I ignored Cezar, even as he started shouting, “Hey! Hey! Hey, lady!” at the top of his lungs. I quickly ended my call with Marner and turned to him, furious and flustered.

“What? Are you a child? You could see I was on the phone. Give me a second!” Just because he was dead didn’t mean he was allowed to thumb his nose at any and all etiquette.

“Sorry, but I don’t got all day.”

I was pretty sure he had eternity, but unlike him I had manners and wasn’t going to point that out. “What can I do for you, Mr. Wozniak?” Maybe if I were exceptionally polite he would respond in kind.

“I already told you! Find my damn body. It’s not that hard.”

So much for politeness. I accelerated onto the highway, irritated that I had to spend the next forty minutes in the car with this guy. “And I told you, I can’t help you. I’m not a private investigator or a cop. I don’t know anything about your life or the mob or whatever. If you were shot in your house, and they disposed of your body instead of leaving it there, then I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Sorry. Can’t help you.” And to further punctuate my statement, I turned up the radio.

For a minute Cezar didn’t speak and I prayed that he was gone. But when I glanced over I saw that he was actually grinning at me. “Nice, kid. I like the spirit.”

I had no response to that as I glanced in my rearview mirror to merge onto the highway.

“How hard can it be to find a body? I’m not exactly a little guy.”

“If it’s not that hard, someone will find you in the next day or two.” I was sticking to my guns. “I don’t exactly have the authority to drag the lake. I mean, don’t you think that’s the most logical explanation for what happened? They shot you then tipped you right into the lake? Your chair was fifteen feet from the shore.”

But Cezar shook his head. “No way. Too obvious. I’d be floating, so why even bother putting me in the water? Or if they weighted me down, same thing. It would only buy a few days until the gases in my body lifted my corpse to the surface.”

To be honest, Cezar looked like he would be full of gases. “Maybe they took your boat out and dumped you.” He had a dock, though I hadn’t seen a boat in the slip.

“It’s out of the water for the winter. All that’s around is a rowboat, and I don’t exactly see my colleagues putting that much back into it, you know what I’m saying?” He rhythmically drummed his fingers on his belly. “So if the lake is out, I’m guessing the woods, the dump, or a storage unit.”

“The woods is a little vague.”

“Yeah, we should try the storage unit first, then the dump.”

I didn’t want to try anything, but I admit, I was a little curious. “What storage unit?”

“We have some…stuff there.” He shrugged. “It’s over off MLK. But to get the key to the unit we have to go to the Schvitz. It’s in Big Eddie’s locker there.”

“What’s the Schvitz?”

“It’s a club for men.”

I knew what that meant. “A strip club? There is no way I’m going there. Sorry.” Ew. Double ew.

“It’s not a strip club, relax. It’s a sweat bath.”

“I don’t even know what that means.” Not that I was going anywhere near whatever it was. I had a hearing to attend and a dinner date with a certain sexy detective. But I really had no clue what a sweat bath was. It sounded like code for a crack house. Did they still have those? Was crack still a thing? I was out of the loop in terms of drugs since I had left the department.

Cezar looked at me like I was an idiot. “What do you mean you don’t know what it is? A sweat bath is a sweat bath. A sauna. Only with vodka and meat. You get dinner, drink a bunch of Tito’s, and sweat. What’s so confusing about that?”

Everything. “Why would you eat a steak and drink vodka, then sweat? I really don’t get it.” Then I had a thought. “Oh wait, is this a gay club?” That made a lot more sense to me.

“No! What the hell do you think is going on there? Can’t a guy sit in a towel without someone thinking it’s a gay thing? I bet gay guys are sick of everyone assuming all they want to do is bang.” He shook his head. “Why does everyone have to be so wrapped up in sex? It’s not about sex. It’s about camaraderie. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

My lips pursed and I mentally counted to five. My mind was almost never in the gutter, so the whole thing was pretty damn ironic. Sometimes I wished my head were more in the gutter, but when your dating life is as sporadic as mine, you learn it does no good to fixate on sex. “I just don’t get the connection between steak and vodka and a sauna. One of these things is not like the other.”

“Meat sweats. It’s good for the constitution.”

Meat sweats? I felt a shudder roll over me. That was a horrifying concept. “Well, whatever. I’m not going there, regardless. You said it’s men only and I’m not about to ask someone named “Big Eddie” for a key to his private storage unit where there may or may not be a dead body.”

“You’re not going to ask him. Don’t be dense.” He scoffed. “You’ll have to pretend you’re one of the catering girls. Then you’ll have to look for the key.” He gave me a sideways glance. “Because no offense, you’re not exactly the kind of woman who can seduce a guy for information.”

Offense taken. “That’s a rude thing to say. I may not be Angelina Jolie, but I am not a troll.” I wasn’t. I was cute, well put together. I had gained a few pounds back, so I wasn’t hovering on the edge of anorexic-chic the way I had been after Ryan’s death, and while I did have a smattering of freckles, I had good skin. I wasn’t a supermodel, but I wasn’t objectionable. And I didn’t need to be insulted by a man with hair on his ears and a belly that rivaled a woman pregnant with triplets at full term.

