Ghost Memory Read online

  “Yeah, probably. The documentation should help, but I have an idea,” I said. I explained about Thulu’s cousin, Evan, the family accountant, and said he might be able to smooth the way. Mr. Quinn and Thulu agreed it would probably help things. A large deposit of that kind of cash had to have some kind of red tape. I pulled out my cell phone and called Thulu’s cousin, Evan, our family accountant.

  Evan knew exactly what Thulu and I could do as far as our abilities were concerned. He was used to odd requests from us. A huge chunk of cash certainly wasn’t the oddest thing we’d asked for help with over the years. It was reassuring when Evan had our backs, and his excellent reputation would make explaining the situation a lot easier. I quickly gave him a rundown of our case.

  “Evan, is there a way to handle that kind of money with as little attention and fuss as possible?” I asked.

  Evan asked me if Mr. Quinn would consider using our family’s bank as he knew people there and could get things handled with a minimum of attention. I relayed the question.

  Mr. Quinn thought for a moment. “That will be fine. I’m not exactly attached to my bank anyway.”

  We made arrangements to meet Evan twenty minutes later at the bank where all of our large family kept our numerous accounts.

  We helped Mr. Quinn get all of the money into a few envelopes.

  “Do the two of you mind helping me lock up?” asked Mr. Quinn.

  “We’re happy to,” I replied. I went down a long hallway to secure the back door. It led to a screened-in porch. Stepping out onto the porch, I saw a lovely garden in the backyard. I didn’t take the time to admire it, though. I made sure the porch door was latched, and bolted the back door on my way back in.

  I met the other two at the front door, where the three of us donned our coats and made our way outside. The sun was weak and did little to warm us up as we walked to our car. Traffic was starting to get heavy as we drove to the bank, which wasn’t very far, but we still made it there before Evan did.

  He arrived a few minutes after we did and met us in the lobby. Thulu and I waited while Evan took Mr. Quinn to see the bank manager.

  I figured we’d be there a while, so I made myself comfortable in the lobby. I pulled out my tablet and read a book while we waited. Thulu watched the people coming and going, something he liked to do. He found people interesting and liked to guess about their lives. I humored him and played the people game sometimes, but I wasn’t as fond of it as he was.

  I hadn’t always been stand-offish. Before my parents died, I was very outgoing. After the fiery crash that killed them and their subsequent appearance to me at age ten, I withdrew from people. The looks of pity from other kids when they found out my folks were dead had only irritated me. I didn’t want pity. I wanted my mom and dad back.

  Meeting Thulu had brought me partially back out of my shell, but I never made it all the way back. I was far more comfortable with the dead than I was with living people. Except for Thulu’s gigantic family that is. I adored them and had felt at home with them from the beginning. But the rest of humanity I could do without most of the time. It was something I didn’t want to examine too closely.

  Once everything was settled, Evan led Mr. Quinn back to us. I gave Evan a hug of thanks.

  On the drive back to Mr. Quinn’s home, he remarked how much nicer our bank was than his.

  “I made arrangements to transfer all of my money over to this bank,” he informed us. “I also made an appointment with Evan to set up some safe investments. What a delightful young man your cousin is. And so very knowledgeable for one so young. I was quite impressed by the regard the bank manager had for him.”

  “Evan is a financial genius, that’s for sure,” I agreed.

  We made sure that Mr. Quinn was safe and sound inside before we drove back to our apartment. I was feeling pretty good about what we’d done on the case so far.

  At home, I made sandwiches and soup for a very late lunch, while Thulu started surfing the net. We ate at our desks as he worked with online maps of San Francisco, noting certain locations.

  When he was done, he showed me the list of locations with several business names.

  The first was an electrical company. The second a motorcycle dealership. The third was a bank. It was easy to see the progression.

  “This is where the money is?”

  Thulu shook his head. “No, the money is scattered all over the place. I used the money to track the thief and focused on him.”

  “Clever.”

  He dimpled at me.

