucket looked down at the nearly untouched sandwich on the sidewalk. Lola was lying on the sidewalk next to the cart, her head on her paws, asleep.

“Poor thing is hardly eating these days,” Bucket said more to himself than to Jeremiah. “I think she’s about done in, like poor old Bucket.”

Bucket carefully picked up the dog’s meal, wrapped it in the sandwich wrapper, and placed it in the bag with the fourth untouched sandwich. He then stashed the bag somewhere inside the lean-to. Finished with cleaning up, he settled back down on the curb with his coffee.

“Mary,” Jeremiah prodded to get him back on track. “Did she tell you what happened?”

“She was murdered, is what she told me. I told Red that, but I don’t think he believes me.” Agitation was seeping into his words.

“I wouldn’t say that, Bucket,” Jeremiah said calmly. “Red sent me to talk to you, didn’t he? You know I’m a private investigator.”

Bucket considered that for a moment, then nodded. “She told me she was murdered. That’s all.” He stabbed the air with the dirty index finger of his free hand to make his point.

“Did she say where it happened?” Jeremiah voiced the question slowly, making sure Bucket heard every word.

The old man reached out and patted the sleeping dog’s head a few times. “Nope, but maybe her daughter knows.”

Jeremiah’s interest increased. “She has a daughter she’s in touch with?” If this was true, it would be unusual. Most homeless who had family were not in communication with them. Jeremiah had been embarrassed for his family to see him when he was on the street, but sometimes it was the family who severed the ties, either out of tough love over the drugs and booze, or out of lost hope, and often out of disgust.

“She talked about a daughter,” Bucket added, “before she was murdered.”

An old woman in a wheelchair was rolling in their direction. She was an overweight Latina with light brown skin and long stringy hair that was dull gray shot through with clumps of its original dark brown. She had one leg, her left, and used it to help propel her outdated chair down the bumpy sidewalk.

“Hey, Carmen,” Bucket called to her, “didn’t Mistletoe Mary talk about a daughter?”

When she reached them, Carmen eyed Jeremiah up and down with suspicion. “Who’s asking?” she asked in a surprisingly young voice with a mild Spanish accent.

“This is Jeremiah,” Bucket told her. “Red Watkins sent him to look into her murder.”

“Her murder?” Carmen let out a whoop, her lumpy face looking like an amused gargoyle. “You still peddling that story, Bucket? More likely that skanky ho’s crawled off in a hole on a bender from the few dollars she got from some stupid John.”

Jeremiah turned to Carmen. She wore an old flowered housedress over thin black leggings stretched to their limits over her left leg. The other leg of her pants had been knotted just below the stump on her right. On her one foot was a dingy sock and battered thick shoe with a rubber sole. It was difficult to pinpoint her age, but Jeremiah guessed it around forty. She looked cleaner than most on the street and didn’t have any of the usual signs of alcoholism or drug addiction. Jeremiah thought she might have a regular place to stay nearby. There were some outreach programs downtown that provided semipermanent shelter for the disabled, but like other shelters, they were full and funds too scarce to help everyone. Jeremiah hated seeing people living on the streets, but especially women and children. It broke his heart. It was tough enough on the men, but the women and kids often became prey, especially the newly homeless. Carmen didn’t look like a newbie. She looked like she’d been down on Skid Row a long time and knew the ropes and the people. Depending on her situation, she might not even be considered homeless.

“Carmen,” Jeremiah said to the woman, “did Mary ever say anything about her daughter to you?” He could see that Carmen had her wits about her and might be more useful than Bucket, provided she had any information.

“To me?” Carmen asked, amused. “To everyone! For the past few weeks that’s all she talked about. Said her daughter was gonna come get her.” She said the words in a high-pitched mimic. “She was gonna live in her daughter’s big fancy house! Her daughter was gonna get her off the streets and clean her up.”

“For the past month, you say?” asked Jeremiah. “When was the last time you saw Mary?”

Carmen looked at Bucket as she dug through her memory. “Around Thanksgiving, I suppose. “Ain’t that right, Bucket?”

The old man nodded. “I seem to remember her at one of the Thanksgiving meals.” His weepy eyes momentarily lit up. “That’s right, I did. She was bragging how she was gonna be gone from here by Christmas.”

“Did any others hear that?” Jeremiah asked.

“I’m sure they did,” Carmen said. “The ho couldn’t keep her mouth shut about it.” She paused, then added, “If she was murdered, could be someone around here cracked her skull open just to shut her up.” Carmen’s tone was flat as cardboard with no sympathy for the possible dead or outrage over a possible murder. “It was all a crock of horse manure if you ask me.”

“You didn’t believe Mary?” Jeremiah asked as he shifted on his motorcycle. Around them, the street had become busy with people and a few more vehicles.

Carmen scooted her chair closer to Jeremiah, not paying any mind to Lola, and nearly clipped the poor dog’s tail. Lola barely noticed. “If she and her daughter found each other, then why was her daughter waiting to get her off the streets?”

“She could have been looking for a rehab place for Mary and that might take time,” suggested Jeremiah.

“Maybe,” agreed Carmen, “but she kept saying she was going to live with her daughter.” Carmen folded her stubby fingers together over her belly. “Seems to me if your long-lost daughter found you and wanted to take care of you, she’d take you away immediately, not wait. Every day down here is dangerous with disease, drugs, and even hate crimes. If the daughter had money, like Mary claimed, she could have at least put her mother up in a motel for a few days to keep her safe until a place could be found.”

Jeremiah nodded in agreement at the logic. “Did you ever see Mary with anyone who might have been her daughter?” Jeremiah asked.

“She’s dead, I tell ya!” Bucket snapped, not at them, but at the people around them.

Carmen ignored the outburst. “I never saw her with no one except that other skank Lizzie,” Carmen replied.

“Who’s Lizzie?” Jeremiah asked.

“She’s another piece of homeless white trash,” Carmen told him. “During the week she mostly hangs out a few blocks from here, closer to the business district. That’s where the tricks are Monday through Friday. On weekends, you’ll find her and Mary, if she’s alive, hanging out around some of the rougher bars down here looking for business.”

Carmen edged her chair back and forth with her one foot. “You know, come to think of it, I remember once Mary was talking about her daughter and someone called her a liar. Lizzie came to her defense and said it was true, that she’d seen the daughter herself.” She turned to Bucket. “Isn’t that so, Bucket?”

Bucket was still sitting on the curb, but now his eyes were closed and he was rocking back and forth. “I’m dead. Tell them, Bucket, I’m dead!”

Jeremiah immediately looked around for a spirit but saw none. He didn’t know if Bucket was being possessed by Mary or if he was repeating something he thought he’d heard. This was Emma Whitecastle’s territory, not his.

Just as fast as he’d started, Bucket stopped and opened his eyes. He looked dazed and unfocused.

“See,” Carmen said to Jeremiah. “That’s how he gets sometimes. Other times he just rants about her being murdered.”

“Does he ever say anything else when he’s like this, like where Mary is or who might have done it?”

Carmen shook her head. “Not that I’ve ever heard. Just that she’s been murdered. Bucket’s not all there at the best of times, but this is downright creepy.”

Silence fell between them as they watched the sick old man and his wretched dog for a few moments. Then Jeremiah turned back to Carmen. “Did Mary and Lizzie have a pimp?” he asked.

Carmen nodded. “His name’s Ace. Skinny black dude who runs girls of all colors. You’ll find him over on Crocker Avenue. He works out of a crappy burger joint called Hi-Life Diner. The place is owned by his family. He won’t be there now, though. Too early.”

Jeremiah still wasn’t sure whether to believe Bucket’s story about Mary being murdered, but at least Carmen was giving him someplace to start to see if the woman was still alive. If she was, then Bucket was just hallucinating.

After buying Bucket’s breakfast, Jeremiah had stuffed a bunch of dollar bills into the zippered breast pocket of his leather jacket. He unzipped it now and pulled out several. He handed a few bucks to Carmen, along with his card. “I appreciate the help. If you do see Mary, try to reach me or go tell Red Watkins at City of Angels. You know the place?”

“Yeah,” Carmen said, snatching the money and tucking it somewhere down her blouse between her large sagging breasts. “That’s the vet outreach on Wall Street.”

“Yes.” Jeremiah wanted to give Bucket a few dollars but knew the old guy would just buy booze with it or would be robbed. As if reading his mind, Carmen said, “Give him a couple of bucks too. In his condition, the drink is all that keeps him going. That and the mangy dog.”

After handing Bucket a couple of bucks, Jeremiah started to put on his helmet, but Carmen moved closer to him. “You find Ace, don’t you tell him I sent you, hear? He’s a mean SOB and I don’t want no trouble. My life ain’t exactly a bouquet of roses, but it’s not bad compared to most down here.”

Jeremiah studied her a moment, then nodded his understanding. “You used to work for him?” he asked her, taking a guess.

She nodded. “Long time ago, I was one of his top girls. Then I got stabbed in my leg by a John. It got infected and I lost my leg. Ace threw me away after that. Said no one wanted a one-legged whore.” She gave Jeremiah a small sad smile. “In some ways, the creep that stabbed me saved my life. While my leg healed, I got clean and later a job. I do piecework six days a week for one of the sweatshops down here. It doesn’t pay much, but enough for me to rent a clean room and buy decent food. I don’t need Ace messing that up.”

“I won’t tell him,” Jeremiah agreed. “One last thing, can you tell me what this Lizzie looks like?”

“Sure,” Carmen said. “Skinny white girl with hair the color of Ronald McDonald’s. She’s younger than Mary. Barely in her twenties. Almost all used up, though, if you know what I mean.” Jeremiah did. “Ho’s like her and Mary only get what’s left over. The fresh ones get the best tricks. Make the most money.” She paused, then added, “If Mary is dead, it might have been Ace who killed her. She was so strung out, I’m sure she wasn’t of much use to him anymore. Lizzie will be there soon enough.”

“How about Mary?” he asked. “I understand she’s also white with long stringy blond hair. Anything else you can add?”

Carmen gave it some thought before answering. “Mary’s got a tattoo,” she told him. “The tattoo is right above her boobs, in the middle of her chest. It’s a flower, I think.”

Chapter 3

After leaving Bucket and Carmen, Jeremiah headed up San Pedro and made a right turn on 4th. Almost immediately, he made a left turn onto Crocker. Carmen didn’t give him the exact location of the Hi-Life Diner but he didn’t need it. Central Division of the LAPD was on 6th just a few blocks from where Bucket called home, and Jeremiah had worked out of that division when he was a detective. He knew the area and most of the businesses, especially the older ones with sketchy side activities. The Hi-Life Diner was one of the few, or maybe the only, all-night diners left in the area. It was halfway between 4th and 3rd on the right-hand side. Standing in the large dingy window displaying a B rating from the Los Angeles County Department of Public Health, was a sad fake Christmas tree with multicolored bulbs hanging from its skimpy limbs. Beyond that he could see a couple of men sitting at the counter. He pulled over in front of the place and parked at a meter, which he knew didn’t have to be fed on a Sunday.

In the past several years, a lot of trendy eateries had cropped up in and around downtown. They catered to the hipsters and artsy types who had bought stylish new lofts in the area. Developers, with the blessing of the city’s government, were trying to reclaim these broken-down streets and buildings, to make it cool to live downtown. The Arts District was just a few blocks away and so far gentrification there appeared to be a success, but it was a constant struggle. Jeremiah had mixed feelings about it. On one hand, it was a better use of valuable real estate and brought new money and cultural activities to downtown. On the other hand, it could push the dirt poor and homeless out of one of the last places they had to work and live.

Before getting off his bike, he pulled out his cell phone. He had two calls he wanted to make, but decided it was too early to call, even though both recipients were early risers. Instead, he sent two texts. One to Aaron Espinoza, his former partner in Homicide, asking him if he had time for a call later in the day. The second text went to Emma Whitecastle asking the same, but also tacking on a request that she send Granny his way, if she saw her.

Granny was Granny Apples, the ghost of a pioneer woman from Julian, California, whose real name was Ish Reynolds. Granny loved nothing more than digging around like an old-time private eye. She could eavesdrop and do surveillance without the people being watched knowing and without a wire. That’s how he had first met Emma and Phil. They were on the same stakeout and had sent Granny over to check him out, suspicious that he could see Granny. It was the first and only time he’d admitted to anyone that he could communicate with spirits. He couldn’t very well deny it, seeing that Granny had looked him in the face and unnerved him to the point he had to confess to Emma and Phil or be called out for being a liar. But he had to admit, sharing his secret with them had taken some of the burden off his shoulders and he had made two good friends in the bargain. Three if you counted Granny. Since then, he had learned from Emma and her good friend Milo Ravenscroft, an internationally known medium and Emma’s mentor, more about how to control and manage his gift. He’d used Granny a couple of times since on some of his small cases and she’d proven to be a great asset, although she could be cantankerous much of the time.

His texts sent, Jeremiah got off his bike, stashed his helmet in the locked storage box on its side, and started for the Hi-Life Diner.

“Jeremiah Jones, is that you?” said a woman’s voice behind him. He turned and saw a shiny pickup truck parked across from him. At the wheel was Greta Miles.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Jeremiah said with a big grin as he crossed the street to greet her.

Greta and her family owned a farm by Santa Paula called Milestone Farm. A few times a week she hauled fruits and vegetables from her farm down to Skid Row and distributed them to some of the missions and outreach programs. Sometimes she even handed them out directly to the homeless. The produce was a mixed lot. Most often the boxes in the back of her truck were filled with bruised and blemished items or items not fresh enough to sell at the various farmers’ markets her family attended, but Milestone Farm never gave the homeless rotten goods like some farms. Greta, with her long light brown ponytail and freckled, pale face, had become a familiar sight downtown over the years. She was in her late thirties, but could pass for a teenager if one didn’t look too closely. Only of average height and slim of build, she could wrangle a tractor and carry boxes of produce like any farmhand.

Jeremiah gave her a big smile through the window of the truck. “Making your rounds?”

“Yeah, had to get an early start today so I could get back. My sister-in-law is throwing a big barbeque tonight to celebrate her husband’s fortieth birthday.” She looked around. “What brings you down here today?”

“Red Watkins at Angels called me. He wants me to locate a woman named Mistletoe Mary. Ever hear of her? Real name is Mary Dowling.”

Greta pursed her lips, then shook her head. “No. Is she a volunteer or a resident?”

“Resident.”

She shrugged. “I don’t usually make much contact with the locals except to hand them the occasional apple or orange. Mostly I deal with the organizations. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. She’s a working girl, so she’s out and about while you’re fast asleep. You’ve probably never come in contact with her.”

Jeremiah ran his hand along the smooth surface of the truck’s door. On it was attached a magnetic door sign with the Milestone Farm logo. “Nice wheels. It new?”

“Yeah,” she answered with a gleam in her eye. “Brand-new. The old one couldn’t make the long drive anymore. We just use it around the farm now.” She started the truck. “You still seeing that Rose from Angels?”

“I am. Why?”

“Just that I know a hot grandma up my way you might like if you’re ever interested.”

He laughed and shook his head with amusement. “I’ll keep that in mind, girl.”

Even with its optimistic name, it was obvious that the Hi-Life Diner was not one of the new trendy places. It had been new once, maybe back when Eisenhower had been president, but now it was just a run-down diner with scuffed linoleum and cracked bloodred vinyl booths and stools patched here and there with duct tape. In some cases the entire seat of a booth had been replaced without thought to matching the color of the original seat, so that some of the booths were a patchwork of red backs with green or black seats. The place was narrow with a counter running along the right and booths along the left and a few along the back wall. There was no room in the middle for tables. Tacked on the side wall above the booths was a beat-up gold banner wishing everyone Happy Holidays. There was a door marked Restroom set in the back wall and a swinging door at the end of the counter that probably led to the kitchen and was marked Employees Only.

The smell of bacon, toasted bread, and strong coffee hit his nostrils as soon as he entered the place, making Jeremiah realize how hungry he was. He straddled the first stool at the long worn but clean counter and placed his phone on the counter in front of him. He’d turned off the ringer, and set it to vibrate. On the end of the counter were two covered pedestal cake plates. Under one dome was an assortment of donuts that looked fresh. Under the other was a chocolate cake that didn’t. From here he could keep an eye on his bike through the grimy window.

Across from the counter were the usual food prep areas used by the waitstaff, and beyond that the kitchen, seen through a long pass-through where orders were stuck into clips like flags and food delivered to the raised counter for pickup. From Jeremiah’s spot, he could see only one cook working this morning—an older dark brown man, his head covered by a cap pulled down tight, bill backward. The cook was probably Mexican and possibly illegal, paid cheaply and under the table. Many places in downtown hired illegals of all races and backgrounds. Every now and then the authorities cracked down, but within days the workers were back, sometimes new faces, sometimes the same ones, willing to take the risk of deportation for low-paying jobs that fed their families.

Thick earthenware mugs of dull white were placed in clusters, rims down, here and there along the counter. Jeremiah picked up one and turned it upright, signaling that he wanted coffee. Soon a short, dumpy waitress was in front of him filling his cup with a dark, strong brew. She wore a bib apron over ratty purple knit pants and a dark blue T-shirt, and from the cleanliness of the apron, Jeremiah guessed she’d just started her shift.

“Know what you want?” she asked him, her dark full lips taking a no-nonsense stance. She was African-American, in her forties or even pushing fifty, with very dark skin, almond eyes, and a wide face that hinted it might have been angular and pretty when she was younger. On her head was a wig fashioned in a blunt cut of mahogany hair that once belonged to someone else. Pinned to the front of her apron was a name tag that read Mona.

In answer, Jeremiah grabbed a menu from several stashed between the nearest napkin holder and a pair of salt and pepper shakers. It was greasy and encased in a holder of cracked plastic. Giving him a minute, the waitress moved down the counter refilling the mugs of the other two men seated together at the counter—one black, one Latino, both dressed for jobs of manual labor. They must have been regulars, because they joked with Mona as she poured their coffee and she responded with a wide smile and sass of her own.

The menu was standard diner fare. Breakfast on the front, other food items in the middle pages, and the back listed sides, extras, drinks, and desserts. A moment later, Mona was back in front of him, still holding the coffeepot like a weapon.

“Made up your mind?” she asked.

“The breakfast special,” he told her as he replaced the menu next to the napkin holder. “Eggs over easy.”

“Toast?”

“Whole wheat.”

After writing the order down and tacking it to a clip in the kitchen window, Mona made some toast and when it was done waddled over toward the only occupied booth. With his mug to his lips, Jeremiah watched from the corner of his eye. The booth was against the back wall and held two white people, a man and a woman, seated on opposite sides. The man was older, dressed casually but nice, and looked uncomfortable. The woman was painfully thin. She wore a short, clingy, bright blue dress of cheap material, very high heels, and too much makeup. Her bright red hair was long and teased on top. She was most likely a working girl. Both looked tired. He might have been her last customer of the night or had been picked up early this morning and she’d talked him into buying her breakfast before they parted. Her pimp could take her money, but he couldn’t take a full belly.

The cook called order up. Mona picked up the food that had been placed in the pass-through and delivered it to the booth, where the woman fell on it like a starving animal. Jeremiah wondered if this was Lizzie, Mistletoe Mary’s friend. She certainly fit the description Carmen had given him.

His own order was placed in front of him a few minutes later. Two eggs perfectly fried over easy, crispy hash browns, and two strips of bacon. On a separate plate, Mona had delivered his whole-wheat buttered toast and a single plastic pod of strawberry jam. The food was served on heavy dishes of scratched dull white rimmed with a thin blue line. He ate, keeping an eye on the couple in the booth without being too obvious, which was easy enough since the place wasn’t that large. When the two men seated at the counter paid and left, Jeremiah had a direct view of the booth.

He raised his mug to his lips again, saying out loud but in a low whisper squelched by the rim of the mug, “Granny, where are you when I need you?”

“You rang?” came a voice out of nowhere.

Surprised, Jeremiah coughed and sputtered on the coffee in his mouth until some went down his throat and the rest dribbled down his chin. He grabbed some napkins from the nearby holder and mopped his face.

“You okay there, mister?” the waitress said stepping in front of him.

“I’m fine,” Jeremiah assured her. “It just went down the wrong way.”

After staring at him a moment, Mona turned and went down to the other end of the counter where she was filling gathered dispensers with sugar and salt and pepper.

Jeremiah glanced slyly around, but saw nothing. He brought his mug up close to his lips again and whispered, “Granny, that you?”

“Who else you expecting?” The ghost of Granny Apples materialized next to him. “You did send up a smoke signal to Emma that you wanted to see me, didn’t you?”

He nodded as he took a sip of coffee, and wondered how he was going to communicate with the spirit without people noticing.

“What a dump,” Granny said, looking around. “Are you sure you should eat the food here?”

In answer, Jeremiah shoveled another bite of eggs into his mouth.

After swallowing his food, he cast another look at the booth, noting that the man had only picked at his food while the woman was in the process of wiping her plate clean with a piece of toast. The three of them were the only customers in the place at the moment. He half expected the man to wave a hand at Mona indicating he wanted the check so he could make his escape, but he didn’t. Instead he watched the woman across from him wolf down her food with a mixture of disgust and despair.

He needed to tell Granny to go over and see what they were saying, but didn’t dare mumble anything out loud in case Mona was listening. He knew when Emma needed to talk to Granny, she often pretended to be speaking on her cell phone, but that wouldn’t work in this case because he needed to talk about people within earshot. Then he remembered that Granny could read some. Picking up his phone, he typed in a short text message but didn’t send it. He put the phone back down on the counter, tapping the screen until Granny noticed, and went back to eating.

Granny looked down at the cell phone screen. “You need me to spy on those folks in the booth?” she asked. He nodded as he chewed on a strip of bacon. “You gonna tell me why or what we’re looking for?” she prodded.

After wiping his hands on a napkin, Jeremiah picked up his phone and typed in, Not here. He put the phone back down on the counter and went back to finishing his breakfast.

“Gotcha,” the ghost said with a determined jerk of her chin.

Turning his head slightly, Jeremiah watched as the ghost sashayed in her pioneer garb with its ankle-length homespun skirt and long-sleeved blouse over to the booth with the man and woman.

While Granny spied for him, Jeremiah finished his breakfast. He’d just pushed his plate away when Mona returned with the coffeepot and refilled his mug. “You a cop?” she asked without ceremony.

The question should have surprised Jeremiah, but it didn’t. He knew he still looked like a cop and always would. His military and police training were too ingrained for him to be anything else. “No,” he answered honestly. He studied the bloated face of the waitress, wondering if he should tell her the truth or try a ruse, but one look into her small dark eyes let him know that while she may be slow-moving physically, her mind was quick and she was observant. “I’m a PI. I’m looking for a missing woman.”

“A runaway?” Mona asked with no emotion in her voice. “We don’t get many of those down here. They mostly hit Hollywood. They end up down here when they hit bottom, like that piece of trash over there.” She indicated the woman in the booth with the red hair.

Jeremiah glanced that way and saw that the man was talking to the woman and the woman looked bored. Granny was almost perched on top of the table listening. “Not a young woman and not a runaway,” he told Mona, turning back to her. “Do you know a woman called Mistletoe Mary?” he asked in a low voice.

Mona’s eyes widened with surprise. It was the first emotion he’d seen from her. She snorted, “Who would pay a private dick to find her?”

Jeremiah pulled his coffee close. “I’m doing it for a friend. Have you seen her?”

“Not lately,” Mona told him. “She used to work down here but she got too old and sick.”

“I’m told she used to work for Ace and that Ace works out of this diner.” He remembered that Carmen claimed the diner was owned by Ace’s family. “You related to Ace?” he asked.

“He’s my brother,” Mona admitted. “But you don’t want to go messing with him. He kicked her to the curb a few weeks, maybe a month back. He ain’t had nothing to do with her since.”

“I have no intention of messing with him,” Jeremiah assured her, “but I’d like to ask him a few questions. See if he knows where she might be.”

“Dead most likely,” Mona said with another small snort. “She was a drunk and sick, both in the body and the head. That’s why Ace cut her off.”

Jeremiah nodded his head in the direction of the booth. “Is that woman there called Lizzie?” When Mona nodded, he added, “I hear she’s friends with Mary. Maybe when her John leaves, I can buy a few moments of her time.”

Mona put down the pot and leaned forward on the counter, displaying copious breasts barely held in check by the neckline of her shirt. “That ain’t no John. That’s her daddy. He comes here a couple times a month to buy her breakfast and try to talk some sense into her.” She straightened up. “Breaks my heart, but nothing I can do about it.”

Jeremiah fixed his eyes on hers. “Breaks your heart so much you and Ace run girls out of here?”

