Dying Echo A Grim Reaper Mystery - By Judy Clemens Page 0,3
stand-out, with her slept-in clothes and unwashed hair. So she skulked in the shadows by Don’s building, afraid to let her face be seen. She wouldn’t even attempt to visit Don’s residential neighborhood, where Crime Stoppers had some of its staunchest—or should she just say, most fanatical—supporters.
“You want to use my phone?” Death held out what looked like the latest version of an iPhone.
“I can’t use that. It will evaporate.”
“Sorry. Forgot. Guess I should call it a MyPhone.”
Casey rolled her eyes.
“So now what?” Death said. “Go to your house and get some sleep?”
“I’m not going to my house.”
“Right. You think there are ghosts there.” Now it was Death’s turn for eyerolling.
“I don’t think there are ghosts. I just…don’t want to go.”
“Uh-huh. So are we going to spend the night here on Don’s doorstep?”
“No. I’m going to call him.”
“With what technology? A cup and string? Or are you going to send up a prayer and hope he catches it?”
Casey had ditched the last phone she’d owned when she’d left Florida. “I’m going to find a pay phone.”
Death laughed. “Speaking of ghosts.”
“There has to be one around here somewhere.”
There was, but it took her almost an hour to find it, out in front of some dive of a restaurant in the nontourist part of town. Apparently pay phones were too tacky to be seen by out-of-state visitors, who were there to spend big bucks on apparel and clothes and tickets up the mountain.
Casey dug change out of her pocket and dialed Don’s home number.
“This is Don Winter speaking.”
Death snickered. “Chipper, isn’t he? You’d think it was eleven in the morning instead of at night.”
“Don,” Casey said. “I’m here.”
“Where?”
“Your office.”
“Now?”
“Well, I’m at a pay phone a mile and a half away. I can be back there in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen.”
She hung up and turned away from the restaurant. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was smelling—steak or cabbage or just a bunch of deep fried stuff—but it wasn’t too appealing, especially since the place was obviously closed, and the smells were hanging around in the air, along with a sickly sweet odor like damp vegetation. Or something dead.
She jogged back to Don’s office, grabbed her bag from where she’d stashed it behind a bush, and waited there in the shadows. In a few minutes, longer than he had anticipated, his headlights cut across the parking lot, washed over her hiding place, and turned off, leaving the small square of pavement in the dim glow of the street lights.
Don got out of his car and swept his eyes over the back of the building. “Casey?”
“I’m here.” She stepped out of the darkness and waited for him to spot her.
When he did, he held still for a few moments. “It’s good to see you.”
“Don—”
He moved toward the door. “Come on.”
She followed him inside, waiting while he reset the alarm and locks behind them. Then he turned to her, his eyes traveling from her hair to her feet. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. What’s happened to Ricky?”
“I can make coffee. And we have some cake in the break room.”
“I don’t want cake!”
He inhaled, filling his cheeks with air, then gestured her toward the interior of the office, which was lit only by the security lamp on the ceiling. She walked behind him, thinking how very same the office was toward when she was last there. She’d spent a lot of time in those rooms, dealing with the law, with Pegasus—the car manufacturer who had basically killed her family—and with her own personal hell.
The place was pretty much like any independent lawyer’s office. Neutral colors in the waiting room, a reception desk, a small conference room, Don’s office space. The only difference from a normal visit, of which she’d had too many, was that they were there at night this time. His secretary was long gone, and the computers had been shut down. There was no comforting hum of the copier, no phones ringing, no fingers tapping on keyboards.
Don settled behind his desk and opened a fat file, with some photos face down.
Casey eyed the folder, her skin crawling. Face-down pictures weren’t a good sign. “What are those?”
“As you probably realize from my phone call, Ricky got involved in something bad, Casey. A murder. It happened last Thursday night. I know I talked to you Friday, but Ricky hadn’t gotten involved yet, and by the time I knew, I didn’t know where to find you. ”