In which we meet more of the ensemble cast, solve one case, meet another…

CHAPTER 2

Sitting stiffly at my desk—these days I’m usually stiff, no matter what I do; the aftereffects of rigor mortis are a bitch—I pondered the loose threads of investigations under way, figuring out how the evidence tied together.  I like the bustle and little distracting noises around the modern office: the ringing phone, the slam of file-cabinet drawers, the clacking of a keyboard as Sheyenne’s ghost types up reports.

She floated into the office carrying two manila case files.  “Caught you daydreaming again, Beaux.”  Sheyenne dropped the files on my desktop.  “Did you solve my murder yet?”

“I’m working on it, Spooky,” I said, and it was the truth.  “Aren’t you the one who tells me to focus on paying cases first?”

“Somebody has to—Robin sure doesn’t.” She shook her head.  “You need to have a talk with her.  She might as well walk around with the words Ask me about pro-bono work tattooed on her forehead.”

“It’s refreshing to work with someone who still has a heart.”

I’m seven years older than Robin, and throughout our friendship I’ve thought of my partner as a sweet kid sister.  Sheyenne, on the other hand, is much more than that.  My girlfriend, or former girlfriend—but former in the sense that she’s no longer alive, not former in the sense that I don’t care for her anymore—was the same age as Robin, but I definitely didn’t think of Sheyenne as a kid sister.

I look pretty good for a dead guy, or so I’ve been told: well-trimmed dark hair, striking eyes accentuated by bold eyebrows, just the right amount of “rugged.”  I used to wonder how I would deal with turning forty, but now it isn’t an issue. Since I was killed a couple of months shy of my fortieth birthday, I can claim to be thirty-nine for the rest of my existence and not even have to lie about it.

Sheyenne sighed, a conscious gesture since she hadn’t drawn a living breath in almost two months.  She was semitransparent as she hovered in front of me, her face a little emaciated, her eyes hollow from her lingering death, but she was still gorgeous with those big blue eyes, great figure (though too ethereal now), full lips, and an easy smile that gave the impression she was just cheesecake—a part she had played well as a cocktail waitress and nightclub singer.  But I saw right through that, and I knew she was smarter than me and my imagination put together.

After working ten years at various jobs in the business world, Sheyenne had gone back to college and was in her second year of medical school, working part-time at a nightclub to pay the tuition, when I met her . . . not long before somebody killed her with toadstool poison.  Horrible stuff.

As a ghost of the poltergeist variety, Sheyenne can touch inanimate objects when she focuses her attention, so she does just fine as our receptionist, office manager, and paralegal.  General office work doesn’t strain her brain too much.  So Robin and I let her write her own job description—Sheyenne shows up for work on time and has no intention of moving on.

The biggest drawback is that, although she can touch most physical objects, the screwy supernatural rules prevent her from touching humans.  Apparently that definition includes me, a former human.  Something about auras that surrounded living, or once-living, beings.

So although Sheyenne and I can see and talk to each other, we can’t have any physical contact.  The best we can do is sit around and reminisce about what might have been, remembering the one night we had together while we were both still alive—a hot and steamy lovemaking session that gets better and better with each retelling, and with each week of missing it.  Talk about unresolved sexual tension!

I slid the files she had delivered next to the other stacks of paper, including my own autopsy report.  Sheyenne still hovered there.  “I’ve been combing through your cases just to get myself up to speed.”  She tapped a ghostly fingernail on top of the stack.  “The answer’s in there somewhere.  You pissed somebody off enough to make them kill you.”

“I piss a lot of people off.  One of my many talents.” I shrugged. “Half of these cases aren’t even wrapped up yet.”  I picked up the files.  Revisiting the numerous cases would mean burning the midnight oil, but these days I had all the time in the world.

“You want me to get you some coffee?  I just brewed a fresh pot—it makes the offices smell good for prospective clients,” she said.  “Alvin Ricketts and the trolls are due to come in soon.”

“Sure, bring me a cup.  It’ll make my desk feel more homey.”  And a coffee-mug stain left on a file showed that I’d actually been working on the case.  You could always tell how much time I spent on a client by the number of coffee stains on the paperwork.

Just before noon, the artist’s ghost manifested himself in our second-floor offices, wearing his preferred form: long ponytail, tie-dyed shirt, and paint-stained jeans.  Because he’d died from a sleeping-pill overdose, his eyes always looked droopy, as if he were on the verge of dozing off.  But he was wide awake, especially since we were close to resolving the case.  Without hesitation, Alvin had agreed to sign over ownership of his crypt, and Robin had spent the morning preparing the deed and supplemental documentation.

Sheyenne greeted him; she particularly appreciated our spectral clients because at least she could shake hands with a ghost.  Alvin looked around the offices, a broad smile on his face.

A few minutes later, Edgar Allan and Burt entered the offices, a study in contrasts:  the little simian real estate agent and the burly eviction enforcer.  Burt carried the rolled-up painting under his arm.

“We’re here to do business,” said the little troll.

Robin who had been on the phone in her office for the better part of an hour, now hung up and stepped out, her face filled with joy.  I knew she must have won whatever she was arguing about—and Robin usually does win, because her sheer optimistic persistence makes her as formidable as any shambling undead legion.  Noticing the trolls and the ghost, she brightened even further.  “Hello!  Thank you for coming.”

Robin’s the kind of person you simply cannot dislike—a spunky thirty-two-year-old African American, slender and pretty, with brown eyes straight out of a classic anime. She was raised in a nice house in the suburbs, with two white-collar, six-figure-salary professionals for parents.  A perfectly normal upbringing, good schools, a scholarship.  After getting her law degree, she discovered her purpose in life and became a fiery activist determined to help the downtrodden.  And the Big Uneasy had created a whole new class of downtrodden that needed help.

