Ghosts of Christmas Past (3 page)

She put her head back in her hands.

A ton of reasons her guy might not call, Lucy thought, and most of them bad, from merely cheating on Cassandra to being dead. “Did you talk to him yesterday at all?”

“He called from work about two in the afternoon,” Cassandra said.

So they had a time frame for his disappearance, at least. Last heard from by his live-in girlfriend at 2:00 p.m.—that's what Al would write down. Then he'd find out when Salvatore had left work. “Did Sal say anything about leaving the office? Maybe to an appointment somewhere?”

“Absolutely not! Yesterday afternoon was a big meeting to go over the city's budget. Everyone in his department had to attend, and he was working OT, like I said. Sal would never miss that meeting on purpose. He's solid.”

From bad to worse. “Call the police to report him missing,” Lucy said.

Cassandra shook her head. “Like the cops would care if a city budget worker is late for his job. Sal's not even been missing for forty-eight hours.”

Al would care, Lucy thought, but Al had homicides to investigate that took priority.

But surely finding someone alive was a better use of time than solving a crime where someone was already dead? Cassandra, for all her hippie flakiness, wasn't a hysterical sort. If she was worried about her guy, she was worried with good reason.

“Lucy, could your cop help?” Cassandra asked.

Lucy winced because the answer would only confirm the woman's bad opinion of cops. “He's jammed with work. But I've hung around him long enough. I know how to start looking.
We
can do it.”

“How?”

“First, we retrace his steps. We go to his office and ask about when he left and check what he was working on. Maybe there's a note or reminder at his desk or his computer that could help us.”

Cassandra nodded and cleared her throat, as if to stifle tears. “Okay. Thanks.” She curled her hand around Lucy's arm. “He's all I've got. I thought all the bad stuff was gone. I can't handle more bad stuff.”

Lucy hugged her. “No one should have to handle bad stuff. I can help. Trust me.”

And now she'd really done it. Lucy had a feeling looking for Salvatore wouldn't be easy. This was work for her alter ego, Noir. No, work for Noir and Al, but he was busy, and after this morning, she didn't feel like calling him.

This felt like something she should do alone, if only to see what being Noir on her own was like.

“Let's go,” she said to Cassandra. “The sooner we start looking, the sooner we find him.”

Chapter Three

Al stared down at the dead man's face through the top of a glass box, which resembled nothing so much as a coffin.

It was the freakin' strangest place for a corpse that Al had ever seen. Not gory, just damned weird. He supposed he should have expected that in an art museum. But it was even weirder in this
Holidays of the World
exhibit.

“Maybe someone thought he was the evil Scrooge before the ghosts visited,” Al muttered.

The victim's see-through grave was parked in front of an exhibit devoted to all things
A Christmas Carol
, including full-size reproductions of the Scrooge & Marley building, Bob Cratchit's small home, Scrooge's bedroom, where the ghosts all came to visit him, and a graveyard where the deathlike Ghost of Christmas Future confronted Scrooge with his own gravestone.

No expense had been spared to make the place resemble Victorian London.

This was the central piece of an entire exhibit devoted to winter holidays from all cultures. He recognized the Kwanzaa decorations across from Scrooge & Marley, and the Hanukah display. He was less familiar with what he thought was a Hindu holiday on the far end and what he assumed was some sort of pagan treefest to the left.

All these careful displays would make processing the crime scene difficult, if not impossible.

The glass coffin, however, didn't seem to be part of any exhibit. At least the glass box saved time in burial. Though, they had to get the stiff out of there to determine why he was dead. Al wasn't even sure yet if this was a murder, even if the press gathered in front of the museum had already smelled blood. Another day, another crime story for the one newspaper remaining in the Double C.

But if this wasn't murder, it was definitely a very public way to commit suicide. Or maybe the victim had crawled in for a nap and died of a heart attack?

Al walked around the glass box, looking for signs of a struggle on the body.

The corpse wore expensive loafers, gray wool slacks and a light-blue dress shirt. No blood on any of it. His clothes definitely marked him as successful, so maybe whoever put him in the coffin had been deliberately drawing a parallel to Scrooge? Al had muttered the idea in passing but now he wondered if that might be the truth.

Al caught a splash of red out of the corner of his eye and knelt down near the head. He got as close as he could to the glass without pressing against it and contaminating the crime scene.

Yep, definitely blood pooling behind the head.

Murder, then.

He straightened and looked around at the gallery. He wanted to think this was just a weird killing, but who was he kidding? This killer put the body here for a reason, either to make a statement about the victim or about the exhibit. Since he doubted anyone hated
A Christmas Carol
, he bet it related to the victim.

