A Question of Ghosts (12 page)

Jo nodded. “Later versions, yes. It doesn’t matter. They were just…machines. Toys.” She looked down at the keys in her hand. “But I have to check my quarters.”

“Your what?” Jo moved toward her desk and pressed a button in the far wall. To Becca’s astonishment, a recessed door slid open, so shadowed she hadn’t realized it was there.

“I live on the upper level. It’s doubtful they could have broken in there.” Jo stepped into a small elevator. “But I need to see something.”

“May I come?” Her own quivering nerves aside, Becca didn’t want Jo to be alone just now. She was concerned about her eyes, which seemed eerily remote. “I’m coming,” she decided, and followed Jo into a small elevator. An
elevator
, for heaven’s sake, thoroughly sleek and modern; a twist of Jo’s key sent it gliding soundlessly upward. Becca had sensations of both swift travel and an inordinately long distance. “Do you live on the roof of this thing?”

“The top floor. It’s six stories up.”

Becca hoped a mundane topic might coax that alien distance out of Jo. “You rent the entire upper floor of a building this size, right off Broadway, on Capitol Hill? In this economy? How rich are you?”

“I own the building. I’m quite rich.” Jo glanced down at her impassively and stepped out as the elevator door slid open.

Becca followed, not trying to close her mouth. It was the most subtly opulent space she had ever seen, and she thought she’d seen opulent. Her uncle and aunt were pretty wealthy. Jo’s “quarters” were a large, sunny expanse of blond wood floor and glass walls entirely windowing two sides. Becca was knocked dead by the view—the rolling green hills of Volunteer Park looking north, the distant crags of the Olympic range to the west—before the rest of the room registered.

The lack of technology struck Becca at once. For a woman so professionally immersed in electronic gadgetry, Jo’s home seemed remarkably free of digital connections to the world. Except for one wide plasma TV, the better to watch
Xena
upon, her floor-to-ceiling oak shelves held books, print books, rather than smartphones or laptops. There was art on the walls, sparely but beautifully framed oils and watercolors, mostly unique landscapes. The impersonal aura of Jo’s office was completely reversed by the understated, tasteful comfort she had created here.

Jo had walked directly to a large and lushly cushioned bed, neatly made with satin sheets, that rested in one corner. Becca shifted her eyes from it quickly. “It looks like they didn’t make it this far. Jo, this place is beautiful.”

Jo didn’t reply. She picked up a small box from a table beside the bed. She cradled it in her hands, and only then did the rigid lines of her body begin to relax. It was a small oblong shape, the size of a book, and looked covered in velvet. Jo lifted the lid, and Becca heard a faint, tinkling music issue from the box. It played no song she recognized, a pleasing, antique melody with a Spanish lilt. This music box was what Jo had wanted to check. Its safety was important to her.

Jo drew a deep breath, closed the lid, and slid the box into her shirt. She walked past Becca toward a partitioned kitchen area. “My family made their fortune in the meat and railroad industries, dating back to the Civil War.”

Becca heard the formality in her tone, a note absent in Jo’s voice since their earliest meetings. She figured the shock of the break-in and destruction below merited a little shielding.

“As you’ve probably gathered, my work is largely self-funded.” The sound of liquid splashing into a glass came from the kitchen. “At least the dead of the world appreciate how I’m investing my trust.”

“Has it made it harder for you to connect with people, being wealthy?” Becca felt a pang of sympathy at Jo’s defensiveness; she seemed almost ashamed to have Becca learn of her wealth. Prosperity might have erected as many barriers in this solitary scientist’s life as it had opened doors. “Money can do that. Folks can be weird about it. I wonder if that made things even more lonely for you sometimes, while you were growing up.”

Jo stepped around the partition, holding a shot glass filled with bourbon. Her stance was uncertain now. “With one exception, the few friends I had were more like paid staff. It was impossible to tell if their liking for me was genuine.”

Jo had just revealed immensely personal information, and it mattered to Becca a great deal, but she couldn’t lift her gaze from the drink in Jo’s hand. She felt her stomach roil with renewed tension, remembering the scene of violent destruction below them. She was suddenly terribly thirsty.

