Ghosted

Chapter Two

It had been seven years since Archie had last seen Beau Langham.

Archie had just graduated from San Diego State with a degree in criminal justice. The original plan had been to continue his education and get his law degree, but the previous summer he had interned in the FBI’s honors program and he had a job offer on the table. Not only could he start his career in the Bureau ahead of schedule, the government would cover a good chunk of his tuition as he pursued his law degree part time.

John had never been thrilled at the idea of Archie joining the FBI. He insisted he was not only able and willing to pay for Archie’s education, he wanted to. And Beau…

Beau was even less thrilled.

It wasn’t a complete surprise. Things had been difficult between them after Archie left for San Diego. In fact, things had been difficult from the minute Archie told Beau he’d been accepted at SDS. They had tried. Archie had tried. But the distance between them had yawned wider every day—a distance that had only partly to do with geography.

Archie had still thought—hoped—they could maybe work through it. Or at least manage to repair their friendship. Beau’s friendship mattered. Beau mattered.

His first clue as to how wrong he’d got it was when Beau couldn’t make time to see him for the first two weeks after Archie arrived home.

It hurt. It was meant to. Knowing that, knowing that Beau’s desire to hurt him had to stem from Beau feeling equally hurt, Archie had finally managed to corner Beau at home. He’d told Beau everything, told him things that seven years later still made him hot with embarrassment.

Afterwards, he wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

Beau had been equally honest, and it had not been pleasant. As far as Beau was concerned, whatever had been between them ended when Archie went off to college. They had never had much in common, and they had even less now. Archie, in Beau’s opinion, needed to get over it.

There had been more, but that had been the gist of it.

They’d only known each other a couple of years. Looking back, Archie told himself a lot of his attachment to Beau had simply been youthful anxiety at taking those next big steps alone. He had always been slow at making friends—close friends—and Beau had been the nearest thing he had to a best friend. Plus, Beau was the first guy he’d ever had real sex with. So, it was understandable he’d wanted to hold onto that. But he wasn’t stupid.

He had taken Beau’s advice and gotten over it.

In fact, he hadn’t spoken to Beau since.

Not even when, out of the blue, he’d got a phone message from Beau “just touching base.” That had been about two years after they’d said their stiff goodbyes. Around the time Beau got engaged to former homecoming queen Riley Andersen. Did Beau think he hadn’t made his feelings clear the last time they’d talked? Archie didn’t return the phone call. Another phone message arrived around the time of their tenth high school reunion. Archie figured he knew what that was about, and Beau could rest easy. Archie didn’t bother to return that call, either. Wild horses couldn’t have dragged him to that reunion.

He had not planned to ever return to Twinkleton. John had flown out to Anchorage that first Christmas. He had flown to Portland for the holidays the two years Archie had been stationed there. After that, Archie had usually worked through the holidays. He phoned John—not as often as John phoned him. Not as often as he should have. He had made the mistake of thinking there would be plenty of time for that down the line, that his career had to come first.

Now, when it was too late, he realized what a mistake he’d made.

When he’d opened his eyes in that Wyoming hospital to find John sitting at his bedside...

It had meant a lot. More than he could have imagined twenty-four hours earlier. Belatedly, it had occurred to him that John was the only real family he had. Until that very moment he had thought of their connection as a cordial, but mostly legal, technicality. John had considered himself legally and ethically bound to take on the responsibility of seeing Archie through to adulthood. But Archie had been a fully autonomous adult for several years and John had still done his best to stay in his life, to be there for him.

So, yes, Archie was in a very dark place as he waited to be interviewed by Twinkleton PD.

He knew the drill, of course. He was probably more familiar with crime scene investigation than most of the officers on scene. That did not make any of it easier.

Initially, no doubt based on his credentials, he’d been permitted to observe, from a distance, as Twinkleton PD proceeded to process the crime scene he’d secured. He had watched in bleak silence as the gazebo was cordoned off, watched officers comb the surrounding garden for potential evidence, watched the crime scene unit arrive and the forensic technicians begin their dreary tasks.

