Ghost Walk
Ghost
Walk
Book 1 of the
Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud Mystery Series
Melissa Bowersock
Copyright © 2017 by Melissa Bowersock
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in an online review or one printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
First Printing
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover image by coversbydesign.net.
ISBN-13: 978-1542422161
ISBN-10: 1542422167
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
We writers really have it so much easier now compared to decades ago. We used to have to haul our buns down to the local library or book store in order to look for information that would lend our stories the authenticity we wanted. Nowadays, it’s easy to look up something online right as the need arises, providing, of course, that we find good, accurate information. Sometimes, however, it’s prudent to simply talk to an expert, especially if we’re piecing out an aspect of the story that we have limited experience with.
I’m no sailor; never have been, don’t want to be. So when this story demanded authenticity in that realm, I called on an expert, a friend who sails regularly. As I knew he would, he made himself immediately available to me for any and all questions I had, correcting my misconceptions (thank God), and giving me the information I needed to bug out that particular plot point. For that, I am deeply indebted to Neil Gaughan. It’s a fact that we writers do not create our fantasy worlds in isolation; we often rely on the knowledge and willingness of others to help us set the stage of our stories. From Google to Gaughan, from beta readers to editors, I have an entire legion of helpers and supporters behind every book. I couldn’t do it without them.
Books by
Melissa Bowersock
The Appaloosa Connection
The Blue Crystal
Burning Through
Finding Travis
(No Time for Travis Series Book 1)
Being Travis
(No Time for Travis Series Book 2)
Fleischerhaus
Ghost Walk
(Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud
Mystery Book 1)
Skin Walk
(Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud
Mystery Book 2)
Star Walk
(Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud
Mystery Book 3)
Dream Walk
(Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud
Mystery Book 4)
Dragon Walk
(Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud
Mystery Book 5)
Demon Walk
(Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud
Mystery Book 6)
Goddess Rising
Lightning Strikes
Love’s Savage Armpit by Amber Flame
(Originally published as The Pits of Passion)
The Man in the Black Hat
Marcia Gates: Angel of Bataan
Queen’s Gold
The Rare Breed
Remember Me
Sonnets for Heidi
Stone’s Ghost
Superstition Gold
Ghost
Walk
Book 1 of the Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud Mystery Series
Melissa Bowersock
ONE
Lacey felt her eyes start to glaze over. Dragging in a breath, she folded the classified section and tossed it onto the pile along with the rest of the LA Times. She couldn’t look at one more want ad. Not today. Thank God it was Saturday.
She pushed away her empty cereal bowl and reached for her coffee cup. Sipping the dark liquid, she frowned. Cold. How long had she been staring at help wanted ads? Too long.
She went to the sink and rinsed the cold coffee from her cup, then poured some fresh. Staring out the kitchen window at her tiny patch of greenery—morning glories climbing up the block wall between her apartment building and the next—she knew it was going to be another warm day. Even with the June gloom clouds so common this time of year, the temperatures would still soar. She told herself it was a blessing that she was not outside taping off a crime scene or working a shooting in a vacant lot somewhere downtown.
Blessing.Yeah.
Returning to her tiny kitchen table, she sat down and dragged the front section of the Times out of the pile to scan the headlines. Just this last cup and then she’d start working out and doing laundry. Later, after that bit of physical activity, she’d get on her laptop and do some more job-searching.
She certainly never thought she’d be in this position. Over eight years on the LAPD, the last four in Homicide—gone. Her boyfriend of five years—gone. Now working the swing shift security detail for a self-storage company. Just the thought of her downfall still brought an embarrassed flush to her freckled face.
She tucked her dark red hair behind her ear and bent to the newspaper. Shootings, car crashes, drug deals gone bad. A broken water main flooded a busy intersection. A fire razed an aging apartment building downtown.
Then, as they did so often, the words Homicide and LAPD jumped out at her. She set down her coffee cup and read carefully.
An LAPD recovery crew is digging up the back yard of an older home on Fuller Avenue in the Fairfax area, searching for more human remains.
LAPD spokesman Winston Brown said a skull and an arm bone were recovered on Wednesday as a result of a tip. While homicide officers could not yet confirm the identity of the remains, the initial examination suggested a young female. The age of the bones could link the find to the mysterious disappearance of several girls in the same area decades ago, Brown said.
The Fairfax Stalker, a person or persons thought to be responsible for the disappearance of nine teenaged girls in the 1980s, was never caught. The last disappearance to fit the profile occurred in 1991. None of the bodies of those nine girls were ever found.
Lacey sat back in her chair and stared out the sliding glass door, although her eyes never focused on the narrow strip of yard or the block wall beyond it. The Fairfax Stalker. How many hours had she pored over that file? How many times had she stared into the eyes of those poor girls? Isabel Ramirez, Lety Parks, Esther Eisenburg. She knew them all, their names, their faces, their hopes and dreams. Esther, only thirteen, had wanted to be a policewoman when she grew up. But she never grew up. She disappeared while walking home from a movie one summer evening. Disappeared without a trace.
