The Night Is Alive

“Almost nothing,” she agreed after a moment, disgust in her tone. She picked up the newspaper behind the bar. “Another girl dead, found on the riverbank. The police haven’t released cause of death, and when I tried to speak with them, I got nowhere. I tried to tell them Gus hadn’t just died—that there had to be someone else down there in the tunnel, someone who caused him to die.” She shook her head, studying him. “Look, you’re not even an agent. How are you going to get any information?”



He smiled. “I honestly have a private investigator’s license and I am now on the federal payroll as a consultant. Feel free to check that out. Call Jackson Crow. I think he’ll be expecting you.”



“Call him? I don’t have a number. All I could find in the material I have from Quantico was an email address. And I couldn’t reach him on an official line now. It’s nearly eight!”



“I have his cell number. And he might be in the office, anyway. He works long hours.”



“Right. So I could be calling anyone!”



He smiled at that. “Ever suspicious. That should make you a good agent, but you do have to go with your gut and trust someone at some point.”



“I’m really not seeing why that should be you,” she said.



“Ouch.”



“You could have approached me earlier—while there were still people here.”



“As you said, your grandfather’s funeral was today. And then, I wasn’t sure whether you wanted to advertise the fact that you’d called in...the ghost investigators.”



“Give me that number,” she said, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket.



He rattled off the numbers and she dialed. She watched him as she spoke. “Mr. Jackson Crow, please.”



Malachi could hear the deep murmur of Crow’s voice from where he stood.



“If you’re Jackson Crow, would you by any wild chance still be at work?” She was silent for a minute. “I see. Then...would you be good enough to call me back on an official line?”



Jackson murmured something again. She pressed the end button on her phone and studied him while she waited for it to ring. When it did, she looked at the exchange. After she’d answered, Malachi could once again hear the deep timbre of Crow’s voice as he spoke to Abby Anderson.



She thanked Crow, then ended the call. She frowned slightly, but now there seemed to be a touch of wonder in her eyes.



“He said that once we get an initial investigation going, he’ll come down himself.”



Malachi nodded.



“He said you do know what you’re doing.”



Malachi laughed at that. “I’ve been working as a P.I. I needed to be on my own. But I was a cop, up until about four years ago in the city of New Orleans. I have a connection in the homicide department here.”



“A connection?” she asked. For the first time he heard a touch of hope in her voice. “What kind of a connection.”



He smiled at that. “Detective David Caswell, homicide. My ex-partner. Have you met him?”



“No.”



He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to her. “That’s David’s card. Keep it with you. He’s a great guy. He married a woman from Savannah about a year ago and moved up here. But when we were both working in New Orleans, he was my partner.”



He waited.



She was still looking at him, as if he were an alien who’d suddenly landed in the tavern. Or...a ghost.



He sighed. “So, I guess you’re with me—or on your own.”



She was silent for another minute. “All right, then,” she said at last. “We’ll work together. I’ve lived here most of my life, and I’ve gone through all the real training, but you have the connections. You said you wanted to get started. What do you want to do?”



“Let’s compile the little that we do know about the victims. Then we’ll figure out what we want to ask when we get in to see David. This is your city. Tomorrow I want to see where the bodies were discovered.”



“Blue Anderson just showed you where I found my grandfather,” she said huskily.



He took out his notepad and pen. A number of law enforcement professionals were now using their smartphones as notebooks, but he still preferred a pen and pad. Maybe actually writing the words gave him time to think about them. “Our first victim, Ruth Seymour, was a young woman who loved the city. She came to Savannah happy, excited and ready to enjoy a bit of history searching on her own before meeting her friends. She did check into her bed-and-breakfast—her car was found in their parking lot. Next victim was Rupert Holloway from Iowa. It’s easy to understand why no immediate connection was made with the first victim, since Rupert was a man and in the city on business. Ms. Seymour would have been searching out tourist haunts. But a mobile phone exec? I’m not so sure. He was due to see business associates for lunch on the river—but he never showed. Our third victim was a student in the city. Her hometown was Memphis, Tennessee. So far, we don’t know where she was last seen, only that her body was discovered on the riverbank.”