Again Mona bent over, but this time she wasn’t as friendly. “Listen, mister. Ace might be my brother, but I have no part in whatever business he’s in. I need to make a living just like the next person. I run the Hi-Life and that’s it. It’s an honest business that my brother would ruin if I ran him off.” When he didn’t say anything, she added with narrow eyes, “Do you understand me?”

Jeremiah nodded. He understood perfectly. “Where’s Ace now?”

“Sleeping. He probably just got to bed an hour or so ago. Won’t be up until after noon.”

“Where does he crash?”

Mona straightened. “I ain’t telling you. He’s my brother. And you may not be a cop, but I’m betting you once were. Black or not, you’re covered with cop stink.”

Jeremiah reached into his zippered pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. He placed it on the counter and pushed it toward Mona. “What are my chances of getting some one-on-one time with Lizzie over there after her father leaves?” Then he tacked on, “Without Ace knowing.”

Mona picked up the ten and deposited it somewhere under the folds of her apron. Then she pulled his meal ticket from her pad and placed it in front of him, making it clear the ten was over and above the price of his meal which was only $6.99 with coffee. He put another ten and a five on the counter and said, “Keep the change.”

Again the money disappeared. Mona left and returned with the coffeepot. As she refilled his mug, she said, “Her daddy should be going soon. He never stays much past the meal. I’ll make sure Lizzie sticks around. She’s got a sweet tooth. I’ll take her a piece of cake.” When she finished pouring his coffee, she carved off a large piece from the chocolate cake under the plastic dome, placed it on a plate, and put it on the counter. He started to pull out more cash to pay for the cake, but Mona shook her head. “This is on the house. It’s two days old and will be tossed later today anyway.”

Jeremiah was relieved at the gesture. He was bleeding money and had just started his investigation.

Soon after, the man at the booth shoved some money across the table at Lizzie, which she scooped up. Then he got up and came to the counter and stood just a couple of stools down from Jeremiah. He caught Mona’s eye, making sure she saw the twenty he put down on the counter before leaving. Jeremiah watched him walk out with rounded shoulders and tears in his eyes. His child was lost to him and there was nothing he could do, but he wasn’t about to stop trying.

As soon as Lizzie’s father was gone, Mona picked up the big slice of cake and delivered it to Lizzie’s booth. Jeremiah took the cue and followed her with his coffee mug. One the way he passed Granny returning to the counter. He gave her a nod that turned her on her heels back to the table.

Chapter 4

“This gentleman’s bought this cake for you, Lizzie,” Mona told the woman in the booth. She put the cake down in front of the woman, cleared the breakfast dishes, and returned to the counter.

“She’s looking at that cake like it’s a bear trap, ready to snatch her,” Granny noted.

“I’m done for the night,” Lizzie said to Jeremiah without looking up from the cake. Her voice was low but determined, like a warning growl.

“I’m not here for that,” Jeremiah told her. “I’m a private investigator. I want to ask you about your friend Mary.”

“I don’t have any friends.”

“Sure you do,” Jeremiah said to her in a soothing tone. “You’ve got your father. Isn’t that who just left?”

“Yep,” Granny confirmed. “That was her daddy. And she has a son, too. A little boy named Ryan, according to her father.”

“And you have Ryan, don’t you?” Jeremiah said to her, thankful for the feed from Granny.

Lizzie’s face shot up to stare at Jeremiah. Under all the garish makeup and mop of shocking red hair was a face younger than he’d expected. But she did look used up. Under her dull blue eyes were deep dark crescents, both from being up all night and from drug use. Her skin was sallow, her cheeks hollow, making her long nose seem longer and thinner. At one time, Jeremiah thought, she must have been pretty with full cheeks and a youthful spark in her eyes.

“How do you know about Ryan?” she hissed.

“And her daddy wants her to come home,” added Granny. “Said he’d help her get off the drugs so she can be a good mother to Ryan.” The ghost sniffed. “Broke my heart hearing him plead with her to come home in time for Christmas. Said it would be the best present in the world for Ryan.”

Jeremiah folded his hands on top of the table and leaned forward. “I heard that man say something about him and how he wants you to go home and be a proper momma to him. Sounds like a good plan to me.”

“You don’t know nothing,” she hissed again.

“Listen, girl,” Jeremiah said, keeping his voice even and paternal, “I know your friend Mistletoe Mary is missing and might be dead.”

“You’ve been talking to that crazy man Bucket,” she said with a sneer. “Mary’s not dead. She left to live with her daughter. Everyone knows that.”

“Did you ever see her daughter? Can you describe her?” he asked.

Granny got up and started pacing, clearly upset by the girl. “That poor little boy. He needs a mother.” Jeremiah shot the ghost a glance, but didn’t make eye contact.

Lizzie thought about the question. “Yeah, once. No, wait. Twice, I think. Yeah, two times.”

Granny stopped pacing and stood by the table listening. She said to Jeremiah, “You are going to tell me what this is all about, aren’t you?”

Without looking at the ghost, he nodded slightly. Of Lizzie, he asked, “When was this? Do you remember?”

“A week or two before Thanksgiving, but I don’t remember the exact day,” she answered. She picked up the fork Mona delivered with the cake and cut off a large piece with the side of it. “We were on a corner by one of the bars working.”

“Did Mary introduce you to her?” Jeremiah asked. “Did you get a name?”

“Not then, but I think Mary once told me that her daughter’s name was Sherry or Cheryl or something like that. She told me that the state took her from Mary when she was just a toddler. It was because of the drugs.” She shoveled bites of cake into her mouth, one after the other, then struggled to chew and swallow. She ate like she was afraid it would be taken from her.

“Is that why Ryan isn’t with you?” Granny asked, forgetting that Lizzie couldn’t hear her.

“Do you remember what the daughter looked like?” Jeremiah asked.

“Not really,” she said, her mouth still partially full. She glanced over at the counter while she chewed, then washed the cake down with a swig of coffee. “Both times I saw her, she made me leave.”

“Mary did?”

Lizzie shook her head and carved off another bite of cake. If it was stale, Lizzie didn’t mind. “No, the bitch daughter. As soon as she showed up, she told Mary she had to talk to her alone. After, Mary started acting all high and mighty, like she was better than the rest of us, so I left her alone.”

“Ask her about her son, Jeremiah,” demanded Granny.

“Hang on,” Jeremiah said to Granny, forgetting himself.

“Hang on about what?” asked Lizzie with another full mouth.

Granny crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her booted foot on the floor, but it made no noise.

“Hang on,” Jeremiah said to Lizzie, making a save of his blunder. “If you saw her twice, you’d know if she had brown hair or blond. Was she tall or short? Fat or thin?”

Lizzie thought while she chewed, but it was clear she was exhausted. Finally, she said, “Brown hair, I guess. And it was cut short, kind of like hers.” She pointed at Mona. She gave it more thought. “She seemed kind of average to me. She wore sunglasses both times.”

“At night?” both Granny and Jeremiah said in unison.

Lizzie nodded at Jeremiah. “Yeah, happens all the time down here. People go slumming and don’t want to be recognized. Some fools think the shades make them look cool. Usually though they need to hide that they’re high.”

“Which do you think was the case with Mary’s daughter?” he asked.

Lizzie shrugged, her thin shoulders nearly hitting her ears. “Slumming probably.”

“If Mary did leave with her daughter, don’t you think it’s odd that she didn’t say good-bye to you?”

Again the shrug. It was a nervous gesture that began almost every comment from Lizzie. “Not the way she was acting. Like I said, she was bragging about going to live with her daughter. It got pretty old after a while.”

The front door to the diner opened and two black men came in. Like the others, they were dressed for manual labor. They took a booth near the front and called to Mona for coffee and shouted a greeting back to the cook. Regulars. The place probably only had regular customers. Jeremiah was sure the Hi-Life Diner wasn’t on a tourist list of LA’s best eateries.

Jeremiah returned his attention to Lizzie and decided to steer the questions in another direction. “How did Mary get along with Ace? She was one of his girls, wasn’t she?”

At the mention of her pimp, fear filled her eyes as she suddenly thought of something. Putting down her fork, Lizzie started to scoot out of the booth. “I gotta go.”

“Lizzie, don’t,” Jeremiah said, putting out a hand to cover the one she still had on the table. “Ace will never know you spoke to me. I don’t care about him. I’m here to find Mary.”

Lizzie’s eyes shot toward Mona again, who was serving coffee to the two new customers and taking their orders. Finished with that, Mona came to their table and refilled Lizzie’s and Jeremiah’s mugs. “Everything okay here?” Her sharp eyes studied Lizzie, then Jeremiah, and shot back to Lizzie. “Tell the man what he needs to know, Lizzie, and be quick about it,” Mona encouraged her. “Then he’ll be gone. If you don’t, he’s the sort who will stick around and cause trouble. And you know, we don’t be needing any of that.” She gave Lizzie a knowing look. “None of us.” Mona returned to the counter and put in the order for the other table.

Lizzie settled back into the booth and picked up her fresh coffee. She blew over the top of the mug before taking a sip. “Mary works for Ace,” she finally said. “Same as me.”

“I heard that he cut her loose because she was too old and sick to attract customers.” Jeremiah turned his warm mug around between his two hands.

Lizzie nodded her head with disgust. “Ace would never do that as long as a girl could turn a buck, but it was getting more and more difficult for her to earn anything and Ace lost his patience. He turned her out of her place shortly before Thanksgiving.”

“You mean he controls where you live?”

She nodded. “Several of us room together in a dive on Stanford Avenue near the Salvation Army. There are a couple of apartments above a warehouse that Ace owns. All his girls live there. Mary did, too, until about a month ago when he threw her out and replaced her with a new girl.”

“Charming guy,” Granny snapped.

“I’m sure Ace charges top rent for the place, too, right?” Jeremiah asked, although he already knew the answer.

Lizzie leaned forward and looked around before speaking. “Listen, Ace isn’t a prince by a long shot, but he never beats his girls. I’ve worked for guys like that. They’d put a girl in the hospital just for looking at them sideways. Ace gives us a place to live and protects us. Everything’s good, as long as we can work.”

“Does he keep you supplied with drugs, too?” Jeremiah asked, his eyes latched to hers. “Hard to save anything when all your hard-earned money is going for shelter and getting high.”

“I thought you wanted to know about Mary,” she shot back.

Jeremiah nodded. “I do. I want to know where she is.”

“I have no idea, and that’s the truth,” Lizzie said. “After Ace threw her out, I think she was living in some flophouse and getting by however she could. Her daughter must have come back and taken her off the streets.”

“Did Ace throw her out before or after she started talking about her daughter taking her away?”

Lizzie took a deep breath and looked down at the half-eaten cake. “I really don’t remember.”

“Do you think Ace might have harmed Mary in some way?” he asked, knowing the question would definitely spook the antsy woman.

“You mean, kill her?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. She shook her head vehemently. “Ace does nothing without a motive and what would that solve? Mary was already washed up and causing him no problems. He’s a badass, but also a smart businessman. He’d never do something that might rain the cops down on him. A dead body would do that, wouldn’t it?”

Jeremiah agreed with her assessment, providing Ace was as smart as she thought. Some pimps were. Some were not. He pulled some cash out of his pocket and slid it across the table, along with his business card. “If you see Mary, give me a call. It’s important.”

She took the money, then eyed him with fresh suspicion. “Who are you working for? For years no one has given a damn about Mary and now suddenly she’s Miss Congeniality.”

Jeremiah slid out of the booth. He bent down, putting his head close to Lizzie’s. She smelled of stale cheap perfume and sex sweat. “Lizzie, I don’t know what happened to your friend Mary, but I intend to find out. You’re still a young woman and you have a son. There’s still time to change your life around. Call your father. Tell him you’re coming home in time for Christmas, hear me?”

“You’re not the boss of me,” she said with defiance.

“No, I’m not.” He studied her a moment, then said, “Call me if you remember anything else. Or when you’re ready to get off the streets. I’ll get you help.”

Chapter 5

“Now are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Granny asked as they left the diner and were standing next to Jeremiah’s motorcycle.

Borrowing Emma’s trick, Jeremiah put his phone up to his ear and gave Granny a quick rundown of what he was doing and what he had learned so far.

When he was done, Granny asked, “You think this Mistletoe Mary is dead, don’t you?”

“I don’t really know, Granny,” he told her honestly, “but I intend to find out. I want you to watch Bucket and see if her ghost or any ghost shows up. As I told you, he had an episode while I was there that could have been a spirit taking over his body or just him ranting. It was hard to tell and I haven’t seen that before.”

“Well, I have. It’s even happened to Emma.”

“Speaking of which,” he said, looking down at his phone. “She texted back saying to call her this afternoon.”

“Yeah,” the diminutive ghost said, “she and Phil are going to some fancy brunch with Emma’s folks and some friends of theirs this morning.” Granny stood in front of Jeremiah with her hands on her hips. “Frankly, I’d rather be here working a case than at some hoity-toity thing. But if you want me to watch Bucket, you’ll have to take me there. You know I can’t zoom in on people and places unless I’ve made a prior connection.”

“We’ll do that right after I make a call to Rose,” he assured her. “She left me a voice mail.”

“Rose,” Granny repeated. “That’s your lady friend, isn’t it?” Jeremiah nodded as he returned the call to Rose Carson. “I like her,” Granny pronounced. “She’s real people.”

“That she is.” Jeremiah chuckled, knowing that Granny and Rose would probably get on like bacon and eggs, if they could meet. Both women, the dead and the living, had a habit of speaking their minds and cutting to the quick of situations. Granny knew Rose from the few times she’d been with him when he visited Emma, but Rose knew nothing about Granny or Jeremiah’s gift.

After the call, during which Jeremiah gave Rose a quick rundown of what Red had wanted and told her he’d see her for dinner that night, he made his way back to Bucket’s usual spot. Granny said she’d meet him there.

San Pedro Street was busier now. Still not as busy as it would be during the week, but the people who lived on the street were moving about, gathered in small groups talking or moving their carts down the sidewalk as if going to work. In an hour or so, some of the small shops, convenience and liquor stores would be open for business and increase the activity even more. Jeremiah made his way to Bucket’s spot, but the old man and his dog weren’t there. He called to two young guys standing nearby against the wall, “Hey, you know where Bucket went?”

One of the men, the shorter but more buffed, straightened and took a step closer to Jeremiah. In spite of the chill in the air, he wore no jacket over his black wifebeater and his exposed heavily muscled arms were covered with gang tattoos. Neither of the guys looked homeless, but they did look tough and bored—a bad combination. “You mean the crazy guy who rants about dead whores?”

Jeremiah nodded, but stayed on his motorcycle. He didn’t want any trouble. “Yeah, that’s him.”

“He went to his summer place,” the taller, skinnier one called out. Both hoods laughed.

“And where might that be?” Jeremiah asked, giving them his best cop stare, which he’d never lost. These were the types of guys Red was worried about. They were the sort who would think nothing of taking a pipe to Bucket’s head just to shut him up. Or to a burned-out hooker’s head just for sport.

“I think he owns beachfront property over on Alvarado Street,” said the shorter one, again laughing. The two fist-bumped, pleased with their combined wit.

Jeremiah spotted Eddie on the corner still doing his robotic dance. He knew he wouldn’t be of any use. He rode up to the intersection of 5th Street and looked up and down the cross street. He thought he spotted Carmen in a small group of women about a block down San Pedro. He crossed the intersection and headed for her.

“Hey, Carmen,” he called to her as he pulled up, “have you seen Bucket since this morning?”

“Well, hi again, handsome,” she said in her little-girl voice. She looked slightly high to Jeremiah, but not totally baked.

There were three other women of various ages with Carmen—one white, two black. As soon as he pulled up, the white woman, whom he recognized as Beth Jenkins, an Iraqi vet he’d seen a few times at Angels, took a long drag from a joint and passed it to the person to her left—a tall, skinny woman with her head shaved—who took her own long drag. They were smoking out in the open with no fear of being caught. They knew the LAPD in this area had bigger fish to fry than a few potheads with a joint or two. As poor as these people were, there always seemed to be a way to get the drugs and booze they used to take the sting out of their situation.

Jeremiah took off his helmet and dismounted his bike. He approached the women. “Hi, ladies.” He looked specifically at Beth. “Hey, Beth,” he said to the woman with short brown hair wearing a field jacket similar to Sloan’s. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

“Got a job,” she answered. She was in her thirties, about five-eight, slim ,and tomboyish.

“Something Red fixed you up with?” he asked, knowing the pot smoking was a violation of Red’s rules and Beth knew it, too.

“Nah, something I got on my own,” she replied. “Part-time for now, but who knows. Could turn into something else.” The joint was passed back to her and she took another long hit before holding it out to Jeremiah. He declined with a shake of his head. Beth shrugged and passed it to Carmen.

Jeremiah turned to Carmen. “Have you seen Bucket?” he asked her again.

“Bucket’s on the move during the day,” she told him after exhaling. “Over there by the mission is only where he sleeps. You might find him on Wall by the Angels office or he might be on San Julian by the park. If he’s not at either of those, I’m not sure.” She shrugged like a little kid and giggled. Jeremiah thanked her, bid them good day, and left.

He spotted Bucket on San Julian Street just inside the park. He was sitting on a bench, Lola in his lap, his shopping cart nearby. San Julian Park was gated and locked at night, but during the day it was the backyard for the area’s homeless, who filled the benches, tables, and grassy areas as soon as the gates were open. There was also a public toilet located next to it. Jeremiah pulled up to the curb, got off his bike, stored his helmet, and locked everything.

Bucket was alone, talking loudly, not to the dog but to anyone with ears. Jeremiah looked around, noting that there was almost a no-fly zone around Bucket as people ignored or avoided him. Bucket rambled and rocked slightly back and forth. He paid no mind to anyone or anything, his voice ebbing and flowing in volume from normal speech to angry shouting. His tirade was a blend of clarity and incoherence, punctuated with blistering cusswords like stabs from a knife.

Before approaching him, Jeremiah watched Bucket with interest, trying to find a pattern to his diatribe. It didn’t take him long to pick out the words murder and dead. They were splattered throughout Bucket’s speech like splotches of paint. He kept listening and could decipher other strings of words that also showed up with regularity, including help me and find me. Jeremiah studied the area around Bucket, checking for any signs of a ghost, and for a second he thought he spotted a hazy figure standing just to the right of where Bucket sat. Then whatever he saw was gone. It could have been a shadow from the trees overhead or maybe he was trying too hard to see something that wasn’t there.

“This the guy?” asked Granny, popping up next to Jeremiah.

“Yeah,” he said to Granny in a whisper. No one was around them, so he didn’t take precautions not to be overheard. “That’s his dog Lola in his lap.”

“What’s he jabbering about?”

“That’s the ranting he does about Mary. If you listen closely you’ll hear the word murder here and there. I’m not sure if those are Bucket’s words or the words of a spirit coming through him.” Jeremiah was tempted to look at Granny, as he would anyone else he was speaking to, but caught himself. “Can you see any spirits around him, Granny?”

“Not right now,” she told him. “I’d like to mosey on over there and see what happens, but the dog might give me away.” She continued watching the man and dog. “Animals are sensitive to spirits, so if the ghost of this Mary is there, the dog would be a little more active. Unless the animal is so used to her, it doesn’t even notice anymore when she’s around.”

“That dog is pretty old and sick, Granny. She might not notice a spirit or even care.”

“Gotcha,” Granny said and started moving toward Bucket slowly just in case Lola decided at that precise moment to care.

As she got close, it wasn’t the dog who noticed her, but Bucket. He stopped ranting midword and stared at Granny. “Go away,” he said to her, his voice indignant.

Bucket could see her, but the dog stayed put. Granny couldn’t tell if there was a spirit guiding his words or if he really could see her.

“I need to see Mary,” Granny said to him, loud enough for her voice to carry to Jeremiah.

“Go away,” Bucket demanded. He gently put the dog on the bench next to him. Lola looked up and saw Granny, giving her raggedy tail a few feeble wags.

“Is that you, Mary?” Granny asked Bucket, hoping to find out if there was another ghost present.

“I don’t know you,” Bucket said, getting to his feet. “I don’t know you!” He took a few steps toward her. Some people stopped what they were doing to watch, but all they saw was a crazy old man yelling into thin air. With a shake of their heads, they went back to their business.

“I came to help Mary, Bucket,” Granny said, moving closer. “You want to help her, don’t ya?”

Bucket’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. He stared at Granny, unsure of what to do next.

“Is Mary here with you right now?” she asked, keeping her eyes peeled for any signs of the ghost.

“I’m dead,” Bucket snapped at her. “Murdered. It’s dark. I don’t like the dark.” Bucket’s voice took a turn down and he started weeping and rubbing his arms. “Cold and dark.”

Granny returned to Jeremiah. “It’s Mary, isn’t it?” he asked her.

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Granny looked over at Bucket, who was still standing and ranting, arms clutched around himself.

Jeremiah approached Bucket. Granny followed. “Bucket, do you remember me? It’s Jeremiah. I brought you and Lola breakfast this morning.”

Bucket’s eyes latched on to Jeremiah. They were just as red and runny as they had been a few hours ago, but there was a focus in the pupils that wasn’t there before. “I don’t know you,” he spat out.

Jeremiah tried a different tack. “Mary, my name is Jeremiah Jones,” he said in a soft voice as he stepped closer to Bucket. “I’m here to help you. And that’s my friend Granny. She’s also here to help.”

Bucket’s eyes shot between Jeremiah and Granny, but Jeremiah got the attention back on him again. “I talked to Lizzie this morning,” he said gently. “She says hello.”

At hearing Lizzie’s name, a small smile spread across Bucket’s weathered face. “Lizzie is such a nice girl, but she needs to get out.”

Then he saw the ghost of Mistletoe Mary. At first it was just a haze, like a light steam coming off Bucket. Then she stepped into view. Bucket staggered and with great effort lowered himself back down to the bench. He didn’t pay them any mind, just picked up Lola and closed his eyes.

“Is Lizzie in danger?” Granny asked.

“We’re all in danger down here,” Mary said. She was dressed in a very short skirt with a skimpy, low-cut blouse. Her long hair was wild and matted and her body wasn’t much more than skin and bones. On her chest, dead-center, was a flower tattoo, just as Carmen had said. Though he wasn’t sure, it looked to Jeremiah to be of an orchid.

The ghost hesitated, then said as she wrapped her thin arms around herself, “I’m very cold. It’s dark,” she whimpered. “Mommy locked me in a closet when I was a bad little girl. I hate the dark.”

“Where are you, Mary?” Granny asked. “Can you tell us?”

“It’s cold and dark. Very dark.” Mary’s image started to fade.

“What’s happening, Granny?” Jeremiah whispered.

“She’s a new spirit,” Granny explained. “They can’t stay for very long at a time like I can.”

Before they could find out anything more, Mary’s ghost was gone. They looked down at Bucket. He was asleep on the bench, snoring loudly, exhausted from his activities.

“At least we now know that Mary’s dead for sure,” Granny said as they walked back to Jeremiah’s motorcycle.

Jeremiah started to say something, then stopped as an old couple walked by and entered the park. To be safe, he pulled out his phone and pretended to be talking on it like Emma did when speaking to Granny in public.

“But where is her body?” he said into the turned-off phone, still keeping his voice low. “Cold and dark could mean anything. And I can’t very well go to the police and say a ghost told me she was murdered but we have no idea where the body is.” He ran a hand over his head as he pieced together the scraps of information he had so far. “We don’t even know when she was killed. Just sometime between Thanksgiving and today. That’s about ten days.”

Granny paced the cracked sidewalk, her hands clasped behind her back. She stopped in front of Jeremiah. “Do you know when Bucket started ranting about her being dead?”

“From what Red said, sometime last week. So it could be she was killed about that time.” Jeremiah looked at Granny. “How long before a spirit can manifest itself after the body dies?”

“Hard to say. Sometimes right away. Sometimes not for a long time. It depends on the spirit.” Granny quickly paced back and forth before stopping again. “Some spirits cross over immediately and never return, and some don’t cross over until they finish up something here on earth. Then they may or may not return.” She put her hands on her bony hips. “It’s not like we come with an instruction manual.”

“Any idea why she would choose Bucket to haunt?” he asked, ignoring her sass.

“She might have known him well or could be she died in close proximity to him. You know, near where he was at the time. Emma or Milo might be able to explain that better.”

Jeremiah looked around the neighborhood, thinking about what Granny just said. If that was true and Mary died at night, then she was probably killed over on San Pedro. But if she was killed during the day, it could be anywhere within this four – or five-block area. Not a large geographic area, but one with lots of nooks and crannies for hiding people, dead or alive. But it was also an area with lots of people milling around during the day.