  Thulu pulled up a website for the electrician, Harvey Brewer. The owner was an older guy who had the business for over thirty years. Somehow, I doubted Brewer was the thief, but I wouldn’t rule anything out. A review site gave the electrician rave reviews with very few low ratings. That validated my feeling that it was probably someone who worked for him. No matter what, that meeting wasn’t going to be pleasant.

  It was going on late afternoon, so we decided to give the electrician a call. Thulu got a receptionist who said the owner wouldn’t be in for another half-hour. We set off again, this time for the electrician’s office.

  The address for the electrical company was in an industrial section across town. There were more warehouses than actual offices. When we got to the address, it was in a row of similar combination warehouse/offices.

  There were four panel trucks with the electrical company’s name and other cars we assumed belonged to employees parked nearby. And there was one brand-new, bright, shiny, red motorcycle. Thulu and I exchanged glances when we saw that. Yep. We were definitely in the right place.

  We went up a short walkway and opened the door into the office. This wasn’t an office for customers, but a working office for the electrical company. There were no frills, but it did have a few chairs for the rare visitors. The décor was utilitarian, but some effort had been made to make the front office comfortable. A few plants were scattered about and family pictures adorned the wall to the side of a large desk.

  Thulu smiled, dimples showing, at the older woman who was behind the desk, talking on the phone. Her grey hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. We waited for her to finish, which wasn’t very long.

  “Hi there, I was wondering who the new motorcycle outside belongs to?” asked Thulu.

  “Oh, that belongs to our nephew. Is there a problem with it?”

  At that moment the man whose picture we had seen on the website came in from the back. He looked at us questioningly.

  “Oh, here’s my husband, Harvey Brewer. They were just asking about Gary’s motorcycle, Harv.”

  The man shrugged. “So, what about it?”

  Thulu looked him straight in the eye. “I hate to tell you this, Mr. Brewer, but the money used to buy that motorcycle was stolen from one of your clients.”

  Husband and wife wore identical expressions. Not so much of surprise, but of weary disappointment, and a wariness that said they were now on their guard. The tension in the room escalated. She was the first to speak.

  “And you know this how?” Her tone was brittle.

  Thulu answered softly, but firmly “The money was taken from a house owned by Peter Swanson and Donovan Quinn. You did some work for them a couple of months ago.”

  “Yes, we did.” said the man grudgingly.

  “It was during that time that the money went missing. The theft was only recently discovered.”

  “Theft? You’re not the police, though, are you?”

  “No, we’re not,” said Thulu. “And believe me when I say that I’m hoping we won’t have to bring the police into this. If we can’t resolve this among ourselves and get Mr. Quinn’s money back, then, of course, the police will have to be called. I really hope we don’t have to do that.” Thulu looked steadily at the man.

  There was silence in the office. I could hear the ticking of the clock and the hum of machinery out back. Mr. and Mrs. Brewer looked at each other for a long moment.

  Finally, Mr. Bre
wer spoke, “I don’t believe we have anything else to say to you.”

  Thulu nodded pleasantly. “That’s fine, sir. There will be an official complaint filed with the police against you. Your company can answer for your nephew’s actions.” He turned and headed for the door with me right behind him, disappointed that we were going to have to go another route with this.

  “How much money was taken?” Mr. Brewer asked.

  We stopped and turned. Mr. Brewer was a little paler than moments before.

  “Sixteen thousand dollars,” Thulu said quietly.

  Mrs. Brewer gasped. Mr. Brewer briefly closed his eyes before giving a small sigh and looking Thulu in the eye.

  “That’s about how much the motorcycle cost,” Mr. Brewer said. “Where is Gary?”

  “He’s finishing up at the job. And he’s already paid for that bike,” she protested.

  “Well, he’s going to have to sell it and get the money back,” I said firmly. “He stole it from an old man who needs that money to live on.”

  Mr. Brewer sighed once more. “I remember Mr. Swanson and Mr. Quinn quite well. We rewired their Victorian a couple months ago. They were very nice and even gave us a bonus for completing the work early.”

