lot next to the marina and shops and met up again on the shorefront walkway. Without a word we turned together and started strolling north along the shoreline and away from the buildings. The fog had burned off here long ago and we would have been a curious sight on the strand if there had been anyone looking: tall, skinny me dressed for urban hiking more than beachcombing, and older, shorter Solis in his suit and overcoat in spite of the pleasant warmth of the early-summer afternoon.
When we were inconveniently distant from the last building, Solis spoke. “So. Tell me what you saw or how.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” I replied, not looking at him but still walking and keeping a moving eye on the area around us.
“Then explain. We’re stranded here until the rush hour is over. I see no reason not to put the time to use.”
“Well,” I started with a sigh, brushing my sea-breeze-tangled hair out of my eyes, “you’re aware of how I seem to attract strange things. . . .”
From the corner of my eye I saw him nod. He, too, was keeping his gaze on the scenery more than looking at me. That was the way this was going to go: talking without looking at each other, as if we didn’t have to acknowledge anything unpleasant if we didn’t see the truth in the other’s face. It felt strange; I’d never been totally honest with Solis but I’d always tried to keep my evasions small and cleave to omission more than outright lies. It’s a bad idea to get in the habit of lying to cops.
“I see things most people don’t. These things see me, too. That can be . . . troublesome.”
“What sort of things?”
I shot him a desperate glance, then turned my head away again, letting the wind off the surf blow my hair into my face and hide my expression. I don’t manage fear very well—I get angry, aggressive, or snarky instead—and here I had no choice but to be afraid. “Do I really have to say this?”
He nodded.
“Sí
.
”
I took a deep breath, not because there was much to say but because it was stupid and annoying to heave the words out, and turned so my face was less obscured by my hair. “I see ghosts. There. OK?”
“Ghosts.”
If the chips were down, I might as well go all in. “And other things,” I said. “Monsters, magic, things that go bump in the night . . . all that stuff.” I didn’t feel much better having said it.
“So . . . you say that such things are real?”
“I wish they weren’t and I wish I wasn’t saying that, but I am. Most of the . . . paranormal is the best word for it . . . paranormal things aren’t strong or active or any kind of threat to regular people. Every once in a while, though, they are. Do you remember the Mark Lupoldi murder?”
“I will never forget it.”
“Did you ever really buy the explanation I gave you for how he was killed?”
“No, but the case didn’t go to trial, so . . . the rigor of proof was never needed.”
“But it bugs you still, doesn’t it? Like all the little odd things about me and my cases bug you.”
He nodded.
“That was one of the cases where the paranormal became dangerous. One of those moments when what should be impossible happened anyhow. And that’s pretty much where I fit in the world: working with the stuff that logic rejects but that exists nonetheless.”
“Are many of your cases like that?”
“No. Most are the routine investigative stuff, but there’s plenty of the other to keep me busy while a lot of my colleagues are looking for new lines of work—what with the Internet making it easier to invade anyone’s privacy. . . .” I slammed the lid on my gripes with that particular aspect of modern living.
Solis ignored that last bit and nodded, his expression thoughtful. I wondered if he actually believed me or if he was just doing a great job of humoring the madwoman. “You are implying you saw something at Reeve’s home that was . . . paranormal. That you see
When we were inconveniently distant from the last building, Solis spoke. “So. Tell me what you saw or how.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” I replied, not looking at him but still walking and keeping a moving eye on the area around us.
“Then explain. We’re stranded here until the rush hour is over. I see no reason not to put the time to use.”
“Well,” I started with a sigh, brushing my sea-breeze-tangled hair out of my eyes, “you’re aware of how I seem to attract strange things. . . .”
From the corner of my eye I saw him nod. He, too, was keeping his gaze on the scenery more than looking at me. That was the way this was going to go: talking without looking at each other, as if we didn’t have to acknowledge anything unpleasant if we didn’t see the truth in the other’s face. It felt strange; I’d never been totally honest with Solis but I’d always tried to keep my evasions small and cleave to omission more than outright lies. It’s a bad idea to get in the habit of lying to cops.
“I see things most people don’t. These things see me, too. That can be . . . troublesome.”
“What sort of things?”
I shot him a desperate glance, then turned my head away again, letting the wind off the surf blow my hair into my face and hide my expression. I don’t manage fear very well—I get angry, aggressive, or snarky instead—and here I had no choice but to be afraid. “Do I really have to say this?”
He nodded.
“Sí
.
”
I took a deep breath, not because there was much to say but because it was stupid and annoying to heave the words out, and turned so my face was less obscured by my hair. “I see ghosts. There. OK?”
“Ghosts.”
If the chips were down, I might as well go all in. “And other things,” I said. “Monsters, magic, things that go bump in the night . . . all that stuff.” I didn’t feel much better having said it.
“So . . . you say that such things are real?”
“I wish they weren’t and I wish I wasn’t saying that, but I am. Most of the . . . paranormal is the best word for it . . . paranormal things aren’t strong or active or any kind of threat to regular people. Every once in a while, though, they are. Do you remember the Mark Lupoldi murder?”
“I will never forget it.”
“Did you ever really buy the explanation I gave you for how he was killed?”
“No, but the case didn’t go to trial, so . . . the rigor of proof was never needed.”
“But it bugs you still, doesn’t it? Like all the little odd things about me and my cases bug you.”
He nodded.
“That was one of the cases where the paranormal became dangerous. One of those moments when what should be impossible happened anyhow. And that’s pretty much where I fit in the world: working with the stuff that logic rejects but that exists nonetheless.”
“Are many of your cases like that?”
“No. Most are the routine investigative stuff, but there’s plenty of the other to keep me busy while a lot of my colleagues are looking for new lines of work—what with the Internet making it easier to invade anyone’s privacy. . . .” I slammed the lid on my gripes with that particular aspect of modern living.
Solis ignored that last bit and nodded, his expression thoughtful. I wondered if he actually believed me or if he was just doing a great job of humoring the madwoman. “You are implying you saw something at Reeve’s home that was . . . paranormal. That you see
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