The Last Case

See, I never believed in ghosts. Still don't, truth be told. So when one turned up at my office in Dagger's Row, it put a real crimp in my day.

Shagger's Row, the folks round here call it. Used to be a real nice place, if you believe what my grandpop said about it, anyways. These days, it's all crack addicts, bums, and seedy hook-ups. And the chop shop, with a couple of rooms over it. The only place in town I could afford.

I work and sleep in this room, and I hear the lady next door working hard most nights. I turn a blind ear. Who am I to judge?

That night, the night in question, I was burning the proverbial candle at both ends, as usual. Then, what do you know, my old partner shows up, out of the blue. We used to work together, Mickey and I, on the force. Apparently we aren't supposed to call it that anymore, but you can't teach an old dog new tricks, and I'm an old dog now.

There I am, hunched over my desk, ignoring the siren call from the bottom drawer that sounded like whiskey stones. I'm engrossed in drawing up an invoice for my only client. The last invoice, probably. I don't think she's going to keep paying for my services. As bad as I need the dough, I don't even have the heart to convince her.

I'm debating with myself whether I can charge any more expenses to her account when a shadow falls across my desk. My heart damn near stopped in my chest. I wasn't expecting company, and I hadn't heard the door, or the squeaky stair. Weird.

I felt the grin crack my face when I looked up and realised who it was. When I leaned forward to give the old bastard a hug, he spun away and stalked around the poky little room.

I opened my mouth to ask, How many years has it been? but he cut me off.

"I'm here for business, not pleasure," is what he said to me. Miserable git. Of course, I didn't realise he was dead just then. He looked just as alive as you and me.

I did pull my coat tighter round me, though. Cheaper to layer up than heat the place, and it had been real chilly at nights just lately.

"There's been a murder," he says, "...and I want you to investigate it."

"Why me?" I ask, and I put a little gravel into the question so it doesn't sound like a whine. Maybe I was fishing for a compliment. I don't know. Could be, I was hoping he would say something like Because you're the best, dammit, that's why.

"It's got to be you," he says. "No one else would be crazy enough to take it."

"What's the catch?" I say, opening that bottom drawer. "I suppose you're wanting a special rate..."

"The catch is, you'll need to deal with my wife," he says. "But she'll pay. No special rate. Fair's fair. Go and talk to her tomorrow. I'll give you the address."

My fingers brush over the smooth glass, and his eyes narrow.

"You're not still drinking, are you?" he says. "I thought you gave that up years ago."

"I did," I say, "I was getting a notepad to write down that address..."

I didn't mention how tough it had been these last couple of months. How I'd nearly caved so many times. I didn't want to seem weak. Not to Mickey.

I'm looking down at the notepad, writing down the address as he dictates it, and I don't even see him leave. I look up, and he's gone.

I sighed, kicked the drawer shut, and leaned back in my office chair to sleep.

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Thank you for reading! Please come back tomorrow for the next bit!