The Ghost, the Girl, and the Gold Read online

  "Where she go?"

  "We don't know. We think … maybe someone took her."

  The girl covered her face with her hands.

  "If you know something—" I began.

  "I don't know, I don't know."

  "Please, it's important."

  "I didn't want to let her in."

  "What?"

  "In my head. She got in my head."

  "Who got in your head? Olivia?"

  She lowered her hands from her face and grabbed the afghan, pulling it tighter around her body, ducking her head lower like a turtle retreating into its shell. When she spoke again, it was in a tremulous whisper. "She came here with that other woman. The pretty one in the nice clothes who brings people in here sometimes and shows them the house and tells them it's all nice like. I try to scare them a little, not too much, just make some sounds and get them all to go away. But one day she brought this other woman." She shook her head violently.

  "What?" I said. "Who was she? What was her name?"

  "I don't—I don't know—"

  "What did she look like? Did you see what kind of car she drove?"

  "Stop!" she shouted at me.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "It's just very important that I find this woman."

  "You don't want to find her. You want to stay away from her."

  "I can't do that if she has Olivia. Do you think she has Olivia?"

  The girl shrugged.

  "Tell me your name," I said. "Please. Trust me. I told you mine—I'm Myron. What's yours?"

  "Grace," she said.

  "Good! Nice to meet you, Grace. I'm a private investigator. I've been hired by Olivia's dad to find her. I need your help. I can't do this without you. Will you help me, please?"

  "I'm scared," Grace said.

  "I know you are. But Olivia's counting on you. Anything you tell me about this woman might help. You said she got in your head. What did you mean?"

  "I don't know."

  "Please."

  "She came here. She came up here. I was afraid. I was afraid of her right away. She looked at me. I know she saw me. And then … and then it was like she was in my head. I think she took something."

  "What? What did she take?"

  "I don't know. It was just like she took something. Like I was holding something, like maybe a string, and I felt her pull it out of my hands but then it was gone and, like, I don't even remember what the string looked like or felt like, only that I had the string. I know I did."

  "Anything else? Do you know her name?"

  "No."

  "Can you tell me what she looks like?"

  "No."

  "What do you mean no? You said she was right here. The light must have been on if the other lady was showing the house to her. Didn't you get a good look at her?"

  "I don't know. It's like … like I try to see, but then she's not there. Like you know you can remember something but you just can't."

  "Tall? Short? Thin? Fat?"

  "I don't know," she said.

  I sighed.

  "I'm sorry!"

  "It's okay, it's okay. I'm sorry, too. I'm just worried about Olivia." My head was starting to pound, and I rubbed my forehead. Getting frustrated wouldn't help anything. Something much darker was at work here, something I couldn't explain and Grace couldn't explain either.

  I shouldn't have been surprised. Olivia obviously wasn't a normal girl, so why should her abductor be normal?

  "Let's start over," I said.

  "I don't want to talk about this no more."

  "You don't want to help Olivia?"

  "I don't know. Yeah. I do. I don't want nobody to hurt her like they hurt me."

  "Who hurt you? This woman who came here?"

  "No. Somebody a long time ago. He—he kept me up here."

  I felt a cold prickle run down my spine. "Was he your dad?"

  "No! Daddy was in the army and he was going to come home and get me someday but he never did." She was crying, her words blurring into one another, her voice garbled and hard to follow. "My momma, she come here and clean this place and then one day she had to leave and the man told me if I was good, if I did what he said, she would come back one day and get me but I had to do everything he said or she wouldn't. She never came back. She never came back. I did everything he wanted and she never came back."

  A lump the size of a golf ball had formed in my throat, and I swallowed it away. "How long ago was this?"

  "I don't know. A long time. There were no houses around, just apple trees everywhere. I like to play in the trees and eat the apples."

  "Do you want to tell me … tell me the things he made you do?"

  Grace shook her head.

