A Question of Ghosts Read online

  They sat quietly for a while, and Jo fought back the urge to break the silence. The birdsong and the sparkling water were soothing, there was friendly laughter around them, and Becca needed this break.

  Becca’s gaze was pensive on the distant mountains, and she sat with a stillness that made her seem just as remote. Her fine fingers drifted through the grass, much as they had at the headstone of Loren Perry’s grave. As Jo watched, Pam Emerson’s hand moved exactly as she wanted her own to, and rested lightly on Becca’s hair. Becca looked over her shoulder and smiled at Pam, who winked at her.

  Jo understood, clinically, that there was nothing sensual or flirtatious in Pam’s gesture. A snapshot of her own appeared to Jo, of the motherly comfort the Lady of the Rock offered to the weary girl whose head rested in her lap. Pam’s face held only friendliness and a similar maternal warmth. The mild tousling she gave Becca’s hair could have come from Marty or Khadijah. Regardless, Jo found herself mired in a wistful regret, a mild jealousy completely foreign to her, that Becca was smiling into a different pair of eyes.

  “Why don’t you three toddle off sometime soon and let me get some sleep?” Luther yawned again, his capacity for company apparently worn thin. “How am I supposed to pick up any cute boys with all you women hanging around?”

  “Pop, you’re the straightest mean old black man on the Hill.” Pam stretched and rose smoothly to her feet. “I think the cute boys are safe.”

  “Not if they’re rich enough.” Luther’s chin settled into his chest, and he twined his fingers again over his belly. “Good-bye, Becca. Good-bye, other one. Take good care. I am retired.”

  Pam walked with them up the gentle slope away from the reservoir, though Jo didn’t see a particular need for an escort. She glanced past Becca and saw the way the muscles in Pam’s arms gleamed in the sun, her easy athletic stride. Police officers who walked a beat had to be fit, and Pam obviously worked out a dozen times a day. Jo sighed.

  “He means it, you know, the good-bye bit.” Pam stuck her hands in the pockets of her denim shorts. “He won’t want to talk with you again. He’s really told you all he remembers about the case, anyway.”

  “Oh, I think he cleared things up for us nicely.” Becca gave her a wan smile. “My aunt shot my parents. Unless it was my uncle. Or my father. But that was an incredibly good doughnut, and I like your dad.”

  “I like him, too,” Pam said, and Jo began to feel that the two of them were walking alone together. “But you do get some take away from this, Becca. My dad was open to the prospect of an outside shooter. And you’re trying to prove your mom didn’t do it, right?”

  “We’re trying to find out the truth.” Becca sighed. She looked up at Jo and slid her arm through hers, and the beauty of the sunny day hit Jo at last.

  “Yo, Emerson!” One of a group of three women lounging on the steps of the Asian Art Museum hailed Pam. “Seven o’clock!”

  Pam and the three women broke into a rapid, rhythmic sequence of claps that mystified Jo. They unleashed a raucous cheer.

  Becca grinned up at her. “That was the Storm clap. There must be a game tonight.”

  “Must be a game? Y’all don’t follow the Storm?” Pam eyed them, askance. “My missus and I get season tickets every damn year.”

  Hearing Pam had a missus warmed Jo toward her considerably, as did Becca’s light hold on her arm.

  “So I’ll check in with the station before tip-off, see if there’s any developments.” Pam lifted her chin at Jo. “We dusted your place for prints, Jo. No catches yet. The dude or dudes wore gloves. Most of your block’s retail, so there weren’t neighbors nearby late at night to hear anything. We’re still digging, though.”

  “Pam, I’m not crazy about the timing of this.” Becca looked pensive again. “What if whoever did this is trying to threaten Jo? Warn her off? That break-in was really violent.”

  “I think that’s a possibility we have to keep in mind.” Pam regarded Jo soberly. “Any guesses as to who might not like the questions you’ve been asking lately?”

  “Someone with a stake in hiding the truth about what happened.” Jo realized her answer was so generic as to be useless. She wanted to erase the new shadow that had filled Becca’s eyes.

  “Well, you keep your eyes and your ears sharp. It’s just as well you two are together most of the time, right now.” Pam was watching them with an odd smile. “Safety in numbers. Okay, I’ll check in with you peeps later on. You’ve got my numbers; you can call me any time.”