“You got some ideas, Jeremiah?” Granny asked.

“If Mary attached herself to Bucket shortly after she died, I’m betting it was near San Pedro Street where he sleeps at night.” He gestured to the park. “Look around, there are too many people around during the day. A friend of Bucket’s told me he wanders during the day but doesn’t go far.”

“We should search the area where he sleeps now while he’s not there. How about a Dumpster?” Granny suggested. “Those are cold and dark.”

Jeremiah shook his head. “The homeless go through those almost every day looking for food and stuff they might be able to use. If her body was dumped in one, it would have been found by now.”

“If she’s been dead a few days and not found, she’s gotta be pretty ripe,” Granny noted. “Someone should have picked up on that by now, no matter where she is.”

“Again, depends where she is,” Jeremiah said. “If she was left out in the open, yes. But if she’s shut up or buried somewhere, not necessarily. Maybe you should go sniffing around,” he suggested. “You won’t rouse any curiosity like a cadaver dog.” He paused, then added, “You can still smell, can’t you? I mean, I’m not sure how that works with ghosts.”

“I can,” Granny assured him. “I can’t taste or touch, but I can still smell.” The ghost looked around and scowled. “This place stinks of pee and garbage.”

Jeremiah pocketed his phone and mounted his bike. “Granny, check and see if Mary’s back with Bucket.”

The ghost left and returned, shaking her head. “Nope. So where to now?”

His cell rang before he could answer her. The call was from Aaron Espinoza. “Hey, Aaron,” Jeremiah said, answering.

“Got your text. What’s up?”

“Tell me, have there been any female bodies found lately in the Skid Row area?” It wasn’t the first question he was originally going to ask his old partner, but now that he knew Mary was dead, he changed his priorities.

“I can’t think of any off the top of my head, but let me check and call you back? You expecting a body to drop?”

Jeremiah knew he had to be careful how he phrased his words. “Red Watkins has asked me to look into the disappearance of one of the street people, a pro called Mistletoe Mary. I was just wondering if she turned up dead and he doesn’t know. Her real name is Mary Dowling. White woman. Late thirties, maybe fortyish. Hard to tell. Crack and booze addict. I’ve heard she worked Hollywood before hitting bottom down here. Also heard she’s got a daughter but lost custody of her years ago. No idea how old the kid would be. Mary’s gone missing.”

“I’ll check and see if anything turns up,” Aaron said. “I’ll check her name in the system, too. She’s got to have a record with a résumé like that. You at home?”

“No, I’m down by San Julian Park.”

“I’m in today catching up on paperwork, so how about grabbing some lunch? I should have something for you by then.”

“Name the time and place,” Jeremiah said, “but make it somewhere we can have some privacy.”

“How about noon at Roble on Olvera Street?” Aaron suggested. “I have a meeting near there at one thirty, so I could spend more time with you if we go there. I’m sure they’d find us a quiet table.”

“Sounds good,” agreed Jeremiah. “See you then.”

Jeremiah checked his watch. It was almost ten thirty. He’d been poking around in the downtown area over four hours. He lifted his head again to survey the area, wondering, if he had a body to dump within these few blocks, where would he dump it? Of course, there was always the possibility that Mary was killed elsewhere or even killed here and her body removed from the area.

He put his phone back up to his ear and looked at Granny, who was still keeping watch in case Mistletoe Mary returned. “Granny,” he said, trying to keep his voice low while trying to grab her attention. “Granny,” he said again a little louder.

This time she heard him and floated over. “What’s up, Chief?”

Jeremiah smiled. He’d only ever heard the cranky ghost call Emma Chief. Her calling him that meant she’d fully accepted him as a partner. “Granny, when a ghost is newly minted, you know, leaves the body but doesn’t cross over, does it usually stick around in the area where it died?”

Granny scrunched up her face in thought. “In my experience, usually that’s what happens, at least until the body is discovered or buried. After, the spirit might seek out a loved one or a favorite place. That’s why so many houses are haunted. The body of the deceased is long gone, but the spirit feels attached to the house.”

“So,” he said, formulating his question as he asked it, “Mary’s spirit being here, doesn’t necessarily mean she was killed here. If she was killed someplace else, she might return here because she knows it.”

“Yep,” answered Granny. “I know that doesn’t help much, but it is what it is.”

“It is what it is?” Jeremiah asked with a wink in her direction. He knew Granny loved to watch TV and picked up modern slang and phrases that way, along with a lot of dated phrases from old TV shows, especially old cop shows. You never knew what the old ghost would say next. “Did they say that a lot in your day?”

In response, Granny twitched her nose and sniffed. “I learn things.”

Chapter 6

Jeremiah rode the few blocks back to San Pedro Street and pulled up in front of Bucket’s usual night spot. He was glad to see the two thugs of earlier were gone. A few homeless sat propped against the walls of buildings farther down the street and across from them, closer to the Union Rescue building. On the other end Eddie still maintained his corner.

“Is this where Bucket sleeps at night?” asked Granny popping up. Jeremiah answered with a nod. Granny looked around. “It’s so tragic and revolting that people live like this,” she added.

“That it is, Granny. That it is.”

“Just as horrible as poor Lizzie’s life.”

“Unfortunately, it’s not that rare.” He turned to the ghost. “This is a long way away from the types of investigations you and Emma usually do. If you’d rather not help, Granny, I’d surely understand. It’s tough to take, even for old cops like me who have seen pretty much everything.”

Granny straightened her shoulders and fixed him with a steely glare. “Jeremiah Jones, I’ll have you know that I’ve seen a lot of death and despair in my time on earth, both as a living being and as a spirit.” Granny shook a finger in Jeremiah’s face. “I was even unjustly hanged myself. These people need our help, and I don’t turn my back on people who need help.” She punctuated the ending of her speech with a downward jerk of her head. “Now, let’s roll!”

“All righty then,” he said when she was finished, “let’s start here. Look for any place in this area that might be a good spot to kill and hide a body, assuming that Mary is with Bucket because it happened here. We’ll look farther afield once we rule this out.”

“Sounds like a plan, Stan,” said the ghost, “but this just looks like a boarded-up old building.”

Jeremiah pressed on the old plywood wall for several yards in each direction. It was covered with layers of faded posters announcing old movies and concerts, as well as graffiti. He stepped back almost to the street and looked up. The building was single story and made of brick. The boards didn’t go up all the way, stopping several feet below the roof of the squat building. It occupied a lot that ran within yards of the corner, where it abutted the side wall of a business facing 5th Street.

“I think this building once housed several small businesses,” he told Granny as he came back to the wall. “And it looks buttoned up tight, no openings of any kind from the street. Can you go inside and see what’s there?”

“I can try,” Granny said. “Sometimes I can if I’m this close and sometimes I need to have been inside first with someone before I can go in on my own.” She disappeared.

Jeremiah continued walking down the street, inspecting other possibilities, including a short alley and a small parking lot between a couple of buildings. The people on the street paid him little mind. He found nothing and returned to where he’d parked his bike. Granny wasn’t around, so he jaywalked and did the same with the other side of the street. Again, he found no sign of a convenient kill or dump spot.

When he returned to Bucket’s spot, Granny was waiting for him, looking forlorn. “Sorry, Jeremiah, I tried but couldn’t get a fix behind this wall. I felt like I was almost there, but couldn’t go in all the way.”

“That’s okay, Granny. I know you tried your best.”

Again, Jeremiah looked up and down the street imagining a crime taking place in the dead of night. Few of the street people would have noticed or if they did, might not say anything. Much of the time their survival depended on blending in with the background and keeping their mouths shut. “Assuming Mary died near Bucket, there’s a good chance she was killed around here but her body taken elsewhere.”

“I wonder if Bucket saw anything?” Granny asked.

“I’m wondering that myself, Granny, but you saw him. Not sure if he’d be able to recall anything if he did.” He looked down at his watch. “I have to get moving if I’m going to make lunch with Aaron.” He looked at Granny. “I really appreciate your help with this, Granny. Can you keep an eye on Bucket in case Mary comes back?”

“Oh boy,” the ghost said, rubbing her hands together. “A stakeout.”

Chapter 7

The last time Jeremiah was at Restaurante Roble was about six months earlier and there had been a shooting. The place had been closed down for three weeks after. It was a family-owned restaurant on Olvera Street, an area known as the birthplace of Los Angeles, and had been there for decades.

As he walked down the cobblestone street open only to foot traffic, Jeremiah passed businesses and kiosks crammed full of every type of Mexican product from huaraches and leather goods to food and cheap tourist souvenirs. The street, always colorful, was ablaze with Christmas decorations, both tasteful and garish. Shopkeepers and customers mingled and conversed with a festive air while mariachi musicians played in the background. With a small smile, Jeremiah realized that the mariachis were singing a classic Christmas song in Spanish. It was a far cry from Skid Row, which was less than a mile and a half away.

Near the end of the busy street was Restaurante Roble, one of the few full-service restaurants on the street. Most of the other eateries were more casual. As he approached, he spotted Aaron Espinoza seated on the patio at a table away from the only other occupied table. His head was down and he was reading something. A pretty middle-aged Latina dressed in a white blouse and full skirt trimmed with colorful ribbons greeted him as he walked up. Draped across her shoulders was a red shawl to guard against the slight chill in the air.

“I’m meeting that gentleman there,” Jeremiah told her, pointing at Aaron. The hostess smiled and held out a graceful hand in that direction, inviting him to enter the patio.

“Hey, Aaron,” Jeremiah said as he approached his friend and former partner. Aaron Espinoza stood up. Usually he was in a suit, but today he was wearing jeans and heavy V-neck sweater in dark green over a white T-shirt. He was a slim, energetic man just past forty with warm brown skin and dark intelligent eyes that peeped out from under heavy brows. Since Jeremiah had last seen him, the gray in the man’s thin moustache and on the sides of his thick dark hair had spread, like weeds hell-bent on taking over a lawn. The two men shook hands and took seats at the table.

“I hope you don’t mind being outside,” Aaron told him. “The dining room is pretty full since it’s a little cool out. I thought we’d have more privacy out here.”

Jeremiah laughed. “They must be locals then. Out-of-towners wouldn’t find the upper sixties to be cool in December.”

A waiter, a tall, handsome kid in a white guayabera, a Mexican wedding shirt that all the waiters wore, delivered a basket of fresh chips, along with bowls of salsa and fresh guacamole.

“Hey, Carlos,” Jeremiah greeted him, holding out his right hand. “Nice to see you again. How’s school going?”

They shook hands like old friends. “Pretty good, Mr. Jones. Good to see you, too. You, too, Detective Espinoza.” Carlos shook hands with Aaron, then took their drink orders. Both ordered Mexican beers.

“Mary Dowling is just as you said.” Aaron shoved a piece of paper across the table to Jeremiah before digging into the guacamole with a chip. “Looks like she’s been hooking since she was around fourteen. At least that’s when her sheet starts. Was a runaway from Des Moines. Nothing we haven’t seen before, unfortunately. Hooking. Drugs. Pregnant by the time she was sixteen.” He stopped talking when Carlos returned with their beers and took their orders. Both of them ordered the grilled fish fajitas, one of Roble’s specialties.

“By the way,” Aaron said as he scooped up another healthy bite of guacamole. “I checked and no Jane Does fitting Dowling’s description have shown up dead or at County Hospital in the past few weeks.” He popped the chip into his mouth and groaned with satisfaction. “Best guac in the city,” he said after chewing and swallowing, “but don’t tell my wife I said that. At home I claim hers is the best. It’s close, but not as good as this.” He reached for another chip.

“What about the kid?” Jeremiah asked after taking a swig from his beer. Both of them had abandoned the delivered glasses and drank straight from the bottle. “I heard she has a daughter somewhere.”

Aaron shook his head. “Had a daughter. Name of Cheryl.”

“Had? Was the kid taken away from her?”

“No, but should have been.” Again Aaron shook his head. “The kid died at around two years old. Pneumonia and overall neglect. The kid died while left with a crackhead babysitter while Mom was out turning tricks.”

The news took Jeremiah back and stopped the chip he was about to eat midair. Remembering it, he popped it into his mouth and chewed while he considered this new information. “Now that’s interesting because Mary has been telling people that her daughter was coming to take her off the streets. She was going to live with her in a big fancy house. I spoke to one girl just today who claims she met the daughter briefly.”

“Maybe she had another that we don’t know about. She could have popped it out and gave it up for adoption, especially an illegal adoption.”

“The girl who met her thought her name was Cheryl and made no mention of there being another kid.” Jeremiah took another drink of beer. “She said Mary only talked about a Cheryl.”

Aaron pointed at the papers in front of Jeremiah. “No mention of any other kid there, just the one who died.”

Jeremiah shrugged off his leather jacket and draped it across the seat of the empty chair next to him. “Are you sure the kid died?”

“Yep. Mary Dowling was charged with child endangerment and involuntary manslaughter. She was convicted of child endangerment only, got off with two years’ probation because of her age, and sentenced to mandatory rehab. Which, apparently, didn’t stick.”

“It usually doesn’t in these types of cases,” Jeremiah said sadly.

Carlos delivered their food and the two men were silent while they filled the fresh warm tortillas with perfectly grilled fish and vegetables and took their first bites.

“You know, Jeremiah,” Aaron said after swallowing his second bite, “if this Mary is pretty far gone, she could have forgotten that her kid died and really thinks whoever is visiting her is Cheryl all grown up.”

Jeremiah wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking. But why would someone track down a used-up junkie and pose as her long-dead kid? And who would do it? What is the motive?”

“Beats me. Maybe Mary was mixed up in something and became a liability so they killed her? But what use is an old pro on drugs? Find that out and you might find the killer, providing this Mary is dead.”

“I was told even her pimp kicked her to the curb recently. She had worked for Ace, a pimp running girls out of the Hi-Life Diner. Know him?”

Aaron nodded. “I know of him. He’s a slippery SOB. Everyone knows that diner is his base of operation, but there’s never been proof enough to shut him and it down.”

“He owns a warehouse over on Stanford Avenue by the Salvation Army,” Jeremiah told him. “He houses his girls in apartments above it. That might be his real base of operation. I was told he kicked Mary out of her digs there, too.”

“I’ll run that info by Vice and see what they say. I’ve already put out a call to a buddy in that department to see what they know about Mary Dowling.”

“Thanks, Aaron, I really appreciate it.”

“What’s Red’s interest in this? Mary wasn’t a vet.”

“True, but he thinks she’s been bothering one of his clients, an old demented guy named Bucket.”

Aaron was about to shovel some rice into his mouth and stopped. “I know Bucket. He’s the old guy with the scrawny dog usually on San Pedro, right?” He shoved the rice into his mouth.

“Yep. Both Bucket and his dog are on their last legs and lately Bucket has been ranting about Mary being dead. Red is hoping I can find Mary and prove to Bucket that she’s okay so he’ll calm down before he gets hurt.”

Aaron swallowed the food in his mouth and pointed his fork at Jeremiah. “But you think she’s dead, don’t you?”

“I do.” Jeremiah poured some beer down his throat. “Whether or not she was working for Ace any longer, she was a known fixture downtown, but people haven’t seen her since just after Thanksgiving. She was telling everyone she was going to live with her daughter, but we both know that’s impossible.”

“Any description of this bogus daughter?”

“Girl I talked to a few hours ago said she was average height and build with brown hair about chin length. Wore sunglasses, even at night.”

Aaron snorted. “That could be anyone. Could be a wig, too.”

“Now that I know about the daughter being dead, I’m sure Mary had to either be mixed up in something or saw something.” Jeremiah bounced more ideas off Aaron. “But if she saw something, she would have been put down sooner than later. According to Red and this girl, Mary had been crowing about her daughter for a few weeks. I’m betting Mary was being used for something.”

“Maybe a drug mule of some kind?” Aaron suggested. “Could be she was delivering the drugs to customers downtown. Those people have to get it from somewhere.”

“But would you trust your product to a junkie with a fried brain?”

“Not really,” he admitted, “but drug dealers are pretty creative. They might even have been using her without her knowledge. Maybe this so-called daughter was really a drug dealer trying to get Mary to do her a favor and using the promise of getting her out of there as the carrot for cooperation.”

Jeremiah had to admit that was a very plausible theory. “I’ll have to find Mary, dead or alive, and that fake daughter.”

They were almost done with their meal when Granny popped up next to the table jumping up and down with excitement. “I found her!”

Jeremiah whipped his head around to her, then remembered Aaron was with him. The detective swung his head in the same direction, but saw nothing. “What’s up?” he asked Jeremiah. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He laughed and finished his beer.

Jeremiah chuckled. “No, nothing that bizarre. Just thought I saw someone I know walk by.”

“Bizarre?” Granny asked, hands on hips. “I’m bizarre?”

Jeremiah ignored her even though he wanted to hear what she had to say. He finished his last bite and pushed his plate aside.

“Do you want to hear this or not?” asked the impatient spirit.

Without saying anything, Jeremiah gave her a single nod while staying fixed on what Aaron was saying about getting back in touch if he found out anything.

“Like I said,” Granny continued, “I think I found Mary. At least I found a body.”

Jeremiah nearly levitated out of his seat with both excitement and frustration, torn between wanting to hear what Granny was reporting, and listening to other theories by Aaron so not to rouse his friend’s curiosity.

“She’s in that building behind Bucket’s spot,” Granny told him. “I went back there and tried again. It took me a bit to get my bearings, but I was finally able to get a fix on the inside. There are about three different businesses behind those boards. There are a couple of small stores, mostly empty except for shelves and rats, and one of them washer places. I think you call them a laundromat.”

Carlos came over and asked if he could get them anything else. They both declined and asked for the check.

“Hey,” said Granny, finally looking around, “I know this place, and isn’t that Carlos the waiter?”

Jeremiah shot a quick look at Granny, hoping to convey to her to wait until they were alone. She misread it and thought he wanted her to continue.

“Anyway, I think it’s called a laundromat. It’s one of those places where there are lots of really big washers and dryers lined up against the walls. I’ve only ever been to one once. Archie got sick on Emma’s quilt in Julian and she took it there to wash it because her washer wasn’t big enough. Anyway, there was nothing there either that I could see but old broken machines and a bunch of blankets in a corner. I think someone’s been living there.”

Jeremiah thought he was going to go insane trying to focus on Granny and Aaron at the same time. His brain ping-ponged between the two, trying to absorb the information being thrown at him, until he thought he might tell them both to shut up until he could straighten it all in his head. It was times like this, he could feel his age. Now and when he rode too many hours on his motorcycle.

Granny continued, paying no mind to Jeremiah’s growing frustration or looks her way conveying for her to wait. “I’ve smelled death before and I’d bet anything a dead body is in that place somewhere. I can’t be sure it’s Mary, but it is near Bucket. I looked around but couldn’t find the stiff, but it’s there and I’m not talking a few dead rats either.”

“I need to shove off,” Jeremiah told Aaron. When Carlos presented their check, he pulled out his wallet and paid the entire bill. Aaron protested. “Nah,” Jeremiah told him, “I’ve got this. Payment for your help.”

“Thanks,” Aaron said. “I’ll keep asking around about Mary Dowling. You never know what could pop up.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Granny quipped, looking at the detective as if he could hear her.

Chapter 8

When Jeremiah went to the gated public parking lot to retrieve his motorcycle, he didn’t take off immediately. Instead, he sat astride it and thought about his next move. He’d been tempted to tell Aaron about the body Granny found, but wasn’t sure what to say about how he knew it was there. And Granny only said she’d smelled the body, not that she saw one. In those old closed buildings downtown, there could be any number of things dead inside. He wanted to check it out himself before telling Aaron. If he could get inside the old laundromat and found a corpse, then he could tell the police he found it while looking for Mary Dowling, even if it wasn’t her. The only thing he might get tagged for would be trespassing. He could live with that. After all, the owner of the building would have a lot more worries on his plate than an old PI sneaking onto his property.

On the walk to the parking lot, he’d asked Granny to return to Bucket and see if she could find and communicate with Mary’s ghost, saying he’d be down there shortly. He ran a hand over his head, stopping to give it a thoughtful scratch. This single day was beginning to feel like a long, hot desert road, and it was only half over.

He was about to slip on his helmet and head back downtown when his cell phone rang. It was Emma Whitecastle. “Hi, Emma,” he said, answering it. “Thanks for getting back to me.”

“What’s up, Jeremiah?” She sounded upbeat and light and he wondered how much champagne she’d had at brunch.

“Tell me this,” he said, “how good is Granny’s sense of smell?”

“Her sense of smell?” Emma asked with a musical giggle.

“Yeah. Can she still smell things, you know, food, stuff like that? I’m not sure which of the senses remain after death besides sight and hearing.”

“Odd question, but as far as I know, she can smell and quite well, especially food.” Emma laughed. “It frustrates her because she cannot eat anything, so she cannot taste what she smells. The aroma of hot pizza especially drive her nuts.”

“So out of the five senses, she can hear and see and smell, but not touch or taste? Correct?”

“Yes, that’s about right, although I don’t think her sense of smell is as strong as ours,” Emma noted. “I don’t know about all spirits, but that seems to be the case with Granny. Why?”

“I think Granny found a body today.” There was a long silence on the other end and Jeremiah wondered if he’d lost the call. “Emma, you there?”

“Ah, yes, I am. Hang on.” Jeremiah could hear Emma saying something to someone with her. It was probably Phil Bowers.

Phil’s voice came through the phone. “Hey, Jeremiah, Phil here. Emma just put you on speaker. What’s this about a body?”

Jeremiah quickly filled them in on his favor for Red Watkins, the background Aaron gave him on Mary Dowling, and how Granny thought she’d found a dead body. “I’m going down now to check out what she found.”

“Do you need us to come down there?” Emma offered. “It’s a quick drive from Pasadena to downtown, especially on a Sunday.”

“I’m not sure,” Jeremiah answered honestly. “I don’t want you two involved with the body if there is one. The fewer people on that the best. I might be able to use you in communicating with Mary’s ghost if Granny or I can’t. We do know she’s dead. We’ve seen her spirit. But we’re not sure if the body Granny thinks she found is hers. Granny’s there now trying to get Mary to show and talk.”

“Say the word and we’re there,” Phil said.

“Thanks, but let me have a little more time,” Jeremiah told them. “I just started looking into this today. It might be something I’ll just turn over to the police, except I’m not sure how to explain to them how I know about the body.” He paused. “Any suggestion?”

“That’s a tough one,” Emma agreed. “If I tell them a ghost led me to the body, they roll their eyes but half expect me to say that. But if you say it, you’ll be putting yourself and your medium skills out there for everyone to see.”

“You ready for that, Jeremiah?” Phil asked. “It’s tough enough on Emma.”

Jeremiah filled the phone with a choked laugh. “Not really, and for a lot of reasons. Shyness isn’t one of them.” He paused to think about his next course of action. “You guys around this week?”

“I’m heading back to San Diego tonight,” Phil said.

“I’m around,” Emma chimed in. “Just call me if you need anything and I’ll be there in a heartbeat.”

“Thanks, both of you,” Jeremiah said. “I appreciate that.”

After the call, he started up his bike and was about to take off when an eerie feeling came over him. He placed a hand over his chest and pressed down, but it wasn’t chest pain. Placing his hand there was a habit when these feelings cropped up, like indigestion from too many raw onions. Cops called it gut instincts. Jeremiah had a lot of gut feelings when he was on the job. Most of them turned out to be right on the money. Sometimes it wasn’t a theory on a case. Sometimes it was just a feeling that something important was about to happen and he should keep his wits about him. That was the feeling he had now.

Instead of shrugging it off, he turned off the bike and got off, swinging one long leg back over to join the other. On the back of his motorcycle was a Tour-Pak, a large boxy storage container fastened to the bike just behind his seat. The Tour-Pak was where he locked up his helmet when he parked the bike. He also kept a basic first-aid kit in it and other small items he might need. Unlocking the box, he opened it, then looked around. He’d built a false bottom into it. Lifting that, he pulled out a handgun. As a rule, Jeremiah didn’t like carrying a gun on him when he was working jobs, even if he did have a permit to carry a concealed weapon, but he’d learned to listen to his gut. He slipped his pistol under his jacket at the small of his back, relocked the Tour-Pak, and mounted his bike again.

Jeremiah pulled into an open parking spot just a few steps down from the Angels office and looked around, hoping to see Sloan again. He spotted him farther down the block, standing against a building with a few other guys. He waved at him and Sloan broke away from the group and joined Jeremiah.

“Can you watch my bike again, Sloan? I need to do some walking around and don’t want to worry about it.” Next time, Jeremiah told himself, he’d bring his SUV. He could lock the truck. He could lock the bike, too, but people could still mess with it. There were public parking lots, but on Sundays the ones in the immediate area didn’t have attendants on duty. Using Sloan was his best choice.

