“Hello?” Abby tapped at his door. He opened it.
“I heard you rummaging around,” she said. “So I knew you were awake. I wanted to tell you that Grant and Sullivan are gone. The Dragonslayer’s empty except for the two of us.”
He didn’t reply right away.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Gus was onto something.”
“What?”
He hesitated. “Gus found a...um, finger. He found a finger at the bottom of the tunnel. He knew that someone who had some involvement with the murders had been in the tunnel. Except the police never released the fact that the ring finger of the left hand had been taken from each of the victims. So he probably didn’t know exactly what he’d found—which was why he wanted to talk to you.”
Abby lowered her head. “He died,” she said dully, “because I didn’t get here fast enough.”
“Abby,” he said, lifting her chin, “he died because it was his time. He died doing what was right, and that would’ve been important to Gus.”
She nodded and he released her. “You’re right, even though you didn’t know him.”
“I wish I had, but I know that much about him.”
He realized she was far too close. She smelled sweetly of soap and shampoo, and he was surprised that it was suddenly so difficult for him to separate a coworker from someone...
Someone he wanted.
“What should we do with the finger?”
He stepped awkwardly back as her words broke through his thoughts. “Give it to Kat,” he said. “She’ll tell us whether it’s new and showing some kind of decay or if it’s been in the tunnel for ages.”
“Unlikely—since this killer is taking fingers.”
“I agree. But we’ll give it to Kat,” he said.
“All right.”
He paused for a minute. “We’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
“And then we’ll give it to the cops, right?”
He nodded. “Okay, now show me the Dragonslayer,” he said.
She led him through the upstairs first, leaving the family apartment behind to show him Gus’s office, the manager’s office, the employee lounge, lockers and restroom. They went to the supply room and she showed him the stairs that went down to the dining room below.
Only the night-lights were on. When they went down the stairs, they were greeted by the image of Blue Anderson standing guard over the grate that led to the tunnel below. The robotic mannequin—handsomely crafted—was eerie in the half-light.
But it wasn’t the Blue he’d met the night he arrived.
“You’ve been in the bar and the dining rooms,” Abby told him. “Oh, and the kitchen is reached through the server entrance over there.” She paused and pointed to a doorway. “It’s always open. Gus thought diners had a right to see where their food was cooked. And there’s a little service window that opens to the bar.”
He gazed carefully around. “If someone knew the routine here—the hours of business, when people were where—it would be possible for that person to be upstairs, maybe, in the storeroom, and come down those stairs...and all the way to the tunnel.”
“But we keep the grating locked,” Abby said.
“It wasn’t locked when I got here.”
She knew he was right. “The lock on the grate is a combination lock Gus had for years.”
“And you really don’t know who—or just how many people—might have the combination.”
“That’s true,” she admitted. “New lock in the morning.”
“I think we’re okay for tonight,” he said. “But tomorrow I’ll go out and get a combination lock. How many people have keys to the tavern?”
“Grant, Macy, our morning chef and Sullivan. That’s as far as I know. I don’t think Gus would have given the keys to anyone else. When I was a child, we were almost broken into one night.” She hesitated. “That’s when I saw Blue for the first time. He woke my grandfather. I heard them and came out of bed and looked downstairs—my grandparents were outside with the police by then—and I saw Blue standing by the door. My grandfather suggested I not mention that I’d seen him to anyone else. I never did. Until now...”
“I never talked about seeing people, either,” Malachi told her. “I had—have—a few friends who suspect I see things that they don’t. They tend to think I’m a real psychic, regardless of what I say. Or they accept the work I’m able to do, know I don’t want to explain and let it go at that. Like David. As far as others are concerned, I avoid the topic. Too many people want stock tips and that’s something I truly can’t give,” he added dryly. “Look, I’m a really early riser. I’ll run out to buy a new lock, and I’ll make sure that Jackson and the group get in here to set up some cameras. That’s something we almost always do in this kind of investigation. It’s possible that the killer will realize the Dragonslayer has been identified and try something else. But it’s also possible that...”
He paused, looking at her and wondering if he should go on.
