Esprit de Corpse (5 page)

Dante gifted me with the most noncommittal nod in history. Shannon looked more confused.

“So the same is true for Shannon. But instead of going through channels, we’re going to handle this ourselves.” I held up one hand like a traffic cop to prevent interruptions. Do you know that doesn’t actually work? But I kept talking right over Dante’s protests. “I don’t care what the rules say. Shannon, as Lucy is my witness, I swear to you that we will get your life back. And it’ll be better than ever. We promise. Don’t we, Dante?” I willed him to agree, but that, too, never works.

“Just a moment, Kirsty. You cannot go around making promises like that. We have the Prime Directive to follow.” He turned to Shannon, explaining. “The Prime Directive is Hell’s law of noninterference.”

“Dante, that’s a
Star Trek
thing you so need to get over,” I yelled, finally losing whatever patience I’d managed to muster.

“Where do you think they got it? Remember bleed-through?”

Oh. That hadn’t occurred to me. Had Gene Roddenberry once been a Reaper? Some episodes had been pretty far out. I could see Hellish influences on his work. My mind jumped to the fateful day when the time machine had gone postal. Poor Raul, the workman who’d been sucked into the demonic portal between Hell dimensions. He should have known better than to wear a red shirt to a world-threatening crisis.

“Oh, Kirsty. Thank you.” Shannon gave me a quick squeeze, not quite the hug I’d wanted earlier, but better than nothing. At least she let go of Dante for a few seconds. “And thank you, Dante.” She draped herself around my boyfriend like a snake. And snakes were something we knew a thing or two about in Hell.

When she finally let go, Dante looked dazed. “Only too happy to help, Shannon.” He cleared his throat and straightened his robe. Was it my imagination or was it slightly tented? Burning with anger, I spun on my boot heel and strode back into Shannon’s office. Dante and Shannon followed me, and I rounded on them, about to give Dante a piece of my mind.

Before I could say or do anything to reveal my inner green-eyed monster, Willa, Shannon’s administrative assistant, rushed in.

“Oh, Shannon,” she addressed Conrad. “I’m so sorry. I tried to stop him, but . . .”

“Move aside, ma’am. This is a police matter.” Detective Leo strode into the room, hand resting on the gold shield clipped to his belt the same way mine rested on my scythe. “Ms. Iver, you’re going to have to come with me down to the station.”

“That’s preposterous,” Conrad huffed in Shannon’s voice. Before she’d been dispossessed, she’d sounded self-assured, now Conrad just sounded self-important. “I’ve far too much to do here. I can’t possibly get away. If you need a public relations specialist, I can send one of my junior account execs.”

“No, Ms. Iver, I’m afraid it has to be you. Will you come along quietly or do I need to use cuffs?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He turned to Willa. “Joanne. Wendy. Whatever your name is, call my lawyer.”

Willa pressed her lips together and dashed from the room, although whether to call the company’s lawyer or pack up her desk, I didn’t know. If he’d spoken to me that way, I’d probably quit.

“I see we’re going to do this the hard way.” The detective held out a white plastic coil, like a garbage bag tie on steroids. Boring. Our manacles had a lot more panache. Plus they made the appropriate ghostly clinking sound, not to mention the artfully applied rust.

“Shannon Iver. I’m charging you with the murder of Kirsty d’Arc. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

Chapter 6

The Ego Has Landed

SILENT WAS THE
one thing Conrad couldn’t remain. He argued and protested through the entire arrest process.

Just like in the movies, Detective Leo cuffed Conrad’s stolen hands behind his back and marched him out of the big corner office. Conrad wobbled a little on Shannon’s high heels, but soon muscle memory took over and he managed to walk down the hall, although not exactly gracefully.

Detective Leo kept a firm grip on Shannon’s bicep, moving Conrad along at a respectable clip.

With each office they passed, the resident executive stuck their head out, demanding to know what was going on. By the time the detective had marched Conrad into the lobby, the entire place looked like whack-a-mole—the corporate version.

Once they reached the elevator, I jogged to catch up. Snaking around Iver PR employees slowed me down a bit. Much as I liked being able to walk through walls and doors, I hadn’t yet come to appreciate my ability to walk through people.

