Ghost Maker Page 6

  Since two high-powered men were ready to pay good bucks to trace a missing heir, Zach figured the case would be tough. It was.

  The last person the attorney knew of was Mrs. Utzig’s great-great-grandson, who had apparently run away from his alcoholic and abusive father and taken to the streets of Denver . . . at a small thirteen, in May before school was out, a good four months ago. Mrs. Charla Utzig had been dying a fadeaway death in a fancy assisted care place, her great-grandson had been pestering the firms for money as he had during his whole life on the expectation of inheriting, and to the attorneys and accountants, Tyler had been the last name on the paper showing the family tree.

  Zach yanked his temper under control as he stared at the two professional men who took turns telling the story. Guys who had no clue about how street kids or the homeless lived.

  Back at his last job as a deputy sheriff based in small Plainsview City of Cottonwood County, Montana, not many people fell through the cracks of social services, friends and family, and charity. Though when Zach had worked a couple of jobs in Billings, he’d developed some contacts with the disenfranchised of that city. As he had in previous jobs as a city cop, moving ever westward from the East Coast.

  Even Billings, Montana, couldn’t compare to Denver’s populace and the larger number of homeless people and runaway kids. Zach had been here for a little over a month. He’d been developing contacts with the Denver Police Department and other metro area law enforcement agencies, but he had none with street people. Best to go undercover for that, and he hadn’t the time nor inclination.

  Pulling on a more polished manner, Zach said, “This could be a very difficult and challenging case.”

  Jessup the attorney grunted. “We’ve tried some brief in-house investigation, but have not been able to track young Tyler Utzig.”

  Boutros cleared his throat. “Time is pressing upon us, and we wanted to hire good detectives who’ll give us acceptable results.”

  Zach met Rickman’s eyes. Never good to tell your boss that you couldn’t get the job done, private sector or not. But unlike working for the public, he didn’t have other cases demanding his time and attention, and could put in a lot of time on this, though he supposed the firms wouldn’t pay as much if he didn’t find Tyler as if he did. He shrugged inwardly. Not concerned with pay.

  He did wonder why Jessup wanted Rickman Security and Investigations instead of who he must usually work with.

  “I need everything you have on Tyler’s background, family life, and friends,” Zach said.

  Accountant and attorney shared a look. Boutros stated, “I trust your confidentiality.”

  “You’ve got it,” Zach said. So, for whatever reason, the accountants ran this particular show. He thought both accountants and attorneys knew a lot of secrets, saw a lot of motivations walk through the door, maybe cleaned up messes. In much tidier settings than Zach had found himself in as a cop. And those guys seemed a whole lot more concerned about their obviously wealthy ex-client than an at-risk kid who might be living under a bridge along Cherry Creek. He tried not to think too bad of them for that.

  Boutros gestured to two manila folders on Rickman’s desk, one thin, one fat. “That’s all we have on Tyler—his medical and school records. Everything we’ve gathered about Tyler’s father—George Utzig—is there, too. He was not a decent individual.”

  “He got a record?” Zach asked.

  A blank expression slid over Boutros’s face.

  “Yes,” said the lawyer.

  “Police record,” Zach expanded.

  “More than one in Denver and the city environs and suburbs,” the attorney said.

  “Okay. First thing I’ll do is ask the neighbors about Tyler, see what friends of his I can find. Check out his school. Anything from Social Services?”

  “No,” snapped Boutros, now with guilt cast on his face.

  “I’ll look over George’s records. I can speak to some people I know in law enforcement about him, see if I can get any data about Tyler not on the public record.”

  “Good.” The lawyer looked at his phone-watch and rose. “I have to go.” He nodded to each of them and strode to the door.

  Rickman made the guy stand with his hand on the door lever before he buzzed him out. Status games. Zach’s boss won.

  Zach’s smile faded as he noticed Boutros gazing at him.