  "Okay," I said. "But I'll listen to anything you want to tell me about that. Anything at all, and nothing bad will happen. You can talk to me. Let's go back to the woman for just a moment. I want you—"

  "She gave me a dream," Grace said.

  "What? This woman?"

  "No. The other girl. The one who lived over there. What was she called? Alvie?"

  "Olivia."

  "Yeah. She gave me a nice dream. I don't know why, but I saw her in the dream and she was walking on the beach and holding my hand. I know she gave it to me because I don't get to dream no more. It was a nice dream. I like that one. I'm glad the lady didn't take the dream from me."

  I found that interesting. The dead, from everything I'd learned, did not dream. They may sleep, or at least pretend to sleep, but they did not dream. "Did Olivia say something to you in the dream?"

  "No. It was just nice."

  "How did she give you the dream? Did she come over here?"

  "No. I don't think she know about me here."

  "But she gave it to you?"

  "Yes. Maybe not on purpose. I don't know. It just kind of rubbed off on me or something."

  "Why do you think this other lady would take the dream from you?"

  "I don't know."

  "How did—"

  "I don't know!"

  "Grace—"

  "Stop! Just stop! Too many questions!"

  "I'm only—"

  She let loose with a piercing shriek, briefly transforming once again into the hideous monster, all worms and knives, before returning to a crying and sobbing Grace. I finally started to say something comforting, but she whirled away and darted down the hall toward the stairs. I jumped to my feet and pursued her, calling her name, hoping if I could just calm her down, maybe she would trust me enough that I could find a way to help her. I didn't know how exactly, but there had to be something I could do for her.

  I never got a chance. Before she reached the stairs, she sank into the floor and disappeared.

  It was a trick that any ghost could pull off if they so desired, but few did, most of them clinging too steadfastly to the laws of nature that had governed them when they were alive. She did it as assuredly as stepping into a swimming pool, her bobbing pigtails the last thing that vanished through the hardwood floor. I hesitated momentarily at the spot where she disappeared, then bolted down the stairs to floor below. Using the cell phone's light, I searched the kitchen and the living room, calling her name, pleading with her to come back and talk to me.

  When she didn't show, I searched the basement as well. It was no use. If she was still in the house, she wasn't going to show herself anytime soon.

  Chapter 6

  Hoping Laura had shown up in my absence, I returned to John's place. No luck. I used Grace as excuse, asking him if Olivia had ever mentioned her. He said no, which I pretty much expected, and when he inevitably asked me who Grace was, I told him it was just a shot in the dark and I couldn't tell him more. This confused and upset him, which might have been avoidable if I'd spent a little time thinking of a better reason for coming back so soon. Or at least a better way to ask about Grace.

  It couldn't be helped. I was too worried about Laura to wait. No way she should have been missing this long.

  I waited around for an h
our outside John's apartment complex, turning on the Prius's heater now and then to ward off the cold, but there was still no sign of her. I drove back on Burnside, taking it slow, scanning the snow-filled streets for a woman in a green trench coat, but I didn't see her. I stopped at my office to see if maybe she'd returned there for some reason, but no one was waiting for me, not even Patch.

  Sitting at my desk in the dark, I drummed my fingers on the cold desk. What to do next? It was getting late, but I didn't feel like throwing in the towel for the night, especially with Laura missing. In a missing person case, especially one involving a child, time mattered, and I could sense on a very deep level that it mattered even more this time around. I debated about sending an email to some of my contacts in the department, maybe getting some insight from the other side of the great divide, but I wasn't ready to go there yet. I'd been burned by them too many times over the years to reach out to them other than as a last resort.

  The real estate broker seemed the best bet. She'd had contact with this mysterious woman who'd scared Grace so badly.

