Ghost Hunter Read online

  Trace looked up to see Joyce Reynolds coming into the living room. She was carrying a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and three glasses. She set it down on the table, then gave him an apologetic look as she picked up the cat.

  “I’m sorry about that. She’s not usually so forward.”

  He gave her a smile. “Don’t worry about it. She was just introducing herself.”

  Joyce put the cat on the loveseat, giving Carrot an affectionate pat as she sat down beside the animal. Picking up the pitcher, she filled the glasses with lemonade, then handed one to him before doing the same to Cassidy.

  “What kind of questions did you want to ask me, Detective?”

  He leaned forward on the couch. “Have you heard about the recent murders over in Stamford?”

  She waved her hand. “Oh goodness, of course I have. I can’t believe the papers are calling it a copycat, though. We all know it isn’t some copycat killing all those women.”

  Trace frowned. The woman couldn’t know about Del Vecchio’s ghost, could she?

  “Ma’am?”

  “It’s the Stamford Stabber. Which confirms what I’ve been telling the police all along when I said it wasn’t my little boy who murdered those other women. It was someone else and now that the real Stamford Stabber has started killing again, my boy’s name is going to be cleared.” Her lips curved into a smile as she went back to petting the cat again. “It also means that people will finally see that little whore fabricated the whole story about my Carson attacking her. Won’t they, Carrot?”

  Was she talking about Cassidy? If she was, then that was an interesting take on things. Keith Tobin had obviously been right about Del Vecchio’s mother. The woman clearly had a few screws loose. Trace glanced at Cassidy to see her looking at the other woman in astonishment.

  “Ma’am,” he said, turning back to Joyce Reynolds. “Are you referring to the woman who was stabbed in her apartment by your son several weeks ago?”

  Her gray eyes narrowed. “Of course, that’s who I’m talking about. And Carson didn’t stab her. She probably did it to herself after she murdered him so she wouldn’t go to prison for killing an innocent man, the scheming little bitch.”

  Beside him, Trace saw Cassidy’s hand tighten on the glass of lemonade and he gave her a warning look, afraid she might be tempted to tell Joyce Reynolds who she was and that Del Vecchio was indeed a murderer. Hell, he was about half a second away from speaking up in Cassidy’s defense himself and telling Mommy Dearest what a sick fuck her son was. But to his relief, other than looking a little pale, Cassidy seemed to be keeping it together and staying in character.

  Trace clenched his jaw. Clearly, he wasn’t going to be able convince Joyce Reynolds her precious son had been the infamous Stamford Stabber. Not that it mattered. He and Cassidy were there to find out if the woman had anything that was keeping Del Vecchio in the land of the living. He still needed to lay a little groundwork yet before he tackled the subject of body parts.

  He was about to steer the conversation toward Del Vecchio’s funeral when the front door slammed. Trace turned his head to see a teenage boy come walking in. About sixteen, he was dressed in a black leather jacket, black pants and thick-soled tanker boots. He could have been mistaken for the everyday typical teenager even with the piercings on his face, but it was the heavy, black eyeliner that told Trace he was into the whole Goth thing. The kid took one look at him and Cassidy, then headed for the stairs without a word.

  “Dillon Reynolds!” Joyce screeched. “Get back down here right now. Where are you manners? We have guests.”

  There was silence as Dillon hesitated on the steps. After a moment, he turned and stumbled back down. “They’re not guests, Mom. They’re cops. And my name’s Thorn now, not Dillon.”

  Trace frowned, wondering how the kid had come to the conclusion he and Cassidy were with the police. Granted, he might still look like a cop, but Cassidy sure as hell didn’t.

  “Don’t be a smart-aleck, Dillon,” his mother scolded. “These nice people are here to help clear Carson’s name. Now be a dear and get us some cookies.”

  Dillon rolled his eyes, but stomped into the kitchen to do his mother’s bidding, his big boots making a ruckus on the mint-green linoleum floor as he went.