Behind me, Dante guided Shannon’s soul along, although his hand on her arm seemed a lot friendlier than the way the detective gripped her father.

The elevator pinged its arrival. Leo, Conrad and I stepped on. The door began to slide closed. “Hold the elevator!” I yelled, sticking a foot in the doorway to block it.

Of course it closed right through my hiking boot and began its descent.

A moment later I stepped to one side as Dante, dragging Shannon with him, fell through the roof. Shannon shrieked. What was her problem? It had only dropped about ten feet and Dante had managed to keep her upright when they’d landed. She struggled in his grip, finally pulling away.

She bumped against her father. Instead of slipping right through him, she bounced off. Oh, right. I remembered doing that, too, when I’d tried to repossess my own body.

And that made me wonder. Had Conrad managed to get Shannon’s signature on the Hellish contract amendment?

“Shannon, you know that document Conrad was trying to get you to sign when I woke up?” I asked.

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “Oh, Kirsty. I’m so grateful you saved my life. But it looks like your sacrifice was all for nothing.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, ignoring the unpleasant reminder and keeping us on track. “What happened to the document? It was parchment and . . .”

“I never signed it, but I hung onto it because he seemed to think it was important. I keep it in a locked drawer at the office. Only Willa and I have keys. I didn’t want anyone to find it and think my dad wasn’t in his right mind.”

“Wasn’t in his . . . He tried to get you to take his place in Hell. You watched him bash my brains in. Of course he wasn’t—Why are you looking at my hair? Is it all frizzy again?” Old insecurities die hard. When my hair had turned white, it had lost its frizziness. But I still worried. “Does it look okay?”

She glanced down, looking embarrassed. I smoothed my hair.

“It turned white when I . . . Oh, you weren’t looking at my hair, were you?”

She shook her head, her own elegant, manageable coif swaying with the motion. She wore it in a loose bun and the side tendrils fell around her reddened cheeks. “Did the, you know, damage my dad did, uh, transfer?” She reached out a hand toward me, but stopped short. Instead, she ran her hand over her own skull.

Dante jumped into the conversation. “The means of one’s death does not necessarily affect one’s soul-shape.”

“Huh?” I said.

“I’m sorry?” Shannon added.

Dante pursed his lips, probably trying to figure out where he’d lost us.

“So in Kirsty’s case, her head is not any more lumpy than it was when she was alive.” He smiled at me.

“Gee, thanks, Dante. Are you’re saying I have a lumpy head? And by the way, sometimes the method of one’s demise does affect one’s soul-shape. I met this guy in the appeals line who kept losing his head. Told us all about it. He’d been decaptivating.”

Still staring at my head, Shannon whispered, “Sorry.”

“’S okay. You didn’t know.”

The elevator reached the ground and spewed us all into the lobby. We followed the detective and Conrad toward the exit, Conrad’s high heels clicking loudly in the marble foyer.

I had tuned Conrad’s voice out while I’d been grilling Shannon about the document, confident Dante would draw my attention to anything important. We may have been fighting and he may have been acting like a jerk, but when it came to reaping, he put the “dead” in “dedication.”

Now I tuned back in, hearing exactly what I’d expected.

Conrad, in low, conspiratorial tones, was trying to manipulate Detective Leo into letting him go. Having reached the end of his excuses and promises, he moved on to threats. He knew the mayor. He knew the police chief. He knew the dogcatcher. Whatever it took to make the charges go away. I wasn’t looking forward to the ride downtown. I didn’t need Claire Voyant or Sue Sayer to foresee that begging and bribing were in the unlucky detective’s future.

And I’d be stuck listening to it all.

The detective placed a hand on Conrad’s head and guided him into the backseat of a dark blue sedan. Conrad practically fell into the car, unpracticed at maneuvering in a tight skirt.

I couldn’t help laughing. Conrad struggling to be calm and manipulative while dealing with a tight skirt and high heels only whetted my appetite for justice. I nearly asked Shannon about her monthly cycle; wouldn’t it be fitting to have Conrad bent double with cramps? Not to mention having to deal with the ins and outs of feminine protection. Literally!