Given the number of guests—prominent guests at that—he was not surprised when additional officers arrived. Twinkleton was a small town and this would be a high-profile case. He knew there was a possibility the police chief might make an appearance, so he was not surprised when he spotted Beau ducking beneath the crime scene tape and striding toward the gazebo.

He was surprised, unpleasantly so, at the way his heart jumped at that brief glimpse. How, after all this time, was it even possible he could recognize that tall moonlit silhouette as Beau?

Maybe because Beau moved with that same easy athletic confidence. Maybe because everyone else still reacted like their star quarterback had arrived on the field.

He was surprised again when, not long after Beau’s arrival, an officer politely but firmly escorted him to the drawing room to wait with the other guests.

Apparently, no professional courtesy would be extended. That felt pointed, but okay. If Beau had grown up to be that kind of cop, there was nothing Archie could do beyond demonstrate his willingness to cooperate in whatever way was required of him. He had no jurisdiction. This was not going to be an FBI investigation. In the eyes of local law enforcement, he was just another witness.

By eleven o’clock, the musicians and caterers had been interviewed and dismissed, but there were still about fifty guests crowded into the drawing room. In theory, everyone present was a ghost hunter, though ghost enthusiast was probably more accurate. Realistically, most of the guests were probably there for the free food and drink. The TPS ghost walks were the social events of the year, and not receiving an invite to at least one of the walks was the equivalent of the Victorian Snub Direct.

Archie glanced at the cloisonné clock on the graceful white fireplace mantel. Nearly midnight now. He would need to call the Bureau’s field office in Portland, but that could wait until the morning. Until he had more information. So far, his involvement was peripheral, and though he was hoping to take a greater role, he suspected with each passing moment, that would be unlikely.

“Archie, what’s happening out there?” Judith demanded, as he positioned himself at the window. Not that he could see anything beyond the bob of flashlight beams and intense blue and red flashes of strobe lights reflecting off windows, highlighting the contours of the garden, its structures and statuary, in a somber kaleidoscope.

Judith’s question had to be rhetorical, right? Despite the murmurs of agreement from other guests, the ghost walk attendees hadn’t been thrown in here without explanation. Besides, Twinkleton wasn’t off the grid. Anyone who’d ever watched TV knew what happened when someone died a violent death.

Archie said, “It won’t be much longer. They’ll conduct initial interviews and then you’ll be free to leave.”

Judith and John had always seemed affectionate, but if she’d shed so much as a tear, he saw no signs of it. In fact, he was struck by how cold and composed she appeared. Desi, on the other hand, was over near the fireplace, sobbing quietly on the shoulder of a guy who was presumably Arlo, her fiancé.

Granted, shock affected people in different ways, and however you looked at it, this was a shocking event. As far as Archie could tell, everyone, with the possible exception of Judith, seemed to be reacting as one would expect in such traumatic circumstances.

“This is a terrible, terrible business.” Leo interrupted Archie’s thoughts. His normally pleasant face was lined and weary. He looked gray. “And a terrible homecoming for you.”

“Yes.” This was as bad as it got.

Tough for Leo, too. Tough for all the TPS founders.

We of the TPS.

Jesus. How the hell could this have happened? And to John of all people? It was unfathomable.

As Judith moved away, Priscilla joined them. She was very pale and, unlike Judith, she had clearly been crying. “I still can’t believe this is happening,” she whispered.

Leo put his arm around her shoulders, gave her a hard hug.

Archie said, “I know. I’m sorry. I know how close the three of you were.”

“We grew up together,” Leo said. “I can’t imagine a world without John in it.”

Same. But Archie didn’t say it. He was still coming to terms with it.

Priscilla gripped Leo’s arm, comfortingly. Leo had never married, and Archie remembered John saying once that Leo had always been in love with Priscilla, but Priscilla had never seen Leo or John as anything but pals. She glanced at Archie, did a doubletake, and said, “Are you okay, kiddo? You really don’t look…well.”

He didn’t feel well. He hadn’t felt well before all this happened, and he’d been running on nothing but will-power for the last couple of hours. But there was nothing that could be done about it.