“Sure, man,” he said, “no problem.” When Jeremiah started to hand him some money, Sloan waved it off. “No charge, man. We’re good.” Sloan hesitated, looking as if he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure about it. “I was gonna call you a little later and give you a report. I haven’t found Mistletoe Mary yet, but I’ve been asking around. Most people said she’s probably gone to live with her daughter. Said she was talking about it for the past few weeks.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that, too. Anyone seen her with her kid?” Jeremiah was hoping someone besides Lizzie had spotted the bogus daughter.

“Yeah, one guy said he saw her with a woman several nights ago who might have been her. He was taking a leak in one of the alleys and saw them. Said she had brown hair, kind of slim. Oh, and she wore sunglasses.” It was the same description Lizzie had given.

Sloan shook out a cigarette from a pack he pulled from his jacket pocket. He offered one to Jeremiah, who declined. Sloan lit the smoke and took a deep drag. “I didn’t want to call you until I had more to report. Sorry.”

“Good work, Sloan. Really,” Jeremiah told him with a clasp on his shoulder. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, the guy said he thought maybe the woman was down here looking for drugs, but then he heard her call Mary Mom.”

Drugs fit into Aaron’s theory that maybe Mary Dowling was being used as some sort of mule. Jeremiah smelled a possible lead to match the smell of Granny’s dead body.

“Tell me, Sloan, do you know if Mary sold drugs?”

He shrugged and exhaled. “Not sure she had the smarts to do that, you know? More likely she’d use up the goods before selling them, but I can ask around.” Sloan took another deep drag. When he exhaled, he narrowed his dark eyes at Jeremiah and studied him through the smoke. “I’m not part of that shit anymore, and I intend to keep it that way. I want you to know that. I’m just asking around some of my old contacts.”

“I understand. But tell me, why do you think that guy thought the woman with Mary was looking for drugs?”

“Hey, man, you know how hard it is for us down here to make a buck for food or whatever else we need.” When Jeremiah nodded, Sloan looked around, making sure no one heard him. “Well, some of them sell the stuff for pushers out of the area. I never did,” he was quick to add. “Possession’s one thing, dealing’s another. But a lot of guys sold here and there to make enough for their own habit or to pay for a room. Some, the smarter ones, actually made enough to get the hell out of here, moving up in organizations. You know what I’m saying?”

Again, Jeremiah nodded. Selling drugs was often a way out of poverty for those who impressed their bosses. Not a way out of violence or crime, but a way off the streets.

“I think,” Sloan continued, “that the guy thought maybe the woman with Mary was slumming to get drugs. But that Mary skank seems too far gone to me to be of any use to anyone.”

“But he heard this woman call Mary ‘Mom’?”

“That’s what he said, so he backed off.” Sloan shuffled his feet, then added after making a quick decision, “He said he was going to roll Mary for her drugs, then realized he had it all wrong.” Sloan flicked ash onto the street.

Mary Dowling, in her weakened mental and physical condition, had become easy prey for someone. Jeremiah wondered if it had been the woman claiming to be her daughter, or one of the other street people thinking she had drugs, like the guy who talked to Sloan.

“Did he say what alley he saw them in or around?”

“He didn’t say, but I asked. It’s one that runs behind the buildings on San Pedro Street. The south side, I think. Just up from 5th Street.”

That would be behind the string of buildings that contained the laundromat. Jeremiah had checked alleys along that street, but none of those ran behind the boarded-up building. That building had to have a service alley access from another street, either from 5th Street or Crocker.

“Again,” Jeremiah said, “good work. I don’t know how long I’m going to be. Maybe an hour or more. Hard to say. You cool with that?” He locked his helmet in the Tour-Pak and pulled out a flashlight, slipping it into his jacket pocket. He kept his gloves on.

“Like I said this morning,” Sloan said as he tossed his cigarette to the ground and crushed it with a beat-up athletic shoe, “I got no place to go.”

Chapter 9

Jeremiah glanced through the window of the Angels office. On Sunday they only saw clients in the morning. The rest of the day they mostly caught up on paperwork. He could see Red sitting on the edge of a desk talking to a guy in dreadlocks whom Jeremiah recognized as one of the volunteers. He didn’t go in, but passed it, crossing at the street corner, and headed back to San Pedro Street a few blocks away.

When he reached Bucket’s area, he studied the boarded-up building again, then decided to approach it from 5th Street. He went down 5th and didn’t see any alley, but knew there had to be one. Most of these buildings were serviced from the rear for trash removal. He continued down 5th on foot, passing closed business with their steel barricades down and locked, and an open one that didn’t appear to be busy. He made his way past dozens of homeless people, men and women, milling about in small groups or sprawled on the sidewalk next to their makeshift shelters. When he reached Crocker, he went right. If he turned left he would reach the Hi-Life Diner in about two blocks. A chilly breeze had picked up and Jeremiah turned up the collar on his jacket.

There were fewer people on Crocker as he turned away from 5th. He found an alley on his right and turned up it. It was long, running behind the buildings that faced 5th. The alley was filled with trash and a few Dumpsters of various vintages, some old, some fairly new. It smelled of urine, feces, and rotten garbage. The walls of the alley were covered with graffiti. Next to a Dumpster about halfway up the alley, a man was rolled up in a plaid jacket like a discarded burrito, sleeping off something with loud snores and snorts. Jeremiah’s boot steps on the gravel made no difference to him.

The alley was dim and partially in shadows, the afternoon sunlight barred by the buildings surrounding it. The alley dead-ended at the backside of another row of buildings. These had to be the abandoned buildings just behind Bucket’s area. Jeremiah’s suspicions were confirmed when he read what was left of the businesses’ names in faded peeling paint.

Under a sign that indicated it once was an establishment called Soap ’n Suds, he found a beat-up gray double-wide door with a bar across it secured by a padlock. The bar and lock didn’t look like they had been disturbed in years. Jeremiah looked around for another entry. An old battered Dumpster was pushed against the wall. Pulling out the flashlight, he trained it inside the bin. It was empty, except for a few small pieces of cardboard and long-petrified garbage clinging to its inside walls, indicating it was long out of use. He moved the small beam of light along the ground until it caught on something. Jeremiah crouched down and examined the wheels of the Dumpster and curving ruts made in the broken asphalt. The Dumpster had been moved recently and from the depth of the tracks, it looked as if it had been moved often, like a door on a hinge, deepening the tracks with each swing. He slipped the flashlight back into his pocket and tried to move the Dumpster. In spite of its decrepit appearance, it moved away from the wall easily and the wheels made no sound. Jeremiah bent down and touched one of the wheels. It had been recently oiled.

Behind the Dumpster was another door of a standard size and shape, covered with scarred gray paint like the larger door. This one had no bar or padlock. The door handle was old and of the lever type. Above it was a rusty dead bolt. Both needed keys he didn’t have. He grabbed the handle and pushed down, expecting resistance, but getting none. It moved downward easily and the door released. Not even the dead bolt had been engaged.

Then he caught it. The smell of rotting flesh spilled out of the open door and greeted him, along with the smell of human feces. Granny had been right. After just a short glance back down the alley, Jeremiah pulled his flashlight back out and slipped inside.

With the large front windows boarded, the inside was as dark as tar and thick with decay. He moved the flashlight in an arc at first to get his bearings, then focused it, moving slower to get details. It wasn’t a large establishment. There was a line of washers running along the wall to his right and large dryers set into the wall to his left. Like baby birds waiting to be fed, the lids of some washers were open. Others were missing, a few closed. Some of the dryer doors were missing, too, but the few that remained were closed. All the appliances were scarred and rusty. Down the middle of the room ran a narrow counter for folding clothes. A few metal laundry baskets were shoved into one corner and in the corner nearest him on the floor was a pile what looked like old blankets, some clothes, and a few cans of food, along with bottles of water. Granny had said she thought someone had been living there and Jeremiah came to the same conclusion, but wondered how anyone could live with a decaying body in the room.

The smell was as heavy as a hard rain and his eyes began to water, but he moved forward in search of the body. He moved toward the bundle of blankets on the floor and tapped it with the toe of his boot. It was just ragged blankets. He moved the light to the other corner and spotted a closed door. He moved to it and slowly turned the knob and opened it. A horrible stench pushed him back a few feet, but it wasn’t the smell of rotting flesh. He opened the door wider. It was a small and very dirty customer restroom, not much more than a closet with a tiny sink and commode with a small cracked mirror over the sink. The smell was coming from the toilet, which was full of human waste. The water was probably shut off in the building, not allowing any way for whoever lived here to flush, but it didn’t stop them from using it. Jeremiah backed out and closed the door.

He moved slowly, going deeper into the narrow room, playing his flashlight back and forth along the floor and under the folding table until he reached the blocked front door. He neither saw, nor stumbled over a corpse along the way.

“Did you find it yet?” asked Granny, popping up next to Jeremiah.

“Don’t do that, Granny,” he scolded, holding his free hand over his heart, “or I’ll be the stiff in here.”

“Yeah,” the ghost said, with a mischievous giggle, “Emma hates that, too.”

“I’m a lot older than Emma, girl.” He moved the flashlight over the bank of dryers, specifically the couple that were closed. “And, no, I haven’t found it yet, but I have a good idea where it is. It’s the only place I haven’t checked.” He turned to Granny. “I haven’t seen Mary either. Have you?”

“She comes and goes with Bucket,” Granny reported, “but she won’t talk to me. I keep telling her we’re here to help and she just makes Bucket scream and yell. I don’t think she was right in the head when she died and she’s no better in death.”

“Could be,” Jeremiah agreed. “She’d done a lot of damage to herself with booze and drugs over the years.”

His feet followed the beam of light to the dryers. The smell was stronger. He pulled on the handle of the first one. It groaned in protest, but finally gave and opened. Nothing. The next two dryer doors were missing. He pulled on the latch of the next closed dryer but it was stuck. He pulled it again, leaning back with his weight and it popped open, flooding the room with a stench far worse than the bathroom.

“Bingo,” Jeremiah said. He covered his mouth and nose with a gloved hand and trained the light on the body inside the dryer. It was a woman, dressed in a short skirt and blouse, curled in a fetal position inside the metal womb. He pulled out his phone and snapped a photo.

“Is it her?” Granny asked.

“I don’t know, Granny, but it’s some poor woman.” He trained his light once again on the corpse, looking for the telltale tattoo, but couldn’t see the woman’s chest in her death coil. He closed the dryer, and then opened the only other closed one, but it was empty.

He hit a speed-dial number on his phone. Emma Whitecastle answered. “Emma, Granny was right. She did find the body.” He started working his way toward the back door.

“Now what?” she asked.

“I’m going to call Aaron Espinoza. I’ll figure out something to tell him besides a ghost showed me where it was.”

“Sure you don’t need us?” she asked.

“Positive. The cops can take it from here. I don’t know for sure if this is Mary, but if it is, maybe now that her body has been found she’ll leave Bucket alone.”

Outside again, Jeremiah pointed his head upward toward the sky as he took big gulps of fresh air, but the fine hairs inside his nose were determined to cling to the scent of death with sticky fingers. “My clothes probably stink, too,” he said to Granny, who’d floated out with him.

“You gonna call the cops now?” she asked.

In answer, he held his cell phone up and started to call Aaron Espinoza. It hadn’t even rung yet when Granny shouted, “Look out, Jeremiah!”

He never saw or heard the bullet that hit him, but he felt the hot sear as it tore through his leather jacket and grazed his left shoulder. He’d just turned to see what Granny was yelling about. Had he not, the bullet might have hit him in the back.

He dove behind the Dumpster, wedging himself between it and the building, just as a second bullet whizzed by. He drew his gun, but saw nothing. He also didn’t hear any retreating footsteps, so wasn’t sure if the shooter was still there or not. Then he remembered his secret weapon. “Hey, Granny,” he called in a whisper, “do you see them?”

When he received no answer, he thought maybe Granny had taken off. “Granny,” he called again, working hard to keep his voice low while his heart pounded like a jackhammer. His shoulder stung but that was nothing to a vet and former cop who’d been shot worse. He poked his head out to take a look and was rewarded with another bullet. This one hit the wall of the building behind him, sending splinters of concrete into the air. The shooter was using a silencer.

“Right here,” came a disembodied voice. “I went to check out the fool who’s shooting at us. It’s some guy just on the other side of that Dumpster.”

Jeremiah remembered seeing a man sleeping when he’d first come down the alley, but the homeless usually didn’t tote guns, especially with silencers. “Was it a homeless-looking guy?” he asked anyway.

Granny shook her head. “No, just some guy in a bulky jacket, army jacket from the looks of it. I couldn’t see much because he was wearing a knit cap pulled down close to his face, almost over his eyes.”

“Short or tall?”

Granny pinched her face in thought. “Neither. About average, I’d say.”

Another bullet came their way, this one passing through Granny to join its friend in the wall.

“Boy, I hate that,” groused the ghost, and disappeared.

This time Jeremiah returned fire, aiming for the Dumpster he’d passed earlier. The other shooter volleyed back. He might have had a silencer but Jeremiah didn’t. Someone had to be hearing the shots, but the last thing Jeremiah needed was some curious bystander checking out the noise. He held his fire and looked for his phone, which he’d dropped after the first bullet hit him. It was on the ground by one of the front wheels of the Dumpster. Stretching a leg out, he snagged it with his foot. Another bullet came his way, this one hitting the ground by the phone. Jeremiah yanked his leg back but the phone didn’t come with it.

“Help’s on the way,” he called out to the shooter. “In seconds, the police will be here.”

His assailant said nothing. Silence filled the alley, and for a moment Jeremiah wondered if the gunman had decided to give up and skulk off before the cops came, if they came.

“Granny,” Jeremiah whispered loudly. “Where in the hell are you?” He needed the ghost to make sure the coast was clear before he poked his head out and possibly got it shot off.

A noise caught his attention. The Dumpster down the alley began moving. It moved slowly, in fits and starts, like an old man bent with arthritis, complaining about each inch he walked. Its rusty wheels caught on the broken asphalt, forcing it to a halt. Jeremiah heard several grunts as the trash container was urged forward. It was heading his way. The shooter was using it like a movable shield to get closer.

Jeremiah looked down at the wheels of his own Dumpster. They were freshly oiled. He gave his bin a tentative push and it moved freely. He pushed it forward several inches, keeping one eye on the other container and one eye on his phone on the ground. Maneuvering it, he used it as cover until he was able to reach his phone. His movement attracted another bullet. It hit the edge of the container, too close to his head for comfort. The shooter had skills and as his bin moved forward, Jeremiah was becoming trapped in the dead-end alley.

Jeremiah pushed his bin forward more, deciding to match offense with offense, and fired at his attacker. The two Dumpsters moved toward each other like two very slow-moving steeds in a Medieval jousting tournament. Jeremiah fired again as he hit redial on his phone with his free hand. His last outgoing call had been to Aaron Espinoza. Aaron answered on the second ring and Jeremiah put it on speaker.

“Aaron, send help,” Jeremiah yelled into the phone. “Alley off of Crocker and 5th. Shots being fired.” Just then another shot was fired. “Shit!” Jeremiah, yelled as the bullet came close again. He shot back. “I’m pinned,” he yelled into the phone.

“Units are already on their way and so am I,” Aaron called through the phone. “We got a call from Emma Whitecastle.”

Without glancing down at the phone, Jeremiah asked, “How in the hell did she know?”

“I told her,” said Granny as she materialized.

Jeremiah could have kissed the ghost, but another well-aimed bullet came his way. He ducked and stopped pushing his own bin, deciding to wait it out.

“Sit tight,” Aaron called out.

Jeremiah moved his hand to cover the microphone on the phone. “Granny,” he said in a hushed whisper. “Stay close to the shooter. Find out everything you can about him. If he runs, follow him? Got it? We need to know who it is.”

The ghost saluted. “Got it, Chief.”

He moved his hand away from the speaker. “I got a corpse too, Aaron.”

“Just make sure it’s not yours.”

“I’m doing my best.” The other bin moved forward and another well-aimed bullet hurled his way. “But hurry!”

Before the words were out of Jeremiah’s mouth, the scream of approaching sirens split the late-afternoon air. The other Dumpster stopped moving and Jeremiah heard footsteps echoing in the alley, moving away from him. He prayed Granny wouldn’t lose the shooter.

Chapter 10

“I have a hunch that’s Mary Dowling in the dryer,” Jeremiah said to Aaron who’d arrived on the scene shortly after the patrol cars. An EMT was working on Jeremiah’s shoulder, cleaning and bandaging it while he sat on the edge of the back of the ambulance.

“Any idea who was shooting at you?” Aaron asked.

Jeremiah shook his head and repeated what Granny had told him. “Just that it was a guy in a field jacket with a knit cap.” Then he remembered something else, something Granny didn’t hear or know.

“What else?” asked Aaron. “You look like you just remembered something important.”

“It could have been a woman,” Jeremiah suggested. “At one point that other container got stuck and I heard grunts when the shooter pushed it loose. Thinking back, the sound didn’t seem low enough for a man.” The EMT finished with the bandaging and Jeremiah slipped back into his shirt and jacket. “There was also a homeless guy sleeping off a drunk when I first came down the alley. Maybe he saw something.”

Aaron wrote something down in a small notebook. “Could he have been the shooter just posing as a sleeping bum?”

Jeremiah shrugged. “Maybe, but I doubt it. He was wearing a dirty plaid jacket. The shooter was wearing either a field jacket or something more military looking.”

“Lot of homeless vets down here looking to make a quick buck and a lot of them wear old field jackets,” Aaron pointed out.

Jeremiah nodded in agreement. “Tell you one thing, whoever was shooting at me knew how to use a gun. Could be military trained or it could be a criminal posing as one of the vets.”

“But outside of the jacket and cap, you saw nothing else?”

“Afraid not, Aaron. Just an average-height guy in a field jacket and knit cap.” Jeremiah stood up. “You going to be handling the investigation?”

His friend shook his head. “I’m technically off today. I saw Bud Ornelas and Audra Wilcox inside. He’s fairly new but a good detective, and Audra’s been at it awhile. You’re in good hands.” Aaron tapped his notebook. “Did you tell them this stuff?”

“Yeah, everything but my hunch about the shooter. I know Audra. She questioned me a bit while Ornelas went inside to check out the stiff. I’m sure they’ll have more questions.”

“What hunch is that?” asked a tall black woman in her forties. The two men turned to see Detective Audra Wilcox slip out the door behind the Dumpster. On her hands were latex gloves. “You holding out on me, Jeremiah?”

Jeremiah smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Audra.” He indicated to Aaron. “In talking to Aaron here, I remembered that the shooter grunted while moving that trash bin. I think it’s a woman.”

Audra Wilcox pursed her full lips as she considered the possibility. She was a handsome woman with coppery skin and high, chiseled cheekbones. Her slightly slanted eyes gave her face an intelligent, feline look—a feline used to hunting and catching her prey. She kept her thick wiry hair clipped closed to her head. “I wonder,” she began in a slow drawl as she considered each word, “if it was the bogus daughter you mentioned? Where can we find this Sloan guy? Maybe he can lead us to the guy who last saw Mary Dowling in this alley.”

“He should be on Wall Street in front of the City of Angels office,” Jeremiah told her. “I left him to guard my motorcycle. We should also find the guy in the plaid jacket who was sleeping when I came up the alley.” Something nagged at Jeremiah even as the words came out of his mouth.

“I already have officers out canvassing the streets for him,” she told him. “We’ll head on over in a bit to talk to this Sloan about what he saw.”

“Wait a minute,” Jeremiah said as a new thought crossed his mind, leaving a trail of new unsettling worries.

“What is it, Jeremiah?” she asked. Aaron leaned in closer with curiosity.

“Huh?” Jeremiah shook his head. “Nothing. I thought I had an idea but it’s a nonstarter.” He took a deep breath and rubbed his aching shoulder, as if it was the reason for his concern, but it wasn’t. “Sloan is usually around the Angels office. If you don’t find him, just ask Red Watkins.”

Audra nodded, mentally making note of Sloan’s information. “We’ll head over there and question him as soon as we’re done here.”

Jeremiah did his own time calculation. He needed to get to Sloan before the police did. He had his own questions for Jeffrey Sloan and knew if he didn’t get to him before the cops, he might never get the answers he wanted. He had to know personally if he’d been set up and he wanted to watch Sloan’s expression when he accused him of it.

Jeremiah’s phone rang. It was the third time since the police had arrived. All three calls were from Emma Whitecastle. Jeremiah answered this one. “Hey, Emma. Sorry, but I’m with the police right now. Thanks for sending them my way.”

“Are you okay?” she asked with a worried strain to her voice. “Granny said you were in a shootout. She popped in frantic, but at least calm enough to give us the location.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he told her. “I’ll call you when I’m done here.” They ended the call and he put his attention back on the police. “If you don’t need me anymore, I’m going to head on out. It’s been a long-assed day. You know where to find me if you have more questions.”

“I’m sure we’ll have more questions, Jeremiah,” Audra told him, “but I see no reason to keep you here. We’ve got a lot to go through. However, I think you’re right about the corpse being Mary Dowling. You said she had a tattoo?”

Jeremiah nodded. “Yeah, I was told it’s a flower, center of her chest.”

“Same as the victim,” Audra said. “Looks like an orchid. We’re still hunting for any purse or ID she might have had with her.”

Patrol cars had blocked off the end of the alley to keep the curious away from the crime scene. Jeremiah looked down at the crowd of lookie-loos building behind the barriers and wondered if the shooter was in the crowd watching the police—watching him. He scanned the faces, but he was too far away to see much detail. Near the other Dumpster, an SID—Scientific Investigation Division—officer was placing ID tents by pieces of evidence found on the ground and was taking photographs of them, while another was examining the bin itself. The ID tents looked like a scattered yellow brick road as they indicated spent shells and possibly footprints.

“Detective,” the officer checking the bin called to Audra. “We’ve got something.” He was holding up the lid to the bin. One of the few that still had a lid. Audra Wilcox headed toward him with Aaron and Jeremiah on her heels. When they reached the container, the three of them glanced inside to find the body of a man wearing a plaid jacket. He was in a crouching position on top of trash in a corner of the metal container. He’d been shot in the chest several times.

“This the guy you saw, Jeremiah?” Audra asked.

He nodded. “Sure looks like him.”

Audra looked around on the ground, then up at the young SID investigator, a pasty, serious young man with Pulsky on his name tag. “You find any blood?”

He shook his head. “Not leading to the bin. I think he was already in there when he was shot, especially in that position.”

Audra nodded. “On first blush, I think so, too.”

“I’m thinking,” Aaron said, “that the guy in the bin either saw the shooter and crawled in here to keep out of the way, or the shooter convinced him to get in here saying he’d be safe, then wasted him so he couldn’t identify him.”

“Or her,” added Audra.

“Or her,” Aaron agreed.

Detective Wilcox turned to Jeremiah. “You turned in your gun, right?”

“Yeah,” Jeremiah told her. “It was taken into evidence almost first thing.”

“We’ll check it out to see if it matches against the bullets in this poor guy.” She shrugged. “Who knows, maybe he was hiding and your bullets hit him, but I doubt it. Looks like he was shot close range.”

Jeremiah was antsy to get away. “Call me if you need me,” he told both Audra and Aaron. “I’ll come straight to the station.”

Chapter 11

He found Jeffrey Sloan almost exactly where he’d left him a few hours earlier, right in front of the Angels office watching his bike. Sloan was sitting propped against the front wall reading a tattered paperback novel. The lights in the office were out, so Red and his meager Sunday staff must have gone home. Sloan got to his feet as soon as he saw Jeremiah, but didn’t look surprised. Jeremiah breathed easier. It was a good sign.

“I’m sorry I took so long, Sloan,” Jeremiah said, “but something came up.”

“A whole bunch of police came whizzing through here not too long ago,” Sloan said. “I haven’t heard why yet, but from the sound of the sirens they stopped pretty close.”

“And if you hadn’t been watching my bike, you would have followed them to check out what was happening, wouldn’t you?”

“Hey,” Sloan said with a shrug, “it’s my ’hood. Pays to know what’s going on. Safer, too. It sounded like the direction you just came from.” He looked at Jeremiah hoping for some news.

“Yeah, it was,” Jeremiah admitted. “I found Mistletoe Mary’s body. The police are there now.”

“Not surprised she’s dead, considering her lifestyle, but it’s too bad for her daughter just after finding her, huh?” Sloan pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “I thought I heard shots, but around here that’s not uncommon.”

