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  SPOOKY BUSINESS

  (The Spectral Files, Book Three)

  S.E. Harmon

  Spooky Business

  By S.E. Harmon

  Being insatiably curious is a good way to end up dead.

  Rain Christiansen, cold case detective and reluctant medium, is very aware of that fact. But when infamous serial killer Thomas Kane wants to meet, there’s no way Rain can say no. He also can’t refuse Kane’s offer—find his missing wife, Delilah, and he’ll reveal the location of his victim’s bodies.

  Rain has never turned down a good quid pro quo, and he doesn’t intend to start.

  The hunt for Kane’s wife leads to yet another cold case, three copycat murders, and an investigation where nothing is as it seems. Soon, Rain is dealing with a ghost unlike any he’s ever dealt with before…a ghost capable of doing things he shouldn’t be able to do. How can Rain control something he doesn’t even understand? And what will he do when the unknown threatens the safety of the most important person in his life?

  Rain is starting to realize that he can only battle the supernatural with the supernatural, and that is spooky business indeed.

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Spooky Business © 2020 by S.E. Harmon. Cover Art © 2020 by S.E. Harmon. Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including but not limited to being stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

  To my nephew. May you always point out planes in the sky. You’re still at that

  stage when the world is a wonderful and amazing place. Maybe we should

  all take a page from your book. Not the Pete the Cat one, though.

  I won’t read it again. I won’t.

  Author Notes

  If you're here, I'm assuming that you're probably already a fan of The Spectral Files series. If you're brand new to this series, don’t be a frickin’ weirdo. Who just dives into book three like that? :-) I’m kidding of course, but I really do recommend you start with book one instead, P.S. I Spook You, then continue to book two, Principles of Spookology. And if you're still with me at that point, come on back to Spooky Business.

  My editor suggested I create a reference cheat sheet for all characters, and I thought that was a good idea. It's a bit unusual for my books, but there are a lot of moving parts in the story. I want readers to be able to sit back and enjoy, not scratch their heads and think, wait, who's that again? Long story short, if you need a little something to remember who's who, feel free to reference the chart. If you've been mainlining gingko biloba and you can remember it all, that's fine, too! I put it in the back, so you won’t be disturbed either way.

  As always, I hope you enjoy the guys and all the spooky business Rain gets them into. Happy reading, guys!

  SEH

  Chapter 1

  “Fate leads the willing, and drags along the reluctant.”

  -Seneca

  As the hand of my watch inched—and I do mean inched—slightly past two, I acknowledged several things. One, talking to a serial killer was not good times. I don’t think many people would argue with me on that, so let’s just change that from a theory to law. Two, even though Thomas Kane requested my presence, he clearly had no intention of ever telling me where he buried his victims. Three, and most important of all, the next time I did a favor for Alford Graycie, my ex-boss at the FBI, he would be very old and gray. Probably on his deathbed.

  To be fair, when Graycie told me that a notorious serial killer wanted to meet with me, it hadn’t been a question of whether I’d go, but when. I was a detective and former profiler, which meant I was terminally afflicted with insatiable curiosity, the kind that would probably get me zip-tied to a chair with some maniac pointing a gun at me. Oh, wait, that had already happened.

  The ghost standing in the corner didn’t help matters. I wasn’t sure if I brought her with me or she was already there. She stood with her arms crossed, staring a hole in Kane. I cast another glance her way. Now that I really thought about it, she kind of looked like one of Kane’s victims, Bee Williams.

  Bee was blonde, willowy and tall, clad in a flowy paisley skirt and lavender blouse, with a stack of thin bracelets on each wrist. Her citrusy smell was pleasant and fresh, strong enough to battle the acrid scent of Kane’s cigarette smoke. I didn’t know what she wanted yet, but I knew she’d make her demands known because sooner or later, they all did.

  For the first time in Kane’s life, there was no offer on the table. No deals to be made. His obligatory last-ditch appeal for clemency had been denied. Kane had appointed himself judge, jury, and executioner for his victims, and now it was his turn to die. So, just what the hell did he have to say to me?

  I cleared my throat. “I’d like to switch gears a little here and talk about the disappearance of your wife.”

  Kane’s eyes glinted dangerously. “What about her?”

  “Delilah Rose is an important part of your story, is she not?” I was prepared to step lightly but determined to proceed. “Your first victim went missing six months after you got married. Abby Stockton in 1976.”

  He looked at me slyly. “Who?”

  I gritted my teeth. “Abigail Stockton. They found her dog’s collar in your valet box.”

  The red collar had been torn, a heart-shaped tag dangling from the middle. Abby’s information was printed on one side, the name Buddy on the other. Her mother had identified the collar immediately. A month later, the golden retriever was found in a shelter two towns over.

  “I told you before. They don’t have names anymore.” He smiled lazily. “They’re only Roses now.”