“Any idea what our victim was doing in there?” Al asked the uniform who had faded into the background when he'd arrived on scene.

The rookie just shook her head, her ponytail slightly bobbing. He gave points to her for remaining quiet while he did his work. Most rookies talked or, worse, asked dumb questions. She'd watched and paid attention. Very like Noir, who noticed everything.

He missed working with her.

“So the dead subject is a curator of the museum?” Al asked the rookie.

“Yes, sir.” She flipped open a notebook. “One Sholly Johns, curator of the Modern Art wing, according to him.” She pointed left. Al zeroed in on a guy wearing a blue suit, standing off to the right near an ordinary display of an American Christmas.

“Who's he?”

“Scott—short for Prescott—Matthews, Johns' assistant. He called this in.”

“Get him over here.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Al raised his eyebrows as the rookie turned to follow the order, her ponytail still bouncing. Instant respect. That was not like Noir at all, but a nice change. He could get used to that. Of course, the young officer was a rookie yet, and maybe impressed by his title.

He knelt to get a look at the controls to the coffin. If the dead guy was inside, there must be a way to get him out of it, though Al couldn't see any seams in the glass. But there were levers on one side. Al pushed aside the curtain covering the wooden base on which the coffin sat and found a nice round button.

He took a moment to put on plastic gloves. He should wait for the crime scene techs to push the button. But who knew how fast they would arrive? They were even more shorthanded than the police. He could be cooling his heels for hours, waiting on them, and every second counted when tracking a killer. On the other hand, the techs might be so pissed at him for doing their work they'd take even longer to process the scene.

Crap. Al split the difference and left the button alone but moved the curtain aside. He clicked on his flashlight and stuck his head underneath the coffin.

The square box to the right looked like a battery cover.
Document, document.
He pulled out his brand-new smartphone—a gift from Noir—and took several photos of the mechanism. Let the techs yell at him, assuming they ever arrived. At least he had a chain of evidence now.

He took out his Swiss army knife and used the screwdriver to open up the box. Inside was a nine-volt job with wires headed to the button. Except these wires were cut.

More photos for the crime-scene file.

But photos weren't getting him a look at the dead guy.

Al pinched the exposed wires flat with the little pliers of the Swiss army knife, twisted the ends together with his fingers, let go, took yet another photo and pushed the button.

The opposite side of the glass coffin slid down.
There we go.

His momentary triumph was cut off by a cough. He covered his nose to cut the stench and stepped away.

“Oh God,” Matthews said, his face pale. Then he ran to a garbage can under the exit sign and began puking.

Great. Al hoped there wasn't evidence in that garbage can. Between his jumping into the crime scene and this, the techs would bitch for years.

Assuming they showed at all.

This day would be going so much better if he'd stayed home with Noir. Or if Noir were at his side, investigating with him.

He blinked. That was new too, thinking of her, instead of the problem at hand, and wanting her help. She'd taken up permanent residence in his head. He half resented that because he didn't know if she'd be around very long.

An assistant coroner rolled a gurney into the gallery. Okay, more like the old man used the gurney as a walker. Had they found this fossil in a cemetery?

Al gestured him over and tried not to count how many seconds it took the walking corpse to make it to the glass coffin.

“New to the coroner's office?” Al drawled.

“Yep. Retired ER doc but I was bored and they were hiring.” He put on wire-frame glasses. “Better than sitting home all day browsing porn sites.”

There was an image Al didn't need in his head.

“Welcome back to the fun, then.” Did this guy have any idea what he was doing? Once again, the city had obviously scraped the bottom of the barrel for employees. But, hey, someone was here. That wasn't always the case. Sometimes Al had to put the corpse in his trunk and deliver it to the morgue himself. It was a bitch getting the smell out too, even with the body bag.

“When you get him out, can you check the head for a blow on the back of the skull?” Al asked.

“Help me get him out and maybe I can give you a preliminary exam right here.”

“No can do. We have to wait for the crime-scene guys to process. At least, that's what protocol says.”

The new guy sighed. “Well, fuck.”

“Welcome to the Double C,” Al said. “How long will you take for a COD after we get him out?”

The assistant coroner looked at Al over his glasses. “I'm old, not stupid. I'll have it for you soon as I can.”

Al smiled. “Okay.” His mind wasn't as frail as his body. This could work out. “I'm Captain Aloysius James.”

The old man nodded. “Dr. Didio.” He frowned. “You're Detective Fixit.”

Al almost snarled that he wasn't, except, hey, he could use an ally in the coroner's office, and if Didio had really been an ER doctor, then maybe he could be an asset. He'd arrived promptly, for one.

“
Captain
Fixit,” Al corrected.

