The Ghost and the Dead Deb (25 page)

The cool kiss of his presence breezed up the length of my thin nightgown, making me shiver in the warm room. “No, Jack.”

I blushed. “Jack, please don’t.”

More male laughter.

“Another what?”

I sat up, clicked on the lamp, shoved on my black-framed glasses, and fished the file out of the nightstand drawer. Inside the dusty beige folder, I found a surprisingly neat and orderly collection of documents. The first was a typewritten list of expenses—dinners, taxis, pay phone calls. Clipped to the back were receipts, yellowed with age but still readable. I rifled through them.

“Little Roma,” I read aloud. “O’Donnell’s Pub, Club Creole, Chop Suey, Pirate’s Cave, The Bar Car, McSorley’s Old Ale House, Le Parisian . . . Looks like you had an awful lot of night’s out with this case.”

Beneath the log, I found a neatly typed document. I pulled it out and skimmed the first page . .

 

 

 

I raised an eyebrow at those last lines. “What does it mean that your client invited you to ‘stay with her’ at the Plaza? Did she have a suite with a second bedroom?”

“Then she wanted you to . . .”

“But you declined, right? It says right here you did.”

“Excuse me?”

I had work to do that night
—
putting a tail on Lubrano. But the invitation from Miss Stendall to share her bed became a standing one, and I took her up on it the next night.

“You slept with your client?”

I shook my head. “I just can’t believe you did that.”

“Because in the Jack Shield books, Jack never slept with a client, even when tempted. He said it would compromise the investigations and—”

These aren’t Jack Shield’s files you’re reading, baby, these are Jack Shepard’s
—
the files of a real man, who lived a real life, and made real mistakes.

“So you admit it was a mistake to sleep with Miss Stendall? That it was unethical?”

“Then why did you do it?”

“What?”

“No—”

Yes. You don’t like the look of the truth, so you just don’t want to see it
—
especially when it’s about people you care about and it’s not pretty. But you better be ready to believe the worst about people, because that’s the name of this game you’re in now.

I frowned as I considered Jack’s charge. It was true that during my disastrous marriage I’d refused to see my husband for what he was . . . and, during the marriage, I’d blinded myself to my in-laws manipulations and insults, taking in silence whatever they’d dish out by telling myself they were simply trying to “help” or that they meant well and really didn’t mean to come off as disparaging. But I’d woken up to all of it eventually (after they began to blame me for Calvin’s suicide and began “advising” me—during my vulnerable period of mourning—that the “best thing” for Spencer was to send him away to English boarding school). Still . . . Jack wasn’t wrong that I did prefer to focus on the good in people.

“I’ll admit I don’t want to see the worst in people I care about,” I confessed, “or even strangers for that matter. I mean, I hate to think any person is capable of stealing a book from our store, let alone a triple murder. But this isn’t
just
about me. It’s also about you.”

“There you go again, implying your life trapped in an independent bookstore is akin to eternal damnation. Well, I’m not buying it. You may not be playing a harp at the moment, but you can’t have been all bad, or else you’d have gone a lot farther south than Rhode Island—and I’m not talking Cartegña, Mr. Shepard . . .”

Jack snorted.
We’re getting off the subject. Keep reading.

I did and found the report impressive. Despite the copious use of outdated slang in his thoughts to me, Jack knew how to write well—or at least put two ideas together on paper. It was also clear he had a highly organized mind.

“I can see why Timothy Brennan found your files such a rich source of information for his books. You’re very thorough . . .”

I nodded and kept skimming the file. It seemed Jack hadn’t just checked out Joey Lubrano’s story, he’d also checked out Emily Stendall’s. I yawned as I continued to read. “It looks like you investigated your own client? Why?”

“I guess you didn’t trust everything she was telling you . . .”

“But she was the one paying—”

Add an “L” to that word, baby. As it turned out, she was the one
playing
. . . and she tried to play me.

“I can’t see how . . .” I yawned again, felt my eyelids beginning to flag, realized I was finally beginning to relax into sleep. “And I don’t see what this has to do with Johnny’s case . . .”

The ability to persuade is central to the investigator’s
dealing with the subject . . . those who would persuade
must always be prepared to adjust and adapt.
Therein lies the challenge.

—
Interviewing and Interrogation
by Don Rabon

 

 

 

“OPEN YOUR EYES, honey.”

