She lived, her drunk-ass son-of-a-bitch husband lived, and all my little angels passed away.” She looks for a second like she might break down crying, but then she gathers herself and smiles up at me. “I’ll never understand why the Lord does what he does. Nothin’ to do but accept it. But it pains my heart, Detective. It really does.”
“I cannot even imagine.”
“It’s them, isn’t it—been pestering my sleep so?”
“I think so, yes, Mrs. Overbrook.”
“Thought so.” She looks at me with that penetrating gaze of the old and wise, squinting through two solid inches of glass that magnifies her eyes into giant, wandering splotches. “You’re not like other cops I’ve met.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Do you want me to deal with your situation?”
She considers for a moment, staring thoughtfully at the shrine. “No.”
Our eyes meet again, and I feel an infinity of understanding pass between us, one so deep I don’t even completely grasp it. So I nod. “Okay, Mrs. Overbrook.”
“I think it’s rather comforting. I just wanted someone to come take a look. Someone who would know what to do.”
I’m a little startled by how much her words mean to me. “Glad I could help.”
Unfounded. That’s what I’ll scrawl on my paperwork for this one. I’ve already half written it in my head as I step out of the pee-stained elevator and walk through the lobby. The investigating officer has determined that there was no supernatural activity in the apartment in question. Further review is unnecessary. I’ve written those words so many times now, I can’t even count. You’d be amazed how many folks get attached to their ghosts.
Elton Ellis, the tactless miniature messenger ghost, is waiting for me outside Mrs. Overbrook’s public housing project.
“Yes?”
“The Council has a message for you.”
“Why didn’t they just blast it to me the way they usually do?”
“The system is down.”
“Excuse me?”
“Something happened. A glitch or something, and they can’t get through. Or not every time anyway. So they send me.”
“How convenient for you.”
“Well . . . in a way.”
“Out with it.”
Elton Ellis clears his throat, then says: “The crack house off Fulton Street.”
“What about it?”
“That’s it.”
“The crack house off Fulton Street. That’s the whole message?”
“Word for word. What’dyou think it means?”
“Guess I’ll go there and find out.”
“Maybe there’s something there they want you to see.”
I glare down at the little ghost. “Is that what you overheard somewhere, or are you being speculative?”
“Maybe I heard one of the chairmen saying that to one of the soulcatchers.”
“Maybe you heard something else too?”
Elton Ellis shrugs. “Maybe.”
I fish through my pockets for a little toy or candy for him, but I’m all out. Figures. I tell him to wait right there and fast-walk it to the bodega across the street and back.
“Here,” I say, handing him a fistful of assorted penny candies.
He eyes them hungrily. “That oughta shut it down.”
“Who said that—Botus?”
“Maybe.”
I throw him a sharp look so he knows he’s not getting any more candy out of me.
“Okay, yeah. Botus. He thinks the case’s a waste of time and a useless runaround and wants you back dealing with other things.”
“But I am dealing with other . . . Oh, never mind. Anything else?”
“Agent Washington wants you to meet him at the Burgundy when you’re done. Where you going?”
* * *
There’s actually a couple of crack houses off Fulton Street, but I’m pretty sure I know which one they mean. It’s a big brick building with a long history of unfortunate fires, ODs, kidnappings . . . I’m sure Victor’s seen his share of living hell at this spot. Spiritually, the place is a disaster. So much ruined life attracts the ruinous dead too, and I have to shoulder through a crowd of muttering shadows just to get to the front door. They’re dripping with regret, bitterness, all the sloppy leftovers of a life poorly lived, and I want nothing to do with it.
“Shmash’ema,” one of them moans as I hurry past. “Shmash’ema, ohhh da li.” The old tattered spirit’s thrown himself in my path and I don’t want to touch him.
“The fuck out my way.”
“Shmaaaa-aaa!” he gurgles. “Car . . . los!” Ugh. I hate it when they know your name. There’s no reason for that.
“Move!”
He slithers and writhes, an almost formless mass of wayward hair and tentacular slabs of fat, and finally gets in a position that I can easily step over, which I do.
“Shmlaaaaa Carlo-os!”
I walk into the dim building, step past a few sleeping-or-dead bodies in the front foyer, and eye