We ducked into the car, me calling shotgun, while Dante and Shannon squeezed in next to her father. Shannon tried to grasp the seat belt but her hand kept passing through it.

“It’s not necessary, Shannon. In the event of an accident, we’ll be thrown clear.” He placed his hand over hers to stop her pointless attempts to move the metal buckle. “Besides, affecting objects on the Coil while you are a soul is quite a difficult trick. Even Kirsty has not yet managed it.”

Even Kirsty. Was that a compliment or an insult? I sat in the front seat, steaming. Especially the part where he was holding her hand.

“Here, let me show you.” Dante released her hand, reaching across her to tickle her dad’s nose. Conrad scrunched up his face—he scrunched up Shannon’s face, to be accurate—unable to scratch it with his purloined hands cuffed behind him.

“Stop it,” Shannon said, pulling at Dante’s arm. But she smiled as she said it. He leaned back in his seat looking proud of himself. “See. Now you try.”

It took some prodding, but finally she tried tickling her own nose—the one her dad was currently wearing—but Conrad wasn’t feeling it. Shannon sighed with frustration. Oh, wait, that was me. Dante had never tried to teach
me
to manipulate objects on the Coil. To be fair, this was really the first opportunity we’d had, but here he was teaching Shannon and she wasn’t even really dead!

I refused to admit I was being a lifist. After all, I’d been on the receiving end of lifist bullying from that bigoted jock, Rod, who’d been in my class at the Reaper Academy. Then I remembered how he’d been sucked through the swirling vortex and into the Heller dimension. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Even him. I felt ashamed of myself.

But not for long because we’d arrived at the precinct.

Detective Leo parked near the door and assisted Conrad from the car before marching him into the station. They’d reached what must have been Booking. A few officers toiled at desks corralled behind a long laminated counter. An equally long bench lined the opposite wall. Leo recuffed Conrad’s hands in front and then locked a short length of chain from the plastic cuffs to a metal loop in the bench. He waited his turn to check in with the booking officer.

Conrad continued his attempts to get the charges dropped, now including the booking officer in his pleas and threats. Everyone ignored him. Perhaps they’d been around this block a time or two before.

In record time, Conrad’s lawyer, Gill Hammerhead, appeared, instantly taking over with his own pleas and threats.

“She’s not a flight risk,” Hammerhead insisted. “Plus she’s got money. Shannon Iver is the CEO of a very successful public relations firm.” He dropped his voice and whispered conspiratorially, “She just lost her father, you know. She’s an orphan.”

Somehow being called an orphan is a lot more meaningful when you’re eight years old. People tended to be less sympathetic to someone in their mid-twenties losing a parent. Still, Hammerhead was good. Almost as good as Conrad.

Had he made a Deal of his own? I could ask Sybil to check.

“Bail will be set in the morning. You know that, Gill.” Detective Leo and Conrad’s lawyer were no doubt old acquaintances. “Besides, she’s got no family, friends, boyfriend or girlfriend. Not even a cat.”

I sniffled a little. With the exception of my beloved aunt and her partner, he could have been describing me.

“Plus, when I interviewed her staff, they told me she’s got no interest in running her father’s business, so she absolutely
is
a flight risk. I doubt the court will set bail at all, or if they do, it’ll be sky-high.”

“Well, I tried.” Gill Hammerhead glanced at his BlackBerry, thumbing through messages. He dropped it back in his briefcase. “See you tomorrow, Shannon honey.”

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Conrad yelled, Shannon’s voice taking on a tone of angry entitlement I’d never heard before.

At least not from her.

Hammerhead scowled at his client. “You get more and more like your father every day.” He turned his back and strode down the hall, briefcase swinging jauntily from one hand.

“Oh, my God,” Shannon cried. “My father’s been charged with murdering Kirsty. We have to do something!”

“Of course, we’ll do something.” I squeezed her free hand. In my head I added,
Yeah, we’ll do something all right. Something like sit back and let justice take its course
.