  “Thank you, Pam.” Jo tried to summon a sufficiently butch tone for Becca. “The bastard who did it is lucky, you know. If he’d touched my Xena DVDs, he’d be dead meat.”

  “Xena?” Pam turned back to them, her face dawning with light. “I knew there was something I liked about you guys!” She raised one fist and gave a cracking good rendition of Xena’s trilling war cry.

  Chapter Thirteen

  An hour later, it was Becca’s turn to wait beside the Bentley, drumming her fingers on its glossy hood while Jo closed the clasps on her shoulder bag with meticulous care. Jo glanced up and seemed startled by her glare.

  “Something?”

  “Cut tulips require something like water, Jo. They don’t thrive if they’re left on a bookshelf.”

  “Becca, I’ve explained I did not deliberately leave Rachel Perry’s cut tulips languishing on a bookshelf. And I’ve apologized. Not sure what more I can offer at this point.”

  Jo sounded as impatient as Becca felt, and she curbed a snappish response as she slid into the Bentley. Neither of them was sleeping well. She knew that. Becca was comforted by Jo’s presence in that sad house, but Jo had to be even more exhausted than she was, after three straight nights in that damn armchair. Becca would insist she log some hours in a real bed soon. She looked out the window and sighed inwardly, feeling the blood rushing to her face. Hot flash, it had to be. She was much too tired to feel this sudden arousal, simply picturing Jo’s lithe length stretched out on a bed.

  She studied Jo’s profile as she turned the powerful car smoothly onto Fifteenth, her weary features more chiseled today. “Can we stop on the way and slap my Aunt Patricia around? Make her talk?”

  “Of course.” Jo seemed relieved by the lightness in Becca’s tone. “May I pound on your uncle? Of all our suspects so far, he’s the easiest to dislike. Well, short of Mr. Voakes.”

  Becca nodded, her gaze drifting to the window again. Marty and Khadijah had disliked her Uncle Mitchell from their first meeting. Her best friends had been polite to Patricia, who treated them with the same puzzled, distant benevolence she showed Becca, most of the time. Patricia could be brittle, and she was fiercely loyal to Mitchell. But Becca could not, for the life of her, picture her pulling a gun on her parents.

  “Luther Emerson said Mitchell was running for a state senate seat back when the shootings occurred.” Jo sounded thoughtful as they took the interstate south. “Do you know what happened to his political aspirations?”

  “I’m clueless there. I never knew he’d had any.” Becca remem-bered that revelation in the park. “No one’s ever talked about any kind of political campaign. But there was a lot going on with my family at the time. That newsflash might have gotten lost in the drama.”

  She fell silent to drink in Mount Rainier as they crossed the West Seattle Bridge. The mountain was still resplendent in the afternoon sunlight, and she appreciated Jo’s companionable quiet. The Bentley’s tires glided soundlessly across the expansive bridge, the blue waters of Puget Sound and the rising orange cranes of the docks to their right. They were bound for Tukwila, a small suburb south of downtown Seattle, a neighborhood Becca had never had cause to explore much.

  “What can you tell me about Horizons?” Jo asked. “Surely it’s a secure facility, right, if it’s housing John William Voakes?”

  “You know, I don’t think it’s a lockup program.” Becca had heard of Horizons at one or more distant staff meetings, but she remembered little abo
ut it. “I know they’re contracted through DSHS with Western State to house people who don’t need hospitalization any more, but aren’t ready for independent living. I had no idea they accepted ex-patients with a history like Voakes.”

  They fell silent again as the Bentley purred down Ambaum, a broad street choked with traffic even in mid-afternoon. Most considered West Seattle a tony neighborhood, and parts of it certainly were; there were mansions overlooking Puget Sound that stole your breath. But the families Becca worked with were usually impoverished, and some of them lived in the poorer neighborhoods braiding off this street.

  She felt her stomach knot, knowing they were minutes from meeting an honest to hell lost soul. Accepting Luther’s doughnut had been a bad call, but he had all but forced it on her.

