Ghost Wanted (23 page)

I like to be active. I am not fond of solitude. I am sure the Desert Fathers had no difficulty remaining distant from the world as it was then, but right now time seemed interminable. I'd slipped Joe into the building as soon as it was dark. We'd only been here about two hours, but I felt like a caged tigress. Not that I claim that sort of beauty. To me, nothing in this world or the next is more beautiful than a big cat. There's a particular lion I last saw . . . Oh yes. Precept Seven (“Information about Heaven is not yours to impart. Simply smile and say, ‘Time will tell.'”). Those who insist Heaven is only for humans should recall Saint Francis and Isaiah 11:6. I entertained myself by recalling images of feline grace but, finally, unable to remain still an instant longer, I popped to the roof. I breathed deeply of fresh air, but I felt a flicker of shame. Joe Cooper had neither moved nor spoken the entire silent time despite the tedium. Likely he had learned immobility during his tour in Afghanistan. Joe was hidden behind the counter near the swinging gate. His camera was braced on a box, since longer exposure time was essential for photos in near darkness. The only light in the office was a faint radiance that spilled through the windows from outside lighting. However, our quarry could no more see in the dark than we. I doubted an overhead light would be turned on, so a flashlight would be necessary. I remembered quite clearly the thin beam of the pencil flashlight Friday night in the library.

I peered down into shadows. A faraway dog barked. Leaves rustled in a brisk breeze. Neon glimmered through the trees, a reminder that cafes and bars brimming with activity rimmed the campus. I saw movement on a side path. A dark figure rode a bicycle without night lights. The bike slid to a stop. The rider stood motionless. Several minutes passed before the rider moved the bike behind a shrub and ran lightly toward a back entrance. I was rather sure there would be the use of someone else's entry code. Criminals follow a pattern, especially ones with past successes. If all went well, the subterfuge would not matter, because no one would be focused on an entry tonight. I had never doubted the killer was prepared to manage an entrance without revealing her identity.

A thump as a door closed.

In an instant, I was back in the Dean of Students Office, standing just inside the door in the long narrow space between the interior wall and the counter. “She's coming.” My whisper was faint. Joe neither moved nor spoke.

I stood tensely, listening.

The door opened. A thin narrow beam looped back and forth, skimmed the entry area, touched the counter, flicked around the administrative area, swept over the heavy red velvet drapes. Slowly, cautiously a dark figure stepped inside. The door closed. Again the beam explored the room.

I held my breath. Perhaps, as Wiggins had warned, I'd been too clever in bringing Joe and his camera with me. But the intruder moved no closer to the counter. The thin beam illuminated desks and chairs and the wall of filing cabinets. If the intruder had walked to the counter, swung the beam down to the floor, Joe would have been found.

Instead, the black-clad figure turned away from the door, walked swiftly to the dean's office. A click. The door opened and the figure entered, walked to the desk, bent down to place the pencil flashlight on the floor by a filing cabinet. As she knelt by the cabinet, I saw Eleanor Sheridan in profile, the planes of her cheek sharp, angular, tense. She was dressed in a black turtleneck, black slacks, black gloves, black sneakers, hair hidden beneath a black stocking cap. This was the figure I'd glimpsed when Ben Douglas turned on the light in room 211.

I perched unseen on the edge of her desk as she pulled keys from her pocket. She inserted a key in the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet, twisted. The drawer squeaked as it rolled forward. A thin hand reached toward the back to pull out a bulky accordion folder. Quickly she flicked past tabs, then pulled out a slender folder. She lifted the cover, removed a small manila envelope about six by nine inches. The large folder and its contents were replaced in the drawer. A push, a twist of the key, the contents once again under lock. She picked up the manila envelope and stood. I saw that the flap was securely sealed with a strip of packaging tape.

Eleanor ripped open the envelope, tipped out a flash drive into her right hand, tucked it into one pocket. She carried the empty envelope with her as she stepped out of her office. She walked toward the counter.

And I knew Joe was filming her every step of the way. My breath caught in my throat. If she saw Joe . . .

In the backwash of the pencil beam, her eyes were narrowed, her expression preoccupied. She reached the counter, crumpled the envelope, and tossed it toward a wastebasket, turned, and was at the door.

Taking advantage of the faint illumination provided by her pencil flashlight, I swooped to a desk, plucked a flash drive from the CPU.