“So, they have in common that they were all found by the river,” Abby said. “Plus they were from out of town.”



He nodded.



“And,” she said slowly, “you think that my grandfather died because he knew something about the murders or the murderer.”



“Probably. You found him in the tunnel. The tunnel leads down to the river and a dock. Well, not exactly. There’s landfill now, but basically, when you follow the twists and turns of the tunnel, you come out at the very edge of the Dragonslayer property—about a hundred yards from the embankment and another fifty from the dock.”



“But...Gus really didn’t spend his time walking around in the tunnel,” Abby said.



“No. So he went down there for a reason,” Malachi said. He closed his notebook. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow around ten. We’ll have a talk with David and you can show me around the city, the river and the docks.”



“All right.”



He waited. He thought she’d ask him where he was staying. She didn’t.



“Well, then, lock me out, Ms. Anderson. I made sure that both grates—at the entrance to the tunnel here and at the riverbank—were secured and bolted.” He glanced around. “There should be a better alarm system here.”



“We’ve been fine. And don’t even suggest that we’d harbor a murderer here!” Abby said indignantly.



He raised a brow. “Hard to say, isn’t it—when you don’t know who the murderer might be.”



She didn’t respond to that but said, “Allow me to show you out.”



As Malachi walked to the door, she followed. “This is a big, rambling place for you to stay alone, Ms. Anderson.”



She smiled at him. “Blue’s here, isn’t he? I’m not alone. Good night, Mr. Gordon.” She closed the door and he heard her lock it. Bemused, he headed out to the parking lot for his car. He wasn’t particularly good with people anymore, he realized.



But then again, that was why he’d worked on his own for the past four years.



* * *



“Hey!” Abby said aloud when the door was closed. “Blue Anderson! Why don’t you speak to me?”



She got no reply and the tavern was silent. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it had grown late. Well, not that late. It was only eight-thirty. Still, she’d been up most of the previous night. She needed to get some sleep. Looking around one last time—wary in case anything had been left unsecured—she decided she should pack it in for the night and go to bed.



Jackson Crow had responded. She should’ve been elated.



But...



He’d sent her a rookie!



She told herself she should be grateful that she received a reply at all—even if it came in the form of Malachi Gordon. The man who claimed he’d spoken to Blue. Well, Crow had told her on the phone that if she and Malachi found a situation in which the Krewe could be of real assistance, he’d come himself and he’d bring more associates. Gordon also claimed to have an in with the police, which could help. And, if she needed someone intimidating, the man was tall and did have a strange air of authority about him. He wore his suit well; he was ruggedly attractive, which could be good with the right people.



She hoped he didn’t usually walk around claiming he’d just spoken with the local ghost.



Abby cleaned up the mess she’d made when she’d broken the liquor to create a makeshift weapon. Then she went upstairs, but rather than turning in, she walked back to Gus’s office. She’d started to go through his papers and invoices during the past week, but had been continually interrupted by someone needing an answer to a restaurant or bar question—or people who wanted to tell her how sorry they were about Gus and then tried to make her feel better by mentioning his age and reminding her that he’d led a good life.



Now she sat back behind his desk and picked up a sheaf of papers.



Invoices from liquor companies.



She looked around, feeling the silence of the tavern weigh down on her.



“Blue?” she said again.



But the ghost of her ancestor didn’t appear.



She looked back at the papers in her hands. She saw Gus’s handwriting on some of them. One note indicated that a certain flavor of vodka had not gone over well with his customers. Another said that the salesman now working for a particular company was one of the best he’d ever met.



As she began to leaf through them, another paper slipped down to the desk, smaller and different from the invoices. It was a sheet ripped from a small notepad. She quickly read the words he’d written, almost as if he’d been thinking out loud and had scribbled them down.



The murders. Am I right? Call Abby.



Just as she read the words, she heard the loud ship’s buzzer that was the tavern’s doorbell.



It startled her so much that she jumped and the sheets she’d been reading flew into the air, wafting back down in disarray.