Jeremiah nodded, but didn’t take his eyes off Sloan’s, which were clean and curious. The guy didn’t appear to be covering up anything. “I found the alley you told me about. You know, the one where that guy said he saw Mary with her daughter?”

“That’s where Mary’s body was?”

Without preamble, Jeremiah grabbed Sloan’s upper arm and dragged him into the mouth of the narrow alley next to the Angels office. Sloan stumbled behind him because of his ill-fitting prosthesis, but Jeremiah paid no mind to his discomfort. Sloan’s cigarette dropped to the pavement as he struggled to keep up. He was about thirty years younger than Jeremiah, but no match for the older and much stronger man, and he knew it.

“Hey, man,” Sloan protested. “What’s going on?”

A couple of old guys leaning against a wall on the other side of the street watched and started to move forward. “You okay, Sloan?” one of them called out after a couple of cars went by.

“He’s fine,” Jeremiah snapped back. “Mind your own business.” The old man watched a few seconds, then he and his pals decided to follow Jeremiah’s advice.

Jeremiah shoved Sloan against a chipped brick wall. “You sent me to that alley.”

“And you found her, huh?” It was phrased as a question, not fact. “You’d think you’d be thanking me, not beating on me.”

“Maybe I would be thanking you if someone hadn’t ambushed me. The shots you heard were someone trying to kill me and they almost succeeded. See that hole in my jacket?” He had hold of the front of Sloan’s jacket, a field jacket, like the one the shooter wore. Jeremiah yanked Sloan forward, then slammed him back again. The activity shot pain through his bandaged shoulder, but he didn’t care. For a brief second he’d thought Sloan might be the shooter, then remembered the footsteps. Whoever ran from the scene was surefooted, not a gimp.

He stepped closer to Sloan, almost nose to nose, close enough to smell the fresh tobacco smoke on his breath. “Did someone tell you to send me there? Did you set me up?”

Sloan’s hands went up, palms out, in defense, and his head swung back and forth with conviction. “No, man. I swear. It was just like I said.”

“Tell me again,” Jeremiah hissed, letting go of Sloan’s jacket but sticking close.

“Like I told you,” Sloan began, “I was asking around about Mary and this guy told me he saw her in that alley with another woman, some fancy ass he thought was slumming to score drugs but who called Mary Mom.”

“This guy, what did he look like? Where did you see him?”

“I don’t know his name.” Sloan pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket with shaking hands, then stopped and looked at Jeremiah. “Mind if I smoke?”

The PI shook his head but never took his eyes from Sloan’s. “What else can you tell me?”

Sloan lit a fresh cigarette. He took a long drag, then exhaled. Jeremiah was about to rattle him again for taking so long, but saw that the smoking calmed Sloan and might help him remember details.

“I don’t know the guy’s name, but I see him from time to time,” he began after his second puff. “I came across him near that alley I told you about. Not sure how old he is, but he looks old. Into booze and drugs when he can get ’em.”

“And he was going to roll Mary for drugs until he heard this other woman call her ‘Mom’?”

“That’s what he told me,” Sloan confirmed, his voice cracking with nervousness. “I swear. Even though he’s kind of broken, Mary would have been easy to take down the way she was.”

“If she was so messed up,” Jeremiah persisted, “why was he so sure she might have drugs on her? I was told she’d kicked the drugs a while back but not the booze. Even so, if she was using, she’d be using it, not carrying it around with her.”

Sloan took another drag, then confessed, “The guy told me he’d seen her in that alley before. He thought she might even have a secret crash pad nearby. But he also said he thought he saw her handing stuff off to guys there, and they weren’t Johns. You know what I mean? He thought she was dealing.”

Jeremiah stared at Sloan a few seconds as he tried to fit the new pieces together. Mary would have been an easy target for anyone looking to grab her drugs, but she might have also been left alone so not to disrupt product availability. She might have been the delivery service, not the vendor. Was the woman posing as Mary’s dead daughter the actual drug seller who was coercing Mary into making the deliveries?

“The guy did say,” Sloan continued, “that he’d thought of taking down Mary before but she was always with that other ho, the young one.” Sloan took another long drag from his cigarette, the red glow chewing away at the cancer stick at a fast pace.

“What other one?” Jeremiah asked, wondering if he meant Lizzie.

Sloan shrugged. “That red-headed girl. I used to see them together working the streets. I think her name was Linda or Lucy or something like that.”

“Lizzie?”

Sloan nodded as he considered the name. “Could be.” He took another long puff, exhaled, and dropped the spent butt, crushing it beneath his foot.

“What else can you tell me about this guy?” Jeremiah asked. “I need to find him.”

“Like I said, he hangs around near Crocker, by that alley.” Sloan paused, then added, “And he wears a funny coat, red and black squares, I think.”

Jeremiah felt his heart stop. “Red and black? You mean a plaid jacket, like a hunter might wear?”

“Yeah, man, that’s it. A plaid jacket. Easy to spot him out here. Only guy I know wearing something like that.”

Jeremiah grabbed the front of Sloan’s jacket again, but this time didn’t shove him. “What about jackets like yours? You know many guys who wear these field jackets here on the streets?”

“Yeah, several. I got mine from Angels. I think Red gets them every now and then from a guy who owns a surplus store.”

“What about women? Know any women wearing them down here?”

Sloan thought about the question, then answered, “Just a couple. There’s Beth who hangs out on San Pedro by the Women’s Center and Keisha who sometimes helps out at the mission. Though there might be more.”

Jeremiah knew both women. Keisha White, like Beth, had been in Iraq. She was African-American, built short and compact like a pit bull. Sloan was right; there might be more, especially if Red and his crew handed out the donated jackets from time to time.

Jeremiah leaned against the other wall of the alley and thought about his next move. Would it be talking to Lizzie again or running down Keisha and Beth? Without getting a good look at the shooter, he couldn’t be certain if the gunman had been male or female, black or white, or even something in between, even though his gut told him the shooter was female.

Sloan watched Jeremiah as he went through his thought process. “Look, man,” he said, breaking the silence, “I’m sorry you got shot. I mean, I’m glad you’re okay, but sorry you got shot. But I’m telling ya, outside of that old guy telling me about Mary being in that alley and possibly selling, I know nothing about it.”

Jeremiah watched him in return, looking for any sign of duplicity, even something as small as an eye tremor, but he saw nothing but concern coming from Sloan. If he was hiding something, the police might break him down.

“Sometime tonight the cops are going to be looking for you,” he told Sloan. “They need to question you about all this.”

“The cops?” Sloan looked even more worried. “I told you,” he emphasized again, “I had nothing to do with all this!”

“If you don’t, then you have nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah, right.” Sloan spit on the ground. “I’m a young black man, an ex-drunk only half off the streets. You saying the L-A-P-D is gonna cut me a break?” He pronounced the police department’s initials individually as if each were a swear word. “If you weren’t an ex-cop, you’d be as worried as the rest of us brothers.”

“It’s going to be all right, Sloan,” Jeremiah said. “The head detective on the case is Audra Wilcox, a sister and a friend of mine. Just answer her questions honestly. If you’ve told me the truth, you’ll be fine.”

Just then a car pulled up to the curb in front of Jeremiah’s motorcycle. Audra Wilcox got out of the passenger side. Bud Ornelas got out from behind the wheel. They looked around a moment until Bud saw them in the alley. The two detectives approached them.

“Jeffrey Sloan?” Audra asked Sloan. “We need to ask you a few questions.” She eyed his jacket with suspicion.

“Hold on a moment, Detective Wilcox,” Jeremiah said using her formal title and name. He pulled her and Bud aside, out of earshot of Sloan. “I heard the shooter running just before the patrol cars got there. It wasn’t this guy. He has a prosthetic leg. He also just told me that the guy who told him about Mary meeting her supposed daughter in the alley wore a plaid jacket. I didn’t tell him yet about finding the guy dead.” He paused, then added, “He told me he knew nothing about the gunman looking for me in that alley.”

“Do you believe him?” asked Bud Ornelas, a stocky but muscled Latino who looked uncomfortable in his suit.

“Yeah, I do.” Jeremiah looked from Bud to Audra. “He also told me the guy in the plaid jacket thought he saw Mary delivering drugs to customers.” The detectives nodded and made a move toward Sloan, but Jeremiah stopped them. “Look, Sloan’s on his way to cleaning up his act. Seems serious about it. I’d hate to see him pressured back into the bottle. You know what I’m saying?”

The detectives nodded. “We’re just questioning him, Jeremiah,” Audra told him. “If we need to take him in, we’ll call you. As a courtesy. That enough?”

“Yeah, it’ll do.”

Chapter 12

Jeremiah was bone tired when he pulled his motorcycle into his garage next to his SUV. He lived in a two-bedroom sage-green bungalow on a quiet street in Culver City. He and his wife had bought it shortly after they were married and he’d gone to work for the LAPD. It wasn’t fancy, but it was well-maintained and paid for, and had plenty of room for him since he was on his own. They’d never had children. The house was worth much more now than when they’d bought it, even with the depressed real estate market.

He entered the kitchen through the attached garage and threw his keys down in a small wooden bowl he kept on the counter for that purpose. After snapping on a few lights, he went into the living room and fell into his leather recliner. He’d been downtown for nearly twelve hours today and thought he should go back to talk to Lizzie, if he could find her. He knew the cops would be crawling all over the area around the laundromat for hours. He also wanted to make sure Bucket was okay. Before leaving Skid Row, Jeremiah had driven around hoping to see him, but he didn’t catch sight of the man and his sad little dog at the park or on any of the streets. He hoped the police had picked him up for questioning, thinking he might have seen something the night Mary was killed.

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he called Rose Carson. “Hey, baby,” he said in a tired voice when she answered.

“Were you involved in that shooting in downtown this afternoon?” she demanded in a gush. “Breaking news is all over TV about it, but they haven’t released any details.”

“Yeah, Rose, I was,” he answered honestly, even though he knew she’d hate the answer. “But I’m okay. That little favor for Red turned out to be something pretty serious.”

“He wanted you to find that nasty Mistletoe Mary, didn’t he?” She wasn’t letting up in her displeasure.

“Yeah. He wanted to prove to Bucket that she was alive and not haunting him.”

“And?”

“And,” he began as he held the phone between his good shoulder and his chin and slipped out of his jacket. The movement sent a small shock of pain through his injured shoulder. He caught his breath for a few seconds and hoped Rose didn’t hear it. “She was dead. I found her stuffed into a dryer in an old laundromat near where Bucket hangs out.”

“That poor soul,” she said in a soft voice. Jeremiah smiled slightly at Rose’s U-turn, calling Mary Dowling nasty one minute to poor soul the next. She paused, before asking, “So what was the gunfire all about?”

“Seems someone didn’t like that I found her body and tried to take me out.”

“What?” Rose snapped into the phone. “Oh, dear God, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, baby.” Jeremiah smiled into the phone picturing Rose’s oval face with its fine age lines. He knew her brows would be knit together in worry and he wanted to kiss them to smooth them out. “A shoulder got winged by a bullet but the EMTs fixed me up.”

“I’m coming over there, Jeremiah,” she said with concern, “so I can take care of you.”

“No need, Rose,” he assured her. “I’m fine. I just got home from downtown and I need to take a shower and head back.”

A long silence, followed by, “But you found Mary, Jeremiah. Let the police take care of the rest of it.”

“I should,” he said in a voice thick with exhaustion.

“But you won’t, will you?”

“No, Rose, I won’t. I want to know who shot at me. And I think another woman and Bucket might both be in danger now.”

“Jeremiah Jones, don’t you dare go back down there. You did the favor for Red. He wouldn’t expect anything more from you and you know it.”

He picked up the remote from the table next to the recliner and aimed it across the room at his large flat-panel TV. It was much bigger than he needed, but he loved it, especially for watching sports. He changed channels until he found a local news program. At the moment they were giving the weather report, but he wanted to see if they said anything more about the shootout. He muted the sound until something came up.

“I know,” he said into the phone, “but this is something I need to see to the end. Please understand that.”

“Well, I know that’s who you are, but I don’t understand it one bit. The police are very capable of handling this.”

“I’m sorry, Rose. I’ll call you in the morning. Okay?”

“No, it’s not okay, Jeremiah.” He knew from her voice that her lower lip would be pushed out in an angry pout.

“I have to go, baby. You have a good night. I’ll call you in the morning, I promise.”

“Huh! A lot of good a promise will do if your ass is dead!” She hung up.

Jeremiah dialed Red Watkins and filled him in. He also implored Jeremiah not to return to downtown, but unlike Rose, he didn’t get angry when Jeremiah insisted on seeing the situation to its end. When Jeremiah asked him about women he knew who might wear field jackets, Red gave Jeremiah the same answer as Sloan had: Beth and Keisha.

“I’m sure there are more, but those are the two I know personally because I gave the jackets to them,” Red reported.

“The person who shot at me was wearing one and might have been a woman. I was too far away to get a good look.”

“I can’t vouch for Beth, but it couldn’t have been Keisha. I happen to know that she left yesterday for a week-long women’s retreat sponsored by one of the downtown churches. Angels paid for it out of the scholarship fund.”

Beth being the shooter was becoming a real possibility to Jeremiah. Hadn’t she said today that she had a new part-time job and it wasn’t one Red had provided? Beth had been trained in the military to use weapons, although Jeremiah couldn’t remember what exactly she’d done while in the service.

Before hanging up from Red, Jeremiah asked, “What do you know about Jeffrey Sloan? Is he mixed up in any of the street crime?”

“Jeff Sloan? Why no. I’m sure he’s not,” Red told him. “He used to run with a wild crowd, but he cut himself off from them quite a while ago, ever since deciding to pull his life together. Why?”

“Just asking. I had him keep watch on my bike today.” Jeremiah was careful not to let Red know he’d used Sloan to do some snooping.

“Yeah, I saw that when I left the office. Did something happen to it?”

“No, not at all. I’m just curious about him.”

“I’ve known Jeff for almost two years now,” Red told him, “and I’ve never known him to be dishonest or malicious, not even when he was drinking. We have high hopes for him.”

“That’s good to know.”

After ending his call with Red, Jeremiah called Emma and caught her up on everything. Phil had already gone back to San Diego, but she said she’d’ fill him in.

“Have you seen Granny?” he asked Emma.

“She’s not with you?”

“I sent her off to follow the shooter and haven’t seen her since,” he told her. “I hope she’s okay.”

Emma softly laughed. “She’s dead, Jeremiah, no harm can come to her. But time means nothing to spirits. If you told Granny to stay close to whoever shot at you, that’s exactly what she’s doing, and will do it until she thinks it’s time to report back.”

Jeremiah gave up a tired chuckle. “Like a spy drone.”

“Exactly.”

“Tell me, Emma, now that her body’s been found, providing that corpse was Mary Dowling, will her spirit rest and stop bothering Bucket?”

There was a short pause while Emma considered the question. “Hard to say. She might cross over to the other side now, or she might stick around to see how it plays out. You know, until her killer is found. I’ve seen spirits do both.”

“I’m dying to know who and why someone was pretending to be Mary’s daughter.”

“That is interesting,” Emma agreed. “And whoever it was knew Mary’s brain was addled enough that she could sell the charade to the poor woman. She either didn’t remember that her daughter died young or was in denial about it.”

“You’re right.” He sat up straighter in the chair. “Whoever it was had to know something about Mary’s background in order to set it all up, no matter what the ultimate motive. I got the feeling she only had one friend and that was Lizzie, another working girl.”

“How about her pimp?” suggested Emma.

“Yeah, I’m heading down there in a bit to talk to both of them.”

“You sound exhausted, Jeremiah. Are you sure you should go?”

He closed his eyes and smiled. It felt good, as comforting as a slice of warm apple pie, to have Emma and Rose so worried about him. Most of the people downtown didn’t have that in their lives. It made him all the more determined to see it through to the end and get Mary the justice she deserved.

“Those people are night crawlers,” he told her. “About the only time I can get to them is after dark.”

Emma wouldn’t let Jeremiah go until extracting from him a promise that he’d call her if he needed anything, and a promise that he was okay physically.

After the call, he hoisted himself out of his recliner with grunts and groans and headed for his kitchen. He plugged his phone into a charger. The battery was half spent but he wanted to make sure it was fully charged before going back. He also put on a small pot of coffee. As soon as the coffee was dripping, he went to the fridge, pulled out a loaf of whole wheat bread, sliced deli ham, cheese, and mustard. Lunch with Aaron seemed like a lifetime ago. Before slapping the sandwich together, he pulled Audra’s card from his pocket, propped the phone up, put it on speaker, and dialed her number.

“Audra Wilcox,” she answered as he pulled two slices of bread from its package.

“Audra, it’s Jeremiah. Quick question, have you picked up Bucket? His real name is Dwayne Burkett. He’s the old guy who claims Mary’s ghost told him she was dead.”

“Yes,” she answered. “I had a car pick him up and bring him in.”

“Good,” Jeremiah said with relief, as he squirted brown mustard on the bread and spread it around with a knife. “I was worried for his safety. Whoever killed Mary might think he knows something and go after him. Who knows, maybe he did see something.”

“I had the same thought, but I’m not sure how much help he’s going to be. When we found him,” Audra said, pausing briefly before continuing, “he was cradling his little dog. The poor animal was dead.”

Jeremiah was holding a couple slices of ham when he heard what she said about Lola. He laid the meat on the mustard-covered bread and closed his eyes tight, unable to continue with his meal. “That animal meant the world to Bucket. How’s he doing?”

“Not good,” Audra said with a sigh. “We had a hard time getting him to give up the dead dog. He screamed at the officers that it was only sleeping.”

“Where’s Bucket now?”

“On his way to County Hospital,” she said, her words heavy with sadness. One of the things Jeremiah always liked about Audra Wilcox was her empathy for others. A lot of cops became hard and jaded over the years to cope with the misery and violence they encountered on a daily basis. Others cared too much and burned out quickly. Audra seemed to have found the right balance. She was kind and understanding, but not so much to get in the way of doing her job. “We tried to question him but he was too far gone and became combative. He had to be sedated. All this just went down.”

“Was Bucket saying anything specific?”

“He kept saying ‘get away,’ over and over. He couldn’t stand being confined and was striking out at the hospital staff.”

“ ‘Get away’?”

“Yes, or something like it. Bud thought it might be ‘getting away.’ Either way, Bucket kept screeching something like that until the meds kicked in. Mean anything to you?”

Jeremiah wondered if Mary was still trying to speak through Bucket. Maybe she was trying to say that her killer was getting away.

“Not really,” he told her. “Did anyone call Red Watkins? Angels looked after Bucket as much as he allowed them to. If you haven’t, I’ll give him a quick call.”

“Thanks, Jeremiah, it would be very helpful if you’d call Red. We really didn’t know who to contact about the old guy and maybe seeing a friendly face when he wakes up will help.”

“What about Mary’s friend Lizzie?” he asked.

“We haven’t been able to locate her yet,” Audra said, her voice switching back to its professional tone. “She’ll be out on the streets soon working and we’ll pick her up then.”

After the call with Audra, Jeremiah called Red and gave him the news about Bucket.

“So sorry about Lola,” Red said with genuine concern, “but maybe now we can get Bucket into a full-time care facility. I’ll call County and see what’s going on. Thanks for calling me, Jeremiah.”

Jeremiah looked down at his half-made sandwich, but he’d lost his appetite. Instead, he poured himself a cup of coffee. After several long draws from the mug, he refilled it and carried it into the bathroom, where he stripped and stepped into a hot shower. He showered quickly, careful of his bandaged shoulder, yet determined to wash the stink of Skid Row from his body before heading back down again for a fresh assault. With his hands flat against the front of the shower, he leaned forward and stuck his head under the spray. He let it linger there, thinking of poor Bucket and his now dead dog. Lola’s death was inevitable considering the shape she’d been in earlier that day, but caring for the wretched animal had kept Bucket lucid longer and in bigger stretches than he might have been without her. Jeremiah pulled his head back out of the water and shook it back and forth, trying to clear his head of both his exhaustion and encroaching melancholy. Turning off the water, he grabbed a towel and stepped out of the shower.

“You’re phone is ringing like crazy,” Granny snapped. “You gonna answer it?”

“Dammit, Granny,” Jeremiah snapped back as he quickly wrapped the towel around his naked body. “Ever hear of knocking?”

In answer, Granny floated over to the doorjamb and pounded on it with her fist. No sound. Instead, her curled-up hand went through the solid wood of the doorframe. “That answer your question?” the snarky ghost answered. She crossed her arms in front of her and stared at him.

“I’m naked, Granny. How about a little privacy?”

“Oh please,” answered the ghost. “It’s not like you got something I haven’t seen before. You’d be surprised what us ghosts get a gander at.”

Jeremiah didn’t even want to think about that last comment. He was about to say something else, when he heard his phone ringing in the kitchen.

“There it goes again,” Granny said as Jeremiah scooted past her to answer it.

“Jeremiah,” he said simply after stabbing the answer button.

There was silence, but Jeremiah could hear someone breathing heavily on the other end, like they were out of breath. Then he heard a thick, wet sound and realized the caller was crying.

“Who is it?” Granny asked.

In response, Jeremiah shrugged, then said into the phone, keeping his voice low and soothing, “Who’s there?”

“Mr. Jones,” the caller finally squeaked out in a barely audible whisper. “It’s Elizabeth Thompson.” When Jeremiah didn’t respond, she added, “Lizzie.”

“Are you okay?” Jeremiah asked with concern.

“I’m scared, Mr. Jones. Real scared. They found Mary’s body.” Her terror came through the phone line and grabbed him by the throat, telling him it was real. “I don’t want to be next.” Sopping wet sobs followed.

“Why do you think you’d be next?” he asked, all his senses on alert.

“I,” she began, then lowered her voice until he could barely hear it. “I think I know who killed her.”

“Where are you?”

“Pay phone on Los Angeles Street.”

“You need to get to the police station. They’re looking for you for questioning,” he told her calmly. “Go there. You’ll be safe.”

“No way am I going to the cops,” she said, pressing some force into her words. “I already have a record.”

“They aren’t going to arrest you, just question you. Tell them you want to see Detective Audra Wilcox. Tell them I sent you.”

“No!” she said through her tears. “I thought you would help me, not take me to the cops.”

“I will help you, Lizzie.” Jeremiah ran alternative solutions around in his brain. “I can be there in about twenty minutes or so. Are you somewhere you can wait for me?”

“Not really. If one of Ace’s people sees me here, I’ll be in trouble. It’s not my usual spot.”

Jeremiah ran a hand roughly over his face as he tried to think of something else. “Do you know where the City of Angels Veterans Outreach office is?” he asked, grabbing at his next idea in desperation.

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s on Wall, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Wall near 5th,” he told her. “Look around the immediate area for a guy named Jeffrey Sloan. He’s a black dude in his thirties with a pronounced limp. He should be wearing an army-type jacket, probably over a gray hoodie. Tell him I need him to hide you until I get there. Make sure you tell him I sent you.” He paused. “Did you get all that?”

“Yeah,” she said in a whisper. “But what if he won’t help me?”

“He will,” Jeremiah said, hoping it was true and hoping Sloan was still hanging out on the street. “But don’t tell him anything, just tell him to take care of you until I get there. And if you can’t find him, stay in that area but out of sight as best you can until you see me. I’ll be in a black SUV. I’ll pull up in front of Angels.”

“Okay,” she said quickly.

“And Lizzie, who do you think killed Mary?”

But Lizzie had already hung up.

Chapter 13

Jeremiah ran down the hallway to his bedroom, losing his towel along the way. Once there, he started pulling clothes from drawers and quickly dressed.

“Now who doesn’t care about modesty?” asked Granny.

Jeremiah nearly stumbled as he stepped into a clean pair of jeans. “Dammit, Granny. I’d forgotten all about you.”

“Yeah, most people do,” said the ghost with a grin. “That’s why I’m such a good PI.”

As he zipped his jeans, he said, “That was Lizzie. She thinks she knows who killed Mary, but she’s too afraid to go to the cops.”

“Did she tell you who it was?”

He shook his head right before it disappeared into the bowels of a long-sleeved black T-shirt. “I told her to find Sloan by the Angels office and wait for me there,” he said as soon as his head popped out of the neckline. He slipped his arms through the sleeves, forgetting about his shoulder until a sharp pain reminded him. He ignored it and yanked the shirt down in place over this torso.

Granny floated around the room, scanning photos and books stacked on a small bookcase. “Maybe it was the same person who took those shots at you, or don’t you care about that anymore?”

Jeremiah had taken a seat on a small upholstered chair by the closet. He had one sock on and the other in his hand as he stared at the ghost. “Of course I do. I’d just forgotten about it when Lizzie called.”

Granny nodded, “Yep, senility. You might want to get yourself checked by a doc when this case is over.”