“Becca. I’m sorry.” Jo sounded dismayed, and she set the glass down on a bookshelf. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Will you relax, please?” Becca was glad her tone was casual, because she was astounded by a craving that had never plagued her before. Alcohol had never been her drug, damn it. But now Jo was the one needing reassurance, for once, and she found herself wanting very much to offer that. She walked to her carefully, as if not wanting to startle a wary panther. “Just being in the presence of booze isn’t going to hurt me. And all your being rich means to me is you’re buying our damn lattes in the morning from now on. I’m on a social worker’s salary, for heaven’s sake.”

Becca had reached Jo, and she did what came naturally—she slid her arms around her waist and looked up into her eyes. “I was fond of you before I knew you were rich, amiga. I like you because you’re crazy smart and interesting and you hang out with the cool kids, like Xena and the Lady of the Rock.” She rested her head on Jo’s shoulder. “You’ve earned my liking, Jo. It’s all you.”

The side of Becca’s face fit perfectly against the firm swell of Jo’s shoulder. There was obvious physical power in the long lines of Jo’s body, but she slid her arms around Becca carefully, as if she might break. Becca smiled into the white linen of her shirt.

“It’s all you, too,” Jo whispered.

Becca heard a faint, far-off whine of sirens, and she lifted her head reluctantly. “I think the cavalry is here.”

“Yes.” Jo’s face was inches from her own.

They stood together until the bell down at the front gate sounded a chime in Jo’s quarters.

*

“It doesn’t look like anything’s stolen, right? Just wrecked.” The cop’s uniform badge identified him as N. Simmons. “You’re sure you don’t know anyone who might have done this, Dr. Call? No enemies, no one with a grudge against you?”

“No one, as I’ve said.” Jo found this interview interminable. The two officers, Simmons and a black woman about Becca’s age, were meticulous and thorough. They moved slowly around the shattered space of Jo’s office, taking copious notes.

“It’s good you didn’t touch anything.” N. Simmons had now said this three times, as if he needed their repeated assurance. “We’ll get some techs in here to try to lift some prints. We’ll need you to come down and have yours taken, Dr. Call, for elimination purposes.”

“My prints are on file.” Jo took her ID back from him, trying to suppress her impatience. “I’ve gone through security clearances to access government research.”

“Very good. And we’ll need contact info from you, Miss. Uh, Becca.” Simmons turned Becca’s driver’s license over and peered at it. “Miss Healy.”

“Becca Healy?” The other officer turned to her, her eyebrows lifting. “You’re Rebecca Healy?”

Jo thought Becca had introduced herself quite thoroughly when the officers came into the room, but her name seemed to register with the woman—P. Emerson, by badge—for the first time. She studied Becca with keen interest, as if taking her measure all over again.

“Right, I’m Rebecca Healy,” Becca affirmed politely.

“You’re Madelyn Healy’s daughter?”

“Right.” Becca looked at Jo with muted dread.

The two cops exchanged glances.

Jo doubted the decades-old deaths of the Healys were remembered by many in Seattle. The city was large enough to offer a history of more lurid crimes, such as the depredations of John William Voakes. These two officers would have been children when it happened, and it was curious that even police would recall this case.

“You still hate dolls?” Emerson’s voice was friendly, but Jo stepped quietly closer to Becca.

Emerson still carried the professional reserve of a good cop on duty, but it was easy enough to read the subtle undercurrents in her features. Jo discerned no malice in her odd question. The woman’s tone was respectful, and as she took in Becca’s startled expression, her face softened. “I’m sorry. You and me met once before, many years back. My name is Pamela Emerson. My dad is Detective Luther Emerson.”

She waited, apparently expecting some recognition. Becca only stared at the woman blankly, but Jo made the connection.

“Luther Emerson was the SPD detective who investigated the shootings in seventy-eight.” Jo’s impatience fled. “You said you’ve met Becca before, Officer Emerson?”

“Pam. Yeah. We met the night your parents died.” Pam was studying Becca with compassion as she folded her notebook into her pocket. “I’d just turned ten. I didn’t need a sitter, but Dad wouldn’t leave me alone that late. He hauled me over to that house with him, across from the cemetery, and ordered me to stay in the car. I sat there a while. Then I looked out the windshield and saw this forlorn-looking little white kid sitting on the front steps, all alone.”

“Did you talk to me?” Becca looked unsettled but fascinated. “Jo, I don’t remember any of this.”

