Chapter 2 The Banter of the Living and the Dead

I'd spent five years at the Tribune building typing up stories about cheating spouses and petty thefts before finally earning the crime beat. Now, I hunched over my typewriter with a ghost peering over my shoulder, critiquing my word choices.

"'Suspicious circumstances' is hardly accurate," Gabriel said, reading my draft. "The man was clearly murdered."

"And how exactly would you suggest I explain that to my editor?" I hissed under my breath, glancing around the busy newsroom. "Should I write that a ghost detective told me so?"

"You could mention the wrist bindings and the symptoms consistent with strychnine poisoning."

I sighed and rolled in a fresh sheet of paper. "Fine."

While I typed, Gabriel wandered around my desk, examining the photographs pinned to my bulletin board. Most were crime scenes I'd covered, but a few personal snapshots were mixed in.

"Is this your family?" he asked, pointing to a faded photograph of a stern-looking couple flanking a solemn young girl.

"Yes," I replied curtly, not looking up from my typing.

"You look miserable."

"I was."

"Because of your abilities?"

My fingers paused over the keys. "How did you—"

"You speak to ghosts and read memories from the dead," he said matter-of-factly. "I imagine that made for a complicated childhood."

I resumed typing with more force than necessary. "I don't discuss my past with strangers, Detective."

"We're hardly strangers if I'm haunting you."

"You're not haunting me. We have a temporary arrangement."

Gabriel smirked. "Of course. My mistake."

I finished the article, pulled it from the typewriter, and headed to my editor's office. Gabriel followed, walking through desks and people with eerie nonchalance.

"Doesn't that feel strange?" I whispered when we were alone in the hallway.

"Like walking through cobwebs," he admitted. "Unpleasant, but not painful."

Mr. Finch, my editor, was a portly man with perpetually ink-stained fingers. He read my article with a frown.

"This is quite the accusation, Grey," he said, tapping the paragraph about poison. "Where's your source?"

"Anonymous tip from inside the police department," I lied smoothly.

Gabriel snorted. "Well, I suppose that's technically true."

I shot him a glare, which Finch misinterpreted as directed at him.

"Don't look at me like that," Finch grumbled. "If we print this and it's wrong, Blackwood's family will sue us into oblivion."

"It's not wrong," I insisted.

"The toxicology report won't come back for days," Finch countered.

Gabriel leaned against the wall. "Tell him to check Blackwood's connections to Meridian Pharmaceuticals. That should be public record."

I repeated the suggestion, earning a surprised look from Finch.

"How do you know about that?"

"Journalistic intuition," I said with more confidence than I felt.

Finch sighed. "Fine. I'll hold the murder accusation until the toxicology report, but we'll run a piece on Blackwood's business connections. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," I replied dryly.

Outside Finch's office, Gabriel looked impressed. "You're quite good at this."

"I've had practice," I said, heading for the exit. "Now, why did you want me to look into Meridian Pharmaceuticals?"

"I'm not entirely sure," he admitted as we stepped onto the busy street. "The name feels significant, but my memories are still... fragmented."

"Convenient."

"Believe me, Miss Grey, I find it far more frustrating than you do."

The afternoon sun was fading as we walked toward my apartment. I lived in a modest building in a neighborhood that wasn't fashionable but wasn't dangerous either—the best a female reporter's salary could afford.

"I need to establish some ground rules for our... cohabitation," I said as we climbed the stairs.

"I can wait outside if you prefer," Gabriel offered, surprising me with his consideration.

"No, that's not—" I fumbled for my keys. "I mean, you can come inside. Just... respect my privacy."

"Of course."

My apartment was small but neat: a combined living and dining area, a tiny kitchen, a bedroom, and a bathroom. Books lined every available surface, and a battered typewriter sat on a small desk by the window.

Gabriel gravitated toward my bookshelf. "Dostoyevsky, Agatha Christie, and... dime-store detective novels?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Everyone needs escapism," I defended, hanging up my coat. "Even hard-boiled reporters."

"I'm not judging. I had a similar collection."

The past tense hung heavily between us.

I cleared my throat. "I need to follow up on some leads tomorrow. You mentioned Meridian Pharmaceuticals. What am I looking for?"

Gabriel frowned. "Clinical trials, perhaps? Experimental treatments? Something that might explain why the Guild—whatever that is—wanted Blackwood dead."

"You really don't remember anything about this Guild?"

He shook his head, frustration evident. "Just that the name is significant. And dangerous."

I poured myself a generous measure of bourbon. "Well, Detective, looks like we're both in the dark."

"Not for long," he said with determination. "Tomorrow we'll visit the police station. I want to see their progress on the Blackwood case."

"We?" I laughed. "I'm sorry, but I can't just waltz into the police station demanding to see their files."

Gabriel smiled slyly. "You can't. But I can go wherever I please now. I just need you within... how far can I go from you, exactly?"

We tested it the next morning. I stood on the street corner while Gabriel walked—or rather, drifted—away. At about one hundred meters, he suddenly couldn't move further.