  He blew a cloud of smoke my way, but I didn’t blink. We’d dispersed with the no smoking in the building rule on hour two. He’d gone through the entire pack of Newports with ruthless efficiency, methodically chucking each of the butts in his empty soda can. I was seriously debating whether anything he could tell me was worth eventual cancer.

  He eyed me through a smoky haze. “You think I killed my wife, don’t you?”

  Duh probably isn’t the right way to go.

  Graycie had left me a file for Kane, but I already knew this case inside and out. His modus operandi had been trolling bus depots and long stretches of remote highway, looking for women in need of a ride. He’d operated under the radar for almost twenty years, until Cindy May Weatherby. Kane offered her a lift but hadn’t known that Cindy had a stalker. Her sleazy, yet concerned, ex had reported Kane’s license plate, and the police connected the rest of the dots.

  Cindy May Weatherby was never seen again, but a lock of her hair and her license were found in Kane’s closet. He’d carefully stored the items in a battered valet box. The belongings of seven other missing women were in the box as well—an old business card, two licenses, pieces of jewelry, and pictures. We suspected victim number nine was his wife, Delilah Rose, who’d been missing since the early eighties. A week after each victim disappeared, the family received delivery of a dozen roses, presumably from Kane.

  The bodies were never found.
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  “When the wife of a serial killer goes missing, certain conclusions are drawn.” I mentally issued myself an award for tact. “Are you saying you didn’t?”

  “Would it matter?”

  “Yes, it would.”

  He continued to stare at me, his eyes hooded, unreadable, and green as polished emeralds. His skin was only a little weathered, his salt-and-pepper hair still thick and curly, even in his late sixties. He was a handsome man who was aging well and knew it. He was built like an ox, and he’d added substantial muscle during his imprisonment… because there was nothing smarter than giving men with no options, and nothing except time on their hands, the opportunity to finally achieve that elusive beach body.

  I must’ve passed his test because his shoulders relaxed infinitesimally. “I didn’t kill Delilah.”

  “What do you know about the other three girls who went missing near Route 10? The FBI thinks they should be added to your body count.”

  “Yeah? And what do you think?”

  “I think the methodology was impeccable. I think the families of the three women received delivery of a dozen roses, exactly seven days after they disappeared. I think it looks bad for you.”

  “I think you’re wrong. As usual.” Another cloud of smoke came my way, and I pressed my lips to keep from coughing. “There are only eight Roses.”

  “Twelve is an important number to you, though. And roses come in dozens.” I paused. “Do you deny you were trying to create a human art installation of a dozen roses?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, my math could be a little rusty, but if you add the eight you copped to with the three missing from Route 10, that’s eleven. Delilah makes twelve.”

  “Nothing wrong with your math, but there must be something wrong with your fucking ears, boy.” His tone was sharp. “I didn’t kill Delilah Rose.”

  “Then where is she?”

  “You know what? I think we’re about done here.” Kane tossed the wrinkled cigarette pack across the table and it landed on the screen of my iPad. “No more fucking smokes, no more fucking conversation.”

  “You should be more careful. These things could kill you.” I tossed the pack back in his direction, letting him know I wouldn’t be taking his trash—literal or figurative. “First.”

  That certainly wiped the smile from his face. Thinking about your pending execution tended to do that. From her corner, Bee let out a surprised laugh. “Don’t let that fake calm fool you,” she said. “That’s going to have him stewing for a while.”

  I sent her a little smile and Kane’s watchful gaze sharpened. “You like smiling at empty corners, Doc?”

  “I like all sorts of things. Like talking to cooperative prisoners.”

  “It’s her, isn’t it?”

  “Her who?”

  “I brought you here for two reasons, and she’s one of them.” His face hardened. “I want her to leave me alone.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I read the articles. I’ve done my homework. You want me to tell you anything, you get her to stop.”

  I didn’t dare look in Bee’s direction, but I heard a snicker. “Stop what?”

  “Stop the noises. The moaning. The eerie whistling. Stop tripping me in the hall. The scratches on my body.” As he talked about his problems, he grew increasingly agitated. “I want the haunting to stop.”

  “You kill twelve people and one of them has a grudge about it.” My voice was cold. “How unreasonable.”

  “Eight,” he snapped. “Have you ever heard of a copycat?”

  “Have you ever heard of therapy?” The rejoinder popped out of my mouth despite my better judgment. I suppressed a sigh. Chalk it up to stress from my four-hour playdate with a serial killer.

  He stared at me so long I started to feel a little itchy and then he cocked his head. “You’re not scared of me, are you?”

  Terrified. “Should I be?”

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  I kept my tone light. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  He smiled without humor. “You would’ve made a fascinating addition to my collection.”

  Your collecting days are over, Kane. I held his stare, ignoring the goose bumps rising along my flesh. “You said there were two reasons you brought me. What’s the other?”

