Ghost Hunter Read online

  It hadn’t taken him very long to figure out Cassidy was trying to get him into bed. He believed her when she’d said she made him a home-cooked meal to thank him for his help, but considering she’d been wearing those skimpy shorts as she traipsed around his kitchen, he suspected she had more than dinner planned. However, he wasn’t one-hundred-percent sure until she’d suggested they share a slice of cake. After that, it had been pretty damn obvious what was going on, and though he should have stopped her, he couldn’t. He wanted her more than he could remember ever wanting any other woman and when she’d sat down on his lap, he hadn’t wanted to fight it any longer.

  Cassidy stirred, interrupting his musings, and he looked down to see her blinking up at him sleepily.

  His mouth curved. “Good morning, beautiful.”

  She pushed her hair back from her face with a laugh. “I’m not sure how beautiful I look when I first wake up, considering all my makeup is off and my hair is a mess.”

  He tilted up her chin to kiss her on the mouth. “Well, I think you look gorgeous even with all your makeup off and your hair a mess. It means you spent a wild night in bed.”

  She laughed again and rolled onto her back to stretch her arms over her head. As she did, the sheet slid down to expose the tops of her breasts, revealing the jagged scar on her chest. He’d seen it last night when she had taken off her top, but he’d been way too focused on her naked body to pay much attention to it. He had read in the papers she’d been stabbed, but they hadn’t said where or how serious it had been. Looking at the scar more closely now, he realized how lucky she was to be alive. It looked as if Del Vecchio’s knife had just missed her heart.

  Cassidy must have noticed the direction of his gaze because she flushed and quickly tugged up the sheet to cover the scar.

  “You don’t need to do that,” he said softly.

  Her grip tightened on the sheet. “Yes, I do. It’s ugly.”

  “It’s not ugly.” Taking the sheet from her, he lowered it to where it had been before, then leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss to the puckered skin before lifting his head to gaze down at her. “It’s part of you and there’s nothing about you that’s ugly.”

  Her eyes glistened with tears and he was sure she was going to cry, but she simply reached up to cup his cheek with her hand. He covered it with his own.

  “I knew you’d been stabbed, but I didn’t know it was that bad,” he said. “How long were you in the hospital?”

  “I was in intensive care for two weeks, then for almost three more after they moved me to a regular room.”

  He frowned. “Five weeks? That means…”

  She nodded. “That I’ve only been out of the hospital for a week and a half.”

  Trace was surprised to hear Cassidy had just gotten out of the hospital. He had never been knifed, but he’d known guys who had, so he knew she probably still experienced some pain if she exerted herself too much or did something too strenuous. Two things she had almost certainly done when she’d been running away from that ghost in Delhi. She hadn’t said a word, though, hadn’t once complained. That showed what an amazing and resilient woman she truly was, not to mention tough as nails.

  “I died that night, you know,” she said softly. “Twice, actually. Once in my apartment with the EMTs and once on the operating table. When we were at the diner in Delhi, you asked me if I had a connection to the other side. Do you think that could be it?”

  Trace didn’t answer right away. Finding out Cassidy had died shook him to the core more than it should have and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. He swallowed hard.

  “It’s possible.” He reached out to gently brush her hair back from her face. “But let’s not talk about that. Whatever connection you have or don’t have isn’t important. What’s important is that you’re alive now and that you’re safe.”

  She opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it again. After a moment, she caught her lower lip between her teeth and nodded.

  He bent to kiss her. “I’m starving. Why don’t we get cleaned up and see if we can find something to eat?”

  Once he stepped into the shower with Cassidy and started running his soapy hands all over her naked body, however, it was impossible to simply get cleaned up, no matter how hungry for food he was. Breakfast could wait. The urge to make love to her in the shower couldn’t.

  As a result, it was almost two hours later before they finally made it out to the kitchen, by which time he was even more ravenous and in need of some serious caffeine. Figuring coffee would take off the edge while they rustled up something to eat, he made that first. He was getting a filter from the cabinet when Cassidy’s cell phone rang. She picked it up from the counter and glanced at the call display.