“I am not senile, you old crone,” Jeremiah snapped. He put on his other sock and looked around the room as if lost.

“Your boots are in the living room,” Granny told him. “By your chair.” She fixed him with a sly look. “So watch who you’re calling old or a crone, you old goat. Remember, technically, I’m younger that you are. A lot younger.”

Jeremiah let out a low growl of frustration. “Tell me what you found out while I finish dressing.” He trotted back down the hallway to the living room. The boots were exactly where Granny said they’d be.

He dropped into the chair and started pulling them on. “Was the shooter a woman?” he asked Granny, who was floating in front of him.

“Sure was,” Granny said. “How did you know that?”

“I remembered hearing the grunts when she tried to move the Dumpster. Sounded more like a woman than a man to me.” He yanked the last boot on, stomped both feet on the floor, and stood up. “Do you know who it was?”

“Never saw her before, but I could recognize her in a lineup,” Granny announced with excitement.

Jeremiah gave her a sly glance. “I can just see the police conducting that lineup now.” He went out to the kitchen, grabbed his car keys, and looked around. “Now, where did I put my jacket?”

“In here,” Granny called to him from the living room. He backtracked and saw Granny pointing down at his recliner. His jacket was there, discarded where he’d sloughed it off earlier. “You were sitting on it.”

He picked up his jacket and slipped into it, his jaw set with annoyance.

Granny looked around the room. “You really should spruce this place up with some Christmas decorations. Give it some color. A tree would be nice in that corner.” She pointed to an empty spot by the sofa. It was the place where Jeremiah’s late wife had always placed their tree. Jeremiah hadn’t put up one since her death. “Emma already has her tree up. It’s a big one, but I don’t think one that size would fit in here.”

On the way back out to the kitchen, he stuck a finger in Granny’s smug, hazy face, “Not another word about anything but this case. Got that?”

Granny went through an elaborate motion of zipping her lip as she followed him back to the bedroom. Jeremiah removed a framed print of two black musicians from the wall next to the bed. Behind it was a safe. From the safe he extracted a gun, which he slipped into his pocket. After shutting the safe and replacing the painting, he went back into the kitchen where he unplugged his phone and pocketed it. As an afterthought, he quickly slapped his unfinished sandwich together and poured the remaining brewed coffee into a thermos.

Once they were on the road, Jeremiah turned to Granny, who was riding shotgun, “Got any more to tell me?” He took a big bite of the ham sandwich clutched in his left hand while he steered the vehicle with his right.

She made another pantomime, this time of unzipping her mouth, then said, “Sure, and it’s pretty interesting. After leaving the alley, the gunman walked down the street at a steady pace, sticking to the shadows, head bent down. Probably so not to draw attention to herself. On TV, people always notice the criminals who run. Ever notice that? The runners always get caught. I’ll bet this woman watches a lot of crime dramas.” Jeremiah shot her a scowl.

“Anyway,” Granny continued, taking notice of the scowl and getting back on topic, “she turned and then turned again down another street a few blocks down. Finally, she went up another alley and disappeared into the back of a building. I didn’t know yet it was a woman though. I thought it was just a skinny man.”

“Could you tell which building she ducked into?” he asked.

“Not at first, but I followed her in. Funny thing, it seemed so familiar to me even though I didn’t recognize it. We were in a supply room of some sort and then she went into another smaller room and started taking off a whole lot of stuff, like her hat and gloves and jacket. That’s when I realized it was a woman.”

“Great job, Granny. Was she a white woman with short brown hair?” he asked, describing Beth Jenkins.

“Nope,” Granny said. “She was white but she had long brown hair tied back at the nape of her neck. She’d had it all tucked up inside that cap.”

Her answer surprised Jeremiah. Beth had very short hair and while a person with long hair could cut it off in seconds, someone with short hair couldn’t grow it out in hours. He didn’t know much about women and wigs, but he doubted a gunman would wear a long-haired wig, especially under a knit cap. In part, he was relieved. He really didn’t want to think about someone like Beth turning into an assassin. She’d seen enough of that in the war.

“What did she do after she changed? Where did she go?” Jeremiah asked as he sped down the 10 freeway toward downtown.

Granny scratched her head and for a brief moment Jeremiah wondered if ghosts could actually feel itching. “Let me see,” Granny said. “A lot of strange stuff happened. I gotta piece it together.”

Jeremiah was going to mention that maybe she was going senile, but held his tongue by finishing off his sandwich. He needed Granny and knew from working with her that she might disappear if she became annoyed or got her feelings hurt. He also knew from Emma that ghosts often didn’t remember things clearly or in order. As difficult as it was, he exercised his patience.

“Okay, here’s what happened,” Granny finally said with purpose. “She changed out of the jacket and hat and put on another jacket and a wig.”

“A wig?” Jeremiah asked, glancing over at her. “Are you sure?”

They were making the transition from the 10 freeway to the 110. It was usually a tricky freeway interchange. This Sunday night it was a breeze. During rush hour or when something was going on at the Staples Center, it could be deadly and bogged down.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Granny said with a sniff of annoyance at being questioned. “She put on a wig and a different jacket and a pair of sunglasses.”

“Sunglasses?” he asked with even more surprise.

“You want me to take a lie detector test on that?” snarled the ghost.

“No, Granny,” Jeremiah assured her as he took the 6th Street off-ramp, which dumped them into downtown. “I believe you. I’m just surprised.”

“Didn’t Lizzie say that the woman posing as Mary’s daughter wore sunglasses?”

“Yes, she did,” Jeremiah confirmed. “The wig, do you remember what it looked like?”

Granny scrunched her face up as she tried to recall details. “Dark. Darker than her real hair but not black. Cut short but not too short.” Granny motioned with her hands somewhere just below her chin. “And she had bangs. The kind that came down below her brows.”

Jeremiah nodded. “That fit what Lizzie said about the hair on the woman posing as Mary’s daughter. Good chance she was wearing a wig, too.”

“So the fake daughter and the person who shot you are the same person?” asked Granny.

“Could be. Where did the woman go after putting on her disguise?”

“She went out the way she came, but instead of heading back toward the scene of the crime, she walked in the opposite direction and got into a truck parked at the curb on another street.” Granny paused to give it more thought. “Then she did something weird again.”

Jeremiah had turned onto Wall Street and was getting close to where he hoped Lizzie and Sloan were waiting for him. “Weird? How?”

“Once she was on her way, she took off the glasses and the wig.”

Jeremiah gave her a quick glance. “Were you able to see which direction she went?”

“I didn’t just see,” Granny said, pleased with herself. “I went with her. Right along in the truck. That’s what took me so long to get back to you. It was a long way, or it seemed like a long way.”

Jeremiah pulled up to the curb across from the Angels office. “Could you tell where you were when she stopped?” he asked as he looked out the window hoping Sloan and Lizzie had spotted the SUV and would come out from wherever they were.

“It was out in the country somewhere,” Granny reported. “Looked like a farm to me.”

Jeremiah’s head snapped around to the ghost. “A farm?”

“Yep.”

He started putting pieces together—truck, long brown hair, farm—and didn’t like the picture they presented. He shook his head, not wanting to believe the possibility. It was even more preposterous than Beth being the shooter. “And what color was the truck?”

“Black and pretty fancy,” Granny said, and Jeremiah’s heart dropped a little more.

“Did you see any writing on the side, like a sign or something?”

“Not that I can remember,” answered Granny, “but then I was pretty focused on hopping along for the ride.” She paused, then held out an index finger, lightly shaking it at the windshield as if scolding it. “There was another odd thing.”

When she didn’t say anything more, Jeremiah coaxed, “And that was?”

“Well, there was a party going on at the farm.” Granny turned to face Jeremiah. “When she got out of the truck, the woman joined this party, as pretty as you please. She was smiling and kissing and hugging folks left and right. Who does that after trying to kill someone?”

“A cold-blooded killer, Granny, that’s who.”

Not seeing either Lizzie or Jeff Sloan, Jeremiah got out of his SUV and started across the street. He’d just reached the curb when Sloan waved to him from the opposite corner where he was hanging with some guys. He crossed the street with his usual limp and approached Jeremiah. “Back again?” he asked.

“Where’s Lizzie?” Jeremiah asked Sloan. Granny had tagged along and was circling Sloan, checking him over.

Sloan looked genuinely confused by the question. “Lizzie who?”

“The red-haired girl who used to hang around Mistletoe Mary,” Jeremiah told him. “She called me all upset about thirty minutes ago. I told her to find you and have you keep her safe until I got here.”

“Never saw her,” Sloan said.

“I think he’s telling the truth,” said Granny.

Still, Jeremiah eyed Sloan with suspicion. “You’re sure you didn’t see a woman come to the Angels office and look around?”

He shook his head. “No, but I just got back here. I left to grab some food at a cheap taco truck a few blocks over. What’s going on?”

“Not sure,” Jeremiah said. “But can you stay here in case she shows up?”

“Sure. I’m usually here. I hang out with a few other vets in the program until it’s time to go back to the group home.”

“Call me if she shows up,” Jeremiah called as he crossed the street back to his vehicle. Granny followed him.

Once they were back in the SUV, Granny asked, “Now what?”

“Now I drive up and down these streets looking for her.” He put the SUV in gear and pulled away from the curb. “She doesn’t live far from here. Or she might go back to the diner and check in with Ace. We’ll start there.”

“That her pimp?” Granny asked.

“Yes. He might protect her or he might not, especially if he’s involved. If he is involved, she wouldn’t go back there or to her apartment.”

“Or maybe we’ll find another body of a poor lost woman,” Granny said, her mouth turned down.

“That, too,” Jeremiah said as he turned the vehicle right on 4th Street and headed for Crocker and the diner.

Chapter 14

Mona was seated at the far end of the counter reading a magazine when Jeremiah and Granny walked into the diner. There were only about six people in the place counting Mona and the cook. Jeremiah cast a look into the kitchen. The cook was different from this morning, but still a Latino. The customers were at booths—a middle-aged woman and two middle-aged men in one and a solo younger man in the other on a cell phone, all African-American. He wondered if one of them was Ace, especially the one on the cell phone. The woman with the two men looked too old and healthy to be one of Ace’s working girls.

“Well, look who’s back,” Mona said giving Jeremiah a half smile as he took the same seat at the counter he’d occupied earlier. Granny took the seat next to him in front of the desserts. “Can’t get enough of our good cooking, huh?”

“You’re working a long day,” Jeremiah said to her. He grabbed a mug and turned it over.

“Can’t get good help these days,” she said getting to her feet with effort. She grabbed a steaming coffeepot and filled his waiting mug. She was wearing the same clothes as she had that morning but it looked as if she’d put on a fresh apron. “Our night girl called in sick and our other waitress is off on Sundays, so I get stuck with a double shift.” She shrugged. “But what are ya gonna do? You own the place, you pick up the slack. Know what I mean?”

“Sure do.” He took a sip of the coffee.

“Hey,” Granny whispered to him with excitement, even though Mona couldn’t hear her. “That’s exactly what the shooter’s wig looked like.” She pointed at Mona’s bob with bangs. Jeremiah shifted his eyes, hoping Granny would take it as a sign that he heard her. Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell Granny that cheap wigs like Mona’s were probably a dime a dozen.

“At least it’s quiet on Sundays,” Mona said as she put the pot back on its hot plate. “You gonna order some food?”

He shook his head. “Just wanted some coffee for now. Maybe later. Been a long day for me, too. Glad to get off my feet.”

“So I heard,” Mona whispered, leaning forward and giving him another look down her considerable cleavage.

“And exactly what did you hear?” Jeremiah asked as Granny got up and started poking around the place. He caught her eye and motioned for her to check on the guy with the phone. She nodded and drifted over there.

“That that ho Mary was found dead in a rusty clothes dryer and that you were in a shootout over it.”

“I didn’t think the news mentioned my name.” Jeremiah eyed her over the rim of his mug.

“It didn’t, but word spreads fast down here,” she said, still keeping her voice down. “You were asking about Mary this morning, so when I heard an old black guy was involved in a shooting near where her body was found, it wasn’t rocket science to piece it together, you being a PI and all.”

He took another sip of coffee and cast an eye around the place. No one seemed to be paying them any mind. “Is that Ace?” he asked Mona in a low voice, indicating the guy on the cell phone.

“Nah, that’s Ernie,” she said, not giving any more information on the guy. “Ace isn’t here tonight. The cops pulled him in on account of Mary and he’s at the station being questioned. He’ll probably be there all night, knowing the cops.” Mona curled her lip. “They’re always trying to pin something on Ace. Not that he’s an angel or anything, but seems like whenever something happens around here, they make him their first suspect.”

“Jeremiah,” Granny whispered in a slightly panicked voice as she perched back on the stool next to him. “That man over there is talking to someone about a girl with red hair. Said she’s ready for delivery.”

Without reacting to Granny’s news, Jeremiah gave Mona a smile and pulled out his phone. “Seeing him,” he said, indicating the guy on the phone again, “reminds me that I need to call my lady friend and tell her I’m going to be late tonight.”

Mona’s smile changed to straight-lipped disappointment and she started to move away.

“Hey,” Jeremiah said to her, “I think I’ve changed my mind about food. How about a cheeseburger and some fries.”

The disappointment lessened at the thought of making a sale, but didn’t disappear altogether. “Everything on the burger?”

“Everything but onions,” he told her with a grateful smile.

As soon as Mona left to put his order in, Jeremiah turned off his ringer and pretended to make a call. “Hi,” he said into the phone, keeping his voice down but not whispering, to make sure Mona heard what he wanted her to hear. Looking at Granny, he gave her a wink. She winked back, understanding that the call was a ruse.

“It’s me.” Jeremiah said into the phone. He paused for effect, then asked, “What’s going on?”

“Like I said. That guy is talking about delivering a red-haired girl to someone. I’ll bet it’s Lizzie.” Granny bounced up and down, electric with excitement. “And I think the shooter was here today,” Granny told him. “I knew it was familiar when I followed her. At least it smelled familiar. It’s a cooking smell, greasy and meaty.”

Jeremiah gave the idea some thought, then said, “A lot of places are like that, darlin’.”

“Well, sugar,” Granny replied with a smirk, “my gut is telling me this is it. And that wig is another clue. I just know it.”

“Uh-huh,” responded Jeremiah. “Did you look in the back? Maybe you left it there.”

“Good idea,” the ghost said. “Let’s see if I can get back there.”

“You go ahead and check,” Jeremiah said into the phone. “I’ll hang on.”

Without another word Granny headed for the back of the Hi-Life Diner and disappeared through the closed door marked Employees. While he waited, Jeremiah rotated his stool back and forth as if bored, but kept the guy in the booth in sight. He took another sip of coffee. Granny was back in seconds, a look of anger plastered on her face.

“I was right,” she said with a jerk of her strong chin. “This is the same place. I found the room where the shooter changed and her stuff is there. So is poor Lizzie, tied and trussed like a turkey, but still alive.”

“You found it,” Jeremiah said into the phone with forced happiness. “That’s great.”

“Not so great if we can’t get her out of there,” snapped Granny.

“I understand, darlin’,” he agreed after a pause to make it look like he was listening to a long comment. “Okay, okay. I’m on my way.” He ended the call and sighed with fake frustration.

After taking a long pull from his coffee mug, Jeremiah got off his stool. Mona came back over. “Trouble in paradise?” she asked.

“You have no idea,” he said with a weary shake of his head. “Hey, can you pack that order to go? I’ll eat it on the way.”

“Can’t you just leave it?” groused Granny. “We have to help Lizzie.”

“Sure,” said Mona as she added up his bill and placed it on the counter in front of him. She turned to the kitchen window and gave the new to-go instructions to the cook in passable Spanish. By the time Jeremiah had paid his tab, his order was up and packed in a bag. Mona handed it to him and said in a suggestive purr, “You come back again, Mr. PI, when you have time to enjoy your food. And stay out of the way of gunfire, you hear?”

Back in the truck, Jeremiah dropped the takeout bag on the floor of the passenger’s side and started the engine.

“If you’re not going to eat that, why did you take it?” asked Granny.

“It would look odd if I just ran off without it,” Jeremiah told her. “I need them to think I’m heading away from the area.”

Granny tapped the side of her head with an index finger. “Smart thinking, Chief. I’ll have to remember that.”

Jeremiah maneuvered the SUV down to 3rd Street and took a right turn. Another quick right took him on Central and an even quicker right landed him on Towne Avenue, the street one block behind Crocker where the diner was located. He drove slowly, looking for an alley access and found one pretty quickly.

“This looks very familiar,” Granny said. “I remember that drawing on the side of the building. She pointed to faded, but once colorful graffiti near the entrance to the alley.

Jeremiah pulled the SUV to the curb just past the alley, got out, and locked the vehicle. There were some tents and lean-tos set up against the nearby buildings, but not as many as a few blocks away, closer to the shelters and missions. Jeremiah noted several people gathered under a streetlight at the intersection farther up. The sound of drunken laughter and coarse speech came off them in rough waves. They paid no mind to Jeremiah as he used the cover of darkness to slip into the alley with his gun drawn but held down, close to his leg.

Chapter 15

“Yep, this is the right alley,” Granny confirmed as she floated ahead of Jeremiah.

This alley was in better shape than the one behind the laundromat. There were more Dumpsters and they looked to be more consistently used, signaling that the alley served active businesses. Like the other, it was T-shaped. On the left and right a couple of closed doors with signs indicated the businesses beyond the doors and had small saffron lights above them. At the end was the butt end of another set of buildings with doors, Dumpsters, and lights. These were the small businesses that shared space on Crocker with the Hi-Life Diner.

Granny went straight to the one for the diner and pointed to a sign for the business affixed to the door. It was in the shadows and dirty. “I’m sorry I didn’t see this before, Jeremiah. It would have saved us time.”

“You’ve done good, Granny,” he whispered. “It’s very hard to see, even for me.” He waved her on. “Go on in and make sure it’s the right place before we barge in.”

She nodded and disappeared through the door, returning in no time. “It’s the right place. Lizzie’s still there. I think they drugged her.”

Jeremiah started to move toward the door, but instead took a few steps back and pulled out his phone.

“What are you doing, Jeremiah?” Granny asked with frustration. “You need to kick down the door and rescue that poor girl.” To demonstrate, the ghost lifted her leg and gave a ferocious kick to the door with her booted foot. It went through it like a hot knife through soft butter.

“I’m getting backup, Granny.”

He punched a number he’d stored on his phone earlier. “Audra, it’s Jeremiah,” he whispered into the phone. “I’ve found Lizzie. She’s being held captive in the back of the Hi-Life Diner. You know it?” He listened. “Yeah, I’m here now. In the alley behind the place.” He paused again. “Okay, and I think I have a lead on Mary Dowling’s killer. She’s connected to Hi-Life, though how I’m not sure.”

He disconnected the call and made sure the ringer was still off before slipping it back into a pocket. “Audra and her people are on their way,” he told Granny. “I’ll stay here and wait for them. Go inside and keep an eye on Lizzie. Come get me if you think she’s in any immediate danger.”

“Will do, Chief,” Granny said with a salute. “But I still think it would be more exciting for you to kick down the door.”

Jeremiah positioned himself behind a nearby Dumpster that gave him a good sight line to both the back of the diner and the entry to the alley. He pulled the collar of his jacket up high on his neck to ward off the night chill starting to ooze into his aging bones and thought if he never saw another Dumpster or alley again, it would be too soon for him.

“You gotta come quick,” Granny said, popping up next to Jeremiah and startling him. “Some guys just showed up in the diner and are talking to Mona and that Ernie guy about Lizzie.”

“Are they looking for her?” Jeremiah asked as he pulled his phone back out of his pocket and readied it.

Granny shook her head back and forth vigorously, as if her brains were in a blender. “No. They’re buying her!”

“What?”

“Yes! Mona is selling Lizzie to these creeps.”

Jeremiah took a second to think about it. “If that’s true, they can’t take her out the front way in her condition, they’ll have to take her out the back, past me.”

“And drag her down the alley?” Granny asked with surprise.

“No, but I’ll bet Mona is telling them where this alley is right now. Go check.” Granny disappeared.

“Audra,” Jeremiah said quietly into his phone after the detective answered. “Human traffickers are here right now buying Lizzie. Hurry.”

“Team almost in place in the front and we’re about to cover the back.”

“Just make sure the cops don’t shoot me by mistake, thinking I’m a suspicious black man.”

She chuckled, but it wasn’t a happy one. “Don’t worry, I’ll be with the team in the alley to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“By the way,” he said into the phone, “last I looked there were three customers in the diner in a booth, along with a cook and the owner, a big black woman named Mona. She’s deep into this, along with another guy sitting alone in a booth. His name’s Ernie. I don’t think the other three or the cook are involved. I’m betting the buyers will be pulling a car into the alley soon to take Lizzie out the back. You might wait until you see it enter and block them off.”

“Got it,” said Audra. “Waiting until they’re in the alley will also keep the civilians out of the way.” She paused, then added. “Stay on the line, Jeremiah.”

“Will do,” he said holding on to his phone with the hand not holding the gun.

“You’re right,” Granny said when she returned. “Mona took them in the back to check out Lizzie. Ernie stayed in the front. Then one guy handed her a bucket of cash and sent the other one to pull the car around to the alley.” Granny looked around. “Where are the cops? They’re sure taking their sweet time.”

“Getting into position,” he told her after putting the phone on mute. “They should be outside the front now, waiting for a signal to move. Audra and her team are waiting to block off the alley after the buyers pull in.”

Granny hopped up and down. “This is so exciting.”

“Only because you can’t get hit with a bullet,” Jeremiah snapped.

Granny stopped her celebration midhop. “You’re right. My bad.”

Soon a black sedan pulled across the mouth of the alley, but didn’t enter. Jeremiah ducked deeper behind the Dumpster while Granny investigated. She returned to report, “Yep, that’s one of them.”

The man and the ghost watched as the sedan drove forward a bit, then started moving in reverse, turning as it backed into the alley. The backup lights glowed as the sedan slowly inched backward until it was just a few feet away from the back door to the diner. Then the driver popped the trunk from the inside and got out. He looked at a few of the back doors until he located the one for the diner. He knocked on it and it opened. He went inside, leaving the engine running and driver’s door open.

Jeremiah took his phone off mute and whispered in a rush. “Black sedan backed into alley. Open trunk. Engine running.”

“Roger!” came Audra’s voice from the phone. Jeremiah spotted a vehicle without lights ease into the mouth of the alley nose first, then stop, waiting for instructions.

A minute later the back door to the diner opened and a short dark man came out and held the door open while the taller, beefier driver dragged a limp Lizzie through it. Jeremiah held the phone against his mouth. “Hold it. Hold it.”

The big man threw Lizzie into the trunk and slammed it shut. It was exactly what Jeremiah was waiting for. He wanted Lizzie out of the way as much as possible before anyone made a move. The two men were laughing and talking in a foreign language that sounded Middle Eastern. The big man went to the waiting driver’s side, while the smaller one went around to the passenger’s side, which was closest to Jeremiah. “Now!” he whispered into the phone.

At that second, a spotlight flooded the alley with a bright beam of light. The two men started for their guns, but Jeremiah ran forward and slammed his gun down on the back of the smaller man’s head before he could finish drawing. With a grunt, he dropped like a brick. The larger man fired at the cops and the cops answered in kind. Jeremiah dropped to the ground and flattened himself.

It was over in seconds. The driver of the car was dead and the smaller man was cuffed and taken into custody. The cops coming through the front had grabbed Mona and Ernie. An ambulance took Lizzie away after she was rescued from the trunk. She was still unconscious, but the EMTs said she only seemed drugged and not injured.

“How did you know Lizzie was here?” asked Audra as they examined the small room where she’d been kept. He gave the still excited Granny a small, clandestine smile, then answered, “Just a hunch. Lizzie never showed up where we agreed to meet and was worried about Ace, so I came here. Mona was acting kind of odd, and I heard that Ernie guy talking on his phone about having a girl for sale. A girl with red hair. I didn’t know for sure, but I knew some poor girl was back here and someone was coming for her.”

Jeremiah kicked a bundle of clothing in a corner with his toe. “I think if you check these out, you’ll find that they belong to the person who was shooting at me. It might even be Mary’s killer. And I think if you run any prints or DNA you find, you might get a match to a Greta Miles.”

“The woman who’s always distributing produce to the poor?” Audra asked with surprise. “You sure about that?”

“Nope, just another hunch after piecing together some of the information I’ve gotten from different sources. I don’t know why, but I think Greta was posing as Mary’s long-dead daughter, and whatever the game, Lizzie knew about it or figured it out. Mona was in on it. Whether Ace was or not, I don’t know, but both might have known about Mary having a daughter. They might not have known the kid was dead, but used the ploy anyway, knowing that Mary was a bit addled and might buy it.”