  “I want you to find out what happened to my wife.” At my hesitant expression, he made a frustrated noise. “I didn’t kill her.”

  “But you wanted to.”

  He didn’t need to speak. The answer was written all over his face. “You tell me what happened to her and stop the haunting, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

  “You’ll tell me where they’re buried?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how and why you chose each victim?”

  “If necessary, I can wait while you look up the phrase everything you want to know.” He crossed his massive arms over his chest. “I have to hit the john.”

  “Thanks for the update on your bodily functions,” I said dryly. “I’ll get the CO.”

  I’d like to say I got up in a dignified manner. The truth was I almost knocked over my chair in relief. I could’ve used a break two hours ago, but I couldn’t be the first to say so. Power was important to inmates because everything in prison was designed to show them that they didn’t have any.

  I rapped sharply on the glass. Silence. I forced myself to wait another twenty seconds before knocking again. They were probably just a little slow on the gate today. Maybe they dropped their keys. Sprained a fucking ankle. Fell down an elevator shaft.

  What the fuck is taking so long?

  My back was tense as a drawn bowstring as I knuckled the window again. I refused to show any fear—that was just what Kane wanted. He liked to keep people off-balance and unsettled. He didn’t like to just turn the tables, he wanted to flip them and set them on fire.

  When the chains shackling his legs made a scraping noise against the floor, my shoulders jumped. I turned quickly and the hell with how it looked.

  “Relax,” Kane said as he stood and stretched languidly. “It’s Brenda’s birthday today. They probably stopped by the breakroom to help her celebrate.”

  I didn’t know who Brenda was, but that was fucking fantastic. Now I was alone and unsupervised in a room with a serial killer, who had fists like Christmas hams. It would certainly make a fitting epitaph on my tombstone: Here lies Rain Christensen, sacrificed for grocery store sheet cake.

  “I guess we’ll just have to wait,” I said calmly. “We should sit down.”

  I didn’t sit back down.

  Kane tilted his head briefly and damned if it didn’t look as though he was scenting the air, like a lion on one of those nature shows. He chuckled softly, almost to himself. “If I went apeshit in here, you’d be in a lot of trouble, wouldn’t you?”

  “Would I?”

  “Yeah, I think you would. No gun, no pepper spray. Just us.” He rounded the table and got even closer, but I refused to move an inch. I wanted to tell him to back the fuck off, but with a man like Kane that would only escalate the situation.

  I could smell his breath, foul and stale with cigarette smoke. He was a big man, at least eight inches over my own rather modest five-ten. Five-nine-and-a-half, if you cared about accuracy. I swallowed hard. He probably didn’t.

  “I could take that pretty blond head right off your shoulders. Put it right on the table to greet the guard when he comes back.” Kane smiled. “Think you could stop me?”

  Only if my iPad morphed into a revolver. Was there an app for that?

  Keep it together, Christiansen. I knew how Kane’s warped thought process worked, and that gave me the edge. My mind was all the weapon I needed… although I certainly wouldn’t turn down the Glock I’d secured in my glovebox.

  “Is this how you liked to intimidate your victims?” I asked. “The need for power probably stemmed from your childhood. Your father was abusive
, and your mother wasn’t much better. It probably made you feel good to have absolute control for once in your life.”

  He was still crowding my space, but those flat eyes flickered. I continued, my voice steady and matter-of-fact. “But it doesn’t take much of a man to threaten someone smaller with physical superiority, does it?”

  A scowl creased his face. “I could handle a guy twice your size without breaking a sweat.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t.” I gave him a cool look. “Your average victim was about five-foot-four and a hundred and ten pounds. I’m a lot bigger than that. A lot heavier than that. Whatever you think is going to go down here isn’t going to happen.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is.” I stepped forward, closing that last inch between us. “So I think you should just sit the fuck down and wait for the guard.”

  I hoped that my hunch was right, and I wasn’t about to get a mouthful of bloody Chiclets for teeth. Despite my bluster, I didn’t know how long I could hold him off. If you asked any of the sparring dummies in the precinct gym, I was a beast. But I didn’t think Kane would stand there with his arms extended and let me beat him like a piñata.

  He could be kind of ornery that way.

  “No one takes my power,” he finally muttered, shuffling backward a few steps. He didn’t sit down, but I allowed myself a tiny breath of relief. “And I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

  “That’s fine,” I said evenly. “We’ll see how you feel after your bathroom break.”

  I kept my back pressed firmly against the door, watching him carefully. I might’ve scored a point or two, but Mama didn’t raise no fool. It was another few minutes before I felt the heavy vibrations on my back as the mechanical lock was activated.

  I glared at the two COs as they rushed into the room. I didn’t know their names, but I was comfortable just calling them Officer “Where The Fuck Have You Been?” and Officer “You Almost Got Me Killed,” respectively. And was that a smear of frosting in the corner of one of their mouths?