  I watched him as he thought through the situation, examining his options. I could see how much his next words cost him. Mr. Brewer was a proud man. “I’m extremely embarrassed that my nephew has endangered both my personal reputation and that of my business. I will make sure the money is returned.”

  “And when can we expect that?” asked Thulu promptly.

  Mr. Brewer’s movements were stiff as he looked at Thulu before turning to his wife. “Do we have enough to cover this?”

  She nodded, but I could tell she wasn’t happy about it.

  “Then would you please make out a check for that amount.” He looked at us, while his wife turned to her computer. “Should the check be made out to both of them?”

  “No, please make it out to Donovan Quinn,” said Thulu, shaking his head. “Mr. Swanson passed away. That’s another reason why it’s important for Mr. Quinn to have his money returned as soon as possible.”

  Mr. Brewer paused, a new idea striking him. “And what is your business in this?”

  “We were simply hired to track the money down. Mr. Quinn was referred to us by a friend of his,” said Thulu smoothly.

  “So you expect us to turn this check over to you?” asked the woman bitterly.

  “No, ma’am, we have no problem with you hand delivering it yourself. Today after work will be just fine,” I said sweetly. I doubted she’d take me up on that. “However, please feel free to call Mr. Quinn right now and verify who we are and that we have the authority to act for him.”

  Mr. Brewer nodded and pulled out a notebook as he moved to the back office. He was gone for several minutes and when he returned he nodded to his wife. “They’re who they say they are.”

  Mrs. Brewer turned to her computer. After she printed the check, she handed it to Mr. Brewer to sign. He handed it to Thulu, who gave it a cursory glance and nodded to Mr. Brewer.

  “Thank you. I know this was tough and I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. You both seem like good people,” said Thulu. No one offered to shake hands.

  We made our way outside to our car, thankful that the episode had ended as it had. Our bluff about calling the cops was just that. A bluff. We didn’t have one shred of evidence to even prove the money existed, except Mr. Swanson’s ledger. Getting anyone to investigate on such flimsy evidence would have been tough. Fortunately, Mr. Brewer had been caught off-guard enough to not question us more thoroughly. And apparently his nephew was far from being a saint.

  “So, I got the impression this was not the first time Gary has pulled something. I feel sorry for those two,” I said.

  Thulu nodded. “It could have gone a lot worse, that’s for sure. I’m glad we won’t be around when Gary finds out he has to return the bike.”

  “Yeah, no kidding.”

  We were almost home when an unpleasant thought occurred to me. “I hope he doesn’t decide to take it out on Mr. Quinn. Maybe we can talk him into going to a hotel for a few days.” Something was bothering me. Not that my feelings were very reliable, but still I felt strongly enough to say something. “Thulu, let’s go straight there. I have a bad feeling about this.”

  For once Thulu didn’t give me a hard time about my erratic feelings.

  Thulu turned to go to Mr. Quinn’s house. Heavy traffic and lights slowed us down, causing my stomach to churn. Every red light made me want to yell with frustration. I pulled my cell phone out and called Mr. Quinn, filling him in on what had happened and cautioning him about not opening the door until we got there.

  It seemed to take forever, and when we got to the house we saw a bright red, shiny motorcycle sandwiched in between two cars. We didn’t immediately see anyone around, and the porch was empty. Thulu searched for a parking space and we finally found one a block away. We used the walk back to the house to look around the neighborhood. No one stood out, but my stomach was churning and we kept a good pace getting to Mr. Quinn’s house.

  If that was indeed Gary’s bike, he had raced to get there before us. As we got closer, I saw it was the same one we’d seen an hour earlier. We were still a quarter block away when we heard shouts from the direction of Mr. Quinn’s. Thulu and I exchanged a quick glance and sprinted to the Victorian.

  A short, stocky guy with long, sandy blonde hair was hammering on the front door and yelling for Quinn to open it. I was pretty sure it was Mr. Brewer’s nephew, Gary.

