Stacia Kane - Unholy Ghosts

She turned to replace the file in the cabinet and almost tripped. Her toe caught on something heavy, something that made an odd chinking noise. Goody Tremmell’s purse, now lying on its side with its contents scattered.

“Damn it.” Chess glanced around. Still no sign of anyone, but it seemed the voices were getting louder. Bad enough to be caught digging around in the file cabinet, but to be caught with items from the Goody’s purse in her hands, whether or not she was trying to put them back in, probably wouldn’t help her case.

She barely looked at the items as she stuffed them into the gaping leatherette bag. Tubes of lipstick, pens, wadded tissues, the general detritus of any woman’s purse. Chess shoved it all back in, heedless of order, because the voices were getting louder and any minute Goody Tremmell and Elder Griffin would be on top of her.

Keys, the ring a block of Lucite inside which was an amusing picture of a cat. Ha, ha, ha. A little golden disk, emblazoned with “The Bankhead Spa” in pale blue enamel—

Wait. The Mortons had been to the Bankhead Spa. Hadn’t they? Quickly she flipped through the photos again.

Yes. The cookbook. The Bankhead Spa. A little chill ran down her spine, a shiver like the first rush of speed.

She shook her head. Goody Tremmell and the Mortons? No, it wasn’t possible…No. It was. The Goody had been away in September, supposedly to have “a minor surgical procedure;” Chess remembered it well, because Elder Waxman had taken over the allocation of cases and had complained loudly about it the whole time.

How the hell would Goody Tremmell have been able to afford the place? Goodys were paid shit, almost as badly as the base rate for Debunkers but without the bonuses. Yes, the spa catered to a lot of high Church officials, but those were people like the Grand Elder and the head of the Black Squad. Not Goodys. Not even regular Elders.

A bead of sweat crawled down the side of her cheek, tingling and itching. She took a deep breath, dropped the keys back in the bag. A key ring was not evidence. Even a key ring and—Doyle made a lot of money from the Gray Towers case. Money he could have shared with the woman who jumped him up in line and gave him the case.

Okay, look for something more. Even with her suspicions of Doyle, even with the key ring, she’d be laughed out of the Grand Elder’s office if she tried to present a conspiracy. That wasn’t evidence, it was a guess.

But there might be evidence. Evidence she could use. Chess ran her fingertips over the carpet beneath the printer tray and pulled out fifty cents and an earring back, then tried again for good measure and caught something else. Paper, it felt like, a paper ball.

This was stupid. Glancing up over the printer to make sure no one had neared the room yet, she shoved the little wastepaper basket aside and pulled the tray out from the wall. This probably wasn’t something from the Goody’s purse, but the way it was uncrumpling in her palm and the fact it hadn’t collected any dust made her curious enough to pull it open.

An invoice for a storage space. Not just any storage space, a storage space in the name of Albert Morton.

This belonged to her case.

Belonged to her case, but had not been in the file, which meant two things. One, that the Mortons had a storage space somewhere in a ware house district that they hadn’t told her about, and two, that Goody Tremmell had for some reason kept the information out of Chess’s hands.

It had to be Goody Tremmell. No one else had access to those files once they were assigned; items were handed to the Goody and she placed them in the appropriate file herself. Yes, the Elders had access, but all the information from the background checks went straight to the Goody as well; she opened the sealed envelopes and filed the contents herself.

She never allowed anyone behind her desk. She hovered over the Debunkers and glowered when they asked to double-check their cases.

And the Records Room was locked when she left for the day, locked and magically sealed by the Elders—even Goody Tremmell herself couldn’t get in without an Elder’s help.

And Goody Tremmell had been to the Bankhead Spa.

There was no other explanation for it; Goody Tremmell had tossed out the invoice.

Oh, shit .

She stuffed the invoice into her bag and flung herself at the file cabinet, jamming the Morton file back in just as Elder Griffin, Goody Tremmell, and Doyle rounded the corner.

“Cesaria! Are you all right? What happened to your face?”

Doyle went bright red, his mouth hanging slightly open, but she barely looked at him. She barely looked at any of them. Was Elder Griffin involved in this? Elder Griffin, her favorite? He’d been the one who gave her the Morton file to begin with, hadn’t he? And he’d been the one Randy talked to. So he knew something was happening.

Hard to believe. She didn’t want to believe it. But she couldn’t exactly ask him about it, not with Doyle and Goody Tremmell standing right there, not when Elder Griffin’s hand rested casually on the Goody’s shoulder like they were friends. Especially not when Goody Tremmell’s eyebrows drew down and she studied Chess as if she knew what Chess had found. Her stout arms stretched the seams of her plain black dress as she folded them, and the ties of her cap had come undone. She looked like a woman unraveling, piece by piece, like the tension inside her was shaking all the outward trimmings loose. Chess took a step back.

“Cesaria?”

“I fell,” she said. “Last night, in the rain. The stairs in my apartment building were wet, and I had my hands full, so…” With effort she stopped herself from continuing.

Elder Griffin, can I talk to you for a minute?

Just say it! You have to tell him, you have to tell somebody!

Elder Griffin, can I talk to you?

“Why are you behind my desk?”

“I apologize, Goody Tremmell. I was…I was on my way to the Mortons’ and I remembered I wanted to check something in the file, so I was waiting for you. But then I remembered what it was, and I—I dropped my pen.” Sweat trickled down her side. Elder Griffin, can I…Fuck it . “So I’m going to go now, and, um, good morrow, and Facts are Truth.”

“Facts are Truth,” Elder Griffin repeated, but Goody Tremmell didn’t speak. Chess turned and headed for the hall, trying to keep her gait calm and unconcerned while expecting fingers to close on her shoulder at any second.

“Chessie, wait a minute.” Doyle caught up to her as she passed through the office doorway. Just the sound of his voice made her jump. Did he have a knife or would he kill her with his bare hands? “Can I talk to you? Please? I’m—I’m so sorry, and thanks for covering for me, I don’t deserve it—”

“No, you don’t. Get away from me.” If he was talking about hitting her, he might not know what she knew. She might be able to fudge it, pretend she hadn’t discovered what he was, at least until she got outside. Terrible was outside. She quickened her pace.

Doyle matched it. “Listen, I didn’t mean it. I tried to tell you last night, but you ran away too fast. It was just because I haven’t slept, and you surprised me, it was just a reflex. You know I would never—”

“No. I know you did .”

“Don’t I at least get a chance to apologize?”

“No.” She pushed open the front door and walked out into the mist, increasing her pace as much as she could without running. Terrible’s car was about fifty feet away, off to the side in an effort to be less conspicuous.