He asked, “Can you think of anyone who’d want to harm John? Had he had any run-ins with someone lately?”

Priscilla looked taken-aback. She turned automatically to Leo.

“No, of course not,” Leo said. “You don’t think one of-of John’s guests did this?”

What he meant was, one of us ?

But, yes, of course, that was exactly what Archie meant. That was by far the most likely scenario. And you didn’t have to be an FBI agent to recognize it.

Instead of answering, Archie asked, “Is Professor Azizi here? I didn’t see him earlier.”

Priscilla and Leo exchanged looks. Priscilla said carefully, “No. John and the professor had a falling out a few months back.”

“What about?”

Once again, that curious exchange of looks.

The doors to the drawing room opened unexpectedly, cutting off further conversation.

Two cops walked in wearing jeans and black duty jackets with Twinkleton PD insignia. One was the officer who’d escorted Archie from the crime scene. Young, blond, snub-nosed—the cute nose did a lot to diffuse his determined air of baby storm trooper. The other cop was Beau Langham.

Archie had been braced for it, but even so, he experienced an almost physical reaction to seeing Beau up close and personal again.

Or , more likely, post-concussion syndrome was making itself felt. He was supposed to be avoiding exertion, stress, and almost certainly—though not specifically cited—homicide, and yet here he was, being subjected to all of the above.

Seven years later, Beau had changed. He looked older, thinner, harder. Still preposterously handsome in the cartoony style of the original Disney princes: wavy dark hair, guileless blue eyes, the kind of bone structure that typically comes from generations of fashion model inbreeding. Which didn’t change the fact that he looked and moved like a seasoned cop. His gaze was cool and appraising as he studied the room.

“Sorry to spoil the evening, folks,” the blond cop said. “I’m sure most of you know Chief Langham. I’m Detective Swenson.” He proceeded to explain that while it would be up to the medical examiner to determine the exact cause of John’s death, the evidence indicated he had been the victim of a homicide, and it would be necessary to detain everyone a bit longer in order to conduct some preliminary interviews.

That went over about as well as one would expect.

Beau ignored the questions and protests. His blue gaze swept the room and lit on Archie.

For a moment they stared impassively at each other.

Beau said something in an aside to Swenson and Swenson turned his attention to Archie. “Mr. Crane? You reported finding the body?”

“That’s correct,” Archie said.

“We’ll start with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” He could feel the silent, uneasy stares of the other guests as he walked toward Beau and Swenson. He was no longer looking directly at Beau, and Beau was no longer looking directly at him.

“It’s been a while.” Beau held one of the double doors open.

At the same time, a uniformed officer started into the room, so Archie did an awkward sidestep. He brushed uncomfortably close to Beau, close enough to smell his aftershave—a complicated blend of peppery apples and crushed amber—glimpse that same little dark curl behind his ear, note his body cam, the department issued Glock 19 at his right side.

Disconcerting. But then he was in the hall with its intricately patterned parquet floors and nineteenth century watercolor paintings of Oregon’s coast.

Beau was right behind him. The uniformed officer was requesting that the remaining guests not speak to each other—which was closing the barn door after the horse had fled—and Swenson said, “We’ve set up shop temporarily in Dr. Perry’s office.”

The words, the moment, felt dreamlike, distant. “Sure,” Archie said.

They walked across the hall to John’s study. When Archie had cut through the room earlier, he hadn’t bothered to turn the lights on. They were on now—every light in the house seemed to be on—and the room looked almost eerily unchanged.

Tall white bookcases, a large fireplace of white wood and green glazed bricks, and large rugs with faded patterns of cream and red roses. Fat, squashy leather sofas and wingback chairs offered inviting views of the beautiful room and lovely garden beyond the windows.

Everything was as Archie remembered—with one exception. The large winter landscape that had always hung over the fireplace was gone. In its place was an oil portrait of a slender young man of about seventeen: sharp, angular features; wavy hair the color of wheat falling haphazardly over a broad forehead; fair skin marked by a scatter of light freckles across his cheeks and nose. Intense blue eyes, bright and fierce, set above high cheekbones, gave the youth a watchful, almost penetrating gaze.

