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Catcher’s brows lifted as he took in the bio, the picture. “He’s a gangster. Interesting.”
“Interesting face,” Mallory said. “Although that might be overly kind. I don’t like to say this, but he looks kind of . . . evil.”
“Rough around the edges, certainly,” I said. “He was killed in prison in 1929.”
“I polled the House,” Ethan said, “and no one here in the early part of the century knew the name.” That included Lindsey, who’d known some less-than-reputable times during her stint as a New York flapper and moll.
“What’s the latest on your end?” Ethan asked.
“Mr. Riley’s corpse—well, ninety percent of it—is at the medical examiner’s office,” Catcher said. “He’ll stay there in a climate-controlled environment until the investigation’s complete, at which point he’ll be reinterred, hopefully with all of his parts. As to the perp, there aren’t any security cams in the area and a canvass didn’t turn up any witnesses to the incident, the perp, or the car. But the crime scene team will run prints, swab for DNA. We might find some evidence yet.”
He crossed his arms, dipped his chin. I’d come to recognize that as Catcher’s “getting down to business” look. “Your ghost,” he said.
“Annabelle reviewed the video,” I said. “She thinks it’s a ghost but can’t verify conclusively without actually feeling the magic.”
Catcher nodded. “She’s careful. I like it.”
“She also confirmed last night it was possible he followed us home.”
“So you have the summoned spirit of a gangster in the basement of your building.”
“That seems to be the whole of it,” Ethan said. “I’ve lived for many years, and I’ve had an encounter or two with the recently deceased. But this is a first even for me.”
Catcher checked his watch. “What time will CPAN be here?”
Ethan bit back a grin. “Anytime now. Are you familiar with their work?”
“I’m not,” Catcher said, sliding his gaze to his wife. “But Mallory did a bit of paranormal investigating during her occult phase.”
Mallory had explored many hobbies before her magic had bubbled to the surface, including an obsession with the supernatural. “I went on one ghost tour,” she said defensively. “They weren’t the ones that led it, and it was my only involvement with ghost-hunting types.” She smiled. “Back then, I preferred my vampires sparkly and my monsters fictional.”
I gave Catcher a speculative glance. “Has that changed?”
His look was dour.
Mallory bumped his shoulder. “I’m surprised in this day and age you don’t have the equipment—the ghost vacuums and poltergeist scrubbers and whatever else.”
“Poltergeist scrubbers?” Catcher asked.
Mallory shrugged. “I figure the Ombudsman gets all sorts of supernatural-sundries catalogues. You know—your supernatural-wrangling devices, your detective capes and monocles, that kind of thing.”
Catcher rolled his eyes at his wife, but a smile curved his lips, just as she’d planned. Spousal management was an undeniably valuable skill.
“I doubt they’ll bring ghost vacuums or poltergeist scrubbers,” Ethan said, “even if they do exist. They will bring expertise and information. And that’s what we need right now.”
• • •
The members of the Chicago Paranormal Action Network came to Cadogan House with backpacks, tripods, and other equipment on neck and shoulder straps. Roz, Matt, and Robin wore yellow CPAN T-shirts and looked more than a little excited to be walking into a House of vampires.
“Welcome to Cadogan House,” Luc said as they stepped into the foyer. “You’ve got a lot of equipment.”
; There was a picture with the description, a small black-and-white image faded around the edges. Mickey Riley wasn’t an attractive man by any measure I could come up with. His face was square, his chin broad, his brow large and overshadowing small, weaselly eyes. His skin was pockmarked, and the long, thin ridge of a scar bisected the lower part of his jaw. His dark hair was greased back from his forehead, his barrel-chested form tucked into a snug, rumpled suit. In the picture, his hands were crossed in front of him, one wrapped around the brim of a derby hat.
“Is he familiar to you?” I asked.
Ethan leaned in for a closer look, then shook his head. “We were here in the Roaring Twenties. Malik and I and many others. I don’t remember this individual in particular, nor were Capone or the other mobsters interested in us. They didn’t know we existed, as far as I’m aware, and probably wouldn’t have cared if they did, as we weren’t competition for their criminal enterprises.”
I nodded. “The biography doesn’t mention any connection to Cadogan House, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
