“Sure am. And this is my partner, Elizabeth Ellery.”
“Hey, Elizabeth,” I said, reaching out to shake her hand. Garrett pinched the rim of his nose.
“Ms. Davidson, Patrick told me you can see us.”
“Yep.”
“How—?”
“Long story. But first,” I said, heading off the barrage of questions, “let me get this straight: You are all three partners at the same law firm, and you all three died last night?”
“Who else died last night?” Uncle Bob asked, tearing through his notebook.
“We were all three murdered last night,” Sussman corrected. “All nine-millimeter double taps to the head.”
Elizabeth raised her perfectly arched brows at him. “Double taps?”
He smiled sheepishly and tried to kick the dirt at his feet. “I heard the cops talking.”
“I only got two homicides.”
I looked up at Uncle Bob. “You have only two homicides from last night? There were three.”
Garrett went still, probably wondering what I was up to, how I could know any such thing since I couldn’t possibly see dead people, so dead people couldn’t possibly tell me they were dead. It just wasn’t possible.
Uncle Bob studied his notebook. “We got a Patrick Sussman found outside his home in the Mountain Run area, and this guy, a Jason Barber.”
“Okay, here with us now is Patrick Sussman … the Third,” I said, tossing Sussman a grin, “and Jason Barber. But he’s in denial right now.” I looked over as the coroner zipped the body bag.
“Help!” Barber yelled, squirming like a worm in a frying pan, “I can’t breathe!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I whispered loudly. “Would you just get up?”
“And?” Uncle Bob asked.
“Elizabeth Ellery was killed, too,” I said, hating to do it with her standing right there. It just felt awkward.
Garrett was now eyeing me with open hostility. Anger was a common emotion when faced with something impossible to believe. But quite honestly, f**k him.
“Elizabeth Ellery? We don’t have an Elizabeth Ellery.”
Elizabeth was studying Garrett. “This guy seems a little upset.”
I nodded my head. “He doesn’t believe I can see you guys. It’s upsetting him that I’m talking to you.”
“That’s too bad. He’s—” She inclined her head to study his backside. “—nice looking.”
I chuckled, and we did a discreet high five, making Garrett even more uncomfortable. “Do you know where your body is?” I asked her.
“Yes. I was going to visit my sister near Indian School and Chelwood. I had a present for my nephew. I missed his birthday party,” she added sadly, as if realizing at that moment that she would miss all the rest as well. “I heard the kids playing in the backyard and decided to sneak up to surprise them. That’s the last thing I remember.”
“So you didn’t see the shooter either?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“Did you hear anything? If you were shot, surely—”
“I don’t remember.”
“He used a silencer,” Sussman said. “It sounded weird, muffled, like a door slamming.”
“The shooter used a suppressor,” I relayed to Uncle Bob. “And neither of these two saw who did it. Where is your body, exactly?” I asked Elizabeth. As she told me, I repeated the address to Uncle Bob. “She’s around the side of the house. There are lots of bushes, which could explain why no one has found her.”
“What does she look like?” Uncle Bob asked.
“Um, Caucasian, about five-ten,” I said, calculating her height minus the three-inch heels.
“Hey, you’re good,” she said.
I grinned appreciatively. “Blond hair, blue eyes, a light birthmark on her right temple.”
She wiped at her temple self-consciously. “I think that’s blood.”
“Oh, sorry. The coloring is sometimes a bit hazy.” I pointed helpfully to Uncle Bob’s notebook. “Scratch that birthmark.” Then I looked up at him. “She should pretty much be the only dead person there in a red designer skirt suit and stilettos.”
Garrett almost snarled at me. “Get in my truck,” he ordered through his teeth, “and bring the dead chick with you.” He said the last bit sarcastically.
I turned back to Uncle Bob. “Are you going to let him talk to me that way?”
Uncle Bob shrugged. “He does have a mean apprehension record.”
“Fine,” I said in a huff. Not that I couldn’t handle Garrett. I just wanted to complain. Before leaving, however, I had to deal with Barber. Elizabeth, Sussman, and I strolled over to the ambulance as the coroner was talking to Sergeant Dwight. Barber’s nose was peeking out of the body bag. “Dude, I’m not kidding—you have to get out of your body. It’s freaking me out.”
He leaned up just enough for me to see his face. “It’s my body, dammit. I know the law, and possession is nine-tenths of it. And as for you,” he said, pointing a finger out of the bag, “aren’t you supposed to be here for us? To aid us in our time of need? Isn’t that what you do?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Well, I have two words for you: compassion fatigue,” he said, his voice accusatory.