  Chapter 7

  “I’ve heard about you from Clare Cermak,” Boutros said, and Zach wondered when that might have happened. The man gave Zach another smile, not quite as tight-lipped. “An excellent employee and a good woman, conscientious. When she inherited enough to become independent, she resigned her job so we could hire an associate who needed the employment more than she.” A slight pause. “We are handling her financial affairs, of course.” He studied Zach. “Clare wouldn’t be involved with a man who wasn’t competent and efficient.”

  Zach found himself sitting straighter. “And she wouldn’t have worked for a . . . shady business.”

  Instead of being insulted, Boutros’s lips quirked. “Thank you.”

  “Gotta tell you, this is going to be a tough case.”

  Now Boutros stiffened.

  Rubbing a thumb along his jaw, Zach said, “Months on the streets for a kid. Not good at all.”

  “No,” Boutros said quietly, looking pained. “We didn’t have as much interaction with Mrs. Utzig’s family as Jessup’s firm did.”

  “Not your area of expertise,” Zach said. He didn’t know what services the lawyer offered, how big a law office Jessup was from. Obviously an estate guy, but a large firm could have several different specialties.

  Still with a frown, Boutros said, “I’ve heard some . . . odd . . . things about Clare lately.”

  “Her money’s good, and green,” Zach replied.

  Brows snapping down, Boutros said, “I care for Clare.”

  Zach stood and so did Boutros. “My apologies,” Zach said. Her old boss would be concerned with the new vocation of ghost seeing, as disapproving of something so woo-woo as Clare had been herself. How to phrase this? “You know she comes from a gypsy background. She’s . . . uh . . . looking into her heritage—” That sounded like genealogy research. “—and her background, exploring those.” He waved a hand. “Dancing . . .” Zach had seen her do a gypsy dance. Once. He needed to encourage that. “Cooking.” He didn’t think something as standard American as tuna fish casserole would be a side dish tonight.

  A small sigh came from Boutros. “I hear you.” But he didn’t understand. He’d be a man who would never understand. But Clare trusted him.

  “She’s changing,” Zach said softly.

  “Financial independence will do that,” Boutros said. “I never met her parents, but from office gossip, they are . . . feckless people.”

  “Which is why Clare became so responsible,” Zach agreed.

  Boutros nodded to Zach, turned, and did the same to Rickman. “I know you will use your best efforts to find young Tyler.”

  “Right.” How much dough would the kid inherit? Enough to make a search for him really worth it.

  “If he . . . can’t be found . . .”

  If the poor kid had perished, Zach translated mentally.

  “Mrs. Utzig’s estate will devolve upon a distant cousin.”

  “A pity,” Rickman said.

  “The whole thing,” Zach stated.

  One last nod at them and Boutros strode with dignity to the door. Rickman hit the electronic lock so the man could keep in step.

  “This ain’t good, boss,” Zach said, pivoting to face Rickman.

  “We need to save the child,” Rickman said.

  “Shoulda been done before. Not going to be easy to find him. If he’s alive.”

  “You’ll do your best. You still have that ‘serve and protect’ attitude, and I’m gra
teful for it.” Rickman held out the folder, which looked too damn thin for Zach.

  “Like I said, I’ll take the school and neighbors first. Also send out a call to my DPD friends, let them circulate that we want the kid, that adult and non-public-service help’s available, along with money to make it happen.” Zach opened the folder, stared down at the face that looked young for thirteen. Flipped through the meager pages. “No arrest report under Tyler Utzig.” Sucking in a breath, he met Rickman’s eyes. “Hopefully, Tyler got a break or two. Some help. Maybe he’s living under a street name, got a gang . . .”

  “Use whatever resources you need.” Rickman cleared his throat. “If you need backup, Rossi is available.”

  The last time Zach had seen Rossi, he’d been on bodyguard—personal protection—duty. Zach figured every guy on staff could go grungy and look like a tough dude in a back alley. Great for picking locks or busting doors down, physical backup. Not so good for nonthreateningly convincing wary people to talk.

  Zach grunted, and angled his head at the second file, George Utzig’s. “I’ll take that one, too.”

