Living with the Dead - By Kelley Armstrong Page 0,21

them, learned nothing but got another name, and so on. Half the time, all they could say was that they hadn’t seen anything unusual, but you should talk to their good friend Tina. Ask for Tina’s last name, though, and apparently their friendship hadn’t reached the exchange of surnames stage.

Finally, Finn’s persistence had paid off. He’d followed a trail to these two young women who’d been with Portia’s crowd at Bane. Madelyn and Kendra. And they had a lead for him. Robyn Peltier hadn’t gone to Bane alone. She’d brought a friend.

As for details on that friend, though, that’s where things got fuzzy. They agreed she was eastern—from the eastern U.S. by her accent and from an Eastern ancestry by her looks. Middle Eastern or East Indian? They bickered over that until Finn assured them a final call wasn’t necessary.

As for a name, neither had caught it. And they got into another fight because their friend “Chas” claimed he recognized the girl from some high-society charity ball back east a couple of years earlier. He’d mentioned a name, which they’d forgotten, except that it was “totally Anglo, like Jill Smith,” which Madelyn claimed proved Chas was too wasted to see straight and had mistaken the girl for someone else. Kendra disagreed about the “wasted” part, but admitted Chas might have just been angling for an introduction to an attractive young woman.

An attractive young woman who had come with her boyfriend, as it turned out. Now him they remembered.

“He was white,” Madelyn said. “Older. Maybe thirty-five. He looked like a banker or a stockbroker. A money guy. Portia was all over him. Normally not her type, but he was very fine . . . for his age.”

“Was that a problem?”

“His age?”

“Portia being ‘all over’ this other young woman’s boyfriend.”

“She didn’t care. Probably used to that. The culture, you know? Arranged marriages, multiple wives . . .”

Kendra sighed. “The girl was obviously as American as you.”

Madelyn dismissed the idea with a snort. Finn wrapped it up and jumped to his own dismissal after getting this “Chas” guy’s cell number.

He was in the outer room when a deep voice behind him said, “Whoa. Those chicks were brutal. Meow.”

A man stood across the room. Finn’s cop eyes assessed him, spitting out vital stats. Roughly thirty. Six foot two. A hundred ninety pounds. African-American. Dark hair and eyes. Short beard.

“Look sharp,” the man said. “Corporeal being at one o’clock.”

Finn turned as Kendra hurried from the spa room, still dressed in her robe and turban. She shut the door behind her

“I wanted to say I think Chas did recognize that girl. Madelyn’s just jealous ’cause he was checking her out. But you might have trouble getting hold of him. He took off to Ibiza this morning, and he always ‘forgets’ his cell, so his dad can’t bug him. If that number doesn’t work, call me—I have his e-mail address somewhere.”

When Kendra was gone, Finn turned back to the man, who was leaning against the wall, arms folded, humming under his breath.

“We done here?” He bounded forward, arms uncrossing. “Good. We have murders to solve.”

He started for the door, then noticed Finn hadn’t budged. “I suppose you want an introduction first. The name’s Trent. I’d shake your hand, but we both know that’s not going to work out.”

So he was a ghost. The quip about corporeal beings should have been the tip-off.

Finn said nothing until they were in the car. The ghost—Trent—passed through the door and sat in the passenger seat. Finn never understood how they could do that. If you can walk through a chair, how can you sit on it? Whatever he’d learned in physics, apparently it didn’t apply to ghosts.

“You are a hard man to get hold of,” Trent said as he settled into his seat. “I’ve been following you all day. A couple times you glanced my way, like you saw a flicker, but that was it. That glow you’ve got, the one that says you’re a necromancer? It’s really dim. I suppose that means your powers aren’t very strong. No offense.”

“Necromancer?”

“That’s what they call your sort, isn’t it?”

Finn had no idea what his sort were called. The power to see ghosts ran in his family, skipping most, but hitting one or two every generation, to varying degrees. His mother sometimes caught flashes, but had never actually seen a ghost. His great-aunt saw faint outlines, but couldn’t communicate with them. Supposedly her brother—his great-uncle—had been able to, but he’d died when Finn was