  “It’s my mom,” she said. “I have to take it. I’ll just be a minute.”

  Trace listened to her side of the conversation with half an ear as he finished making the coffee. When he was done, he rooted around in the fridge for something to eat. Damn, there was no pizza. Or leftovers from last night, either. He eyed the pineapple, wondering how long it would take to cut up the thing.

  Cassidy must have disapproved of his breakfast plans because she shooed him away from the fridge as he reached for the pineapple and grabbed a plastic jug from one of the shelves instead.

  “No, Mom, I’m not staying by myself,” Cassidy said into the phone. “I’m staying at a friend’s house.” She smiled at Trace, then frowned at whatever her mother must have said. “Actually, it’s a guy friend… Well, I suppose you could say we’re dating. We’ve been spending a lot of time to together lately… No, we haven’t talked about it… Yes, he’s very nice.”

  Trace arched a brow as he read the label when Cassidy set the plastic jug down on the counter. Ready-made pancake mix. Damn, that was cool.

  “Yes, Mom, he has a job. In fact, he owns his own business… What does he do?” Cassidy turned to look at Trace questioningly. “He’s a…private investigator. He specializes in…” She gave him a smile. “Tough cases.”

  Trace’s mouth quirked. Tough cases. That was one way to put it. He watched as she took the frying pan out of the dishwasher and set it on the stove, wondering if he should offer to make breakfast so she could talk to her mother.

  She covered the bottom portion of the phone with her hand and glanced at him. “Could you get the dishes and silverware?”

  He had to get those out of the dishwasher, too, and was glad Cassidy had turned it on before they’d had dessert the night before. Over by the stove, Cassidy poured the pre-made pancake batter into the hot pan. He smiled, amazed she could make pancakes and talk on the phone at the same time.

  It sounded as if she and her mother were close. He couldn’t say the same about his mother and himself. She had left when he was five because she hadn’t been able to stand the fact that his father had been a cop. Apparently, she hadn’t wanted anything to do with her son, either, because he never saw or heard from her again. Thirty years later and it still bothered the hell out of him.

  Cassidy set her phone down on the counter and gave him a rueful smile as she transferred the pancakes onto the plates.

  “Sorry about that,” she said. “My mom loves to talk.”

  He picked up the coffee mugs and carried them over to the table. “No problem. You could have talked longer if you wanted. We could have kept the pancakes warm in the oven.”

  She laughed as she sat down. “If I did that, we’d be having them for dinner.”

  Trace chuckled. “I got that impression.”

  He slathered butter and syrup on his stack of pancakes, then picked up his fork and dug in. They were fluffy and light and way better than any he’d ever made, that was for sure. Hell, they were even better than the ones at the diner up by the freeway.

  Cassidy drizzled syrup on her pancakes. “Everyone in my family is close. Mom makes sure of that. It drove her absolutely nuts when I wouldn’t go back home to Vermont to recuperate after I got attack
ed.”

  He took a swallow of coffee. “Why didn’t you?”

  She shrugged. “I thought about it, but figured if I did, it was kind of like letting Del Vecchio win. I wasn’t going to let what he did to me ruin the life I made here. I was also afraid if I went back home to Mom and Dad’s, she’d never want me to leave again.”

  “That means she cares about you.”

  “Yeah, I know. But it also means she can be way too overprotective. She still thinks my sister and I are little girls.” Cassidy picked up her fork. “She’s like the ultimate mom. She keeps all the stuff from when we were kids. Every drawing we ever made, every craft project, every report card, every Mother’s Day card, clippings of hair from when we were babies. She won’t even let my father paint over the doorjamb where we marked out how much we grew each birthday. I’m telling you, she’s a little insane.”

  Trace started to laugh, but then stopped and frowned as something suddenly occurred to him. Cassidy must have seen his expression because she groaned.