“It looked like Mary was living inside that laundromat before her death,” Audra told him.

Jeremiah nodded. “I’d heard that Ace kicked her out of her room at the digs he keeps for his girls over on Stanford when he cut her loose.”

“As soon as Lizzie is able, we’ll question her,” Audra said. “She must know something if they were willing to sell her off.”

“At least they didn’t kill her,” Jeremiah said as he poked around the room without disturbing evidence.

“She’s still young and sexually useful,” Audra noted sadly. “These two guys tonight are part of a human trafficking ring we’ve known about but couldn’t pin down. They snatch or buy white women for sexual slaves in the Middle East. Natural redheads and blondes are in big demand, I’m told.”

“That’s just awful,” said Granny, holding a hand over her mouth in horror at the thought.

Chapter 16

Sitting up in the hospital bed against the white sheets, without makeup and her long red hair brushed smooth, Lizzie look like a lost, frightened waif, instead of the hardened street-walker of the day before.

After she came off the drugs Mona had given her, Audra had tried to question Lizzie, but Lizzie asked if Jeremiah could be present, saying she trusted him. She didn’t want a lawyer; she wanted Jeremiah Jones. Seeing how frightened the girl was, Audra called in Jeremiah. They sat on either side of Lizzie’s bed in the private room. Bud Ornelas stood by the window. Stationed just outside the closed door was a uniformed cop.

“How did you end up in the back of the diner yesterday, Lizzie?” Audra began. “Do you remember?”

After looking at Jeremiah for encouragement, she said, “I was on my way to meet Mr. Jones over on Wall Street. I was almost there when Ernie found me and told me I had to get back to Hi-Life and see Ace. He said if I didn’t go with him, I’d be in a lot of trouble. I didn’t want no more trouble than I had, so I went with him.”

“Who is Ernie?” Audra asked, even though she’d since found out.

“He’s a friend of Mona’s. When we got to Hi-Life he told me Ace wanted to see me in the back. We went back to the office and Ace wasn’t there, but Mona was. Ernie put a hand over my mouth and Mona came at me with a needle. That’s all I remember until I woke up here.”

“So does Ernie work for Ace?” Bud asked.

She offered up her signature deep shrug. “I didn’t think so, but when he came to get me, I thought maybe he was doing Ace a favor. You know, because Mona’s his sister.” She looked off toward the window. “But I should have known something was wrong because he and Ace don’t get along. Ace only tolerates him because he’s friends with Mona and because he wants to stay on Mona’s good side.”

“So he can run his business out of Hi-Life?” Jeremiah suggested.

“It’s not really his business, the girls, I mean.” She paused. “Mona really runs everything. Ace just manages us but no one really knows that.”

This was news to Jeremiah, but not a surprise considering Mona was about to sell Lizzie like a side of beef. He looked over at Audra. If she was surprised by this information, she didn’t let on.

“So Mona calls the shots?” Bud asked.

Lizzie nodded.

“Tell us about Mary’s daughter, Lizzie,” Audra said.

Lizzie shook her head and her eyes got small and hard. “That wasn’t her real daughter, although she made Mary believe she was. She was really the lady who hands out fruits and vegetables. The drug lady.”

“You’re right about her not being Mary’s daughter,” Jeremiah told her. “Mary’s daughter, Cheryl, died when she was only a few years old. Did you know that?”

Lizzie’s eyes widened, then went small again. “No.” She reached for her water glass. Jeremiah handed it to her and she took a long drink from the straw before continuing. “I just knew she wasn’t Mary’s daughter. Mary talked nonstop about her daughter, always saying she was some fine lady with a big house. None of us believed it, of course, then this woman showed up saying she was Cheryl.”

“So how did you know it wasn’t the real Cheryl?” asked Audra.

“Because one day I saw her driving a truck. I recognized the truck as the same one the fruits and vegetables lady used.”

“Did she see you that day?” asked Bud.

“No.” Lizzie looked up, then down at the cup and straw in her hands. “It was nighttime.” She paused, took a deep breath, then added, “I was walking down the street and stopped by this alley because my feet hurt. The truck came out of the alley pretty fast without its lights, so I jumped back against the building to get out of its way. The truck belonged to the fruits and vegetables lady. Greta, I think her name is. But driving it was Cheryl, Mary’s daughter.”

“Which alley?” Audra asked.

“An old one. It runs behind some of the boarded-up places on San Pedro. I was on Crocker, near 5th heading back to Hi-Life. The next time I saw Greta, I knew Cheryl and the drug lady were the same people.”

“Why do you call Greta Miles the drug lady?” Bud asked, moving away from the window with curiosity.

Lizzie hesitated, then pushed on. “Because she supplies Mona with the drugs that Mona sells. Mona calls her the diner’s produce supplier, but she’s supplying more than just a few potatoes and heads of lettuce, let me tell you.”

“How are the dugs distributed exactly?” asked Audra. “Do people come to the diner for them?”

“Am I going to get in trouble for this?” asked Lizzie. “Maybe I should have a lawyer.”

“You have a right to a lawyer, of course,” Audra said, “but tell you what, Lizzie, talk to us and we’ll get you help. We’ll set you up in a drug program, get you a fresh start somewhere.”

“And if I don’t?” Lizzie asked, a worried look on her face.

“Then we’ll put you back out on the street and you can take your chances,” Audra told her, not sugarcoating it. “Providing, of course, we don’t find something to charge you with.”

“How long do I get to make up my mind?” Lizzie asked.

Bud looked at his watch. “One minute, Lizzie. Sixty seconds and this goes away.”

Lizzie glanced at Jeremiah and he gave her a nod of encouragement.

After taking another deep breath, Lizzie said, “Okay. Mona employs drug runners. People who deliver the drugs to customers. Mary was one of them.”

“How about you?” asked Audra.

Lizzie shook her head. “No, Mona never asked me. I only knew about it because Mary told me. The runners, all girls, never handled the money. The customers paid for the drugs in some way they didn’t know about. Mona would give them the drugs and tell them where to deliver them. Sometimes it was to guys in fancy cars stopped at street corners. Sometimes it was someone standing by a building, or seated on a bus bench, or waiting for an order at a lunch counter. It operated sort of like an ATM. The customers would give the girls a code and if it was the right code the girls would hand over the drugs.”

“Were the drug runners Ace’s girls?” Jeremiah asked.

“Not that I know of. Mary only became one after Ace cut her off because she got too old and ugly to work the streets. Some of them worked days, some nights. From what Mary told me, they got paid per delivery and on how big the order was. Some of them made good money, especially the daytime runners. A lot of businessmen from the financial district would come down on their lunch break to score drugs. Mary said business was really good on the first and the fifteenth of each month when a lot of those people got paid.”

“I don’t understand something,” Bud said. “If business was good, why did Greta pass herself off to Mary as her daughter?”

“I knew she wasn’t my kid,” came a hoarse voice from near the door to the room. Only Jeremiah looked up, trying hard to hide his surprise at seeing the ghost of Mistletoe Mary standing there with Granny.

“Look who I wrangled up for ya,” said Granny proudly.

“I don’t know really,” Lizzie said, answering Bud’s question. “Mary wouldn’t tell me where she worked or was living, but said the clients were coming to her instead of her being sent all over downtown. She said it was a sweet deal and she would soon have enough money to rent a decent place someplace else. She wanted me to go with her.” Lizzie smiled sadly, remembering. “She was always looking out for me, but she could barely take care of herself.”

“I did want you to go with me,” Mary Dowling’s ghost said to Lizzie even though she couldn’t hear her. “I had it all planned out.”

“I knew Mary had gotten herself into bad trouble the last time I saw her with that woman,” Lizzie continued. “There were some really bad vibes coming off her when she told me to leave her alone with Mary.” Lizzie started weeping. “I knew Mary was probably dead when I stopped seeing her around. But that’s all I know about anything. I swear.”

Jeremiah got up. “If you folks will excuse me, I need to make a quick call.”

As he passed Mary and Granny, he nodded at them to follow him.

Granny nudged the other ghost when Mary hesitated. “Go on with you. Jeremiah needs to get to the bottom of all this and can’t do it here.”

When he got in the hallway, Jeremiah asked a nurse if there was someplace he could make a confidential call. She gave him directions to a very small room near the elevator outfitted with a tiny table and a few chairs.

“Why do we have to talk here?” Mary asked after he closed the door and took a seat.

“Because,” Granny said, “he needs to ask you questions and couldn’t do it in front of the others. Sheesh. You do know you’re dead, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, you old bag,” Mary snapped. Granny looked ready to slap her.

“Okay, ladies,” Jeremiah said to the ghosts. “Calm down. Fighting won’t accomplish anything.”

He didn’t bother with his phone since they were alone, but he kept it ready in case anyone poked their head into the room or looked through the narrow window in the door.

“Mary,” he began, “do you know why Greta was pretending to be your daughter?”

“Sure. To get the drugs.”

“But I thought she supplied the drugs to you.”

“She supplied them to Mona,” Mary said. “I stole them from Mona.”

“That was a crazy thing to do,” Granny said to her. “No wonder you were whacked.”

“I am crazy,” she said looking at Granny and tapping the side of her head with an index finger. “Crazy as a fox. I took a lot of it, as life insurance and leverage.”

“Tell me about it,” Jeremiah said. “It will help Lizzie.”

Mary paced the tiny enclosure with its pale green walls, then finally said, “I didn’t understand why I couldn’t stay in the apartment with the other girls and Lizzie, but Ace and Mona said I couldn’t. They stuck me in that filthy laundromat with no running water. A place not even the rats wanted to live and put me to work delivering their drugs.”

“Lizzie said the runners were paid well,” Jeremiah said.

“Some made a mint, but not me.” She continued pacing back and forth like a wild animal penned for the first time. “But not me,” she repeated. “The only customers I got were those they could send to that filthy alley for pickup. The nickel-and-dime shit. The other runners got the big shots from the high-rise office buildings. The ones who bought big. We were paid on delivery and the size of the sale. I got cut out of all the good scores and left to rot in that laundromat.” She stopped pacing and grinned at Jeremiah. She had so many teeth missing, she looked like a Halloween ghoul.

“One day I went to the diner hoping to score some food. Sometimes Miguel, the graveyard-shift cook, would give me something. If he was alone, he’d let me come in. If he wasn’t, I had to wait in the alley.” She pounded a fist into her other hand. “Always the alley for me. Even with my johns.”

“Keep it going, Mary. Remember, this is for Lizzie.” Jeremiah knew Lizzie was in the clear, but he sensed Lizzie’s welfare would give Mary a motive.

“That morning I told Miguel that I needed to use the ladies room. He was alone, so he let me in. I used the bathroom and washed up a bit. It was glorious to feel hot running water, let me tell you. He fed me a hamburger and gave me some fruit. On the way out I walked past the office and saw the delivery from Milestone Farm. It was still all boxed up in Mona’s office, not in the kitchen where it belonged. I asked Miguel about it and he said Mona gave strict instructions that only she could unpack it and she’d been out when it had arrived the day before. Well, I put two and two together. I told Miguel I’d show myself out and since he was busy getting stuff ready for the morning shift, he went back to the kitchen.” She flashed her raggedy grin. “The cocaine was under a small flat of tomatoes. I took it and ran.”

“How did they know it was you who took it?” Granny asked. She was near the door, staying out of the way of the pacing ghost.

“They first accused Miguel of stealing it. Of course, he was innocent and confessed he’d let me use the bathroom.” She paused and her mouth turned downward. “I haven’t seen Miguel since.” As quickly as her mood changed from pleased to sad, it ricocheted to unconcerned and the ghost shrugged. “Oh well.” And she was back to her ghoulish grin. Granny and Jeremiah exchanged glances.

“I don’t understand why they didn’t kill you and take the drugs back?” Granny asked.

“Because she hid them, didn’t you, Mary?” Jeremiah said to the ghost.

Mary pointed at Jeremiah. “This guy knows the score, old woman.” Granny let out a low growl and for a minute Jeremiah thought one ghost was going to bite the other.

Jeremiah continued, piecing the puzzle together, “Greta had to have her own supplier and if a lot of drugs went missing she couldn’t pay him or couldn’t recoup her expenses.”

“I’m not as burned out as people thought,” Mary told them. “I’m sick and my body’s wasted, but I still have a few flashes of brilliance.”

“That so-called brilliance got you killed,” quipped Granny.

Before the two ghosts could tangle up again, Jeremiah said, “I still don’t understand why Greta posed as your daughter.”

Mary turned to him. “Because she thought I was a total burnout. She knew I had a daughter somewhere and that she’d grown up to be a lady.”

From behind Mary’s back, Granny looked at Jeremiah, pointed a finger at her own head, and turned it in circles, giving him the universal sign for nuts.

“She also knew I hadn’t seen Cheryl for years,” Mary continued, “so she tried to pass herself off as Cheryl to find out where the drugs were. Pretending to be Cheryl, she kept promising me that as soon as I gave Mona what I owed her, she’d take me to her house and I’d live there for the rest of my life.” She paused and looked from Jeremiah to Granny and back to Jeremiah, again pleased with herself. “I played along and told everyone I was going to live with my daughter. Until the last time that fake Cheryl and I met.”

“Was that the time Lizzie was with you and Greta sent her away to speak with you alone?” asked Jeremiah.

“Yes, that was the last time I saw Lizzie while I was alive. Greta and Mona came to realize that I was playing them as much as they were playing me, and Greta put it all out there. She offered me a lot of money to hand over the drugs and disappear. She said I could continue pretending to everyone I was leaving with my daughter.”

“So you gave them the drugs and they murdered you anyway,” Granny said, putting together the obvious scenario.

Mary thought about the outcome of her plan. “Yeah,” she said with confusion. “I guess I didn’t think that through. Greta and one of the other runners came with me back to the laundry place.”

As soon as Jeremiah heard about a third person, his ears pricked up like a German shepherd’s.

“I had the drugs stashed up under some of the dryers in their motors behind the front panels. I gave them to them. The runner shot me as soon as Greta gave her the sign.”

“Who was this other runner?” Jeremiah asked.

“I don’t know her name, but I’d seen her around.”

“Describe her,” ordered Granny.

Mary bobbled her head as she tried to remember as she came in and out mentally. “About Greta’s size.” She paused. “Kind of a bit butchy, you know. Very short hair. Wore a man’s jacket. One of those army jackets.”

“Are you sure?” Jeremiah asked, his heart sinking at the description, yet knowing Mary was probably right on the money. Beth’s new part-time job had been working for Greta and Mona as a runner with hopes of turning it into more.

“Pretty sure,” Mary said as she continued her pacing. “Like I said, I knew she was a runner. She worked daytime. At least I never saw her around at night.”

“And she was the one who actually shot you?” he asked.

Mary nodded.

Jeremiah stood up. “Mary, thank you, you’ve been a big help. Now will you do something else for me?”

“What’s in it for me?” the ugly ghost asked with attitude.

“Eternal peace,” Granny snapped.

“Granny’s right,” added Jeremiah in a softer voice than he’d been using with her. “We’re done here. You’re done here. Go with Granny, she’ll escort you to the other side where maybe you’ll find the peace you never had on earth.”

Mary looked at Granny and Jeremiah, then nodded to Granny. “Guess I am ready for some real peace. Let’s go.”

As soon as the ghosts had disappeared, Jeremiah returned to Lizzie’s room. “Sorry, but I have to go,” he told them. He looked at the scared look on Lizzie’s face. “Lizzie, you’ll be fine with Detectives Wilcox and Ornelas, and I’ll come back to visit you. Okay?”

With a scared look on her face, Lizzie bravely nodded.

It didn’t take long for Jeremiah to reach Skid Row from the hospital. There was no guarantee that Beth Jenkins would be hanging out where he’d last seen her, but like most people, the people on Skid Row were creatures of habit, and with Mona tied up, he knew she wouldn’t be busy as a drug runner today.

He found Beth on San Pedro almost in the same place, hanging out with one of the other women she’d been with the day before. There was no sign of Carmen, then he remembered that Carmen had a job.

“Hey, ladies,” he called as he got out of his SUV and approached them.

“Jeremiah,” Beth said, giving him a nod. She wasn’t wearing her field jacket, but a shorter black jacket of thinner material. The other woman acknowledged him but remained silent. In her hands was a lit joint. As before, there was no attempt to hide it.

“Have you seen Carmen?” he asked, knowing full well they hadn’t today.

“She’s working,” Beth told him. She seemed fidgety. “She works in some sweatshop down on Central.” The woman handed her the joint and she took a hit.

“Could you pass along a message to her for me?” he asked.

Both women nodded. “Sure,” Beth said. “What is it?”

“I know she’s friends with Bucket. Let her know he’s in the hospital. He’s not doing well.”

“I heard that pathetic dog of his died,” the other woman said.

“Yes, and Bucket’s not too far behind Lola. I just wanted Carmen to know, that’s all.”

“Sorry to hear about Bucket,” Beth said, the sentiment seeming genuine. “He was a crazy old coot, but usually pretty nice to people, unlike most down here.”

Jeremiah thanked them and started to leave, then turned around. “Beth, what happened to your jacket? Don’t you usually wear a field jacket?”

“It was stolen last night,” she said. “This is all I got now.” She pulled on the front of the thin jacket she was wearing.

“Get yourself over to the Angels office,” Jeremiah told her as he continued to his truck. “I’m sure Red can hook you up with another, if you want one. That jacket doesn’t look like it will keep you very warm.”

She nodded. “I might do that. Thanks.”

When he was back in his truck, he drove several blocks until he was out of sight, then pulled over and called Audra Wilcox. “Hey,” he said when she answered. “Have you gotten any ID yet on those clothes from the shooter?”

Audra snorted. “You’re kidding, right? Have you forgotten how long it takes to get stuff like fingerprints and DNA run? Or are you watching too many CSI reruns now that you’re retired?”

He chuckled back. “Sorry, I should have known better. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about that jacket and I think I recognize it.”

“Who do you think it belongs to?”

“A vet named Beth Jenkins. She’s about Greta’s size with very short brown hair. She hangs out on San Pedro. I just saw her and she claims it was stolen yesterday.”

“Maybe she was your shooter from last night and not Greta Miles,” suggested Audra.

Jeremiah knew from Granny’s information that wasn’t the case, but said, “Might be worth checking out.” Jeremiah had to feed the information to Audra carefully, making it sound logical how he came to reach his conclusions. “She told me yesterday she has a new part-time job. Maybe she’s one of Greta’s drug runners and loaned the jacket to Greta.”

“Thanks for the lead, Jeremiah.”

“Go find Beth now,” he told her, “before she gets worried and rabbits. She seemed a bit antsy to me.”

“Got ya. We’re leaving the hospital now.”

He ended the call and pulled his vehicle back into traffic, turning it toward the Angels office. It was just past noon and he knew an attractive woman he wanted to take to lunch to make up for missing their date the night before. The police could handle everything else from here on out.

Chapter 17

The sun shone brightly as a handful of clergy and a few dozen people gathered to pay their respects at the Evergreen Cemetery in the Boyle Heights area of Los Angeles. A large grave, already covered in soil and a few flowers, including some bright red holiday poinsettias, was the centerpiece of the gathering as the clergy took turns saying prayers for the dead.

Jeremiah stood off to the back under a large tree with Rose, her arm threaded through his. With them were Jeff Sloan and Elizabeth Thompson. He’d invited Sloan and Lizzie out with them today, but hadn’t told them where they were going.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked them in a hushed voice.

He waited while both Sloan and Lizzie thought about it, then shook their heads. He would have been surprised if they did. Few in Los Angeles County knew about this service.

“This is the annual LA County burial for unclaimed bodies,” he told them. “Happens every year around this time, and every year I come and pay my respects. This year they are burying the cremated remains of over fifteen hundred people, that includes adults and children.”

Both Sloan and Lizzie remained silent, then Lizzie asked, “What does unclaimed dead mean? That no one wants them?” She was dressed modestly today in jeans and a sweater, with minimal makeup and her wild red hair tamed into a ponytail. She still looked ragged and tired, but going through detox rode a body hard. With the help of Audra Wilcox, Jeremiah had gotten special permission from the rehab center for her to attend the funeral today.

“For the most part,” Jeremiah explained. “Sometimes families cannot afford to pay for burial services so they leave their loved ones for the county to take care of the remains, but most of these poor folks had no one who knew or cared that they had passed away. No one stepped forward to identify them or to give them their own proper burial. Most were homeless. So every year the county buries their cremated remains in a mass grave with a multi-denominational service.”

“In the old days,” Rose added, “places like this where the poor were buried were called Potter’s Field.”

Lizzie gave Sloan a quick look, then both looked down at the grass beneath their feet.

Jeremiah started walking around the area near the tree and motioned for them to follow. He pointed down at several flat stone markers placed in the ground at even intervals, each with a different year engraved on them. “Each of these represents the unclaimed dead buried in that particular year.” He indicated the service still going on just yards from them. “That marker will read 2015.”

“Why did you bring us here?” Lizzie asked with a shiver.

Sloan was the first with the answer, “He’s trying to scare us straight, or at least clean.” He looked over at Jeremiah, letting his eyes linger on the older man’s face. “Right?”

Jeremiah shrugged. “The question is, do either of you want to end up here with no one caring if you lived or died? If you don’t care about that, just continue on the paths you were heading down.”

“Sloan,” Rose offered, “you are making great progress, but we all know how easily addictions can be triggered. Stay strong. We’re all here for you.” She reached out and placed a hand on his arm.

“You did a great job of helping me, son,” Jeremiah told him. “But I wanted you to see where you might end up if you don’t stay the course.”

Sloan wiped away a stray tear with the back of his hand. “Kind of like the Ghost of Christmas Future, huh?”

Rose and Jeremiah exchanged brief smiles, knowing they had reached him.

“You know, my family is in the Valley,” he told them. “I haven’t seen them in a long time. The last time I did, my father threw me out because of my drinking. We were always fighting after I got home from the service.”

“Why don’t you give them a call?” suggested Rose. “I’ll bet they will be very happy to see the progress you’ve made.”

“Would it be okay with Red if I saw them for Christmas?” he asked with hope. “Providing they want to see me. I’ve already said I’d go to his house for Christmas dinner.”

“I know Red would be very happy if you went to see your family,” Rose assured him. Sloan beamed at the idea. He hugged Rose and shook Jeremiah’s hand.

“And if you want,” Jeremiah said, “I’ll even spring for some new clothes for your visit.”

Sloan pulled Jeremiah into an embrace. “I’ll pay you back, man. Every penny.”

When the two men parted, Jeremiah told him, “Pay me back by staying clean so you can land a steady job and build a new life. That’s payment enough for me. That and remember to pay it forward.”

Rose tapped Jeremiah on the arm and pointed over toward the tree. Lizzie was leaning against it, her back to them. From the shaking of her shoulders, they could tell she was sobbing. Jeremiah went to her.

“What’s the matter, girl?” he asked her.

“Mary’s going to end up there, in one of those holes. And so am I.”

“There’s no need for that if you take care of yourself. You’ve already entered a program. Stay clean and Rose and her friends will help you find a job or some sort of job program to train you for something. Even Detective Wilcox and I will help.”

The encouraging words from Jeremiah helped stem Lizzie’s tears. “Even if I do stay clean, my family will never accept me back. Not after the horrible things I’ve been and done.”

“Doesn’t your father come around to see you?” he asked.

She nodded, her face streaked with tears. “But my mother called me a whore and said she never wanted to see me again.” The tears started falling harder again. “She said my son was better off without me.”

Jeremiah took her into his arms and held her tight. “People change, Lizzie. And people forgive. Forgiveness won’t erase the pain, but it can help heal it.” He motioned to some people standing on the outskirts of the grass up by the drive. At Jeremiah’s direction a middle-aged couple and a small boy with red hair started walking slowly toward them.

“Look who’s here to see you, Lizzie,” Jeremiah said in a soft voice as he turned her around.

At the sight of her parents and son, Lizzie covered her face and started crying harder. The woman encouraged the little boy to go to Lizzie. Shy at first, he held back, but with more encouragement, Ryan ran to Lizzie and wrapped his arms around his mother’s legs. She bent down and took him into her arms so tightly he squeaked in protest. When her parents reached them, Lizzie gave her father a long hug, then turned to her mother. “I’m so sorry, Mommy.”

Mrs. Thompson was crying but held back. “I’m sorry, too, Lizzie. You will always be my little girl.”

“I want to come home,” Lizzie said, looking to her mother and father and speaking in a barely audible voice. “Please let me.”