“Don’t be all sensitive. I’m just saying you’re a nice girl, not a hooker.”

Still not okay. Cezar was basically the definition of a misogynist. “So hire a hooker to seduce Big Eddie.”

“No one but you can see me.”

That was the rub. Which meant that clearly at some point I had jerked around karma, because why else would it be biting me in the ass like this? Why was I the only one who had the pleasure of seeing Cezar Wozniak? Not fair at all. “I’m not going to a sweat bath unless it’s in Vegas and I’m guaranteed privacy and cleanliness. I’m not going to pretend to be a caterer. And I don’t want to see naked old mobsters sweating off meat and vodka.” Just in case that wasn’t clear.

“That’s why you can’t seduce men. You’re a priss.”

That made me turn the radio up another notch. I stared at the road and started singing along to the music. I didn’t care if Cezar thought I was a priss, but I didn’t want to be bullied into doing his bidding. He was going to have to learn manners.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about. Stick up your butt.”

“The eighties called and they want that carpet in your living room back,” I said, unable to resist.

“Hey, that was expensive carpet,” he said, clearly insulted.

“Sure, when you bought it in Atlantic City, circa 1985.”

He laughed. “That’s more like it. You have a little more bite to you. That was funny.”

“I don’t have a stick up my butt.” Not too far, anyway. “I like things orderly. I’ve always been that way. You have to understand, seeing ghosts isn’t orderly. It’s invasive. You are traumatized. I get it. Dying is a big deal. But I’m still doing my ordinary day-to-day thing and you have to recognize that if you want my help, you have to respect my time and my boundaries.” Maybe I needed an Intro to Death course of my own. Ryan had said there had been instructions after death on what was what, but clearly there was no unit on “how to respect your spiritual medium.” I needed to create a curriculum or I was never going to get any peace or privacy.

Cezar just snorted. “Does that mean we have to have like, appointments and shit? That’s very inconvenient.”

“What else are you doing?” I asked, exasperated. My social niceties evaporated. “You have eternity.”

“That was a low blow.”

He was literally the world’s most annoying ghost. I’d thought Ryan had irritating moments, but Cezar took the cake. Phil had been a dream compared to this guy. “Take it or leave it.”

“We’re both holding a pair of aces, sister.”

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

“I need your help. But if you don’t help me, I can make you help me by harassing you endlessly.”

That was my greatest fear. But I still figured I had a winning hand, if he wanted to use poker analogies. “I’m the only one who can hear you, remember? So I’m the only one who can help you find your body. And ultimately, the money. Wasn’t that what you really wanted? How much money?”

“Three million,” he said begrudgingly.

I whistled. “Not a small chunk of change. You want it to go to your kids, right?”

“Yeah, I have two boys. One of them is around your age. You single?”

The thought of dating Cezar’s son made me blanch. “No, not really. It’s complicated.”

“What is this complicated crap? Why does everyone under thirty-five want to play games? In my day you dated or you didn’t. There was no in-between unless you were just fooling around without a commitment. But that was different. None of this “taking a break” or “keeping it open” or all those stupid explanations my son gives for why he’s still online looking for chicks when he has a nice girl he’s been seeing.”

I couldn’t exactly argue. It was an odd modern trend to be constantly on the hunt for someone more attractive, more interesting, wealthier, and so on, online. But I found it hard to believe that any generation wouldn’t have done the same thing if they too had had access to dating sites and apps. “Maybe your son isn’t ready to settle down. How old is he?”

Hearing myself, I mentally groaned. Why was I inviting conversation with the Cleveland version of Goodfellas? In Cezar’s case, Flip-Flop Fellas. He didn’t feel menacing, just irritating.

“He’s twenty-six. How old are you?”

“Older than him. And not interested. I have a guy that I see.” I wasn’t sure how else to describe what Marner and I were. Cezar could think what he wanted, but I wasn’t interested in a blind date set up by a dead guy.

“So what you’re telling me is he is bangs you and gives you just enough hope that you’ll get married someday that you stick around.”

What was this, 1950? I wasn’t sitting around on the daily pining to get married. “Not at all. We’ve been friends for a long time, and we’re transitioning to something romantic.” Then I realized I had no desire to discuss what I didn’t understand myself with a sexist spirit. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Easy, kid. I don’t really care. Unless you want to date my son, then I do care.”

“Oh, I don’t.” I was pretty damn sure on that score.

“That’s a shame, because that would be ideal. I could still communicate with him through you and be involved in his life and your relationship.”

I envisioned Cezar sitting on my sofa night after night with me and his nameless son. No thanks. There was no reason to give a response, and Cezar had lapsed into silence. A glance over showed him looking morose. His death seemed to have finally sunk in and he probably was realizing everything he was going to miss. I felt bad for him. Sexist or not, he hadn’t deserved a bullet in the heart. At least I didn’t think he had.