  Neighbors began to peek out of windows, but doors stayed firmly closed and curtains twitched shut when I looked their way.

  Sensibly, Mr. Quinn had declined to comply with the demands, and his door stayed firmly shut as well. Peter Swanson stood guard in front of it, glaring at Gary, who kicked the door. I prayed it would hold.

  We were two houses away when Mr. Swanson unleashed a jolt of electricity which hit Gary square in the chest and knocked him back toward the steps. He caught himself on the handrail, halting a near fall down the steps. He shook his head and looked around, not being able to see Mr. Swanson’s ghostly figure standing guard.

  Thulu and I exchanged looks of shock. It was unusual for the dead to be able to make contact with the physical world, and the fact that Mr. Swanson had made such an impact impressed me. The depth of his feeling had to be intense to cause such a strong effect on the physical world, let alone a live human.

  Gary staggered to his feet, long blond hair in his eyes. He glared back at the door trying to figure out what had happened. He shook his hair out of his eyes and rubbed his chest. He looked around for the source of the jolt, but seeing no one, he went for the door once more. I was surprised he hadn’t run away.

  “Can we help you with something?” Thulu asked amiably, as we stepped onto the porch.

  Gary turned to glare at us. It took only a couple seconds for him to figure out who we were. He closed the gap between us and shook his fist in Thulu’s face, having a solid target to take out his anger out on. Big mistake.

  “You the bastard told my uncle I stole that money?”

  Thulu raised an eyebrow and simply watched him, not answering.

  Gary looked back and forth between us. “Well, it had to be you two. My uncle said it was a couple. So, you turn around and give that check back to me right now and then you tell my uncle you made a mistake.”

  Thulu looked at him placidly. “No,” he said. Just that - a simple, quiet answer.

  Gary apparently didn’t like the answer, though, because he made his next mistake and drew his fist back. An action he was destined to never finish. The next moment he was flat on his back on the painted porch, staring up at the ceiling, breath knocked out of him. Thulu knelt over him, pinning him down with a casual hand on his neck.

  “Stay down and listen very carefully to what I have to say. I don’t want to hurt you, but I can a
nd I will if necessary. Are you listening to me?” Thulu’s voice was still quiet and calm.

  Gary’s eyes tracked to Thulu. He struggled to get up, but immediately stopped when Thulu applied more pressure to his neck.

  “Right now you need to stay down and listen until I’m done talking. Then I’ll let you up. But not before that. Nod if you’re listening,” Thulu continued.

  Gary glared at Thulu, but no way was he going to be able to move until Thulu decided to let him. The blood drained from his face, leaving it pale. He gave one short nod. His expression of hate was so over the top it was almost comical, but I didn’t laugh.

  “Now, Gary, you’re a very lucky guy. You see, we aren’t turning you over to the cops, which is what you deserve. You should be very grateful for that because you would be convicted, and I don’t think you’d much care for prison.”

  I noticed the back of Gary’s hands as he clenched his fists. They had obvious prison tattoos.

  “Thulu, I think your new friend is already acquainted with the finer points of prison.”

  Thulu looked up at me, before glancing at the tats, “So, I see. Well now Gary, this puts a new light on things doesn’t it? Did you enjoy your first stay in prison? I understand that the second time or third can be a longer sentence. Repeat offender and all.”

  Gary continued his glare of hate.

  Thulu’s tone became harsher, but his volume remained quiet. “So, Gary, here’s the deal. You can use this as a chance to change your life around, move away or even go to hell. I really don’t care which one you pick. But if you come near Mr. Quinn, if you have anyone else come near him or do anything in any way that I don’t like, I’ll turn you over to the cops. After you and I have another private little chat that is. Do you understand me?”

  Thulu’s tone left no room for doubt that he was serious and quite capable of following through if he needed to. I hoped Gary had sense enough to know that.

  The hatred on his face warred with anger and fear as he carefully watched Thulu.

  Thulu’s voice was still quiet, almost patient this time. “Hello? Gary? Do you understand what I’m saying? Are you going to stay away?”