The Best Paranormal Crime Stories Ever Told

Nobody but me noticed the tiny slip of paper she’d passed me.

And I didn’t look at it until I was outside, ducked into my alley home.

Midnight, it said.

Written in a flowing, lush hand. No further instructions. No signature.

But I knew where to be.

She stepped out of the back door of the alley, looking glamorous despite the dowdy uniform being damp with sweat and steam, black tendrils drifting down into her face from the pile of pinned-up hair. The whites of her eyes were large as she took in the alley, looking for me, I supposed. She seemed perplexed.

When the limousine glided into the alley next to the mission, and the tall burly chauffeur got out to let her in, I stepped from the recess of a doorway, kit bag in hand, and said “You did mean midnight, tonight?”

She jumped as if I’d said “boo.”

She touched her generous chest. “You startled me! When I didn’t see you, I thought you’d misunderstood… or just stood me up.”

I went to her; took her hand and bent from the waist and kissed her hand, saying archly, “Stand up a lovely lady like yourself? Pshaw.”

I’d always wanted to say “Pshaw,” but it never came up before.

She smiled slyly, a thin smile that settled in one pretty dimple of her high-cheekboned face. “Did you think this was a date?”

“I had hoped.”

“Mister… what is your name?”

“Jones, or Smith, or something. Is it important?”

“Let’s make it Smith-Jones, then.”

“Sure! That’s high-tone enough. And may I call you Rebecca?”

“I prefer Becky.”

“All right.”

The chauffeur was standing with the limo’s rear door open. His face was shadowed by his visor, but I could make out a firm jaw and a bucketlike skull.

“Let’s not stand out here talking,” she said, suddenly glancing about, almost furtively.

“Why not? You’re not mistaking a member of the Smith-Jones clan for the sort of riff-raff you don’t care to be seen with?”

“Please get in. What is that you have there?”

“Just my old kit bag. I don’t go anywhere without my old kit bag-it contains what few possessions I still have.”

“Fine. But do please get in.”

The chauffeur moved forward, and I had the feeling that if I didn’t get in, he’d toss me there.

“Ladies first,” I said, bowing, gesturing, and she quickly ducked in.

I followed. The leather seats smelled new; they were deep and comfortable-like living-room furniture, not the backseat of a car.

“Mr. Smith-Jones, I wanted to express my gratitude to you, this evening.”

She was unpinning the black hair; it fell in cascades to her shoulders. She shook her head and it shimmered and brushed her shoulders, flipping up at the bottom.

“Gratitude?” I asked. “For what?”

“For your help, these last several days.”

“In the kitchen? Jeez, lady… Rebecca… Becky… it’s only fair. You’ve been always good to guys like me, down on their luck, making sure we get a square meal once in a while.”

“I’ve known adversity myself,” she said solemnly. It sounded silly, but I managed not to laugh.

“So… uh… how exactly do you intend to express your gratitude?”

She touched my hand; she looked at me with those iris-less dark eyes. She seemed about to say something provocative, something sensual, something seductive. What she said was: “Food.”

“Food?”

“Food. Real food. A real meal. Prepared by a five-star chef.”

“No kidding. I had something else in mind… ” I grinned at her lecherously, and she just smiled. “… but I’ll settle.”

She didn’t let it go. “What else did you have in mind, Mr. Smith-Jones?”

I sighed. Looked down at my tattered clothes. Shook my head. “I shouldn’t even kid about it. How can you look at somebody like me… unshaven… dirty clothes… breath that would knock a buzzard off a dung wagon… and think of me in any other way but one of pity?”

She patted my hand. “That’s not necessarily true, Mr. Smith-Jones. I can look at you and see… possibilities. I can see the man you were-the man you still are, underneath the bad luck and the hard times.”

“That’s kind of you to say.”

Her cool hand grasped mine. “And I don’t think your breath is bad at all… I think it smells sweet… like night- blooming jasmine… ”

She leaned forward; her thin but beautiful lips parted-they were scarlet, but I wasn’t sure she was wearing lip rouge-and she touched her lips to mine, delicately. Then she touched my unshaven cheek with the slender, long- nailed fingers of one hand and stared soulfully at me.

“You’re a fine man, Mr. Smith-Jones. We’re going to clean you up… a bath… a shave… an incredible meal. You’re going to have the night of your life… ”

The Radclau mansion was a modern brick castle beyond a black wrought-iron gate; three massive stories, its turreted shape rose against the clear night sky in sharp silhouette, the moon poised above and to the right as if placed there for the sole purpose of lighting this imposing structure.

“This is really something,” I said. “When was this built?”

“Just a few years ago,” she said.

We were around the side of the building now, gliding into a garage which opened automatically for us-whether the chauffeur triggered it somehow, or someone inside saw us coming and lifted the drawbridge, I couldn’t say.

“I recruited one of the top local architects to build something modern that would evoke my family home,” she said.

“Where was the family home?”

“Europe.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down much.”

“Just a little corner of eastern Europe. You probably wouldn’t even have heard of it.”

Maybe I would have.

We stepped from the cement cavern of the four-car garage into a wine cellar passageway that led to an elevator.

“I was never in a private home that had an elevator,” I told her; the leather strap of my canvas kit bag was tight in my hand. The chauffeur-whose bucketlike skull turned out to have two dead eyes, a misshapen nose, and grim line of a mouth stuck on it-was playing elevator operator for us.

“Why, Mr. Smith-Jones,” she said, looping her arm in mine, smiling her wry one-sided dimpled smile again, “I find that difficult to believe.”

The elevator, a silver-gray chamber, rose to the fourth floor and opened onto a red-painted door in a cream- colored plaster alcove.

“We’re in one of the guest towers,” she said. She stepped out into the alcove with me, still arm-in-arm. “These are your quarters… you’ll find everything you need, I think. I just guessed on your size. If I’ve got it wrong, just pick up the phone and ask for me. We can accommodate you. Then, let us know when you’re ready to dine… ”

She smiled-both dimples this time-and ducked back into the elevator, whose doors slid shut, and she was gone.

“I’ll be damned,” I said, and in the little alcove, it echoed.

The red door was unlocked, and opened onto a vast modern living room-plush white carpet, round white leather sofa, deep white armchairs, sleek decorative figurines, black-and-white decorative framed prints, a fireplace, a