  Rickman got it, gave it to him, smiled. “Definite police records in there. I couldn’t read them easily.”

  With a shoulder shrug, Zach opened the file and saw the last pic of George Utzig, flat and prone on a concrete floor, in unattended death. Death cert said overdose of heroin. Old-fashioned guy, then. Zach looked up at Rickman. “This will give me background, maybe places Tyler wouldn’t hang around in case he saw his father. I’ll get right on it. See you at five. Steak rare, baked potato with sour cream and chives, Ramjet Beer, right?”

  Though Rickman’s eyes flashed surprise, he said in a mild voice, “Right.”

  “Later.”

  Zach stopped at his cube long enough to make a couple of calls to the contact in the DPD he knew who’d worked with the homeless in the past and had better connections than Zach. He got the idea the gal would push it on ASAP. He doubled up with her to send out Tyler’s photos and stats to all homeless and children’s shelters in the metro area. Zach and Rickman had time and money to throw at this case. No one wanted a kid on the streets, and if they could save just one . . . win.

  Then he headed out for door-to-door neighbor checks in the lower-class condos where George had a place he’d inherited from his father. The taxes and utilities had been paid by Mrs. Utzig so he could . . . squat there. That area had no neighbors home during the day, and Zach’s new shiny black truck looked damn out of place.

  He spent a depressing amount of time talking to the officials at the public school Tyler had supposedly attended. No one recalled the kid. Not one teacher or counselor. The teen hadn’t bothered with registering for the school year, hadn’t been there, and none of the school’s reminders and forms—e-mail and snail mail—had been acknowledged. Zach’s gut began to burn. He dropped by for an in-person chat at a couple of nearby homeless shelters, verified they’d gotten the previous data and didn’t know personally of Tyler. Just before he had to leave for Clare’s, one of the searches he’d set to run on his home computer popped up with information sent to his phone. Tyler had been smart enough to steal a couple of credit cards his father hadn’t maxed out and had used them now and then until the guy died of a drug overdose and the company had canceled them at the beginning of the month. Zach hoped it was enough to help the kid.

  Damn depressing case.

  Though it had taken his mind off Clare and the hurt to his woman.

  * * *

  By 4:12, Clare had everything ready. She’d done yoga and managed a tiny meditation there, shopped, and put the baked potatoes on according to Zach’s relay of what everyone liked, made a salad and dressings, and gotten the green beans all set to steam. The house looked great, clean and polished—she had a service come in every two weeks now—with her share of Great-Aunt Sandra’s useful antiques well displayed.

  The weather had turned cooler, dropped a good nineteen degrees from the day before to the high sixties, and the sky had clouded over. So she wouldn’t see the dark of the night tonight, the faint stars visible in the city, and that the sky lacked a moon. The last new moon she’d been stumbling through a field, helping her first major ghost transition, and being stalked . . .

  She let out a breath; an invite-yourself-over gathering was so much nicer to contemplate. New, good friends with interesting backgrounds; she’d have a good time.

  Zach arrived, kissed her, placed some bottles of locally brewed beer on the breakfast counter and headed up to shower using the stairs and not the elevator. Which he should have, because of the two of them, he looked worse. A bad case, then.

  With Mrs. Flinton and Mr. Welliam here, the Rickmans and Zach wouldn’t talk about the project, but Clare intended to hear about it later. She put her hand on her side; her injury throbbed a bit, the first time all day. Due to stress or emotional upset? That sounded right. She’d have to stay upbeat.

  * * *

  Zach hurried through his shower, tucking the unpleasantness of Tyler Utzig being on the streets firmly into a small closet in the back of his mind—and the fact that he might already be too late to save the boy. Left a nasty taste in his mouth.

  Tonight he needed to focus on Clare. He changed into jeans and a denim shirt, kept his brace off, but wore his special shoes that helped with the non-flexing of his left ankle.

