A Specter of Justice by Mark de Castrique Page B

and it was a dingy white. This is ivory and in much better condition.”
    â€œIt’s not Lenore’s?” I asked.
    â€œWho’s Lenore?” Newly asked.
    â€œLenore Carpenter,” Nakayla said. “She’s playing the role of the Pink Lady at Grove Park.”
    â€œWe should make sure they didn’t switch and forget to tell you,” Newly said.
    â€œThat didn’t happen,” Nakayla insisted. “The Grove Park Inn’s ghost is dressed in pink. That’s how she got her name.”
    We stared at the vintage gown in silence, wondering what significance it might have.
    â€œCover her,” Newly said. “There’s nothing more to be learned here.” He searched the perimeter for his partner. “Tuck. Contact the morgue and leave word for the ME to treat that dress as critical evidence.” He turned to the EMTs. “And leave that sheet with the body. If we find fibers, I’ll want to rule it out.”
    Nakayla and I stood under the arch and watched the ambulance disappear into the rain. There was no siren. There was no need.

Chapter Six
    Nakayla spent the night with me at my apartment. Neither of us wanted to talk about the horror we’d witnessed, yet both of us were unable to put the tragedy out of our mind. Nakayla finally went to bed around four in the morning while I sat up in the living room, my good leg propped on an ottoman and my prosthesis lying on the floor beside me.
    Although Detective Newland had clearly indicated Molly Staton’s death wasn’t my case, the fact that a murderer had been lurking on the bridge right under my nose or, more accurately, right over my nose, entangled me with the crime as much as any investigation I’d ever been assigned in the U.S. Army. The sheer arrogance and bravado of the killer made it impossible for me to let go.
    Shortly before six, the gray of dawn seeped between the slats of the wooden blinds and I knew any attempt at sleep was futile. I fitted the prosthesis on my left stump and moved as silently as I could to the bedroom. Nakayla lay curled on the right side of the mattress, her face turned away from the window. I closed the curtains, grabbed clean clothes from the closet, and retreated to the kitchen to dress.
    I left three words printed on a paper napkin. “Gone to office.” No work awaited me there. The urge to do something simply became an urge to do anything. The office created the illusion I had a plan that would bring Molly’s killer to justice.
    Early Saturday morning traffic in Asheville consisted of the occasional delivery truck and a change of shift at the hospital. I made it to my reserved parking space in under ten minutes and walked up Biltmore Avenue, stopping briefly to smell the aroma of baking bread emanating from City Bakery Café. Alas, they wouldn’t open for another ninety minutes.
    The coin-operated newspaper rack by the main entrance to our office building seemed jammed full of extra copies. The macabre murder must have dramatically increased the press run. I dug enough quarters out of my pocket to buy one.
    A color photo of Helen’s Bridge filled the space between the middle fold and banner headline—“Ghost Tour Tragedy.” The photographer framed the arch with blue police lights streaking through the fog underneath it. The image of Molly’s hanging body appeared only in my mind. I was relieved none of the pictures from the Japanese group or Collin McPhillips had leaked to the press.
    The headline wasn’t as tawdry or sensational as it could have been. I scanned the front page as I rode the elevator to the third floor. The main article contained nothing beyond what I’d known when I left the scene last night. Newland was quoted with the perfunctory statement about the investigation being in its early stages and that any comment would be inappropriate speculation.
    The sidebar articles proved less benign. One column