Eleanor opened the door and stepped into the hall. As the door closed, I waited a moment, eased open the door, heard the whisper of steps near the end of the hall. Holding the flash drive I'd taken from a secretary's CPU, I moved into the hall, eased the door shut. I caught up with Eleanor at the stairway. I had instructed Joe to remain silent and hidden for at least ten minutes after the intruder left. I had no doubt he would do precisely as directed. He understood chain of command. Eleanor opened a side door, looked out cautiously, waited to be sure no one was about. I was right behind her as she slipped from the building. She kept to the shadows as she walked to a bank of shrubbery and pulled the bicycle from the shadows.

I hovered near enough to touch her, intensely aware of her every movement. There were many ways she could dispose of her flash drive if that was her intent. If her hand dipped into the right pocket of her black slacks, I was prepared to act. But she swung astride the bike, both hands gripping the handlebars.

Light spilled cheerfully from all of the A-frame windows. A golden bulb glowed on the porch. She unlocked the door, stepped inside.

I waited until the door closed, then I slipped my flash drive inside the letter box, a good hiding place for the moment. Now unencumbered, I joined Eleanor inside.

She tossed the black stocking cap onto the hallway table. She drew off the gloves, dropped them next to the cap. Her hand returned to the pocket, came out with the small flashlight and the flash drive, added them to the pile on the table. Finally, she tugged up her turtleneck and pulled a small pistol from the waistband of her slacks. She placed the gun on the table, too.

I felt a sudden emptiness in my chest, as if my lungs had been squeezed of all air. That's why she'd worn gloves for her surreptitious visit to her office. There was no reason for her to fear leaving her fingerprints anywhere in the Administration Building, but she had gone prepared to shoot anyone who challenged her. I was struck by the methodical coldness she exhibited. I was sure the gun she carried the night she shot Ben Douglas was fingerprint free, or she could not have placed it in Michelle's car trunk to implicate her. Sheridan was prepared at any time to remove anyone who threatened her. I wondered if she had obtained this gun to replace the one used to shoot Ben Douglas, or if she customarily owned two guns.

Her attractive features were set in a hard mask of concentration. She looked slowly and carefully around the room, then her mouth spread in an amused smile. She retrieved the flash drive and strolled to the office area. She opened the center drawer in the desk, dropped the flash drive into one of the compartments.

There is no hiding place so successful as no hiding place at all.

Unless a searcher knew to look for a flash drive, there was no reason for a flash drive in a desk drawer to attract attention.

Still smiling, she lifted a hand to fluff hair pressed down by the cap. She was relaxed as she walked to a minibar in the corner of her living room. She poured two shots of Scotch in a glass, added ice, club soda. She stood by the counter, took a deep drink, no doubt a woman pleased with her night's work.

My night was just beginning.

T
he tower bell tolled midnight as I reached the library. An occasional car sped past, headlights briefly illuminating the imposing Gothic structure, emphasizing the darkness of its windows. The front steps glimmered in light from tall golden-globed posts. I went instead to the rear of the building and steps that led down to a basement service door. “Joe?” Had he followed my instructions, waited to leave the Administration Building ten minutes after the dean departed?

“I was beginning to wonder if you were coming.” The tone was just this side of combative. “I've been here long enough that I can see in the dark like an owl. Funny thing is, I don't see you.”

“It's good not to be observed. I intend for neither of us to be noticed.”

“I know a brush-off when I hear it. Mine not to reason why, right?” He kept his voice low but his irritation was obvious. “Okay, you aren't visible—what else is new?—but somebody dressed all in black slid into the dean's office. All I know for sure, it had to be a woman. Guys don't move like that. Who was she? Where—”

I felt a whoosh of satisfaction. He'd seen enough to know the figure was that of a woman, which meant his video should work perfectly for my purposes.

“—did she go? What was going on?”

Joe was an invaluable assistant, but I wished he didn't immediately fall into reporter mode and pepper me with questions. “She was there to remove a file containing blackmail material.”

“I didn't miss a move she made. She wasn't carrying a file when she came out. On the video, I wasn't able to get much.” He sounded discouraged. “I'll tell you right now that there wasn't enough light to be able to pin the shots to that office. The only light came from that little flash. You can make out the leather glove and a dark sleeve, but the video could have been taken anywhere. All I really got was a dark figure—”

“Great.” That was wonderful news.

“Great?” He was exasperated. “What's the point then? This looks like a bust to me. I was getting somewhere with my calls to the kids who work in that office—”

“I told you not to stir anyone up.” My voice was sharp.

“I don't work for you.”

Uh-oh. Time for a little feather smoothing. “Of course you don't.” I couldn't have sounded more agreeable. “But you want to get Michelle out of a deep pit.”

“Making a dark-as-ink video that's worthless?”