  Joyce Reynolds shook her head with a tsking sound. “Thorn indeed. In my side, that’s for sure. Now if the police told me Dillon was a crazy serial killer, I would believe them in a second.” She said the words loud enough for her son to hear in the kitchen. “Look at him. Dressed all in black and wearing eye makeup. He looks every inch the weirdo, doesn’t he? Nothing like my darling Carson. That boy was a mother’s dream. Handsome, smart, a great job.” She gave Cassidy a knowing smile. “You would have found him very attractive, Ms. Kincaide. Nothing like my other son.”

  Cassidy looked ill as she returned the other woman’s smile.

  “He never forgot about his mother,” Joyce continued. “Took very good care of me, he did. He even agreed to live down in the basement so he could be close in case I needed him for something. He could have moved out a dozen times, but he didn’t. Because he loved his mother.”

  Trace tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t sound sarcastic or condescending, but nothing came to mind. Luckily, Dillon came out of the kitchen.

  “Oh please, Mom, give it a rest already.” He set the plate of cookies down on the coffee table with a clatter. “These two aren’t buying your load of crap. Carson was a psycho who liked to slice up women and you know it. Everyone knows it. That’s why so many weirdos keep coming to the house. They want to see where the freak lived.”

  Joyce Reynolds turned so red Trace thought she might actually get up and slap her son. Instead, she settled for giving him a glare. “You hush your foul mouth, boy. Your brother was a better man than you’ll ever be. Isn’t that right, Carrot?” She ran her hand over the cat’s orange fur. “Carson loved you, didn’t he?”

  Dillon snorted. “He loved the cat. Right. When you were here, maybe. When you weren’t, he tormented the hell out of her for fun.”

  She jerked her head up to fix him with a hard look. “That’s a lie. Carson couldn’t hurt a fly. Your brother was a gentle, kind man.”

  The kid shook his head. “Yeah, right. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Mom. Look, if I’m done serving refreshments, I’m going to go up to my room and drive a spike through my eardrums so I’ll never have to hear about how wonderful Carson was ever again.”

  Dillon didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he turned and stomped up the steps, leaving the living room in awkward silence that stretched on until Joyce Reynolds let out a heavy sigh.

  “He’s the burden God placed on me to make up for having such a wonderful son like Carson, I suppose.” She gave Trace and Cassidy a remorseful look. “I hope Dillon didn’t offend you too much.”

  Cassidy shook her head and murmured something indistinct.

  Trace gave the older woman what he hoped was an understanding smile. “Of course not. Teenagers can be a handful sometimes. Dillon did bring up something we’ve been wanting to talk to you about, though.”

  “He did?” Joyce regarded him warily, as if afraid of what Trace might say. “What’s that?”

  “He mentioned there have been a lot of people coming by the house, people interested in your son. Is that right?”

  “Yes.” Her mouth tightened. “In the beginning, it was mostly just reporters, which was bad enough, but then it got even worse when the others started showing up. They believed what the police said about Carson killing all those women and wanted to know if they could see his room. A pack of ghouls, I tell you, all of them.”

  Having actually seen a pack of ghouls before, Trace seriously doubted that, but he let it pass. “I see. Well, we believe whoever is responsible for these recent serial murders might be attempting to maintain a link to your son and the crimes he was blamed for. Wrongly, of course.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean, a link?�
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  “Something that would make them feel close to your son. They’d want items that would be considered very personal to you, such as baby pictures, a lock of hair from when he was a child, maybe. Things like that. Has anything turned up missing lately?”

  Trace studied Joyce Reynolds’ face closely. If she had something like a lock of hair or a box of baby teeth from when he was a child, she would either admit it without hesitation or run to check to make sure it was safe.

  Joyce Reynolds didn’t do either of those things, though. Instead, she buried her face in her hands and burst into tears.

  Trace swore under his breath. Ah, hell. He hadn’t meant to make the woman cry. He glanced at Cassidy, but all she did was shrug her shoulders.

  “Mrs. Reynolds?”

  She didn’t look at him, but only continued to sob.

  Cassidy grabbed a tissue from the box on the end table and held it out to him, then gestured with her other hand toward Joyce Reynolds.