  “That sounded awful, didn’t it? I didn’t mean to say that my mom is crazy. I know she does all those things because she loves my sister and me. It’s just—”

  “It didn’t sound awful,” Trace said. “I know exactly what you meant.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Then why were you looking at me like that just now?”

  “Because I was wondering if Del Vecchio’s mother could be like your mother.”

  “My mother? Thanks a lot.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m saying that if his mother kept clippings of hair from when he was a baby, then the funeral home might have cremated the sonofabitch after all.”

  Cassidy gave him a confused look. “I don’t follow. You mean Del Vecchio would be able to come back if his mother kept a lock of his hair from when he was a baby?”

  “Normally, no. A few clippings of hair usually wouldn’t be enough. But if she kept a lot of clippings and maybe some other things, too, like baby teeth let’s say, he could have used them to guide himself back to this plane of existence. Like you said, he was one nasty bastard.”

  She picked up her mug and took a sip of coffee. “Okay, so how are we going to find out if she kept anything?”

  “Ask her,” he said simply. “If she used a funeral home in Fairfield, then that probably means she lives in the area. Your roommate Darcy never mentioned where Del Vecchio’s mother lived, did she?”

  Cassidy shook her head. “No, but then again we didn’t sit around and chat about him or his family. I thought he was creepy from the first time I met him.”

  “It’s okay. I can find out from someone at the Fairfield PD. Del Vecchio can’t be that common a name. I’ll give them a call after we eat.”

  Trace considered calling Muncie, but quickly changed his mind. While the other man could definitely get him the information, Muncie would try to connect it to the current serial murders he was investigating and almost certainly ask questions. Which was why Trace called a guy he knew who worked in dispatch at the Fairfield Police Department instead, Keith Tobin.

  “Hey, Trace, my man, what’s up?” Keith asked.

  “Not too much. Your sister hasn’t had any more trouble with that ex of hers, has she?”

  “No trouble at all, thanks to you.”

  Keith’s sister had unknowingly married an asshole of a shapeshifter who didn’t want to play nice when she wanted a divorce. After figuring out his brother-in-law wasn’t quite human, Keith had called Trace and he’d paid the guy a less than friendly visit.

  “Glad to hear it,” Trace said. “Listen Keith, I need a favor.”

  “Sure. Name it.”

  “I need you to check the computer and see if you can find a name for Carson Del Vecchio’s mother.”

  “Del Vecchio? The serial killer?”

  Trace nodded. “That’s him.”

  “I don’t have to look it up for you. His mother’s name is Joyce Reynolds. The woman has been a major pain in the ass since the bastard took a header off that balcony.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s called almost every day since Del Vecchio bought it. Once his name got released to the papers, every freak on the planet has shown up at her house wanting to see where the local serial killer grew up. When they do, Mrs. Reynolds calls and demands we go out there and chase them off. Every dispatch operator and uniform in the city knows her address by heart.”

  Trace jotted down the address on a notepad as his friend rattled it off. “Thanks, Keith.”

  “No problem. I don’t know if you plan on talking to her or what, but if you do, be warned. The woman’s as nutty as a fruitcake.”

  That could explain why her son turned out to be such a model citizen. Trace thanked Keith again, then hung up.

  “Del Vecchio’s mother lives in Fairfield, only her name is Reynolds,” he told Cassidy. “I’m going to pay her a visit. You want to take a ride with me?”

  “Of course. But yesterday you said it was safer for me to stay here.”

  “It probably would be, but I have to admit that yesterday I spent more time worrying about you than focusing on what I was doing. I’d feel a whole lot better if you come with me so I can keep an eye on you. But if you feel safer staying here, I understand.”

  “I feel a lot safer with you than sitting around here by myself. I’ll go get my coat.”