  I powered up the computer and in less than two minutes found the house for sale on a real estate website. The listed broker was Natalie Corman of Pacific Properties Sales and Management, a middle-aged black woman with a closely cropped Afro and big gold hoop earrings. She had the kind of wide, toothy smile that seemed fake on most people, too salesperson-like, but it fit her just fine. Her bio indicated she'd been in business fifteen years, was married to her high school sweetheart, and had three kids, two dogs, and a funny hamster named Barney who liked to play with the dogs. The company had an office downtown, but I doubted she would be there at nearly eight o'clock. The page about her did list a phone number, however, so I gave that shot.

  It went straight to voice mail. In a pleasant voice, if a bit nasally, she told me to leave my name and the address of the property I was calling about. I did both, telling her it was extremely urgent I talk to her as soon as possible. Then I hung up and waited, staring out the window. It was no longer snowing, and the air wreathing the streetlamps was as thick as a blanket.

  Even at eight o'clock, any broker who'd been around as long as she had wouldn't let a phone message like mine dangle in the wind. I bet on about seven minutes. She called me back in five.

  "Is this Mr. Vale?" she asked.

  I heard dogs barking in the background, muffled. I wondered if they were barking at the hamster.

  "It is indeed," I said. "Is this Natalie Corman?"

  "Yes. You called about the…" She trailed off, and I imagined her looking at her notes. She read off the address to me.

  "That's right," I said.

  "Okay. You said it was urgent, Mr. Vale. Were you looking to make an offer or were you—"

  "Call me Myron, please," I said.

  "All right. Myron. As I was saying—"

  "Unfortunately, I'm not calling to make an offer, but it is urgent."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Have you heard about the girl in the apartment complex next door to that house who went missing on Monday?"

  "Missing? No, I hadn't heard anything."

  "Her name is Olivia Ray. She's eight years old."

  "Oh. That's terrible. But I'm not—I'm not sure why—"

  "This is going to sound very odd, Natalie. Is it okay if I call you Natalie?"

  "Actually," she said, "most everyone calls me Nat."

  "Great. Nat. Listen, her parents—I mean, her father, he's really worried, as you can probably imagine. I'm a private investigator who's been hired to help find her. This may seem like a shot in the dark to you, but I … I talked to someone who saw a lady who looked at the house recently. It must have been in the last couple weeks. A woman who seemed … suspicious."

  "Really?" Nat said. "I don't remember showing that house at all in the last couple weeks. Maybe even a month. It's very strange, actually, with how hot the Portland market has been lately. The price is a bit on the high side, I guess, but I'm still surprised I haven't gotten more interest in it. I'm sorry. I'm rambling here. It's something I do when I'm nervous. You say this girl is missing?"

  "Yes, ma'am. You sure you don't remember showing the house? Someone saw you going in."

  "Well, no, I don't. And it hasn't been so busy lately that I wouldn't. This time of year never is. Who thought they saw me?"

  "Um, just a … local resident. Could another broker have shown the house without your knowledge?"

  "Oh, no, not without checking with me first, and then I'd definitely remember it. How strange. Well, hold on a second, let me look at my calendar here. My memory isn't what it used to be, so you never know." She chuckled. "Two teenage girls in the house will kill your brain cells pretty fast. Let me see, let me see … No, I don't … Huh, that's odd."

  "What's that?"

  "Well, there is an appointment listed here. I'm old school, you know. Still use my paper calendar. And there's a Jane Smith written here. Last Friday at eight in the evening. How strange. I don't even remember writing it on here, and I would usually remember such a late appointment. It's my handwriting, but it's—I don't know, this is very strange. I swear to you I never went to that house on Friday. I never talked to any Jane Smith." There was a pause, and when she spoke again her voice turned suspicious. "Who did you say you were again?"

  "Myron Vale. Private investigator."

  "And this is about a missing girl?"

  "Yes, ma'am. Olivia Ray. You can look her up. It's been in the news."

  "This isn't some kind of prank, is it?"

  "Huh?"

  "Did Harold at the office put you up to this? He's always trying to pull one over on me. It's Harold, isn't it?"