  Trace stared down at the tissue. Cassidy couldn’t be serious. She had to know he wasn’t a people person, right? But she only motioned with her hand again. He turned his attention back to the older woman. She was still crying softly into her hands and didn’t show signs of stopping anytime soon.

  With a sigh of resignation, he took the tissue from Cassidy, then got up and moved around the coffee table to sit down on the plastic-covered loveseat beside Joyce Reynolds. He slowly lifted his hand and awkwardly patted the woman on the shoulder.

  “There, there. It’s okay,” he said stiffly. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Mrs. Reynolds.”

  To Trace’s surprise, his touch had the desired effect. The woman stopped crying and lifted her head to give him a teary smile. She took the tissue he held out, then took off her glasses and dabbed at the corners of her red-rimmed eyes.

  “Thank you, you’re very kind. Your mother must be proud to have raised such a caring, young man.”

  Trace wanted to tell her his mother hadn’t given a rat’s ass about him, but he didn’t. Instead, he gave her a smile and muttered something that could have been taken as an affirmative.

  The reply must have been good enough for Joyce Reynolds because she continued. “I apologize for falling apart, but your question touched a nerve because I don’t have anything personal from my son.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Nothing?”

  She shook her head miserably. “Absolutely nothing. Unfortunately, Carson came into my life rather late, just a few years ago, in fact. He was raised by his father, an evil, vile man if there ever was one. I don’t even know what I saw in him. The bastard tore my poor baby right out of my arms and took custody of him right after he was born. Claimed I was an unfit mother by saying I wasn’t right in the head. Then he had me committed to a mental institution and raised Carson in that cesspool of a city, New York. I tried to see him when I finally got out of that horrid place, but his father was powerful enough to make sure I could never get near my son. He never even told Carson I existed. Carson had to find me on his own after that hideous man died. He showed up here with nothing more than the clothes on his back. To answer your question, Detective, no one took anything that belonged to Carson because there’s nothing to take.”

  Trace swore silently. Unless this crazy old woman was the most convincing liar he’d ever met—which was unlikely since he’d met some good ones—she didn’t have anything in her possession that could tie Del Vecchio’s ghost to this plane of existence. If there was some piece of this guy lying around somewhere, he and Cassidy were going to have to find it another way, because Mommy Dearest obviously didn’t have it.

  He was about to thank her for her time and get out of there when Joyce Reynolds started sobbing quietly again.

  “Ma’am, are you okay?” he asked.

  Joyce Reynolds dabbed at her eyes again and sniffed. “I’m sorry, it’s just so hard. I have nothing of my son to remember him by. I didn’t even get a chance to give him a real funeral. Or at least not a proper one anyway. That damn incompetent funeral home went and screwed up, saying I asked them to cremate my son. They had the audacity to wave a piece of paper in my face and claim it was my signature. As if I wouldn’t know my own handwriting. Because of them, Carson didn’t even have a proper burial.”

  She began to sob in earnest again, rambling on about her precious Carson being gone and having nothing to remember him by, not even a photograph. Taking that as his cue to leave, Trace got to his feet. Cassidy did the same.

  “You’re leaving?” Joyce blinked up at them tearfully. “But you haven’t finished your lemonade or even had any cookies.”

  “We appreciate you talking to us, but we have to get back to the station,” Trace said.

  The older woman looked disappointed at that, but nodded. “Of course.” She put her glasses back on and stood up. “You’ll keep me updated on the case, won’t you, and let me know when you’ve cleared Carson’s name?”

  “Certainly,” Trace said.

  “Do you have a card?” she asked as she followed them into the entryway. “So I can call you if anyone suspicious comes around looking to see Carson’s room.”

  Trace wasn’t thrilled about the idea of her calling him every time some harmless weirdo showed up at her door looking for the scoop on Del Vecchio, but he didn’t see how he could refuse to give her a card. Taking out his wallet, he rifled through it until he found the right one—he had a lot of different cards for a lot of different fake occupations—and handed it to her.