Until now?
Lacey frowned down at the article again. Fuller Avenue. Fifteen miles away. Energized now, she tossed the paper aside and went to get dressed.
Her last cup of coffee cooled on the table.
~~~
She had no trouble finding the location. The quiet residential street was blocked for half its width by a loose crowd of people massed against crime tape and portable barriers. Several uniformed policemen kept the crowd in check. Lacey saw some of the rubberneckers holding up cell phones to video whatever was going on down the driveway to the backyard.
She parked a half block away and walked up to join the crowd. Three LAPD vehicles sat in the driveway, blocking most of the view to the back yard, but over the murmur of the crowd, Lacey thought she could hear the sounds of shovels cutting into hard earth.
On the far right, a local TV reporter was interviewing a detective who stood inside the barrier. Winston Brown. Calm, direct, not easily rattled. He was their best spokesman. He answered the reporter’s questions easily, not the least pertur
bed when the woman insisted on reframing and re-asking every question that brought a response of, “No comment.” Lacey shook her head. She could never do that. She had no patience for such obvious manipulations and she’d never been good at hiding her annoyance.
Scanning the officers that stood guard, she recognized them all, and nodded to the ones who noticed her. Then she saw Captain Shaw talking quietly to another detective several yards inside the barrier. She edged that way, weaving through the sparser crowd at the fringe. Making her way to the outside of the group, she called out in a quiet voice.
“Captain? Captain?”
If he heard, he gave no sign. The large black man continued his conversation, either out of earshot or patently ignoring calls from possible reporters. Lacey cleared her throat and tried again.
“Victor?”
That did it. The dark head swiveled her way, his brows knitted until he recognized her. She saw him heave a sigh, say something to the detective, and walk her way.
“Hey, Lace,” he said quietly. He didn’t smile. “How you doing?”
“Fine,” she lied. This was neither the time nor the place. “I saw the article in the paper,” she said without preamble. “Is it…?”
Shaw shook his head. “Come on, Lace. You know I can’t give you any more information than what Win’s giving out over there right now. Give me a break.”
Lacey fumed. Yes, she knew, but damn it, this was her case. Or had been. No one else had shown any interest in the decades-old cold case. Until now.
“So you got a tip?” she asked instead.
Shaw nodded. “Something like that.” In a low voice, he said, “Lady that lives here hired a medium. Thought she had ghosts. Guy said there was a body buried out back and she started digging.”
Lacey’s eyebrows jumped up to her hairline.
“You didn’t hear that from me,” the captain said in a low growl.
“Uh, yes—I mean no, Captain.” She glanced around furtively. “A medium?”
“That’s what she said.” The captain tipped his head up, his chin pointing to somewhere behind Lacey. “You want to know more than that, talk to that guy.”
Lacey turned slightly, angling her head around as casually as possible. Behind her and six or eight feet away stood a tall, slender man. His straight black hair was caught back in a ponytail. His high cheekbones and the copper hue of his skin spoke of Native American heritage.
“An Indian?” Lacey asked, turning back to the captain.
Victor nodded. “That’s the medium.” He gave her a small smile, shrugged, and walked away.
Lacey stood dumbly, staring after the captain’s retreating back. A medium? Like a ghost buster? She glanced backward again and found the man’s black eyes on her. His expression was completely blank, showing no emotion at all. As if he were carved out of wood.
Lacey swallowed, lifted her chin, and walked over.
“Hi,” she said with the confidence she’d learned to show but never felt. She stuck out her hand. “I’m Lacey Fitzpatrick…” She almost said LAPD, but caught herself.
The man regarded her silently for a heartbeat, then took her hand in an easy grip. “Sam Firecloud,” he said.
“I understand you were instrumental in finding the remains?” she asked.
Again that careful hesitation. “Yeah.”
Not a great conversationalist, Lacey thought. She appraised him with the practiced eye of a detective. His chest and arms filled out the t-shirt admirably, and the slope and angle of his neck and shoulders bespoke regular workouts. Lacey guessed his lean body type would not take on those muscles willingly, so obviously he was disciplined in his regimen. She guessed the intensity in his eyes permeated everything he did.
“Can I ask, uh, how you found it? You see, I used to be LAPD, and I worked on the Fairfax Stalker case.”
Sam’s eyes widened slightly, then regained the hooded look that seemed more usual for him. His gaze swiveled from Lacey to the captain and back again.
“I don’t know anything about that,” he said.
Lacey could feel a needle of irritation under her skin.
“But how did you find her?” she asked. “What did you see?”
He shrugged. “I don’t see. I feel.” He turned those black eyes away from her, silently regarding the limited action beyond the barricades.