"It's like hitting an invisible wall," he called back, voice strained.

"So I'm stuck with you within a hundred-meter radius," I grumbled when he returned. "Wonderful."

"Look on the bright side," he offered. "You have an invisible detective at your disposal."

The police station was busy when we arrived. I approached the front desk, asking to speak with Detective Mills about a follow-up story. While the desk sergeant went to find him, Gabriel slipped through a wall into the detectives' bullpen.

"I'll be right back," he promised.

Mills appeared, looking harried. "Grey. What do you want now?"

"Just following up on the Blackwood case," I said smoothly. "Any developments you'd care to share?"

"Nothing for the papers," he replied, predictably tight-lipped.

We sparred verbally for a few minutes—our usual dance—before Gabriel reappeared, looking excited.

"The toxicology report came back," he said urgently. "Strychnine, just as we thought. And they found a matchbook from The Crimson Club in his pocket. It wasn't in the initial inventory."

I waited for Mills to finish his rehearsed "no comment" speech, then casually asked, "By the way, did the toxicology report confirm poison? Strychnine, perhaps?"

Mills's eyes narrowed. "How the hell did you know that?"

I smiled mysteriously. "Sources, Detective. Also, any significance to The Crimson Club?"

His face confirmed it before he could deny knowing anything. Gabriel looked impressed.

"You're wasted as a reporter," he commented as we left the station. "You'd have made an excellent detective."

"High praise from the dead," I replied, but I was secretly pleased.

The Crimson Club was an exclusive establishment that required either membership or considerable bribery to enter. I opted for the latter, slipping the doorman enough cash to overlook my lack of credentials.

Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and jazz music. Well-dressed patrons lounged in red velvet booths, speaking in hushed tones over expensive drinks.

"Fancy," Gabriel commented, taking in the scene. "Not my usual haunt when I was alive."

"Mine either," I admitted, making my way to the bar.

I ordered a bourbon and casually asked the bartender about Harold Blackwood. He claimed not to recognize the name, but I caught the slight tension in his shoulders.

"He's lying," Gabriel said, standing impossibly close to me. Even as a ghost, I could sense where he would have been—just behind my left shoulder, close enough that I would have felt his breath on my neck had he been alive.

I shivered involuntarily.

"Cold?" the bartender asked.

"Just a chill," I replied, watching as Gabriel drifted toward a door marked "Private."

"I'll check what's back there," he said, disappearing through the solid wood.

While I waited, nursing my bourbon, a well-dressed man approached. He was handsome in a conventional way, with slicked-back hair and an expensive suit.

"I don't believe I've seen you here before," he said, smiling. "I'm Thomas Hargrove."

"Vivian Grey," I replied, shaking his offered hand.

"What brings a beautiful woman like you to the Crimson Club alone?"

Before I could answer, Gabriel reappeared, looking agitated. "There's a meeting happening in the back room. Men discussing shipments from Meridian. Something about 'the next batch of subjects.'"

I tried to focus on what Hargrove was saying, but Gabriel kept interrupting.

"This man is boring you to tears," he complained, waving a hand through Hargrove's face. "Meanwhile, there's a criminal conspiracy happening twenty feet away."

Hargrove moved closer, placing his hand on the bar beside mine. "Perhaps I could buy you another drink?"

Suddenly, the chandelier above us creaked ominously. Hargrove and I both looked up just as one of the crystal pendants broke free, crashing onto the bar inches from his hand. He jumped back, startled.

"My goodness," I gasped, feigning shock while glancing suspiciously at Gabriel.

He shrugged, not looking remotely apologetic. "My hand slipped."

Hargrove recovered quickly, but the moment was broken. He made his excuses and departed, casting one last bewildered glance at the broken crystal.

"Was that necessary?" I hissed once we were alone.

"Absolutely," Gabriel replied with complete confidence. "He was wasting our time, and his cologne was atrocious."

I couldn't help but laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough when the bartender looked my way.

"What did you learn in the back room?" I asked quietly.

"Names. Dates. Potential evidence of human experimentation." His expression grew serious. "Whatever Meridian is doing, it's not legal. And the 'subjects' they mentioned... I think they're people, Viv."

It was the first time he'd called me by my nickname. Somehow it felt natural, as if we'd known each other for years instead of days.

"We need to investigate Meridian," I decided. "First thing tomorrow."

Later that night, I sat at my kitchen table reviewing my notes. The bourbon bottle beside me was significantly emptier than when I'd started.

"You should sleep," Gabriel said, materializing beside me. I'd grown used to his sudden appearances and disappearances.

"In a minute," I mumbled, struggling to focus on my handwriting.

When I finally stumbled to bed, I was too tired to care that Gabriel was still in my apartment. As I drifted off, I vaguely registered that the lights turned off by themselves, and my half-full glass of bourbon had been replaced with water on my nightstand.

In my alcohol-induced haze, I could have sworn I heard Gabriel say softly, "Goodnight, Viv."