After a few minutes, I broached the subject. “So why did someone, um, shoot you?” There was no delicate way to ask that question so I just threw it out there.

“The money. Or the fact that I was supposed to testify against Sammy in his upcoming court case. I had to take the deal. That’s the way it goes. Sammy would have done the same to me. But with me gone, the prosecutor’s case sucks. But Sammy would have only gotten three years, max, so I think it was more because of the money.”

“The three million dollars?”

“That and a few assets. I have investment property all over, under various business names.”

“Where did the three million come from?”

Cezar shot me a sly glance. “Why do you care?”

Because I was curious. I couldn’t help it. The ingenuity and daring of white-collar criminals fascinated me. I was a person who felt tremendous guilt when I accidentally left the store without paying for the twelve pack of Diet Coke on the bottom of my grocery cart. I couldn’t imagine having the cojones to just steal millions in cold hard cash. “I don’t. But I don’t want you following me around. I have a dinner date and you are not welcome. So give me a starting place and I’ll look into it.”

“Follow the money, find the body. Or find the body, and there will be the money. That’s obvious.”

“That’s it? That’s what I’m supposed to go on?”

“You’re a smart girl. You’ll figure it out.”

Then Cezar was gone. I breathed a huge sigh of relief and finished my drive home singing along to the Backstreet Boys, a guilty pleasure that brought to mind awkward middle school dances where I had been sporting braces, a denim mini-skirt and Uggs. I hadn’t been a seductress then either.

Find the body? Whatever. I couldn’t even find a parking spot most days.

---

Which proved one hundred percent accurate when I went downtown for Nick Pitrello’s hearing. I circled around the courthouse twice before begrudgingly parking in a lot that was at the bottom of the steepest hill east of San Francisco. Given that it was an unseasonably warm day, by the time I reached the security checkpoint, I was huffing and puffing and feeling more than a little dewy.

Marner met me there and I felt less than confident in my appeal as a woman. Granted, my outfit was still adorable, but my hair was corkscrewing and the majority of my makeup had melted off. Given Cezar’s ego-denting comments, I half-expected Marner to take one look at me and decide he’d been on drugs for the last two months. But as usual, he seemed unaware of my neuroses.

“Hey,” he said after I made it through the metal detector. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

No. “I’m going to have to face him eventually.” The kidnapping charges against Nick were the strongest ones the prosecution had. The murder charges were largely circumstantial, based on proximity and opportunity. There had been no DNA that connected Nick to Phil’s body. But there was evidence I had been drugged and handcuffed. My fear was they would try to say it was a consensual BDSM relationship, and the prosecutor had warned me that would be the defense’s tactic. But there was no explaining away the date rape drugs in my system. Or that I had gone missing, skipping set appointments with my mother and a client.

I still wasn’t prepared to see Nick in court. As he stood there and pleaded not guilty I sat in the back of the courtroom with Marner, palms sweating, stomach tight. Being involved in a high-profile crime was something you could never be prepared for, and I wasn’t exactly known for having nerves of steel or a strong stomach. Which was why I had quit my job as an evidence tech. So when Nick turned on his way out, clad in his orange jumpsuit, and gave me a smirk, I was horrified. Spots danced in front of my eyes and I could hear my breathing, shallow and anxious.

Marner’s hand snaked over my leg and took mine into his strong grip. He leaned over and murmured, “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

I nodded, but I didn’t have any words. I kind of really wasn’t okay. But I didn’t want to admit that. Because if I admitted it, I might crack like I had after Ryan’s death. Shatter like a windshield after a rock flies into it.

Oddly, the one positive that had come from Ryan’s death was the confirmation that the spirit world was real. Whatever the other side was, it did exist. It was hugely comforting, especially after I had faced my own mortality at the hands of a madman. If my number was up, at least there wasn’t a void. But I didn’t want to think about it. I wanted Nick Pitrello to go away, tossed in a cell, so I could avoid the concept of death for another forty years or so.

Except I had a dead guy who wanted me to find his body and his money, not necessarily in that order.

Cezar Wozniak could be a distraction from dealing with my own emotions. That was a positive. Because creative avoidance is a specialty of mine. I blame my mother, as anyone does.

So while Marner went to finish up a few things on his desk, I waited for him in the lobby, and I looked up the Schvitz. I got nothing. There was no club or restaurant called that. There was one obscure reference to it in an old online article, but it didn’t give an address. It just said it was members only and was continuing old world traditions in modern Cleveland. Old world presumably meaning Eastern European, since there was a huge influx of immigrants from that area all throughout Cleveland’s history, including today. You couldn’t swing a dead cat without hitting an orthodox church or Bosnian men playing dominos in a coffee shop.

Then I googled the word “schvitz” itself and discovered it was Hebrew for “to sweat.”

So even the name was literal and no-frills.

Meat sweats. I shuddered.