  The neat grounds of Horizons lay nearer the wealthier district. It resembled a manicured horseshoe of an apartment complex more than a therapeutic halfway house. Becca counted eighteen well-kept units lining the tree-shaded walk as they approached the main office.

  “You would be Joanne Call and Becca Healy. Correct?” The woman striding to meet them looked about Rachel’s age, and she moved with the vigor and energy Rachel used to have in abundance. “I’m Dr. Emily Kelley. I’m clinical director here.”

  She didn’t offer her hand, and she stopped a good two yards from them. Her tone was polite and her manner poised, but Emily Kelley was obviously ticked off. Becca had seen the same brittle body language in some of her countless supervisors when they felt unfairly disempowered. “Would you come this way?”

  Dr. Kelley was already going that way, and whether they followed seemed a matter of indifference to her. Becca stumbled in her wake, and Jo’s hand was fast and sure beneath her elbow. Emily slowed to a stroll as she led them around the side of the building.

  “It seems the two of you have powerful friends.” Emily glanced back at them, her tone milder now. “The call from Western didn’t leave us a lot of room for negotiation. John’s team here didn’t get a vote as to whether you met with him.”

  “And what are your objections, exactly?” Jo was reliably willing to forego small talk.

  “Well, you’re not journalists. That’s a plus.” Emily sighed and slid her hands into her pockets. “I suppose Ben Chavez was afraid you’d run straight to the media if you weren’t granted an audience. We’re going to have to brace ourselves for that onslaught anyway, as soon as John’s presence here becomes common knowledge. Hello, Paula.”

  Emily nodded pleasantly to a blunt-featured woman who passed them on the shaded walk. She’d spoken the woman’s name with palpable warmth, unlike her formal pronunciation when she referred to Voakes.

  “But to answer your question, Dr. Call, I object to this interview because we don’t want to make a sideshow of this man, or this program. Horizons has had a remarkable success rate transitioning the chronically mentally ill into the community. We do valuable work here.”

  “And we won’t be detracting from that success.” Jo’s pace was stolid. “We just want a few minutes with Voakes, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “You wouldn’t be getting a few minutes if John weren’t willing. I’m honestly not sure why he’s agreed to see you today. He told us when he transitioned here that he wouldn’t meet with reporters or with guests he doesn’t know. And he knows no one.”

  “Was he told our names?” Becca asked blandly.

  “Of course.”

  It wasn’t hugely relevant. Voakes hadn’t necessarily agreed to see them because he recognized Becca’s name. But she saw Jo’s sharp eyes register the fact, a brief flickering of their cobalt light.

  “I couldn’t even tell John the purpose of this interview.” Emily ducked under a low lattice awning and motioned them through. “Ben was vague about your interest, in the extreme.”

  Jo opened her mouth, but Becca touched her arm. “Emily, I have personal reasons for being here. My parents were shot to death in nineteen seventy-eight, and we think there’s a possibility John Voakes knows something about what happened.”

  Emily Kelley stopped and turned to them, and Becca got the distinct impression she was in this work for the right reasons. Emily’s weathered features held compassion, the kind of old and weary compassion of a veteran of the wars, someone who has worked with the marginalized for a very long time. In social service, Becca had known women who genuinely cared for the length of their careers, like Emily—and women who went through the motions, well-intended but empty bureaucrats. Like her aunt.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Becca. But I have to ask if I should call in a public defender to sit in on this meeting.”

  “We’ll do whatever you think is best, but that’s probably a little premature. If you can see your way clear to letting us go ahead, join us for this talk. Jo and I will back off if you get uncomfortable with any road we take.”

  Emily nodded, her gaze on the vast vegetable garden spread out before them. “What chances do you think our people have getting jobs out there, thanks to rare cases like John William Voakes? The mentally ill are being demonized again in this city. Have you felt it, Becca?”

  Becca nodded. Lurid headlines had surfaced over the past few years of isolated atrocities committed by Seattle’s truly malignantly crazy. Most of them had histories with Western State.

  Emily nodded at two men walking back toward the complex, who both waved friendly greetings. “All our people take the rap for the sensational cases, and the vast majority are completely harmless. Better than harmless. They just want to live independently, give back to their communities…”

  Emily trailed off, and she smiled at Becca for the first time. “I have a feeling I’m preaching to the choir. All right. I’d rather you take the lead on this, Becca, rather than Dr. Call.” She glanced at Jo. “No slight intended. And if I pull the reins at any time, I expect you to stop immediately.”