“Look,” Lacey said, working to keep her frustration in check, “I really want to know about this. I’m not doubting you.” She blew out a heavy sigh. “This is important to me.”
Just then a shout rang out from the backyard. Every officer not assigned to crowd control rushed to the back. The onlookers pressed forward, cell phones raised, and the uniformed officers stood up tall in response.
Lacey turned to watch, but the limited view was blocked by buildings and vehicles. All she could tell was that there was some commotion going on. They must have found more.
She turned back to Sam. Instead of watching the policemen, he was watching her.
The intensity of his stare had an almost tangible weight to it. She squared her shoulders and pushed on.
“Listen, can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
Again that stony stare. She held her breath for a few seconds, and was just about to start pleading.
“Sure,” he said.
She breathed again. “Yeah?” Smiling, she said, “My car’s down here.”
He followed her down the street, ambling slowly behind her quick walk. She unlocked her car and opened the passenger door and he slid into the seat. As she climbed into the driver’s seat, she was painfully aware of the paper McDonald’s napkins on the floor and the empty frappé cup in the cup holder.
“There’s a little diner not too far from here,” she said. “Is that okay?”
“Sure.”
He was silent the rest of the way. Rather than babble as she was tempted to do, she stayed resolutely as silent as he was.
Once they slid into opposite sides of a booth at the diner, she waited for the server to bring menus.
“You can have lunch if you want,” Lacey said. “I’m going to. I haven’t had anything but a bowl of cereal all day.”
She ordered a club sandwich with fries. He ordered a chicken Caesar salad.
“You’re better than me,” she muttered as the waitress moved away. She saw one side of Sam’s mouth lift slightly.
“So,” she said, hunching forward, her elbows on the table, “what do you do? How did you find out where she was?”
Sam took his time stirring sugar in his iced tea, tasting it and setting the spoon aside carefully. Finally, when Lacey felt like she was ready to scream, he spoke.
“Lady called me, the friend of a friend of a friend. Said she thought her house was haunted, and could I help.”
“Why did she think it was haunted? What was she experiencing?”
Sam shrugged. “Don’t know. Didn’t ask.” He looked up and pinned Lacey with those bottomless black eyes. “I don’t want to know what’s been going on before I walk; I don’t want any advance knowledge. I don’t touch anything. I mean, obviously my feet in my shoes are touching the ground, but I don’t touch anything else—objects, walls. I unfocus my vision so I’m not seeing the things around me. It’s like looking through a fog or a mist. I can see well enough to not run into walls or fall down stairs, but I don’t really see anything in the house. Then I walk.”
The waitress brought their lunches. Lacey dumped ketchup on her fries and noted that Sam picked the croutons off his salad. Health freak, she thought.
She forced herself to let Sam eat without prompting him to go on, but it was killing her. Guy couldn’t eat and talk at the same time, she told herself.
At one point she noticed him spearing a forkful of crunchy romaine and as he brought it up to his mouth, his eyes settled on her and she swore she saw a gleam of sadistic humor there. He was keeping her in suspense on purpose—and enjoying it.
“So you walk,” she said finally. “By you
rself? Or did the lady walk with you?”
Sam chewed slowly, then swallowed. “She came behind me. She started to tell me things, but I asked her to not say anything.”
Another mouthful, more slow chewing. He stared at her. She stared back.
“There’s a basement under the house. That’s where the energy was drawing me. I went down there and heard crying. Sobbing, panicky. Wanting Mommy, wanting Daddy. Crying so much it turned to hiccups.” He lowered his head slightly, staring at her from under his dark brows. “You know how kids do? Cry until they can’t breathe?”
Lacey nodded. Just that simple description squeezed her heart.
“I followed the energy to a corner, and I knelt down there. I put myself between her and the rest of the basement. Like a shield.”
Lacey paused, a French fry halfway to her mouth. She could feel that, feel him, shielding the girl, buffering her. Protecting her.
Sam ate leisurely, his attention all on his salad. Lacey took a bite of her sandwich, but she’d lost much of her appetite.
“I asked her what she needed,” he said. “She wanted her parents to know where she was.” He speared a piece of chicken with his fork. “She told me where she was buried.” He took the bite of chicken and chewed casually.
Lacey blinked as if coming slowly awake. She sat back against the booth’s cushion.
“Did she tell you… what happened to her? What was done to her?”
“No,” Sam said, shaking his head. “But I could feel it. It was bad.”
Lacey felt her breath leave her body. She deflated, shoulders slumping. Her head was too heavy to hold up, so she braced it with a hand beneath her chin.
“Do you know her name?” she asked softly.
Sam’s eyes, unfocused, drifted up and away. “Izzy,” he said.
Lacey squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She felt tears pooling at the corners. “Isabel Ramirez,” she said. “She was eleven.”