Five years ago, when I learned she was hanging out her shingle in the Unnatural Quarter, I decided to watch out for her.  Robin is enthusiastic and as determined as a bulldog on a letter carrier’s ankle, but despite all the cases she has studied, she can be a bit tone-deaf to reality, since her worldview is more aligned with Sesame Street than Lord of the Flies.

Quite honestly, that’s one of the things I like best about her.  Robin believes in the power of theLaw the way a little girl believes in Santa Claus, and I’ve decided to do my damndest to keep her that way, because if she ever loses that sparkle, some key part of her is going to die inside. That would be worse than when I died for real. . . .

Robin was frugal, too. She didn’t believe in wasting money on fancy cars or jewelry or decorations—not when there were people who needed our help. Sheyenne had done her best in the past couple of months to give the offices a more comfortable but still businesslike feel. It had taken most of her powers of persuasion to get Robin to agree to a fresh coat of paint on the walls, but Sheyenne had kept costs down by doing the work herself. I’m not sure if our clients have noticed the clean walls yet.

Getting down to business, Robin took the painting from the big troll enforcer and unrolled it on the nearby desk so we could look at the mournful zombie puppies.  Alvin Ricketts let out a long, happy sigh.  “Ah, just look at the pathos, the myriad levels!  Doesn’t it just speak to you . . . right here?”  He touched a fist to his ghostly sternum.

“It’s cute,” Sheyenne said.

Robin spread out the legal forms on the signing table.  “I have the property deed to the real estate in Greenlawn Cemetery, the plat marking the location of the crypt, and the ownership-transfer documents for Mr. Ricketts to sign.”

“Can you prove clear title?” asked Edgar Allan.

“Right here.”  Robin handed over the title documents, which the troll studied meticulously.  “I don’t specialize in real estate law, but the cemetery forwarded the proper paperwork this morning.  I’d still advise you to buy title insurance.”

“Seems to be in order.”  The little troll looked up at me, blinking his yellow eyes.  “Pleasure doing business with you.”

After the signatures were duly notarized, Edgar Allan handed out business cards.  “In case you’re ever in the market, I’ve got some underground deals that aren’t in the regular listings.”

Alvin’s ghost rolled up the painting.  “Now that I have my masterpiece back, I can start the auction tonight!  No more waiting around. I want the world to see my work.”

“Spoken like a true artist,” Sheyenne said, then adopted a brisk tone.  “However, we are running a business here.  Remember that our contingency fee is one-third of the auction realization, plus expenses.”

“Of course!  I can’t thank you enough!”  Alvin bobbed out of the office with his treasure.

Robin was happy to see justice done, and I was glad to have another case solved.  Now I could get back to investigating my own murder.

••••

Unlike most people in real-world offices with real-world desks, I don’t have vacation photos on the walls or framed certificates of completion from the Acme Detective School or the Crime-Solving Award (Honorable Mention).  After Sheyenne painted the office, I just didn’t see the point in putting that stuff back on the walls. That part of my life ended when my life ended. I did keep a novelty coffee mug Robin had given me years ago with The cases don’t solve themselves printed on it.

I sorted through the pending and recently closed case folders.  I started to read the first case summary, an investigation of black-market blood sales from Basilisk, the nightclub where Sheyenne had worked.

If Sheyenne was right and something in one of those files had gotten me killed, the pieces would come together if I just had enough time to ponder them.  Who had wanted me dead? Sure, I had some unhappy clients—every business does—but dissatisfied customers usually just file a complaint with the Better Business Bureau.  And had killing me been enough to satisfy the vengeful person, or was that just the start?  It really tied my guts in knots, metaphorically, that Robin might be in danger too.  As the token living human in our offices, she’s the only one who still has everything to lose.

I needed to solve this.

The main door burst open, and a terrified-looking man ran in.  He whipped his head from side to side.  He wore a dark overcoat, gloves, a black floppy-brimmed hat, and oversized wraparound sunglasses like the ones old ladies wear after cataract surgery.  He had parchment-pale skin.  I didn’t need to see the pointed tips of fangs that extended past his lips to determine that he was a vampire.  (I am a detective, you know.)

Once inside the office, he yanked off the big sunglasses, blinking furiously, as jittery as a rabbit trying to climb an electric fence.  “You’ve got to help me!  I need protection!”  He reached into the pocket of his overcoat and hauled out a sharpened wooden stake.  “I found this—somebody’s trying to kill me!”

••••

DEATH WARMED OVER will be released August 28.  You can preorder a copy now at your favorite bookstore, or order an AUTOGRAPHED copy (no extra charge) from AnderzoneShop.

And, coming in January 2013:

TO BE DEAD OR NOT TO BE DEAD

In the Unnatural Quarter, golems slave away at sweatshops, necromancers sell black-market trinkets to tourists, and the dead rise up—to work the night shift. But zombie detective Dan Shamble is no ordinary working stiff. When local senator and his goons picket a ghostly production of Shakespeare in the Dark—condemning the troupe’s “unnatural” lifestyles—Dan smells something rotten. And if something smells rotten to a zombie, you’re in serious trouble….

Before his way of life, er, death, is destroyed, Dan wants answers. Along the way he needs to provide security for a mummified madame, defend a mixed-race couple (he’s a vampire, she’s a werewolf) from housing discrimination, and save his favorite watering hole, the Goblin Tavern, from drying up. Throw in a hairy hit man, a necro-maniac, and a bank robber who walks through walls, and Dan Shamble’s plate is full. Maybe this time, the zombie detective has bitten off more than he can chew.