  While he waited for Cassidy, Trace grabbed his jacket and shrugged into it, then checked the sawed-off shotgun to make sure it was loaded. If Del Vecchio made an appearance at his mother’s house, he wanted to be ready for him. Trace just hoped he didn’t have to shoot him in front of Mommy Dearest.

  “What’s our cover story?” Cassidy asked once they were in the Hummer.

  He glanced at her as he pulled out of the garage, his mouth quirking. “Cover story?”

  “Yeah. I assume we’re not going to walk in there and tell her you’re a ghost hunter and I’m the woman who pushed her serial killer son off a balcony.”

  “You do watch a lot of cop shows.” Trace chuckled. “But you’re right. We should probably be more discreet than that. I’ll tell her I’m a detective with the Stamford PD working on the new string of serial murders and that you’re assisting me with the case. We’ll say we’re there trying to determine if the person responsible for these recent murders might have had some connection to her son.”

  He’d considered introducing Cassidy as his partner, but she didn’t look like a cop. He’d keep it simple and say she was just helping out. Joyce Reynolds would almost certainly buy that.

  “Okay,” Cassidy said. “But how are you going to ask her if she kept anything from her son? I can’t imagine how you’re going to work that into the conversation.”

  Trace shrugged. “I’m not sure yet, but I’ll work it in somehow.”

  He didn’t want to tell Cassidy he didn’t have a clue what he was going to say. Exactly how the hell he was going to bring that up to the woman? Excuse me, Mrs. Reynolds, do you happen to have any of your dead son’s remains stashed in the house? That’d go over real well.

  The Reynolds home was a small two-story house on a quiet tree-lined street, with an old, concrete birdbath on the front lawn and a set of neatly trimmed hedges lining the modest porch.

  “It doesn’t exactly scream serial killer, does it?” Cassidy asked as they walked up the steps and onto the porch.

  Trace pressed the doorbell. “You’d be surprised.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the curtain in the window flutter as if whoever was inside had peeked out to see who was at the door. But by the time he turned his head to look, the curtain had fallen back into place. He was wondering if he should ring the bell again when the door opened and a woman’s face peered out. Well past middle age, she regarded them suspiciously from behind oversized glasses.

  “Mrs. Reynolds?” Trace asked.

  “Yes. Can I help you?”

  Trace pulled out his badge and held it up. “I’m
Detective McCord with the Stamford Police Department and this is Ms. Kincaide. She’s working with us on the string of recent serial murders in the area. We were wondering if we could come in and ask you a few questions.”

  Joyce Reynolds looked from him to Cassidy, then back to him again, as if trying to decide whether to let them in or not. After a moment, she opened the door wider. She held a fluffy orange cat in her arms and the animal blinked at them with curious gold eyes.

  Trace waited for Cassidy to enter, then followed. He looked around as Joyce Reynolds closed the door behind them and led them into the living room. Between the record player and stacks of vinyl LPs, the gray-finished wood paneling, and the console television, the place looked like something straight out of a freaking Happy Days flashback. There was even plastic covering the flower-print couch and matching loveseat.

  “Please sit down,” Joyce said, indicating the couch. “I made some fresh lemonade. Can I get either of you some?”

  Trace glanced at Cassidy, who nodded. He did the same. “Thank you.”

  Setting the cat down on the floor, the woman disappeared into the kitchen. Trace was tempted to take a peek at the other room just to see if there was a Formica table and pastel-colored refrigerator straight out of the 1950s, but he resisted the urge and instead sat down on the couch beside Cassidy.

  “So far, so good, I guess,” Cassidy said softly. “For a minute there, I didn’t think she was going to let us in.”

  “Yeah. Me, either.”

  The cat let out a meow and came over to rub against his leg.

  Cassidy smiled. “I think someone likes you.”

  Trace grunted. “Let’s hope her owner’s as amiable.”

  He reached down to scratch the cat behind the ears. Apparently, the animal must have considered that some sort of invitation because she jumped up onto the couch to sit beside him.

  “Carrot, you bad cat, bothering our guests.”