I was standing by an open window in a shabby, dark apartment. Three floor below, on the shadowy, rain-slicked street, giant Fords and Packards rolled by, the vintage vehicles sporting enough metal to qualify as miniature tanks. Rows of tall, brick apartment buildings lined the sidewalk as far as the eye could see and somebody nearby was playing a haunting big band classic on what sounded like a hissing record player.

“Glenn Miller,” Jack informed me. “ ‘Moonlight Serenade. ’ ”

Wherever I was, it wasn’t present day, Quindicott, Rhode Island. “Am I dreaming?” I whispered.

“Yeah, baby.”

The voice was no longer in my head but behind me. I turned to find Jack Shepard in the flesh. I took in the length of his tall, broad-shouldered form in the familiar double-breasted suit and fedora, that iron jaw with the scar in the shape of a dagger slashing across it. His hard granite-gray eyes softened when my confused green ones met them.

“Welcome to my world, Penelope.”

“What am I doing here?”

“It’s the Stendall case.” He lifted his chin toward the open window. “Look.”

I turned around to peer out the window again. Across the street was a neighborhood pub that I knew still existed in the East Village of Manhattan. A green wooden sign over its battered wooden double doors read MCSDORLEY’S Old ALE HOUSE. The letters were also etched into one of its big, brightly lit glass windows.

“They don’t serve dames in there, otherwise I’d get you a cold one.” His eyebrow arched and I knew he was teasing.

I smiled. “That’s okay, Jack. I’m not much of a drinker anyway, but I still don’t understand why—”

I was about to revolve from the open window to face him once more when his big, warm hands rested on my shoulders and turned me back. “Keep looking.”

Moments before the damp street had been devoid of pedestrians, but when I turned toward the window again, I saw one of McSorley’s battered double doors swing wide. A dark-haired young man emerged on a raucous gust of male laughter. He was wearing a kind of doorman’s uniform—black slacks with a green stripe down them. The uniform’s cap was tucked under his arm, but he’d removed the short green jacket, which he carried slung over his shoulder. The white T-shirt underneath defined a muscular chest, visible biceps, and broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist.

“That’s funny,” I murmured, “from this distance, he looks like Johnny Napp.”

“Don’t he though,” said Jack, “but this kid’s name’s Joey. Joey Lubrano.”

“The young elevator operator who threatened to shut your client’s mouth the same way he shut her sister’s—by
murdering
her?”

“That’s right.”

I shuddered as I watched Joey’s muscular form move across the dark street. A nearby street lamp cut through the warm, misty evening, shedding enough light for me to see his steps weren’t completely straight.

“He looks like he’s had a few,” I observed.

“I’m counting on it,” said Jack.

“But won’t that make him reckless? More dangerous?”

“Maybe. But it will also impair his judgment, loosen his tongue, and allow me to manipulate him. You should remember that in a pinch.”

“Jack, it looks like he’s coming straight for this building.”

“No surprise, doll. This is his apartment you’re standing in.”

“What?!”

“Relax, baby.”

“But, Jack, I don’t know even what happened in your case. I haven’t finished reading the file!”

“And that’s exactly why I brought you here. Just think of it as a little on-the-job training.”

I suddenly had trouble breathing. This might have been a dream, but it felt very real to me at the moment. I could smell the rancid odor of stale beer from McSorley’s across the street, hear the lightly falling rain outside, feel the suffocating warmth of this shabby two-room apartment.

“Are you crazy?” I told Jack. “I won’t know what to do or say. I think we should get out of here.”

“Take it easy, baby. Just stay behind me. Watch and learn.”

“Learn what?”

“For starters, how to conduct an interrogation. Namely, a little information can get you a long way if you use it right.”

A minute later I heard a key in the door and Joey Lubrano’s powerful form came stumbling into his small, unkempt apartment. He walked into the tiny living room, reached under the stained shade of a stand-up lamp, and turned it on. The pale glow of the low-watt bulb revealed Jack Shepard, relaxing in an armchair, smoking a cigarette. I stood in the shadows behind him, trying not to shake like a kitten at a dog fight.

Joey was young—in his early twenties was my guess—and just as Italian-handsome as Johnny Napp. Dimpled chin, Roman nose, deep brown eyes, and jet-black hair slickly combed. His physique looked even more impressive in the confines of the small apartment. His muscles packed into the white T-shirt and elevator operator uniform. Suffice it to say, I could see why a high-society gal like Mrs. Nolan may have looked twice at her elevator man.