  "No, this is serious, Nat."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, really. We need to find her now."

  "Well … I don't know what to believe. I'm telling you, I didn't write that in my calendar. And if I had and this Jane Smith had canceled, I would have crossed it out like I always do. I wouldn't have erased it because I like to have a record of interest, you know. So there's some kind of funny business here. Maybe somebody's pranking you, too."

  "I don't think so."

  "I don't find this funny. I don't find this funny at all." The tone of her voice had shifted from suspicious to downright scared; I heard the edge there, the frantic energy barely suppressed. "I think I better hang up now."

  "Nat, please don't do that. I really do need your help."

  "I told you, I can't help you. I don't know who this Jane Smith is. Sounds fake to me. You know this person?"

  "No," I said, and I had to agree with her that the name sounded fake. "I know this is strange, but I promise you it's not a prank. Can you tell me who's selling the house?"

  "The estate," she said.

  "Can you give me a name?"

  She hesitated. "I think I better go. I don't feel well."

  "Nat—"

  She hung up. I thought about calling her back, but I didn't know what it would accomplish. I didn't get the feeling she was some kind of accomplice in the abduction of Olivia Ray, or that she was hiding anything significant. Maybe she was a hell of actress, but until I had some reason to think that was the case, she was probably exactly what she sounded like: a successful broker who was confused and maybe a bit scared. Why had she forgotten her appointment? It was possible some other broker had shown the house, but then Grace had made it sound like it was the same woman who came all the time.

  I might need to follow up with Natalie Corman, but for now, at least, she was a dead end. I had a name, Jane Smith, though the chances of it being a real name were so slim I couldn't even summon the energy to do a cursory Google search, especially knowing how many of them would turn up in Portland alone. I had two men in black ski masks and a green van. Maybe Alesha and my other friends at the bureau would turn up a traffic cam or some other lead on the van, but for now I was at a loss of what to do next. Make merry with merry riddles? Still no idea what that meant.

  What I
really needed was more information, and I had no idea how to get it.

  * * *

  With no other obvious option at the moment, I headed home. I hoped to find Jak there, partly because I was worried about her, and partly because she'd always proved to be a great sounding board when I was having trouble with a case. If she couldn't help me think of anything more to do tonight, I'd get some sleep and start fresh in the morning. Hopefully a good night's rest would clear away the last remnants of my migraine.

  I didn't want to give up for the day, though. I had this gnawing feeling that waiting was the worst possible thing I could do.

  Stepping outside, I zipped up my leather jacket and kept my chin bent low. It wasn't snowing, but a frigid wind whipped up the powder and speckled my face. I was so intent on getting into my Prius as fast as possible that I almost missed the heavyset man in the red and white hooded parka, pushing a closed-up hot dog cart around the corner. Another second and he would have been out of sight.

  I hurried to catch up to him, tennis shoes crunching in the snow. Other than a Max bus that passed, big chains on big wheels rapping against the road, the street was eerily quiet. Even the upstairs windows, most of which would usually show someone staring out, either living or dead, were empty.

  "Elvis," I called after him.

  He stopped the cart, his smile wide and bemused, his eyes bright and gleaming like usual. The hood was lined with thick gold fur that made me think of a lion's mane. He stood half in the shadow of the building and half out of it, and the red and white sequins in the lighted half sparkled. The jumpsuit, though puffier, was similar in style to what he usually wore, the one he made famous in his later years when he spent much of his free time popping pills and downing donuts. Of course, I didn't know if this was the real Elvis. Nobody did—or at least nobody outside the highest levels of the Department, and they weren't talking.

  "Heya, pardner," he said, leveling a gloved finger at me. It was the same gold color as the fur on his hood. "Business is so slow I'm packing it in until after Christmas. All set for the holidays with your old lady?"

  "Jak is many things," I said, "but the one thing she's not is old."

  "Ain't that the truth. See her around all the time, running this way and that. Don't know how you keep up with her, pal."