Chapter 7

The Wages of Spin

MUCH AS I
wanted to see Conrad behind bars for his crimes, I couldn’t let that happen. Or at least, I couldn’t let that happen here on the Coil. Not only would Conrad skip town, er, bodies and leave Shannon’s to lie in a hospital bed like mine had, but Dante would also fail to retrieve Conrad’s soul as assigned by Sergeant Schotz. He’d be drummed out of the Reaper Corps, reincarnated and I’d lose him forever.

“Shannon,” I said, gripping her shoulders and looking her in the eye. “The first thing we need to do is prove you’re innocent. It doesn’t matter who’s in your body for the trial.”

In fact, her dad might make the better defendant. Even without the Deal, he understood persuasion and he’d had lots of practice. And as an added bonus, he’d be using his talents for good instead of evil.

But I said none of this out loud.

Instead, I told myself to start acting like Hell’s bounty hunter, which, in my new, hard-won role as Reaper, I was. So, step one in the Save Shannon Plan, hide the incriminating evidence.

“Shannon, what happened to the stapler? The one Conrad used to bash in my brains? It must have his fingerprints on it, right?”

Along with my blood and little gray bits of brain tissue. I shuddered, my head suddenly throbbing. I let my hands drop from her shoulders.

“Kirsty.” Dante gave me a look that failed to warm the cockles of my heart. In fact, could you have frozen cockles? “A word, please?”

“Just one? Okay then.”

He patted Shannon and leaned her up against a wall.

She didn’t seem to have noticed yet the way things were solid to us or not, depending on circumstances. Like if she wanted to, she’d be able to walk through that same wall that was now the only thing keeping her upright. When I’d first been scythed, I’d asked all sorts of questions like that.

Shannon? Just leaned where she’d been left.

As if to prove my point, I followed Dante through that same wall for a private word.

“So how we going to play this, Dante? Can we somehow trick Conrad into—”

“Kirsty! How could you make a vow like that? And on my behalf, too. We cannot drive Conrad from that body. It would be better if we followed protocol. Rules are in place for a reason.”

“Yes. Yes, they are. And the reason they’re in place is to make sure nothing like fairness actually happens. It’s Hell, Dante. Have you called it home so long you’ve forgotten what fair is?”

The irony that
I
wasn’t being fair wasn’t lost on me, but all’s fair in love and war and this fell somewhere in the middle. “We’re getting Shannon cleared of all charges and we’re getting her life back and that’s final.” He wasn’t the only one who could make blanket pronouncements.

Ignoring whatever he had to say next, I stepped back through the wall just in time to hear Shannon say, “They have it.”

“What? Who? What?”

Dante stepped through after me. “
Cosa?
Who?
Cosa?”
Damn translator app. Sometimes it worked too well and others, it
gernsaple dansbow.

“You asked me about the stapler.” She pushed away from the wall, swayed a bit, but remained standing. Her jaw was set firm and her eyes were tear-free for the first time since I’d hauled her off her office floor. It appeared she’d finally pulled herself together. Well, it wasn’t like there was a timetable for coming to grips with having your soul ripped from your living body. Just because I’d handled it better . . .

“The police took it as evidence from the crime scene.”

Which matched up with what I believed had happened. Hard to recall exactly. Being bludgeoned to death tends to demand all your attention.

“Well, then they’ll use their awesome
CSI
technology to look at the layers of fingerprints and see that his were the last ones laid down on the . . .”

Oh, no. Memories of the final moments of my Coil life floated up from the bottom of my brainpan. I could almost grab it. I tried to relax and use one of the memory-enhancing techniques the former Death Valley girl Amber had shown us back when we were studying for the Reaper exam. Using the insides of my eyelids as dual movie screens, I replayed that scene in my mind. First that had happened, then that, and then . . . oh, skeg! Shannon had been the last person to touch the stapler. She’d picked it up to defend herself after Conrad had clobbered me.

And then, when Security had rushed into my hospital room, she’d been the one holding the smoking gun, er, stapler.

“Oh, skeg. Now what?” I asked.

Shannon, Dante and I all stared at the floor, considering our next move. Around us, the wheels of justice not so much spun as sputtered and clanked along. The booking officer handed Detective Leo a stack of forms.

After that, things moved pretty quickly. First they unlocked Conrad from the ring in the bench and escorted him to the cop-shop photo booth.