“I’m not surprised, after what you’d been through.” Pam hooked her fingers in her belt and swept some broken glass slowly away from Becca’s feet with her boot. “I don’t know how they lost track of you long enough to let you escape to the porch, but you seemed pretty wretched. So I rummaged around in the backseat for one of the toys my dad kept back there, for little kids. I came up on the porch and handed you a baby doll. You wanted nothing to do with it, to say the least. You chucked it into the bushes.” Pam chuckled softly. “I understood. I never had much use for dolls myself. But we sat together for a bit.”

“Is your father still alive?” Jo bit her lip, realizing her bluntness, but Pam just nodded.

“Retired ten years now, healthy as a horse.”

“Would it be possible to meet with him?”

“You mean this afternoon?” Pam threw a sardonic glance at her partner.

“Well, sometime soon. I have questions for him.”

Becca’s cell chimed in her pocket and she pulled it out. “Rachel,” she mouthed. She flipped open the phone and stared at it. “Rachel? I’m fine. But you know…I can’t possibly sum up any of this at this time.” She handed the cell to Jo. “Here.”

Jo took the phone and Becca walked over to Pam Emerson. She held out her hand and the officer took it.

“Thank you, Pam, for being kind to me that night.” She smiled at Jo. “I’ll be waiting outside, okay? Please don’t be long.” She stepped carefully out of Jo’s ruined office.

“You think she’s all right?” Pam asked.

“Becca will be fine.” Jo hoped she told the truth. She lifted the cell and spoke tersely. “Dr. Perry? Joanne Call. You need to get me in to Western State Hospital to see John William Voakes. Today, preferably.”

Chapter Nine

Jo decided to let Becca answer the doorbell. She wanted to use her best digital recorder to interview Voakes, and it required careful calibration. She squinted into the dim light of the only standing lamp in the living room and adjusted settings until she realized the bell had rung for a third time.

“Becca, would you please get the door?” Jo rolled her eyes. Her tone was inordinately sweet, even to her own ears. She’d bitten back her annoyance at the interruption and compensated by sounding like a cloying nanny cooing to a toddler. She supposed she still had an urge to shield Becca, given their morning, and she was capable of answering doorbells herself.

She took the two stairs to the entry in one long stride and pulled open the door. Rachel Perry stood on the front porch, carrying a small bouquet of tulips, shading her eyes and looking toward the large cemetery across the street. The sun cast dappled shadows across her face. For a moment she resembled one of the still statues in that burial ground, dignified and ageless. She turned to Jo with a tentative smile.

“Hello, Joanne.” She extended the flowers to Jo. “Fresh from my garden. Becca’s fond of these.”

“Good afternoon, Rachel. Thank you.”

“Becca said she wanted to say hello to an old friend in Lake View.” Rachel nodded toward the cemetery. She seemed curious, but refrained from questions. “She asked me to tell you to meet her there.”

“Ah.” Jo frowned down at the flowers. It was past noon, and a good hour’s drive to Western State. “I hadn’t realized Becca had left the house. I was rather caught up in my…in any case. I’ll join her there.”

Rachel nodded. She reached into the tasteful purse draped over her shoulder and drew out a crisp folded sheet of paper. “I knew you wanted this quickly.”

Jo accepted the page with a rush of relief. She had asked Rachel to fax this reference to Western, but it would be good to have it in hand as well. “I appreciate this. I was going to have you fax a copy to my office, but…”

“I’m so sorry to hear of the break-in, Joanne. It must have been a nasty shock for you both, walking in on that scene.”

“Yes.” Jo scanned the letter quickly. “Police are looking into it.”

“Do you think there’s any connection between what was done to your office and the work you’re doing with Becca?”

Jo looked up sharply. The fine lines around Rachel’s eyes had deepened since she last saw her. Her worn features revealed concern, but not accusation. “That thought had occurred to me, yes. It could have been a random act, but the timing is suspicious.”

She realized she was keeping an infirm woman, Becca’s close friend, standing on the front porch, and she flushed. “Rachel, excuse me. Please, come in.”

“It’s all right, Joanne.” Rachel patted Jo’s arm. “I only stopped by to give you the release. Becca’s waiting for you, and I know you’re wanting to get started. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

Rachel turned and made her way carefully down the steps to the sidewalk. She looked small and frail, but she offered Jo a friendly wave.