John.

But even as the thought formed, Archie realized his mistake—the lips were too thin, the chin too pointy, the build too slight. He was looking at a portrait of himself.

A weird mistake to make. Even weirder given that he’d never sat for a portrait. He’d never even had a formal photograph taken beyond those for his high school and college year-books—and his government-issued ID.

But that was certainly him. He recognized the silver chain around his neck—the St. Christopher medal his mom had given him, the one her father had worn while serving in Vietnam. The one Archie had lost in Wyoming when Kyle yanked it off his throat.

It was so odd. John had obviously taken his role as guardian a lot more seriously than Archie realized. After all, he’d stood in for Desi’s father—he was her uncle, a blood relation—but he didn’t have any oil paintings of her hanging around the place.

“Sorry for your loss,” Beau was saying. “Sorry we have to do this now.” His tone was courteous and impersonal.

“I understand,” Archie said automatically.

Swenson sat down at a table and chairs they’d moved to the side of the room—which was a lot more tactful than commandeering John’s desk. Archie sat down at the table across from Swenson. Beau moved toward the window. Nothing personal, that was so he could watch the interviewees out of their line of sight. But the idea that Beau was standing to the side observing him did little to relax Archie.

Swenson shuffled through his papers, and Archie realized the detective was even more uncomfortable than he was about Beau monitoring the proceedings. It was almost certainly Swenson’s first-time taking lead on a homicide. It might even be his first homicide.

Swenson quit shuffling, clicked his pen a couple of times, said, “You’re with the FBI, Mr. Crane?”

“Correct.” Archie had already introduced himself to Swenson in the garden, but there had been a lot going on.

Beau said quietly, “Special Agent Crane.”

Swenson’s head jerked up, his cheeks pinked, he said, “Special Agent Crane. You’re in Twinkleton visiting Dr. Perry?

“Correct.”

“Where is your legal place of residence?”

Archie was closer to Beau and heard his soft sigh. There wasn’t much funny about this, but he had to suppress a smile at that long-suffering sound. Before the undercover gig, he’d been partnered with a first office, AKA rookie, agent and it took a fair bit of patience. Beau had never been particularly patient.

“I currently rent an apartment in Stafford, Virginia.”

“Are you married?”

Archie stared straight ahead. “No. I live alone.”

They went quickly through the basics of name, rank, and serial number—well, not exactly, but close enough. Archie was brief and accurate—he was not about to divulge any details regarding an investigation that was still ongoing—and then Swenson asked, “You haven’t been back to visit Dr. Perry in seven years?”

“No.”

“Was there a falling out of some kind?”

The question was unexpected, but Archie didn’t blink. “No. Depending on where I was posted, we sometimes got together for the holidays. We spoke on the phone. We kept in touch. But because of my job, I wasn’t able to get out this way.”

It sounded lame because it was lame.

Swenson clearly thought it was lame. He said, “Huh.” But it sounded like Hmm . It was definitely intended as a Hmm .

Archie, guilty and irritated, was unwise enough to be honest. “Frankly, I don’t like Twinkleton. I never have.”

Now why in the hell would he say that aloud? Because he was tired, recovering from a head injury, stressed, and increasingly edgy at the idea of Beau staring down the back of his neck? Probably all of the above. Which was still no excuse.

Swenson’s brows arched. “Why? What have you got against Twinkleton?”

“I don’t have anything against Twinkleton. It’s just…not my kind of place.” A tiny spark of old injury, ancient wrongs flicked into life, and he said, “There was never anything here for me.”

Despite the incessant clicking of Swenson’s pen, the room was suddenly very quiet.

“But here you are on your vacation.”

“I’m not—” Archie changed course. He did not want to talk about Wyoming or why he was on sick leave or any of the rest of it. He said, “John asked me to come home.”

The obvious question was any particular reason ? But Swenson missed it. “What made you leave the party and go out to the gazebo?”

