Lyn Benedict - Ghosts & Echoes

“Carter, I think,” Alex offered. Her voice was small, uncertain.

Sylvie felt guilt sting her. She let out her breath, and said, “Drink your coffee before it gets cold. And it’s not Carter. It’s Carson. God help us all. Basically she could be anywhere.” Sylvie shook her head. A sulking Zoe could disappear for days, staying with one friend or another. She’d done it before. But she’d be back soon enough for her stuff. The material girl wouldn’t go far without her phone. The burglars, on the other hand, needed finding, preferably before the cops blundered in and scared them into hiding, or worse—caught them and made all Sylvie’s hours unbillable.

She patted the list in her pocket, snagged a handful of candy from the kitchenette, and headed back out with a final admonition to Alex. “If Zoe comes wandering back? Keep her here.”

Alex nodded, then said, “What about Wright’s case? You want me to see if I can get a line on an exorcist?”

Sylvie froze midstep, her heart racing. It made it hard to keep her tone level, but she managed. “Exorcists hunt demons exclusively. We’ll have to think of something else.”

“I could call Val Cassavetes. Even if she’s still licking her wounds, she’s a smart witch. She can—”

“She’s not answering our calls, remember? Shadows Inquiries is x-ed right out of her little black book.”

“But this is different,” Alex persisted. “It’s not a favor to you; it’s to help—”

“Leave it,” Sylvie said, and fled the office before Alex could really dig in and start working the angle Sylvie didn’t want to think about. Getting rid of the ghost would mean getting rid of Demalion, and that turned her stomach, made her shake.

This is trouble, the little dark voice said. Real trouble.

She slammed into her truck, reversed gears, and slipped back into morning traffic with only two horns going off and one person insulting her parentage. Sylvie just waved a hand in a vicious salute, thinking they had no idea.

The list blew on her dash, its edges dancing in the air-conditioning, and she put a hand on it. First stop? The beach and the Audi.

She found the house easily, but the cops had beaten her there, were speaking to a woman who looked more than displeased to be explaining herself to them. Even at a distance, Sylvie could see the stacked gold bracelets on her arms flash as she told the two uniforms exactly what she thought of them, with plenty of emphatic gestures and a shrillness that carried in the early-morning air.

South Beach, Sylvie thought, turning her truck around at the intersection, where women put their jewelry on before their clothes. The cops would be a while yet; the morning sunlight and the woman’s white-silk robe did little to hide the skin beneath, and ogling her was a more pleasant way for them to begin their shift than rousting drunks.

She left them to it and headed across the water to the Grove, home to a silver Navigator.

At ten o’clock in the morning, Coconut Grove was peaceful and pristine. The sun glazed the stucco, greened the trees, dusted the Mexican-tiled roofs with gold. The air was still and lazy, and Sylvie’s battered diesel truck rumbled through the streets like sluggish thunder. For once, her truck wasn’t out of place; all around her, the street grew battered trucks, bringing men and their machines to work: lawn mowers, pool cleaners, window washers, house painters, coming to get the job done before the peak heat of the day. Coconut Grove was a mecca for laborers, full of homeowners too busy to maintain their houses themselves, well-off enough to hire someone to do it, and penny-wise enough to want it done cheaply.

Sylvie imagined that if she yanked drivers and registrations out of all the trucks, she’d find a good half were “hand-me-down” businesses, moving from a cousin to an uncle to a brother or brother-in-law, all using the same state ID.

The legality of their employees didn’t matter to the homeowners, not when their grounds showed the results of their efforts. Every house sported smooth lawns and curving drives studded with palms, poincianas, air-plant-laden Florida oaks. Plush green grass swept up and around drives, its tender blades so closely trimmed it looked like the houses were emerging from velvet. No doubt the pools in back were crystalline blue, untouched by algal growth or fallen leaves.

Sylvie thought of her own apartment’s maintenance man. Told to spruce up the place by distant landlords, he installed random statuary and fake topiary. She passed Kwan-Yin to get to her apartment, walked by the David to pay her rent, and swam under the eye of a laconic ceramic alligator and a St. Francis that doubled as a bird feeder. Coconut Grove was a different world.

Sylvie cruised slowly down the street, pausing to verify that house with the unfortunate pink stucco peeking though the coconut palms was Zoe’s ex-friend Bella’s house. She’d thought the neighborhood looked familiar. Maybe, after she talked to the Navigator’s owner, she’d knock on Bella’s door, take a quick gander to see if Zoe had crashed there.

The Navigator’s house was four doors down from Bella’s—a modest home, with a drive that curved only once instead of three times, with a street view of the house and gates that were ornamental rather than functional.

The Navigator rested in the opened maw of the two-car garage, the foggy silver behemoth that had been out at Bayside Mall the night before. More, the lady of the house, blue jeans, silk blouse, and wedge heels, stood beside it, keys in her hand. There was a puzzled stillness about her that suggested she’d been standing there for more than a minute or two; the shift of her hips suggested indecision.

Sylvie drew her truck to the curb and walked over, belatedly glad she was wearing Zoe’s overpriced gift jacket. In this neighborhood, it gave her that much more time to ask questions. She wouldn’t be dismissed as just another laborer looking for work.

Pity she hadn’t had time to get her nails done. A good manicure was better than a secret handshake for a quick test of who was exactly who, and whether she was someone worth knowing.

As it was, the woman barely looked up when Sylvie’s shadow crossed onto her lawn.

Foolish, the little dark voice said. The wolf comes in many guises.

Including a woman wearing a heavy leather jacket on a warm day. Sometimes Sylvie thought wearing a jacket was more blatant than strapping a gun to her thigh.

But Meredith Alvarez—according to Alex’s file, the second wife to Andreas Alvarez, homemaker, and personal shopper for a certain subset of other homemakers—was obviously more concerned with her car.

“Mrs. Alvarez,” Sylvie said, “may I ask you a few questions? It won’t take long.” Always the awkward part, asking for information from someone who had no need to give it to her. But Sylvie could be—catastrophically pushy, Alex said— determined .

“I already talked to the police,” Meredith said. “It wasn’t my car. My car’s been here all night .” She sounded fierce; either the uniforms had given her a hard time, or she wasn’t sure she had told them the truth.

From the hesitation with which she viewed the car, the remote slipping through her fingers, Sylvie knew which way she leaned. Given a hard time, Meredith should be spitting mad, storming down to her husband’s law office.

Staring at the car . . .

Sylvie took a couple of steps closer, stopped in the shade of a bright poinciana, watched a corn snake slip away through pine-bark mulch. She glanced at the Navigator, at the fine beach-sand grit dusting the wheel well and sifting onto the garage floor, sand and pulverized shell.

“I’m not with the police,” Sylvie said. “I don’t report to anyone.” The woman’s gaze dropped from hers, studied the smooth concrete as if judging whether the tree shade was an oil shadow. Sylvie bit back frustration. There was always a password in the computer that was the human brain. Hit it right, and all the information you could want came pouring out. But it took trial and error, and the risk of potential lock-outs.