Dr. Didio smiled. “So, you got Scrooge in the coffin?” He shined his flashlight at the victim's head. “Preliminary and don't quote me but probably blunt-force trauma to the back of the head.”

Al nodded. “About what I thought.”

Didio moved the victim's head. “Maybe something wooden. I see some splinters in the hair.”

“Wooden? A bat?”

“Now you're getting into speculation. Wood splinters is all I can say.”

Al patted down the body as best he could while it was in the glass box. He found a heavy lump in the front suit pocket. Careful to ensure only his gloved hands touched the victim, he drew the heavy object out of the pocket.

A snub-nosed handgun. Huh. This guy had a gun but he'd been killed by a blow to the back of the head, not by a GSW.

Al slipped the gun back into the vic's pocket.

“Why'd you do that?” Didio asked, leaning over his shoulder.

Al straightened. He hated people looking over his shoulder. “When you take the vic to the morgue, you're required to catalog all objects with him for the crime scene techs. I remove the gun, we break the chain of evidence.”

“Ah.”

“But check for a GSW.”

“GSW?” Didio asked.

Al nearly groaned. Didio was very green. “Gunshot wound.”

“Sir?”

Al turned. The ponytailed rookie was standing there with the museum guy. Apparently, their witness was done puking his guts out.

“Mr. Scott Matthews,” the rookie said, “this is Captain Aloysius James.”

“This is awful,” Matthews whispered.

“Worse for him than us,” Al said, stripping off his gloves. “You found the body and called 911?”

The man only nodded, his face pale.

“Any idea how he got into that coffin?”

“It's not a coffin!” Matthews said. “It's a sleeping chamber. It was used several months ago by a performance artist.”

“Doing what?” Al asked.

“Sleeping,” Matthews said, his tone implying that fact should've been obvious. “She slept during museum hours and people could watch her do it.”

“Like Sleeping Beauty?” Al asked. He noticed the rookie was taking notes. Smart.

“Exactly like Sleeping Beauty,” Matthews agreed. “It was a commentary on society and women, and the lens in which we view beauty. But…I don't understand why it's out here. It's not part of our holiday exhibit. And I don't know how anybody could be trapped inside. There's a button to let yourself out.”

“You mean this one?” Al pointed to the one on the underside that he'd pushed to open it up.

“No, there's a button on the inside.”

“Point to me where,” Al said.

Matthews took a step closer to the apparatus. He swallowed hard. Al definitely did not want him puking on the corpse. He put his hand on Matthews' shoulder, steadying him. “Easy. Just point to me where. We need your help to solve this, you know. It's all anyone can do for him now.”

Matthews pointed to area between the victim's feet. Al stepped in front of him and peered through the glass again. He saw a depression that had to be a button, only this one blended into the coffin's surface.

“Yep, I see it. Thank you.” Al put his arm around Matthews and led him a few more steps away.

“That should work fine. I don't know how he was trapped in there,” Matthews said.

“It works fine now,” Al said. “The wires were cut. I put them back together.”

“Oh.”

“Take me through what happened this morning, Mr. Matthews, from the moment you arrived to now.”

“I came in as usual, through the back entrance.” Matthews took another deep breath and his face seemed to regain color. He waved in the general direction of the back of the museum.

But he waited so long to speak that Al put his hand on the man's shoulder again. C'mon, kid, he thought. Hold it together.

“What next?”

“We had some things in the storage room I wanted to check. We'd just moved so much out of this hall to make room for the holiday displays. And I also had to catalogue exhibits that are going to be part of the local show next week. We're setting that up in the entrance foyer.”

“The storage room is just off the back entrance to the museum?”

“Yes, exactly. Easier to stop there on my way to our office in the Contemporary wing. Everything seemed fine, then I went to the office after about a half hour. I saw Mr. Johns' bag there and thought he must be in this gallery, maybe going over the layout changes needed for the big show. I wanted to check in with him, so I walked over here and…and I found him in the sleeping chamber.” He stared at the floor. “I called 911 right away.” Matthews frowned and glanced at the rookie. “It took her twenty minutes to arrive.”

“We got here as fast as—”

“It's all right, Officer.” Al held up his hand. “So, it took twenty minutes.” That was actually very good for an emergency response. The Double C lacked dispatchers or on-duty police, the same as the city lacked assistant coroners, crime scene techs or enough working patrol cars. An hour was the usual 911 response time. “Just what did you do while you were waiting, Mr. Matthews?”

Matthews blanched and ran his hand over his face. Aha, Al thought, there's a story there of some sort.

“I, um, I don't honestly know. I know I talked to the 911 operator for a little while. Oh, and I called the museum director, Mr. Johns' boss. And I tried to reach my girl. But she wasn't answering, so I left a message.”