  Emily walked on. Becca turned to Jo, disconcerted. She had assumed Jo would handle this. She wasn’t certain she was prepared to be in charge of a sensitive chat with a serial killer.

  “You can do this,” Jo said and followed Emily.

  And just like that, Becca found she agreed. Jo must have been listening in Becca School. She knew what she needed in this moment, not a shared anxiety, but the calm and immediate confidence of a friend. She squared her shoulders and kept them that way as she saw John William Voakes dig a sharp trowel into overturned earth.

  An elderly white man knelt by a furrowed row of cabbages at the far end of the large garden, digging slowly into the soil with the glinting trowel. A wheelchair waited nearby. A young man, an immensely big attendant, stood next to Voakes, his muscled arms crossed. Becca knew the old man was Voakes and the big man was staff—the latter was glaring, not at Voakes, but at them, protective of his client.

  “John’s visitors are here.” Emily greeted her staff quietly, and the man lumbered to meet them. “This is Peter, John’s personal attendant.”

  “I didn’t realize he was so old.” Becca’s throat was drying as she watched the frail man struggle from his knees into the wheelchair. “Isn’t Voakes in his sixties?”

  “Yes, mid sixties,” Emily replied. “But he’s dying. That’s why he’s here.”

  Peter had reached them, and he planted his solid bulk in the middle of the paved path, blocking their way. He regarded them stonily, confident that his stance would intimidate them enough for a few moments of awkward silence, at least.

  But he hadn’t counted on Jo, who either had no notion of body language or simply lost that awareness when she chose to. Jo closed the distance to Peter and stood very, very close to him, her breasts brushing his folded arms, her height making it possible to stare directly into his wide brown eyes. A breeze whipped a lock of Jo’s dark hair in his face, but he didn’t dare blink.

  Becca walked rapidly to them, in case a sensitive chat was needed.

  “You’re guarding a serial killer, not a monk.” Jo’s low voice was calm, but those spooky e
yes were inches from Peter’s. “We’re not going to harm him. I’m sure you’ll be standing close by to ensure that. As will your boss, who has approved this interview, so step aside.”

  Peter stepped aside. Jo stalked past him, then turned and waited for Becca. Emily shook her head at Peter and followed Jo. Becca took Peter’s arm and walked with him, ignoring his surprise and discomfort. She knew this kid. She had worked with him a hundred times in entry-level positions.

  “Peter, the work you’ve chosen to do. It’s not a sprint; it’s a marathon.” She gave the kid’s arm a friendly squeeze. “You’ve got to learn to pace yourself. I can see how passionate you are about your job, but your kind of passion burns us out. If you don’t learn to take care of yourself, you’ll flame out and be gone from this work in two years. That’s a promise.”

  “Okay,” the kid whispered. He looked a little dazed.

  “Good luck.” Becca squeezed Peter’s arm again, fond of him because of his genuine zeal and devotion. Equally sure he’d be gone in two years. She released him and summoned all her energies to meet a murderer.

  John William Voakes was her nightmare of what Rachel might become—skeletally thin, weak to the point of infirmity. Shriveled and trembling, he sat crab-like in the cushioned wheelchair, his bony hips not filling the width of the seat. His balding, freckled head was lolling to one side, and Becca couldn’t see his face. From a remote corner of her mind, she could empathize briefly with Peter’s protectiveness toward his fragile client. She and Jo, Peter, and Emily, stood in a small circle around the chair.

  “John, you’ve been expecting this visit.” Emily’s tone was oddly flat, devoid of sympathy, and she darted Becca and Jo a look of warning. “I know you’re ill, but you’re much more alert than you’re pretending to be.”

  And John William Voakes rose smoothly from the chair, his head bobbing up, strength suffusing his thin limbs, and Becca took a ragged step back. His short, stumpy form stood erect easily, and his rheumy eyes lit up when he saw Becca. A snapshot of his merry, smiling face went off in her mind, and she knew she would carry the image the rest of her life.