“Possible that?” she urged. She’d stiffened, and he felt she expected his answer, but dreaded hearing it.
“A victim might appear,” he said flatly.
“What?” she whispered.
He drew in a breath, hoping he wasn’t going to sound ghoulish. “It was important for me to touch the victims today. Sometimes, the dead actually talk on the autopsy table. Kat Sokolov can tell you more about that. I may be repeating what you might already know or suspect, but...we should think about it. From what most of us have discovered, ghosts don’t like to be with their mortal remains if they’re trapped on this plane for whatever reason. But if they do stay behind, they may appear where they feel they can find someone to help them achieve justice. If any of the victims did somehow come through here, they could be caught on camera.”
She stared at him, her eyes stricken.
“You okay? You don’t need to fear the dead.”
“It’s one thing to think about Blue hanging around the tavern—he’s my ancestor and he obviously stayed because he loves the family and loves the tavern. But...”
“Murder victims only stay because they need help,” he said.
Abby nodded. “And they just might be caught on camera.”
“Don’t worry. I sleep lightly and I’m just a few steps away.”
He was surprised when her smile was deep and real.
“Funny how things go, huh? You pissed me off when I first met you. That wasn’t very long ago, and tonight I’m really glad you’re here!”
“Let’s go up, shall we?”
“Yes, let’s go up,” she said.
She walked ahead of him, directly for the stairs. When they were both back in the apartment, she locked the door to the outer hallway. It was a good measure, even if they were alone in the restaurant. She walked down the hall to her room, beyond the door that led to Gus’s. She hesitated there. “Good night.”
He found himself hesitating, too. “Good night.”
She started to speak, but paused again. “I, uh, meant what I said. I truly am grateful that you’re here.”
“I’m truly grateful that you let me be here. Though I am curious now.”
“About?”
“Your home on Chippewa Square.”
“It’s pretty,” she told him. “You’ll see.”
“Well, good night.”
“Good night,” she said. That time, she walked in and closed her door.
Malachi did the same. He smiled as he did so. There was something about her...
As he’d said, he was very glad he was there.
Again he lay awake for hours, trying to concentrate on the case and put all the facts in order. Three female victims now, and one male. The killer, to Malachi’s mind, had killed Rupert Holloway for coming too close, so the victimology didn’t completely fit. That meant the killer was after pretty young women.
Those who might be seen the way women were once seen, as damsels. Lovely young women as prizes.
They’d all been found in the river.
As if forced to walk the plank, at least, symbolically.
And then there was Gus. Dead in the tunnel.
He looked around the room in the dim light, once more wishing he could have met the man. He imagined him as temperate, prone to liking people. But he’d lived a long time and been through a lot. He loved the river, history, antiques—and his granddaughter. She’d grown up with confidence and ability and the strength to choose her own path in life.
“She’s a beauty, Gus,” he said aloud. “And a strong, smart person. I couldn’t know you, but I’m proud to know her.”
He realized that his thoughts were going in a direction he’d never expected when he’d headed down to Savannah. But there was no denying she had a beauty any man would instantly admire and somewhere in his heart—or libido—instantly desire. He’d lost Marie five years ago. When she’d died, they’d been young and madly, almost insanely, in love. While he’d engaged in a few brief relationships since her death, he’d never really known any of the women and nothing between them had ever done more than touch the surface of his emotions.
Maybe this was different because of the ghost thing.
And maybe it was because of the way she looked. Or the fire that seemed to simmer within her, a passion for laughter as well as justice.
At some point, he dozed. He wasn’t sure if he opened his eyes and saw Blue Anderson there, standing over him, and then walking to the window—or if he dreamed it. He managed to get some sleep.
His phone rang early around 7:00 a.m. It was Kat Sokolov.
“Did I wake you?” she asked.
“Not really. Yes, but I need to get up.” He liked Kat. But he liked Will, too, and the other members of the Krewes he’d been brought in to meet after Adam, Logan and Jackson had brought him to their offices. She was the tiniest, cutest little blonde and didn’t look like any medical examiner he’d ever met. But she certainly knew what she was doing.