  Everyone showed up before 5 p.m. Rickman drove over with his wife, Desiree, and Welliam brought Mrs. Flinton. The classical tune of the doorbell rippled, and Zach snagged Clare’s hand and drew her from the kitchen, helping her off with her bib apron on the way. Someday, of course, he’d want to see her only in her apron, but not yet. She’d recently decided to express her creative drive in cooking. He was all for that.

  They reached the wide oak door and she opened it to the foursome.

  Zach accompanied Clare as she gave them a tour of the house, and her self-consciousness disappeared under the admiring comments of Mrs. Flinton, Welliam, and Desiree. She pointed out the antiques she’d inherited from her great-aunt Sandra.

  The visitors expressed approval of the house and the furnishings, commented on Clare’s new—and larger—ghost seer business office, said nothing about the bland room holding a nondescript table and Zach’s work computer that he yet had to make into his own office.

  Clare hesitated at the walk-in closet where the latest gift from the universe, given to her upon the conclusion of her last case, stood propped in the far corner. The object was too large for the hidden safe.

  Since dresses draped before it, Zach didn’t think either of the two operatives familiar with weapons—Tony and Desiree Rickman—would spot the piece. Desiree didn’t, but Zach watched for Tony’s reaction. The man’s eyes narrowed and he angled his body as if sensing something that made him wary. Zach had learned that Tony had a psychic gift, too, one of psychometry. He could sense feelings from objects by touch.

  A few minutes later the six of them settled around the table of colorful Italian tiles set in marble. They ate and talked, with no mention of the case he and Rickman had accepted that day, and no comments about any hurt to Clare. As if nothing was wrong. Zach liked the fact they were all there to give Clare their support. But he needed answers.

  Chapter 8

  He stood first and bent a look on Desiree. She simply smiled at him. He scowled, but that didn’t change her expression. “Talk to Clare,” he said as he cleared the plates and took them to the dishwasher. He felt Welliam’s and Rickman’s gazes on him. Welliam watched because he thought Zach would trip or something and break all the good stoneware. Rickman probably sensed Zach’s worry for his woman.

  Clare joined him in the kitchen. “Desiree says she’s still thinking and she needs to talk a little with Mrs. Flinton.”

  Zach growled.

  His lover stepped up to him and hugged him. “We’ll let our food settle. I’ll serve after-din
ner tea for Desiree and coffee for the rest of us. Let’s enjoy a little peaceful interlude, Zach. We’ll find a fix to the problem.”

  He rubbed her back. Clare, usually the utter realist, reassuring him.

  “You do tend to brood, Zach, my love.”

  He grunted, then said, “One nice, quiet evening of conversation coming right up. Then brainstorming later to figure out how to get you cured, until dawn, if necessary.”

  “I don’t think it will be.”

  The sun lowered below a break in the clouds and toward the smudged purple mountains. Rickman stretched out his legs with his hands folded atop his flat belly. “So, Zach, did Clare get her gift from the universe after finishing her mission to help Texas Jack Omohundro move on?”

  Zach’s own gut clenched as he stared at Rickman. Zach had revealed his own psychic ability to Rickman last week when he’d discovered Rickman’s extrasensory talent, a secret for a secret. But he hadn’t told the man that since Clare had no choice about practicing her gift, and the universe seemed to hand her assignments, valuable items appeared after she’d moved those important phantoms on.

  Nope, he hadn’t told Rickman, so Clare must have told someone, Rickman’s wife or Mrs. Flinton, Rickman’s godmother, who’d blabbed. Clare wouldn’t have told him, because she thought, rightly, that he maneuvered her into accepting clients.

  And Rickman’s words had fallen into a pocket of silence, so now everyone looked at them, waiting for Zach’s answer. He scanned the gathering. Mrs. Flinton flushed and wouldn’t meet his eyes, angling away from Clare’s stare, too.

  But Zach wouldn’t say a word without permission from Clare.

  Her mouth twisted, but she gave him a tiny nod.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Zach said, then let the pause grow until the press of curiosity on him from each one of these very inquisitive people felt like the vibration of a swarm of bees against his skin and a hum in his ears. “A very sweet rifle.”