Whoops! Right THROUGH Clare! Hey, Clare!

“Hi, Enzo. I, uh, saw a Native American ghost. Can I . . . uh . . . help him?” Why hadn’t she researched the rules yet? “What about religion and stuff?” She flapped a hand.

All religions have spiritual people who help the dead move on, said Enzo, switching to that deeper voice of his.

“I guess that’s a yes.”

No answer. She shut the door, accepting the presence of Enzo on the passenger seat. “I’ll help him . . . soon.” Another thing to do: to continue to read her great-aunt’s journals, glean the rules from them. So far she hadn’t found much that she hadn’t discovered on her own.

Time to buckle down.

 • • •

Zach lounged in one of Rickman’s client chairs. The man had called him in to talk about the robbery the day before. Apparently he was working on a “hot” case this Saturday morning. That he didn’t keep banker’s hours pleased Zach.

Behind his desk, Rickman leaned forward, hands clasped before him. “You aren’t telling me everything about the incident yesterday.”

Raising his brows, Zach gave a slight nod. “You mean that when I touched Clare Cermak, I could see the ghost of a cowboy waving his hat and yelling, ‘Bank robbery’? That what you want to hear?”

Rickman winced, spun his chair around so he could stare out the window. He looked like a brood had fallen right over him like a painter’s dropcloth. “No. I don’t want to hear that.” He cut the air with his right hand. “Absolutely not. Why do I get all the characters?”

Zach didn’t know whether that meant guys with attitude or people who interacted with those who—were touched by strangeness like Mrs. Flinton or Clare Cermak. “I could introduce you to Clare, if you want.” He offered just to bug the guy.

His boss glanced at him over his shoulder. “Not right now. Maybe later.”

All right, that surprised Zach. “That’s all I have for you.” He’d given the guy a written report on his lack of progress on Mrs. Flinton’s case, and his idea regarding tracing the financials.

“Fine. Here.” Rickman swung back to his desk, pulled out a drawer, and flipped a couple of cards onto his desk. One was a magnetic key to Rickman Security and Investigations’ workout rooms in the building. They were just a bulletproof door away from a fitness club that shared some of the facilities, though from what Rickman had said, some of his staff didn’t consider the arrangement very secure. Didn’t bother Zach. He also had a recommendation for a masseur who worked in the club next door.

The other white card had a dark blue drawing of two men in suits and flat hats fighting with canes and read, Bartitsu for You.

“Bartitsu?” Zach asked.

“Cane fighting.” Rickman’s mouth twitched. “I hear the studio caters to the steampunk crowd.”

“Steampunk,” Zach said flatly.

“Not much steampunk in Montana, huh? Some in Boulder.”

Zach grunted. “Some of everything in Boulder.”

“And our local Denver science fiction readers and writers community has a thriving steampunk group.”

“Right.”

Rickman laughed. “Hey, if Robert Downey Jr. playing Sherlock Holmes can do it, you can.”

“The original private investigator.” Zach tightened his grip on his cane.

“That’s so.”

“Any of your ex-military guys do this?” Zach flipped the card in his fingers. Just showed the name of the studio, phone, and an address in southwest Denver.

“Nope.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Now Rickman sighed. “Get on with your life as it is now, Zach.”

Zach turned and left.

He didn’t go to the gym like he’d thought he would; instead he gave the number for Bartitsu for You a call and found an instructor who was willing to meet with him.

TWENTY-THREE

THE SPARRING WITH the tall skinny white guy with a mustache waxed into points and fuzzy sideburns didn’t go as well as Zach would have liked. He couldn’t take the man down and that was solely because the dude was awesome with a damn cane. At least he didn’t go down himself and was sweating less in his shirt sleeves—ungartered—than the instructor.

Pretty much a draw.

Mr. Laverstock pulled a large white handkerchief from his trousers pocket and wiped his face. “We can work one-on-one as we have now, or I have a schedule of classes.” He walked into the open doorway on the far end of the room and returned with a sheet of paper. Zach glanced at it and noticed it was the same as the one posted on the bulletin board. The class coming up in a half hour was called “Victorian Vixens.”

“Our rate sheet is on the back.” Laverstock looked Zach down and up. “You’re good. Even good with that cane when you don’t know much of what you’re doing. Get some sturdier orthopedic shoes and braces for your left foot and ankle. These are the best folks.” He handed the sheet to Zach along with a card. Then he patted his face again with the handkerchief. “Get a brace so you can move your foot better and get more aerobic exercise.”

“Thanks for the time.” Zach bit off the words.

“Welcome.” Laverstock scooped up a water bottle from the floor and arced a stream of it into his mouth.

Zach left the building that looked like a failed restaurant, a small standalone place in the lot of a big mall.

A woman wearing a long skirt, a fitted jacket, and a huge hat got out of a sports car. He stared. She raised her brows and winked at him, giving him the once-over and a flirtatious smile.

“I’m early,” she said, twirling her cane.

“I’m late,” he responded.

She pouted, noted his cane and how he leaned on it, which had his mouth flattening, then walked past him, her skirt swishing. All right, he turned and looked.

And she twitched her ass at him.

He could only think of how Clare might look in the getup. Woman must have had one of those . . . bustles? . . . on. Now that he thought of it, Clare’s ass looked good under a sundress, would look good augmented with that bustle thing, and, most especially, would be a fine sight bare.

Just that morning Mrs. Flinton and Mrs. Magee had commented on how he walked carefully, no doubt from “hammering the bad guys.” Rickman had told him to get on with his life. The card Laverstock had pressed on Zach was in his jacket pocket; the woman—one from the Victorian Vixens class?—had coolly noted his cane and that he had to use it.

From the minute they’d met, Clare had treated him as if he . . . as if he didn’t have a cane . . . like she’d have treated him if they’d met before he’d made the stupid mistake that had gotten him crippled.

Last night he’d told her of the painful loss of his brother and gotten understanding, tenderness, sweet sympathy.

A bird called. Zach tensed, slid his gaze around. A woodpecker, not a crow.

So far he hadn’t seen any crows today, and no unfulfilled rhymes dangled. Not that he was thinking about that.

No, he was thinking about Clare. She had her problems, her vulnerabilities, too. He could easily call up her white and frantic face, her dull and blind-looking eyes, when they’d been in LoDo less than twenty-four hours ago.

Another vehicle, a minivan, drew up, and a lady in a white blouse and long skirt got out, pulling a cane she didn’t need to walk with from behind her seat. One of those standard wooden deals with a curved top, instead of his straight-handled cane. She smiled at him and hurried into the dojo—not a dojo, a studio.

Greetings and laughter came from the building behind him. Get a brace, Laverstock had said.

Clare Cermak had braced Zach last night, was bracing for his spirits. He’d go see her. She’d do him fine.