contributed a great deal to his divorce. His hair was more pepper than salt, and he walked with a brutal confidence that would intimidate most people.
He knew far too much about the things that lurked in the shadows of the world. Clay himself was partially responsible for that. It might have been the reason for the cynicism in Hook's gaze, but it was also the reason they had become friends. Hook wasn't the kind of man who would ever turn away from the truth, no matter how terrifying, no matter how deep the darkness.
"How'd it go?" the detective asked. "Was he in there?"
"Job's done," Clay replied. "Victim was sleeping with the perp's wife. Go on in. You won't be able to miss them. I suspect he may be in the mood to confess right about now, too."
Hook shook his hand. "Much appreciated. I prefer to solve them myself, but this one —"
Clay waved the words away. "Hey, any time. Guy like this, you need him off the street. If I can help, I'm glad to do it."
Hook started up the stairs. "Say hello to Doyle for me," he said over his shoulder. "Haven't heard from him in a while."
"I will. And I'm sure you'll hear from him," Clay said. "The second he needs you."
The ghost of Leonard Graves had haunted Conan Doyle's house for so long that he was almost immune to the absurdity of having a room there, complete with a bed and bureau, as though he had clothes and needed to sleep. Over time, Dr. Graves had come to appreciate this small space, this place where he could store the memories of his human life, now more than sixty years in the past.
A place where he could rest, and remember.
The room was on the second floor of the old townhouse. Over the years, he had allowed himself to ruminate on his life and accomplishments, so that there were shelves with souvenirs of his adventures, as well as framed newspaper stories. Here, in his room, he often felt the tug of the past. In its way, it was even more powerful than the lure of the afterlife, against which he was constantly struggling, fighting the tide that threatened to sweep him to his final rest.
But Graves had things to do before he left the physical plane, where he could join his beloved Gabriella. He had a murder to solve.
His own.
Times like these, he became lost in contemplation of the past. The bureau drawers were open, and their contents spread across the floor and bed, newspaper clippings from his exploits as an adventurer in the 1930s and 1940s, journals of his experiments and thoughts as one of the preeminent scientists of the day, and yellowed photographs of him as he was when he was alive. There were clippings full of controversy and hate — in those days, no black man could become prominent without drawing the venom of the ignorant and the cruel. Graves traced his spectral fingers over a page without touching it, a story about his capture of a killer the newspapers had called the Butcher of Brooklyn.
It had not been the first time he had captured a killer or thwarted a criminal, but it had been the most public. The New York papers had called him a hero. The mayor had offered the gratitude of the city. Even then Graves had thought it ironic, when so many in the city thought he was trash because of the color of his skin. And when his reputation became national, it had only become worse, particularly because his wife was a white woman, an Italian-American, they would call her today.
Things had improved since then, out in the world. The ranks of the ignorant and cruel had thinned, thankfully, but they were not extinct. Not yet. Of late, he'd begun to worry that they were, in fact, coming around again, their numbers growing.
He did not like to think of it.
Most of the clippings were of a different nature. Joyful. Triumphant. And those were bittersweet. The real irony was that the best of his memories were the ones that hurt the most, but he clung to them, savoring the pain.
Better to have lived, to be sure.
And oh, how he had lived.
As a young man, he had
He knew far too much about the things that lurked in the shadows of the world. Clay himself was partially responsible for that. It might have been the reason for the cynicism in Hook's gaze, but it was also the reason they had become friends. Hook wasn't the kind of man who would ever turn away from the truth, no matter how terrifying, no matter how deep the darkness.
"How'd it go?" the detective asked. "Was he in there?"
"Job's done," Clay replied. "Victim was sleeping with the perp's wife. Go on in. You won't be able to miss them. I suspect he may be in the mood to confess right about now, too."
Hook shook his hand. "Much appreciated. I prefer to solve them myself, but this one —"
Clay waved the words away. "Hey, any time. Guy like this, you need him off the street. If I can help, I'm glad to do it."
Hook started up the stairs. "Say hello to Doyle for me," he said over his shoulder. "Haven't heard from him in a while."
"I will. And I'm sure you'll hear from him," Clay said. "The second he needs you."
The ghost of Leonard Graves had haunted Conan Doyle's house for so long that he was almost immune to the absurdity of having a room there, complete with a bed and bureau, as though he had clothes and needed to sleep. Over time, Dr. Graves had come to appreciate this small space, this place where he could store the memories of his human life, now more than sixty years in the past.
A place where he could rest, and remember.
The room was on the second floor of the old townhouse. Over the years, he had allowed himself to ruminate on his life and accomplishments, so that there were shelves with souvenirs of his adventures, as well as framed newspaper stories. Here, in his room, he often felt the tug of the past. In its way, it was even more powerful than the lure of the afterlife, against which he was constantly struggling, fighting the tide that threatened to sweep him to his final rest.
But Graves had things to do before he left the physical plane, where he could join his beloved Gabriella. He had a murder to solve.
His own.
Times like these, he became lost in contemplation of the past. The bureau drawers were open, and their contents spread across the floor and bed, newspaper clippings from his exploits as an adventurer in the 1930s and 1940s, journals of his experiments and thoughts as one of the preeminent scientists of the day, and yellowed photographs of him as he was when he was alive. There were clippings full of controversy and hate — in those days, no black man could become prominent without drawing the venom of the ignorant and the cruel. Graves traced his spectral fingers over a page without touching it, a story about his capture of a killer the newspapers had called the Butcher of Brooklyn.
It had not been the first time he had captured a killer or thwarted a criminal, but it had been the most public. The New York papers had called him a hero. The mayor had offered the gratitude of the city. Even then Graves had thought it ironic, when so many in the city thought he was trash because of the color of his skin. And when his reputation became national, it had only become worse, particularly because his wife was a white woman, an Italian-American, they would call her today.
Things had improved since then, out in the world. The ranks of the ignorant and cruel had thinned, thankfully, but they were not extinct. Not yet. Of late, he'd begun to worry that they were, in fact, coming around again, their numbers growing.
He did not like to think of it.
Most of the clippings were of a different nature. Joyful. Triumphant. And those were bittersweet. The real irony was that the best of his memories were the ones that hurt the most, but he clung to them, savoring the pain.
Better to have lived, to be sure.
And oh, how he had lived.
As a young man, he had
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