Last Girl Ghosted(85)

“Son, who did this?”

Son? Really? Who was this guy? Then he realized. He recognized the man from the articles about the Carson property raid. He was thicker, grayer but Bailey recognized him as the cop that led the team. They’d traded messages but never talked seen each other in person.

“A man I’ve been chasing. I don’t know his real name. Some people know him as Raife Mannes, or Adam Harper. He’s a ghost.”

“A ghost with a gun,” said the big man. “I’m guessing you’re Bailey Kirk. The private detective.”

“That’s right,” said Bailey. “And you are?”

“I’m Jones Cooper,” he said. “I’m a friend of Wren’s. My wife got a call from one of Wren’s girlfriends in NYC, a woman named Jax, of all things. Kind of hysterical. Said she thought her friend was in trouble.”

“Okay,” said Bailey.

Jax, the best friend. Bailey knew that women didn’t like being called hysterical, and they didn’t like men who called them that. But this guy was obviously running on an old operating system; maybe he hadn’t downloaded the new software.

Cooper went on, “Then I got a call from Joy Martin of The Hollows Historical Society saying she thought you were headed here, maybe together. She also thought Wren was in trouble.”

“Where is she?”

“That’s the thing. Her friend Jax said that she and Wren track each other, and that Wren blocked her. That the last Jax saw Wren was headed out of town but not back to the city. Farther north.”

“Why?”

“Jax seemed to think she was chasing your ghost.”

“Goddammit.” Bailey rose, then sank back, weak with pain. He steeled himself and rose again, determined to make it to his car. He had a first-aid kit there, some pain pills. He’d patched himself up and soldiered on before.

The old man looked at him with a mildly amused frown. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I put a tracking device on her car,” said Bailey. When he saw her vehicle at the hotel, he took a moment and stuck one on the inside of the wheel well. All he had to do was open the app on his phone. “I’m going after her.”

“You can’t drive.”

The old guy had a point.

“Can you?”

Jones Cooper was that kind of guy, wasn’t he? You could always recognize them—the cop, the soldier, the first responder. He was the guy at the scene, who knew instinctively what was right, and what to do, did it without question or regard for himself.

“I have to call this in and stay until someone comes to secure the scene,” he said. “But, yeah, let’s go. I have a first-aid kit in my car.”

Of course he did.

The police arrived just as Cooper had finished expertly wrapping up Bailey’s shoulder—tight but not too tight. The pressure gave a relief from the pain, and the two Vicodin he popped had him less than sharp mentally, but at least functional. In the passenger seat of Cooper’s car, he opened the app on his phone and saw the little blue dot that was Wren Greenwood, creeping north.

Cooper seemed to know the two officers who exited the squad car. They had a quick conversation, nods all around. Then Cooper walked to the car, climbing into the driver’s seat, making the car pitch with his weight.

“I agreed to bring you in for questioning later tonight.”

“We made a mess of their crime scene.”

Jones Cooper nodded. “I told them where we were in the room, what we did, and we didn’t touch Rick. I texted the chief with the suspect’s names, details, and told him we’ll loop back. This department is on a shoestring. They’ll be happy for the help with this.”

“You were the chief here once.”

“That’s right,” Cooper said, putting the car into gear and pulling away from the drive. “Just a private investigator now.”

“I read about you.”

There were a lot of articles about Jones Cooper in The Hollows Gazette, not all of them flattering. He’d “retired” from the department in scandal, hung out a shingle, worked with a psychic at some point.

Jones Cooper gave him a flat look, didn’t seem interested in what Bailey had read or what his opinion might be. “Where are we headed?” he asked.

He held up the phone to Cooper who squinted in to look at the map. “Rural road 181. I know where that is.”

He nodded and peeled out, surprising Bailey. He’d had the older man pegged as a slow driver. The big SUV must have been souped-up. It ate the dark road ahead of them, engine growling.

Bailey didn’t love being in the passenger seat, but it was that or the hospital where he surely belonged. He forced himself to sit up straight and keep his eyes on the road ahead, fought back waves of pain, anger, fear.

He flashed on the ghost standing there, a black form in the dark, a gun in his hand; the orange of the muzzle-flash. God, so stupid—careless. He’d let Nora distract him. He hadn’t checked his surroundings.

And Wren. How did he not predict that she’d go after him alone?

Bailey watched the blue dot pulse on his screen, surrounded by nothing, just the green that signified trees. If he was in the driver’s seat, he’d be pushing his foot to the floor, trying to close the distance faster, faster. He leaned forward, the seat belt pressing uncomfortably on the wound.