“Not worthless. Perfect for our purposes.”

“Oh, yeah. Dark on dark. If she filched a file—”

“A flash drive. She put it in her pocket.”

“Oh, great.” He mimicked me. “She does the deed and we don't get a shot. I stayed where I was like you told me to. I almost came out. I could have caught her by surprise, turned on the light, got a picture nobody could dispute.”

“Ben Douglas turned on a light and got a bullet in his chest. She had a gun with her tonight.” I gave him time to digest that.

“So I guess I'm a lucky dude I didn't storm out and corner her, like I thought about doing.” It was the first time he had ever sounded subdued.

“You're alive.”

“She shot Ben Douglas?”

“She did. Your video is going to place her at the scene of that crime. Wait here until I open the basement door.”

“You got keys to the library?”

“I'll open the door.” If Joe assumed I had keys, I certainly hadn't intentionally misled him. In an instant, I was inside the library. I fumbled for the light, turned it on long enough to unlock the door. I plunged the basement back into darkness, turned the knob, pulled. “Come in.”

“Said the spider to a damn fool.”

I laughed, closed the door behind him. “Did you bring a flashlight?”

“I follow instructions. You told me to come prepared to film in the dark and to bring a flashlight.” I heard him open his backpack.

I'd forgotten I was invisible, to facilitate entrances and exits, but I remembered and appeared just as the beam of a Maglite turned toward me.

“Funny.” His voice was conversational. “You looked kind of blurry there for a moment. Guess my eyes aren't used to the light.”

I held out my hand. “If you'll give me the flashlight, I know the way.” That was a fib, but it didn't take long to find stairs. He followed. I cupped my hand over the light, afforded a narrow beam so we could see to climb up one flight and another. On the second floor, I turned off the flashlight and gently opened the door. The hallway was dark except for a faint luminous patch that marked lighting on the central stairway. I flicked on the flashlight, shaded it again, providing just enough illumination. I took care to walk softly, though I hoped we had the library to ourselves. Joe didn't make a sound behind me. We passed the opening to the wide central stairway.

Two doors farther and we reached room 211. Crime tape crisscrossed the door. “Here we are.”

Joe stepped toward the door.

I grabbed his elbow. “We can't break the crime tape.”

He folded his arms. “You know some magic way to open the door and not disturb the tape?”

“Wait here.” I sped to the next door, turned off the flashlight, placed it on the hall floor. Hidden in the almost complete darkness of the hallway, I disappeared. Inside the room, enough light came through the windows to find my way to the connecting door to room 211. I unlocked the door, took an instant to release the lock on the other side as well. I popped back into the hall, reappeared, picked up the flashlight, turned it on, and rejoined Joe. “We can go in through the connecting room.” Once again I was careful to cup my hand over the beam, allowing the smallest amount of light possible.

He followed me. “I keep having this funny feeling something really weird is going on.”

“Think about Michelle.”

“Right. What happened to her is definitely weird, too weird for cops to believe—taken prisoner, kept in a vacant house, her keypad code used to enter the library, the stolen journal found in her apartment, Michelle coming to the police station just in time to be accused of theft and also of shooting Ben Douglas. Somebody—the gal in black?—set that up. You claim to have a scheme to trap the lady in black. All right. I'm your guy. I took the video that nobody can pin to a place, which makes it pretty worthless, but I follow orders. What next?”

“You brought food and water?”

“I got orders. I followed them.” He shrugged out of a backpack. “Got it all in here: video cam, night vision goggles, beef jerky, raisins, granola bars, thermos of coffee, bottled water.”

“Make yourself comfortable. I'll leave the flashlight, but don't use it unless it's absolutely necessary. I hope not to keep you waiting long.”

The interior of Eleanor Sheridan's home was dark, though night security lights glowed under the front eaves and on the deck. I stood silently in the entry hall, listening. Through open windows came the rustle of tree limbs, the distant whoo of an owl, a nearby barking dog. Although the A-frame wasn't an old structure—probably built within the last fifteen years—there was an occasional creak.

Mostly there was the silence of sleep.

I wondered about the dreams of a woman who had twice killed. Was she so self-absorbed that any action seen as necessary for her safety seemed reasonable, with never a moment for regret? Was she fully asleep, that first heavy sleep of the night, when cares and concerns are lost in a plunge deep beyond consciousness?