Archie answered carefully. “I thought earlier in the evening that there was something on John’s mind. Something worrying him. When Simmy—Mrs. Simms—said he’d gone outside to meet someone, something felt wrong. I couldn’t understand why he’d leave the party to have a private meeting in the back of the garden.”

“You think that was your special agent instinct?” Swenson asked.

Archie stared. Anyone else and he’d have suspected sarcasm. Swenson looked completely serious.

“It just seemed odd. I thought I’d go and check on him.”

Beau asked, “What time was that?”

Archie turned to look at him. “Around nine. Nine.”

Beau’s blue gaze studied him without emotion.

“Did you mention to anyone you were going out to the gazebo?”

“Not specifically. Mrs. Simms said John had gone out to the gazebo, and I think I said something like, that doesn’t make sense.”

“You didn’t ask anyone to go with you?”

“No. I figured I was probably overreacting.”

Beau continued to regard him consideringly. “Okay. You started across the garden. What did you see?”

“Nothing. It was dark. I didn’t see anything or hear anything amiss.”

Had there been something…

Yes, unease flittered—not a memory so much as a fleeting impression. Something that had been there? Or something that hadn’t been there?

It was gone. Replaced by the vision of the flickering lights he’d seen earlier. His lips parted, but he could imagine how that would go over. He decided that was one angle of investigation he’d pursue on his own.

“Sure about that?” Beau asked.

“Yes.”

“What happened when you reached the gazebo?”

Unexpectedly, the memory shook Archie. It took him a second to be able to say calmly, “I called his name and thought I heard—I heard something. I wasn’t sure what. When I reached the gazebo, I could see his legs. I went up the steps, went inside, knelt beside him.”

“Was the victim already deceased?”

Victim. Deceased . It was all unreal.

“No.”

“No?”

“He was dying. He grabbed my hand.” Archie did not look at his hand. He had washed the blood away in the cold mossy fountain near the house. “He was trying to speak.”

“What did he say?”

“You didn’t think you should go for help?” Swenson broke in.

Archie answered Swenson. “I saw that he…he had maybe seconds. I stayed with him because that’s what I’d want.” He shut his eyes, blinked hard, opened them.

There was a silence for a heartbeat or two and then Beau repeated, “What did he say?”

“He said, ‘ some…’ but he couldn’t finish it. He tried a couple of times.”

“Did you ask him who attacked him?”

Archie said huskily, “Yes. He repeated ‘ some’. ”

“Someone? Something?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he say anything else, give any indication he knew who attacked him?”

“No.”

“You said he seemed stressed earlier. Did he mention he was having trouble with someone? Financial worries? Health concerns?”

“No.”

“Did he mention any recent run-ins, arguments, problems—”

“No.” Archie said wearily, “I know how it works. I’ve been running over every conversation we had. I didn’t pick up any indication there might be a problem until this evening. Even then, it wasn’t anything he said. He just seemed…bothered by something. Not obviously so. Not fearful. He was preoccupied earlier, but he’d been away for a few days. I figured there were things he needed to catch up on.”

“Can you think back to anyone who might have held a grudge?”

“Seven years later?” Archie said. “I don’t remember anything like that. He mentioned that Desi and Judith were disappointed he wouldn’t let Desi formally announce her engagement tonight, but I doubt they’d have been upset enough to kill him. Leo, Priscilla, Mila, they’re your best bet for information. If John was worried about something, he’d most likely confide in one of them.”

Beau nodded. He was watching Archie closely. There was something odd in his expression.

Archie said suddenly, “Actually, there is something. I think there was a falling out with Professor Azizi. Priscilla mentioned it in passing.”

“What was that over?”

“I didn’t get a chance to hear the details.”

Swenson was scribbling away at his notes.

Beau said briskly, “Right. Well, as of right now, this house and the garden are a crime scene. You’ll have to find somewhere else to stay during your visit. Let my office know where we can find you for any follow-up questions.”

“Yes.” Archie rose shakily from the table.

Swenson frowned, watching him. “Are you okay, sir?”

“It’s been a long night,” Archie said. He did not look at Beau as he left the room.