“Face front. Now turn to the right. Your other right.”

Click, click
and that was done. Then on to fingerprinting. I’d looked forward to him getting ink all over his stolen hands, but these days they use a computerized sensor to capture fingerprints and enter them into the international fingerprint bank in one smooth, high-tech move. I wasn’t surprised to find Shannon had no priors. Like me, she’d never done much of anything on the Coil. At least she’d earned a degree.

Still, the fingerprinting process was interesting. At least for the first few fingers. I was very glad we didn’t have to sit through Kali being scanned.

Detective Leo marched Conrad back to the bench, handing his clipboard to the booking officer. No matter how sophisticated our systems become, we can’t seem to escape from clipboards. I think they’ve somehow become embedded in our DNA.

“She’s all processed. Can we get an escort to Holding, Angus?”

Angus rubbed his eyes. “No can do. Sorry. Busy day and every cell’s filled to the limit.”

“Must be a full moon,” Detective Leo said. “And it’s not even dark yet. I gotta drive home in rush-hour traffic.” He glanced at his watch. Shook it and held it to his ear. Was time out of whack again? Up here?

“I’m off in an hour, myself.” Angus tapped the clipboard with a pen as he perused it for errors. It reminded me of my first day in Hell and how Sybil had double-checked my work. Mine had been perfect. I preened at the happy memory as Angus showed the detective where he’d missed filling in a box. What? So I’m a little competitive. It makes me a good worker. Better than most.

“She can’t sit here all night. Who’s going to babysit her?”

“I’m not staying.”

Of course Conrad leapt in with a promise to return tomorrow morning if only they’d let him go now. They shot him a pair of amused glances and returned to their discussion.

“Look, here’s what I can do for you.” Angus leaned over the counter, speaking in low tones. I had to move in really close to eavesdrop. “I can arrange something so we can both get the hell outta here. There’s a guard coming up from Vanier to pick up another female prisoner.” At Leo’s raised eyebrow, he added, “Murder one, too.”

“Huh? There’s a murder twelve now?”

“What? No. I mean . . . Never mind.” He waved away the confusion. “We’ll send your alleged murderer along with my alleged murderer out there for the night. Then it’s on them to bring her downtown for arraignment tomorrow morning. Here’s the transport form you need to fill out.”

For a moment, I’d hoped they were actually going to talk about something interesting, like murder and mayhem. But once again, they were back to “fill in this line,” and “tick off that box.” I think it’s a plot by file clerks the world over to keep their jobs going in this computer age.

Detective Leo rubbed his chin. His fingers rasped over stubble as if five o’clock were an actual deadline. “Okay with me. Who’s on transport?”

Angus walked back to his desk, checked another form. “Mudders. Theresa Mudders.”

“Oh, that woman’s a saint. I’m good with her.”

Down the hall, a door opened and shut, sensible rubber soles squeaking on the worn tiles.

“Speak of the devil,” Angus said.

“Where?” Dante and I chorused, standing at attention. I craned my neck, seeking our frumpy Underlord, but instead of Her Satanic Majesty Lucy Phurr, I saw a slim, attractive Asian woman about my own age, or at least the age I’d been when I’d died.

“Hi, guys. How’s it going?” The new arrival beamed. Her ancestry featured the Philippines, or possibly Thailand. Putting that together with her accent-free English and the Anglo-esque last name, I guessed she was probably mixed race. I’d once had a classmate with similar looks whose folks hailed from Trinidad although she’d grown up in Brampton just outside of Toronto.

In addition to being pretty, Theresa also appeared intelligent and friendly. I liked her instantly. “What’s up with the media circus in the parking lot?” she asked, accepting the omnipresent clipboard from Angus.

“Media?” Leo echoed.

“Circus?” Angus chimed in.

“Yeah. They’re all abuzz out there because you’ve arrested some big corporate exec’s daughter who’s supposed to have . . .” Theresa trailed off, probably having guessed the daughter in question might be the young woman in the business suit cuffed to the bench. “Uh, hi?”