Mrs. Thompson gave her husband a long look, then looked down at her happy grandson. Finally, she settled her wet eyes on her daughter. “You coming home would be the best Christmas gift ever, for all of us.”

Lizzie glanced back at Jeremiah, then turned back to her parents, “I don’t think I’ll be out of rehab in time for Christmas.”

“Then we’ll celebrate Christmas when you do come home.” Mrs. Thompson held out her arms and Lizzie fell into them.

Jeremiah walked away and rejoined Rose. The service was ending and people were starting to leave. Jeremiah put an arm around Rose and pulled her close. Sloan was walking around the grounds looking at the headstones.

“This is exhausting,” he told her. “Much more exhausting than chasing bad guys.”

“Yes, it is, Jeremiah,” she told him, titling her lovely lined face up to him. “But it’s what we do. We recover shattered lives and piece them back together like a hospital for broken toys. One life at a time, so that hole over yonder doesn’t need to get any bigger.”

“Speaking of which,” he said, “when Bucket dies, I’ve decided I’m going to take care of his burial. Nothing fancy, but I don’t want him to end up here.”

Rose reached up and patted Jeremiah’s face. “You’re a good man, Jeremiah Jones.”

“Nah,” he said looking at her. “I’m just a man who knows he blessed.” He took her hand and kissed it. “I’m thinking about getting a Christmas tree this coming weekend. About time I had one again. You want to help?”

“Are you sure you’re ready for that, Jeremiah?” she asked, looking into his eyes.

“No, I’m not sure. But I do know I’m sure I want to give it a try again.”

Keep reading for a special preview of the next Granny Apples mystery

GHOSTS OF MISTY HOLLOW

Coming in 2016

Gino Costello, the famous crime writer, came down the front steps of the farmhouse, taking two at a time, to greet his guests.

“Oh, oh,” said Emma to Phil, who was behind the wheel of the rental car. “He’s not alone.”

“That’s his wife on the porch, isn’t it?” Phil asked as he brought the car to a stop next to a black SUV parked in front of a large garage just off a circular drive. On the other side of the SUV was a white compact sedan.

“I think so, but I’m not talking about her.”

“Oh no,” echoed Phil with a groan as soon as he understood what she meant. “Can’t we even get settled before ghosts start pestering you?”

“They’re not pestering me, Phil,” Emma said, still looking toward the large porch that ran across the front and down both sides of the two-story white farmhouse. “But they’re definitely here.” She started unbuckling her seat belt.

“Friendly or disturbed?” Phil asked.

“Not sure yet,” she answered as she continued to check out the hazy apparitions. “So far I count three possible outlines of ghosts. One is coming toward us with Gino and is more distinct. He’s male and fairly young. It’s almost as if they were waiting for us along with our host.”

Gino came to a stop next to the car. The big burly man was clearly excited about their arrival. The spirit floated beside him, and gave Emma a hesitant wave.

“The spirit with Gino just waved at me,” Emma said to Phil. “Guess that means friendly.”

Phil shook his head. “Let’s hope he stays that way.” He couldn’t see the ghosts, but knew their presence meant that Emma would probably get little rest during this visit. “Wait till Granny gets here,” he said to Emma. “It will be a real ghost convention, like an early Halloween.”

Emma was barely out of the car when Gino engulfed her in a big bear hug. His soft flannel shirt smelled of cigars and woodsmoke. “It is so good to finally meet you guys,” he said. “I feel like we’re long-lost family.” Although they’d never met, Emma had been in contact with Gino several times over the past year. Their daughters, Kelly and Tanisha, who both resided in Boston, had become very close friends. Gino had even helped Emma out with a recent matter she’d been investigating.

“It certainly feels that way, Gino,” Emma said with a broad smile while keeping an eye on the ghost, wondering if the spirit was going to embrace her, too. It didn’t, but it did step forward. As the ghost’s facial features came into focus, she saw she was right, the ghost was a young man, maybe in his twenties. He was studying her, assessing her. He waved again, barely moving his hand. “Can you see me, ma’am?” he asked.

Without being too obvious, she turned her head toward the ghost, who was just behind Gino’s left shoulder, and looked it straight in the eye, giving it a small dip of her chin to let it know she could see him.

In response, the spirit nodded back quickly. “Can you also hear me?” The spirit seemed greatly relieved when Emma gave him another nod. “Welcome to Misty Hollow,” he said with a slight bow, then scampered up the porch to the hazy outlines of the other spirits to give his report: a full-blown medium was in the house.

Phil came around the car. Gino held out his right hand to him. “I understand,” Gino said, pumping Phil’s hand with gusto, “that congratulations are in order. Tanisha tells me you two got engaged this summer.”

“Yep,” Phil answered, putting an arm around Emma’s shoulders, “Emma’s finally agreed to make an honest man out of me.”

“Speaking of which,” Gino said, “let me introduce you to my better half.” He indicated a woman on the porch who had made no move to greet them.

Gino’s wife was standing to the right side of the large black lacquered front door. The small gathering of ghosts were huddled to the left of it. She didn’t know the spirits were there and they seemed disinterested in her. As the three of them walked up the steps, Emma glanced over at the ghosts. She could still only make out the young man. The others appeared to be clusters of dust shimmering in the fading sunlight, but Emma knew better.

“This is Vanessa, my wife,” Gino said, introducing them when they were on the porch. “Honey,” he said to his wife, “Emma Whitecastle and Phil Bowers. Emma is Kelly’s mother.”

“I know who she is,” Vanessa said, bored impatience plastered on her perfectly made-up face. “You’re Grant Whitecastle’s ex.”

Emma cringed but tried not to show it. She really disliked being considered an appendage of her ex-husband, especially now that they had been divorced for several years. Grant Whitecastle was a flamboyant TV daytime talk show host known for his temper, nastiness, and disrespect for others. Emma had her own TV show. It explored paranormal topics in a serious and informative fashion and, even though it was on cable and only aired once a week—unlike Grant’s show which was broadcast daily on a major network channel—Emma had built her own solid following and reputation away from him. She just preferred to stay out of the limelight and the tabloids, while Grant seemed to encourage them.

Emma did a quick study of Vanessa Costello and realized the woman had intended to make her uncomfortable. She’d been around many women like Vanessa when she was married to Grant. They were rich and spoiled and any woman who showed any independence or individuality was game for sport. Vanessa had purposely made the comment to let Emma know she viewed her as nothing but the ex-wife of a famous man—a dime-a-dozen commodity. Emma also knew how to stand her ground, something she’d learned in her long years as a Hollywood wife. She smiled and looked Vanessa Costello in the eye, conveying that she was not going to be easy prey. With cool politeness, she held out her right hand toward the woman. “Do you know Grant?”

Vanessa flipped her long honey-blond highlighted hair over her shoulder before taking Emma’s hand and giving it a dry, feathery single pump. On her wrist hung several thick gold bracelets and a very expensive watch. Her thin frame was covered with black leggings and a long cashmere cowl neck sweater in pale yellow. Emma guessed her to be in her early forties.

“As a matter of fact,” Vanessa said, “I met him once years ago at a friend’s party in LA. Interesting man, to say the least, and very much like his media personality. I can see that Kelly takes more after you.”

From her tone, Emma couldn’t tell if Vanessa thought that a good thing or not and decided in Vanessa’s world it was not. Kelly had never said much about Tanisha’s step-mother, except to say that she’d met her a couple of times and not for long, but she knew that Kelly liked Gino quite a bit. Tanisha had never said anything to Emma about Vanessa, except that she existed. Emma was beginning to see why both girls had been so closed-mouthed on the subject and why Tanisha looked to Emma as a surrogate mother. Tanisha’s real mother, a college professor, had died in a tragic car accident when she was only thirteen. Her parents had never married. The exclusion of Vanessa from the girls’ conversation had made Emma curious about the woman and put her on alert before she’d arrived at the farmhouse. Now she clearly saw why the girls didn’t talk about her, at least to Emma.

Vanessa turned to Phil. “You’re certainly a departure from Grant Whitecastle.” She took Phil’s offered hand, giving it the same limp shake.

Without a bit of hesitation, Phil grinned directly at the woman. “Everyone says Emma traded up. After meeting the man, I tend to agree.”

Off to the side, Gino stifled a laugh while Vanessa considered Phil and Emma for a few awkward seconds.

“This is a great old house,” Phil said, breaking the short silence. “And the location is beautiful.”

“Yes,” responded Gino, “it is. The house was built in the late 1800’s, but it has been totally modernized. Only the outside has been preserved as it was originally. I was told that about ten or twelve years ago the previous owner turned it into a B&B, expanding bedrooms and adding en suite baths in some of the rooms. There’s a photo album in the living room showing the before and after photos. The place is called Misty Hollow.”

“Was that the B&B’s name?” asked Emma, remembering the greeting of the ghost.

“The B&B was called that too, but Misty Hollow is actually the name of the farm itself,” Gino explained. “Out by the driveway entry there’s a plaque bolted to a large rock with the name on it. The current owner closed down the B&B when he bought it and turned it into a vacation rental.” He walked to the right side of the porch where it turned and continued along the other side and pointed at something. “The porch encircles the entire house and there’s a small lake behind the house with a private beach and dock.”

Phil and Emma followed him and could easily see a lovely lake beyond a short span of newly mown lawn. The trees on the property were already partially ablaze with their fall finery of red, orange, and gold leaves. They were mixed with evergreens and birch. The view was as pretty and as inviting as any New England postcard.

“The place is usually booked solid through October,” Gino continued. “I was lucky to get it, but I booked early. As you can see, the leaves are already changing. By the time you leave, most of them will be totally done. We’re here at the perfect time for checking out fall foliage.” He paused to drink in the scenery. “The owner and his family spend a lot of time over the holidays here, as well as a couple of weeks during the summer. I heard about it through a friend.”

“How long are you here for?” Emma asked, her face still turned to the view as she appreciated the natural beauty.

“Five or six weeks, depending on how much time I feel I need,” Gino answered. “We arrived about ten days ago. We’re their last guests for the year so the owner was flexible with our departure date.” He looked around and took a deep breath of the clean September air, clearly content with his surroundings. “I like it here. I think I’d like to stay the full six weeks through the end of October.” He paused, then added, “I actually wouldn’t mind staying here through Thanksgiving. There’s such a quiet peace to the place.”

Behind them, Vanessa groaned. When Gino glanced at her, they exchanged dirty looks. “My wife,” Gino said, returning his attention to his guests, “does not share my enthusiasm for rural Massachusetts. Actually, for rural anything. No place to spend money, I guess.”

“When you told Emma you were renting a farmhouse,” Phil said, trying to break the tension, “I expected a real farmhouse.”

“That’s what the owner calls it and this was once a farm,” Gino explained, “but over the decades parcels of land have been sold off and new homes built on them. There is another structure on the property even older than this one. The owner told me that it was the original farmhouse until this one was built after the owner began to prosper and his family expanded.”

“We need to speak, Emma,” said the ghost who’d welcomed them. He’d returned to stand next to her during the introductions but had remained quiet until now. Emma shot him a short glance and nod, hoping it conveyed later.

Vanessa approached them, “If Gino had his way, we’d be staying in that ramshackle place instead of here, which is primitive enough.”

Even without going inside, Emma could tell that the house and its furnishings were anything but primitive. “I take it you prefer the city,” she said to Vanessa with a forced smile.

“Don’t most civilized people?” Vanessa answered, her words spoken through tight lips with an emphasis on each word. “There’s absolutely nothing to do here.”

“Phil and I both enjoy the country,” Emma said. “He was raised on and still owns a small ranch in Julian, California, a former gold-rush town in the mountains north of San Diego. I was raised in Pasadena on the edge of Los Angeles, but also own a home in Julian.”

Phil circled Emma’s waist with an arm. “Emma and I divide our time between the city and the country. We get the best of both worlds.”

“Tanisha raved about your place in Julian after her visit,” Gino said. “I’m sorry we couldn’t take you up on the invitation to come with her.”

“Another time,” Emma said pleasantly, though after meeting Vanessa Costello, she wasn’t sure she wanted to extend the invitation again. “Maybe we can get Jeremiah to come down, too.”

“You know Jeremiah Jones?” Vanessa asked in a mix of surprise and distaste.

“Yes,” answered Emma. “Gino was nice enough to put us in touch with him when we needed some help with something.”

“I hear you’ve all become fast friends,” Gino said, clearly pleased.

“We love Jeremiah,” replied Emma, giving Gino a genuine smile. “In fact, he’s agreed to join us in Julian for Thanksgiving.”

Phil looked at Vanessa, then at Gino. “You folks live full-time in Chicago, don’t you?”

“Mostly,” answered Gino. “We also have an apartment in Paris, and we travel a great deal. We’re practically nomads.” He chuckled. “We spent a couple of weeks in Italy before coming here.”

“Raphael invited us to his villa,” Vanessa said, still looking bored. “That would be Raphael Brindisi.”

Phil and Emma stole a glance at each other, then Phil said, “Yes, the Italian novelist. I’m well acquainted with his work.”

“Phil is a voracious reader,” Emma said proudly. “In fact, Gino, he’s a huge fan of your work.”

“More like a squealing fan-boy,” quipped a ghost, but the sassy remark didn’t come from the young spirit standing patiently with them. Emma glanced over to see Granny Apples, the ghost of her great-great-great grandmother, standing off to the side. She shot Granny a quick warning to behave.

“What?” the ornery ghost said. “It’s not like anyone can hear me but you and Slim here.” She indicated the young ghost who was now staring at Granny with a slack jaw. “Close your mouth, son, before flies get in there,” Granny said to the other spirit. He snapped his mouth shut.

“So Kelly has told me.” Gino beamed, continuing the conversation without any clue about the one he couldn’t hear. “Speaking of which, I have something for you, Phil. It’s inside, but why don’t we get you two settled first.”

Just then a man came out of the house. He was tall and angular and dressed in jeans and a hunter green V-neck sweater over a white T-shirt. In his hand, was a cell phone. “Gino, Frank’s on the phone.”

Gino turned to his guests. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to take that. It’s my agent.” He turned back to the man. “Help these folks with their luggage, Leroy, then let’s all meet in the library. I believe it’s almost cocktail time.”

Taking the phone with him, Gino entered the house through a door off the side porch. All eyes followed him, including those of the friendly young ghost who was politely keeping his distance and keeping his mouth shut. The spirit caught Emma’s eye. “We’ll speak later,” he said and disappeared.

Emma glanced at Granny and with a slight tilt of her head indicated for her to follow the spirit. It was always a crap shoot with Granny. She might or might not get the subtle request, and even if she did, Granny might or might not agree to do it. Emma was pleased when Granny saluted her and said, “On it, Chief.”

Leroy turned to Emma and Phil, holding out a courteous hand. “I’m Leroy Larkin, Gino’s assistant,” he told them. They all shook hands politely. He turned to Vanessa. “Which guestroom would you like them in, Mrs. Costello?”

Vanessa had turned back to stare at the lake, her arms hugged tightly across her chest. At Leroy’s question, she turned her head slowly toward them but didn’t really focus. “I think Marta prepared the big blue room, but put them anywhere you like.” Without another word, she headed across the porch and down the far steps toward the lake.

After she left, another wave of awkwardness fell over the now much smaller group. Leroy plastered a smile on his face and finally said in a forced perky voice, “You’ll love the blue room. It’s one of my favorites.”

The blue room was indeed blue. Beneath a bright white painted chair rail the walls were wood paneled and painted the same crisp white. Above the rail, wallpaper with small blue medallions on a powder blue background peppered with blue tear drops and flecks of gold covered the walls. In addition to the bed, there was a good size sitting area with a love seat, wing chair and small coffee table positioned by French doors. The furniture was upholstered in period fabric to match the room.

Leroy set Emma’s bag down on the quilt covered four-poster bed. “This is the second largest bedroom in the house,” he explained. “The Costellos are in the largest suite on the other side of the main staircase. There are also three other bedrooms on this floor between this suite and the other. One is another suite, but smaller, with a private bath, and the other two are small bedrooms and share a bath. They are all empty for now.”

“For now?” Emma asked.

Leroy nodded. “At least until Tanisha and Kelly come. I was told they will be here next weekend. They wanted to catch you before you went back to California.”

Emma beamed with excitement. “I’m so glad the girls are coming,” she said to Phil. “I was worried Kelly wouldn’t be able to make it with school just starting.”

Phil smiled, pleased with her delight. He put his bag on the bed next to hers. He turned to Leroy, “Where’s your room? Are there more bedrooms downstairs?”

“There is one roomy bedroom and bath off the kitchen,” Leroy reported. “The people who converted the house into a B&B years ago turned that room into a handicapped accessible room. Smart move on their part. There’s also a nice guest house in the back facing the lake. That’s where I’m bunking.” He let out a low snort. “Out of the fray.” Before they could make any comment, Leroy continued, “As soon as you like, come on down to the library,” he told them. “It’s the second room to the right of the front door, next to the living room. We’re very casual around here. So don’t feel the need to change.”

“I should go down and help Vanessa in the kitchen,” Emma said to Phil.

Leroy let out another half snort, snagging it by the tail before it was fully birthed. “No need,” he told Emma with a tight smile. “Vanessa flew Marta in for our time here. That’s their cook and housekeeper in Chicago. Marta is staying in the room by the kitchen.” Without another word, he left, closing the painted white door behind them.

Phil unzipped his bag. “Didn’t you know Kelly was coming?”

“Last I heard it was iffy,” Emma said. She slipped out of her leather jacket and started unpacking her own bag. “She said she had so much to catch up on after her trip with Quinn this summer and with her final year starting.” Emma plopped down on the wing chair. “I can’t believe my baby is about to graduate from college, Phil.”

“Well, school’s not out yet,” he said with a laugh. “And she’ll be going to grad school next year, won’t she?”

“She’s not said a word about it in a long time.” Emma blew out a gust of frustrated air. “Every time I ask her about it, she evades the question or says it’s under control. She won’t even tell me if she’s applied anywhere. I called her father and he said he’s even more in the dark than I am. Grant did say that he offered Kelly a job with his production company if she decides she wants to get into show business.”

Phil was hanging a shirt in the closet and stopped. “I don’t recall Kelly ever mentioning the entertainment field.”

“She hasn’t, except to say she’d rather scrub toilets in a prison first.” Emma and Phil exchanged laughs.

“Now that sounds like our girl,” Phil said and finished hanging his shirt.

Emma smiled, pleased at how close Phil and Kelly had become. It had happened naturally over time, with Kelly turning to Phil for fatherly advice and comfort when her own father couldn’t put his narcissism aside. She stood back up and pulled clothes from her bag and placed them in the antique dresser, on top of which sat a very modern television. “I talked to her a couple of days ago,” she said to Phil. “I told her if she didn’t make it here this week, then we’d shoot up there for a short visit before we left.”

“I can’t wait to hear about her adventures with Quinn and his crew,” Phil said.

Dr. Quinn Keenan was a dashing archeologist who’d once been a guest on Emma’s show and now was a good friend. He traveled the world and had a strong interest in paranormal activities in all cultures, especially ancient ones.

“Me either,” said Emma with excitement. “She said she had a lot to tell me.”

Phil slipped into the adjoining bathroom to put away his shaving kit. When he popped back out, he said, “Maybe I should take one of the other bedrooms one night so you two can stay in here all night gabbing.”

Emma went to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Would you do that for me?”

He kissed her and patted her bottom gently. “As long as it’s only for one night.”

“Deal,” she said, kissing and patting him back. Emma pulled away. “In spite of what Leroy said, I’m going to change my top, brush my teeth, and freshen my makeup. I feel grimy from flying all day.”

“Not a bad idea. I feel road weary, too.” Phil pulled one of his shirts back out of the closet. “Too bad we aren’t in a hotel.” He pulled the jersey he was wearing over his head, removing it. “Then we could order room service and not leave the room until morning.”

“I feel the exact same way.” Emma took her toiletries into the bathroom. She emerged a minute later holding a toothbrush and toothpaste. “Especially since there seems to be so much tension between the Costellos.” She applied some toothpaste to the brush. “Do you think Vanessa is angry because we’re here?” She stuck the brush into her mouth and started brushing her teeth.

Phil walked past her and grabbed his own toothbrush out of his kit. He rinsed it under the faucet, then held it out to her. “No,” he said as Emma applied some toothpaste to it. “I’m thinking she’s mad because she’s here instead of in Italy.” He chuckled and stuck the brush into his mouth. Together they brushed their teeth, spit, and rinsed using heavy tumblers set on a small counter above the sink. After, Phil washed his face while Emma touched up her makeup.

While he was drying off, Phil said, “I don’t think Vanessa is the type who enjoys country vacations, especially six week ones that might turn longer, no matter how charming her surroundings.”

“I’m beginning to see why Tanisha hardly mentions her.”

Emma went back into the bedroom and replaced the heavy sweater she was wearing with another, lighter one in pale yellow. Remembering Vanessa was wearing a similar sweater, she switched it out for one in sage green with a V-neck that showed the top of her lacy camisole. “This place is charming, isn’t it?” she asked as she checked her attire in the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door.

Heavy dark blue drapes framed the French doors that were covered with sheer white panels. Emma went to them and opened one, letting in chilly air. The doors led to a small balcony with two chairs and a view of the lake. In the growing darkness, she could see the dock at the end of the property line. The dock was lined with well-spaced lights. It extended into the inky lake like a jewel-encrusted finger. Across the dark water, lights from other properties twinkled like low hanging stars. “This is so lovely,” she said. “I can’t wait to see what it looks like in the morning.”

Phil came up behind her. “Very romantic.” He snuggled her neck with his lips. “Are you sure we can’t stay in here until morning?”

She closed the door and pushed him back playfully. “I’m sure.”

Emma went back into the bathroom and ran a brush through her short blond hair, then fluffed it back up with her fingers. “You know,” she said through the open door, “this might be a great place to rent for Kelly’s graduation next year. It’s not close to Boston, but it’s not so far that we can’t get to Harvard for the ceremony. We can put the whole family up here quite comfortably for a week of vacation. Maybe two weeks. I know my parents would love it. We’d even have room if my cousins come out or your sons, and for Tanisha if she wants to join us.”

Before Phil could say anything, a voice came out of the air, “That’s an outstanding idea, depending on the ghost situation.”

Emma turned to the ghost of Ish Reynolds, her great-great-great grandmother, and smiled. She turned to Phil. “Granny’s here.”

“So I figured,” he said. He pulled his clean shirt over his head then waved in the direction Emma indicated. “Hey, Granny.” The ghost waved back, even though she knew Phil couldn’t see her.

“Yeah,” the diminutive pioneer ghost said to Emma with a frown. “I felt their presence when I arrived. It was like wading through mud to get a fix on you. I followed Slim but the rest vaporized at the sight of me. Are they friendly, confused, or on the surly side?”

“I’m not sure yet, Granny.” Emma left the bathroom and sat back down on the chair. She removed her boots and slipped her feet into comfortable suede flats. “The one you call Slim seems to be acting as their spokesperson and indicated that we would speak later. He seems very polite. From what I could tell, he’s kind of young and dressed in farm clothes.”

Granny nodded in agreement. “That’s what I saw, too. Before he disappeared he told me they need to speak with you. That it’s important.”

Emma gave it some thought, then asked, “Do you know, Granny, if they knew ahead of time if I was coming, or if a medium specifically was coming? Or are they just greeting every new person hoping to make a connection?”

“That’s a good question,” the ghost answered, “but like I said, Slim told me nothing except that they needed to speak with you.”

“Granny, at some point tonight why don’t you try to make contact with him again or with the other spirits around here and see what’s up before I meet them formally.”

“You got it.” Granny disappeared.

Her shoes changed, Emma stood up. “Okay,” she said to Phil, “Granny doesn’t know any more than I do about the ghosts that were waiting when we arrived, but she’s going to try and find out anything she can before I have a meet and greet with them.”

“I hope that clambake can wait until tomorrow,” Phil said with concern. “You’re pretty pooped tonight.”

“I hope so, too,” Emma said with a weary smile. “And I’m thinking it’s going to take a lot of my remaining energy and patience to get through dinner with Vanessa.”

“Yep. Tonight should be a real picnic if she’s in the same mood as when we arrived,” Phil noted in agreement. He turned to Emma and held out his arm to her. “You ready to go downstairs, darling? There will be alcohol.”

Emma took his arm and straightened her shoulders. “Thank goodness for that.”

Sue Ann Jaffarian is the critically acclaimed author of three mystery series: the Ghost of Granny Apples Mysteries, the Odelia Grey Mysteries, and the Madison Rose Vampire Mysteries. In addition to being a writer, Sue Ann is a full-time paralegal for a Los Angeles law firm and a sought-after motivational speaker.

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