  Thanking her again for her time, Trace hustled Cassidy out the door before the woman could stop them.

  “I’m not sure whom I feel more sorry for—Joyce Reynolds for grieving over the son she thinks Del Vecchio was, or Dillon for having her as his mother,” Cassidy said after they were in the Hummer. “That poor kid is going to need some serious therapy.”

  Trace had expected Cassidy to feel for Dillon, especially since she was a high school guidance counselor, but he was surprised to hear she felt sorry for Joyce Reynolds, considering the nasty things the woman had said about her.

  “I won’t argue with that,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the kid ends up in jail somewhere down the road.”

  Having had issues where his own mother was concerned, Trace could easily sympathize with the kid. Instead of going Goth to spite his mother as Dillon had, though, he’d become a cop like his father. Even if his mother would never know about his career choice, it still felt damn satisfying.

  He frowned suddenly as a thought occurred to him. What if Dillon had gone further than black clothes and eyeliner to get back at his mother?

  “What are you thinking?” Cassidy asked.

  He gave her a sidelong glance. “That Dillon Reynolds might have kept a piece of Del Vecchio around.”

  “Why would he do that? He hated Del Vecchio.”

  “Exactly. And he hated his mother doting on his asshole brother even more. What better way to stick it to his mother than to keep something from her precious son when she doesn’t have anything of Del Vecchio’s herself?”

  Cassidy was silent as she considered that. “It makes sense, I suppose, in a sick and twisted sort of way. How are we going to check?”

  “Go back to the house when no one’s home. I saw a weekly bulletin from Fairfield Baptist Church on the table by the front door that said they hold services Wednesday and Sunday. It’s Wednesday, so if we’re lucky Joyce Reynolds will go to church tonight.”

  “Do you think Dillon would go with her? He doesn’t exactly look like the church-going type.”

  “No, he doesn’t. But he also doesn’t look like the kind to hang around the house, either. Let’s grab some dinner, then sit on the place and wait to see if they go out.”

  They picked up takeout from the first Chinese restaurant they could find, then parked down the street from the Reynolds house and waited. Trace had always hated stakeouts back when he was a cop because they were so damn boring. Sitting there with Cassidy, eating C
hinese food and talking wasn’t boring at all, though. Actually, it was more fun than he’d had in a long time. If it wasn’t for the fact that he and Cassidy were waiting for Joyce Reynolds to leave so they could break into her house, it would almost feel like a date.

  “They’re leaving,” Cassidy said suddenly.

  Trace turned his head to see Joyce Reynolds stepping out onto the porch. Dillon followed. He had traded in his leather jacket for a black sport coat, but was still wearing the eyeliner and tanker boots. From the sullen expression on his face, it was obvious Mommy Dearest was forcing him go to church and he didn’t like it one bit.

  “I can’t believe she’s dragging him to church,” Cassidy said. “I hope she doesn’t think it’s going to help him fit in because it won’t. I’ve seen too many parents who send their kids to the private school where I work because they think wearing a uniform will make them feel as if they fit in, but it only makes them hate school that much more.”

  Down the street, Joyce Reynolds and her son got into an old Impala that had seen better days and pulled out of the driveway. As the car passed the Hummer, Trace automatically slid down in the seat, motioning for Cassidy to do the same. He waited until the Impala had disappeared around the corner before sitting up again. Starting the engine, he pulled closer to the house.

  “Won’t parking so close to the house look suspicious?” Cassidy asked as they got out and walked around to the back of the Hummer.

  He glanced at her as he opened the SUV’s back door. “We’d look more suspicious walking down the street and sneaking onto someone’s property. Besides, there are a lot of cars parked along the curb. One more won’t draw attention.”

  Unzipping his duffel bag, he grabbed his sawed-off shotgun and slid it under his jacket into the modified holster that made carrying it around in public easier.

  Alarm flickered in Cassidy’s eye at the sight of the gun. “Do you think Del Vecchio will show up?”

  Trace swung the duffel bag up on his shoulder, then pushed the back door of the Hummer closed. “I just like to be prepared. Come on.”