For my present purposes, I hoped so. Although I love being
in
the world, it is obviously helpful to remain unseen and enjoy the safety of movement above impediments like furniture. As my eyes adjusted, I distinguished the darker bulk of furnishings in the glow from the deck. I reached Eleanor's desk. Slowly I pulled out the center drawer. She had dropped the flash drive into the third compartment. I felt cautiously, found the drive. I held it firmly in my hand, closed the drawer, and returned to the entry hall. I thought for a moment. I wanted her flash drive easily accessible to me but I had to be sure I didn't confuse it with my flash drive in the letter box. I cautiously felt the items she'd placed on the table, found one of her leather gloves, and tucked the flash drive in a finger. I placed the glove on the floor by the door. I unhooked the night safety chain, popped the lock on the knob, eased the door open an inch at a time.

Creak.

My heart thudded. I pulled the door open swiftly, bent, grabbed the glove with the incriminating flash drive, placed it in a shadow on the porch.

A light flashed on upstairs, spilling down into the living area.

I moved fast to open the letter box where I'd earlier hidden my flash drive. I ignored the clang, grabbed the flash drive I'd taken from a secretary's desk. Back in the entry hall, I closed the front door, looped the chain.

Light flared in the living room.

The flash drive was small but discernible. I had to keep it from her view.

She leaned over the railing of the loft. She carried the gun she'd previously left on the entry hall table. That she was obviously at ease with guns didn't surprise me. That night at the library, when she jerked around from the desk, she had fired without hesitation and struck her target.

She surveyed the empty room, wary, intent, suspicious.

I reached a sofa near the desk and dropped the hand with the flash drive behind the sofa back.

Eleanor was slender in a blue shorty nightgown. She eased down the steps, eyes flicking right and left. On the ground floor, she turned toward the front door.

With her back to me, I felt it was safe to move to her desk. I waited until I heard the door open and Eleanor step out onto the porch, then quietly eased out the center drawer, placed my flash drive in the third compartment, closed the drawer.

Immediately I arrived upstairs in the loft. I didn't know if she had gone around the house to be sure everything was secure, but I didn't have any time to waste. Quickly I looked around the room. There was something alien to me in the immaculate neatness. She hadn't tossed the black pants and top she'd worn that night carelessly on a chair. I sped into a small tiled bath. A straw hamper sat against the wall beneath a towel rack. I lifted the lid. A neat woman. Tidy. Not likely to wear clothing more than once. Huddled on the bottom of the hamper was a mound of dark clothing. I reached inside, grabbed the long-sleeve black cotton turtleneck and black spandex pants.

I heard the creak of the front door. I reached the railing of the loft, carrying my booty, and judged distances. I jammed the clothing into a tight bunch, was over the railing and downstairs crouched behind the sofa by the time the door slammed shut.

The chain jangled. Footsteps. The stairs creaked.

I watched her climb, the pistol still firmly in her grasp. I rose near the ceiling and eased through the air to the now dark entry hall. Her weight on the stairs masked the creak as I opened the front door and placed the wad of clothes outside. In another instant I plucked the stocking cap, remaining glove, and pencil flashlight from the table, added them to my pile. More creaks upstairs as she crossed the floor.

I closed the door and secured the chain, making sure there was no betraying clink. Once outside, my heartbeat slowed to normal as I gathered up my booty, especially the glove I'd left in darkness at the edge of the steps, the precious glove with the incriminating flash drive. Should Eleanor rouse again and come downstairs, she likely would see that the items she'd earlier dropped on the entry table were gone. But I intended to be quick.

First I went to the dean's office. I placed the bundle of clothes, the glove with the flash drive, and Eleanor's pencil flashlight on a window ledge and moved inside. I unlocked and opened the window, retrieved the flash drive. In a moment more, the flash drive, nestled inside the crumpled envelope Eleanor had tossed in a wastebasket, was safely resting in the desk of Dean of Students Eleanor Sheridan. I returned to the window, locked it, moved outside, and picked up the pencil flashlight and Eleanor's clothes.

My next stop was the unlocked basement door of the library. I was glad to have Eleanor's pencil flash to find my way. I still carried the clothing. I waited until I was inside the connecting room to 211 to appear. It wasn't pleasant, but I pulled on the turtleneck, stepped into the trousers. They weren't a bad fit, though Eleanor might be a bit taller than I. I wasn't wearing her black sneakers, but that was an easy addition to the wardrobe. I tucked my hair beneath the stocking cap, drew on the leather gloves.

I opened the connecting door quietly. “Joe, I'm back.” I stepped inside, the pencil flashlight beam pointed at the floor.

He blinked his light on, off, illuminating me for an instant. “Hey, you look just like the woman in the dean's office. Where'd you get the costume?”

“The look should be the same.” That was all I said.

“I don't see how—”