“My name is Conrad, I mean Shannon Iver and I demand to be released. This is preposterous. Now if you’ll uncuff me . . .” He tried to hold up his hands, but the short length of chain wouldn’t allow it. He must have been picking at the plastic cuffs, though, because his manicure was now all scuffed and chipped. My friend Charon would never be seen in public like that. His nails were always impeccable.

“Yes, of course. Got your paperwork right here.” Theresa smiled at Conrad in a warm and comforting way. “They’re bringing up the other woman awaiting transport right now. We can get on the road in a few minutes and then get you settled into your accommodations for the night.”

This Theresa made me feel better about the whole day. Especially the part where Conrad was going to spend the night in a cell.

I’d never heard of Vanier, but if it had bars and locks and really bad television, I was good with Conrad having to spend the night there.

Another officer arrived, one who fit more closely with my personal stereotype of what a female officer should be—big, sturdy, short-haired—with
Phelps
embroidered across her right breast. She looked strong and competent, which was a good thing considering the prisoner she escorted also better fit my image of a stereotypical criminal.

The cuffed woman loomed large and menacing. Her hair was cropped into short, sharp spikes dyed a red not found in nature. She wore ripped jeans and a sequined halter top that showcased a bodybuilder physique painted with a swirl of inky tattoos. Half the sequins had fallen off her top, leaving bare patches of too-tight fabric. Charon’s perfect sequined horns glittered in my mind’s eye.

She looked right through us.

Well, of course all the living looked right through us, but she looked right through the living as well. And yet I’d describe her eyes as dead. How was that even possible?

“This here’s Maddy Stryker. You transport?” Phelps asked, obviously bored, tired and anxious to go home.

Theresa bobbed her head, “Yup. That’s me.” She accepted Stryker’s paperwork with a perkiness that would have done Miss America proud. She was the polar opposite of the tired officer whose only perkiness probably involved coffee.

While Theresa checked the paperwork for both prisoners, Leo unclipped Conrad from the bench but left the cuffs firmly in place.

“I’m going to need backup getting these two into the truck. It’s a zoo out there.”

After some discussion, Theresa led the way, followed by the two prisoners, each in the care of her respective escort: Detective Leo guiding Conrad along by the bicep again, while the scary guard marched the scary prisoner toward the waiting transport van.

I hopped down off the counter where I’d been perched, trying without luck to get a forgotten paper clip to move. I probably should have started with something even smaller, like a single staple, but I’ve developed an aversion to staples. Go figure.

Now Dante, Shannon and I traipsed after the prisoners and their escorts. Glad to be on the move, I belted out a show tune I’d learned from Char.
“I love a parade, the tramping of feet. I love every beat, I hear of a—
What?”

Shannon gave me a hurt look before turning away.

“Kirsty, show some decorum. Her father is facing serious charges,” Dante hissed. “Plus he just passed away.”

I refrained from pointing out the inherent conflict in those two statements, settling for a whiny reply. “Just trying to lighten the mood,” I mumbled. “Like
you’re
Mr. Sensitivity now.”

He’d certainly hurt
my
feelings often enough today.

As soon as the door to the parking lot opened, the hubbub hit us like a wave. The small group of prisoners and escorts we followed pressed through the ring of reporters waving pens and recording devices in their faces.

“Detective Leo. Peter Mercer, CBC. Can you give us a statement?”

“Ms. Iver. Rick Mansbridge, CTV News. Will you be pleading guilty to the murder of your best friend and your father?”

“Shannon. Over here. Gurvender Awatramani, Sun News Corp. Did you do it? Did you really club her to death
with a stapler
?”

Wow. And Dante had called me insensitive. I’d seen this kind of mob scene in movies, but I’d always figured it for a Hollywood invention. These people were serious journalists and here they were practically clubbing each other to get the scoop. I hope there were no staplers out here tonight or someone could get seriously bonked.

“No statement. No comment.” Detective Leo hustled Conrad toward the waiting van, but Conrad had other ideas.

With an unexpected jerk, he pulled out of the detective’s grip and sprinted toward a broken lamppost. He looped his cuffed hands over it, shouting: “I’m Con—
Shannon
Iver. I’d like to make a statement and I want you all to get it down.”