Free The Best Paranormal Crime Stories Ever Told by Martin H. Greenberg

sumo-wrestler. Tall and aristocratic, with a shock of white hair and a piercing stare, she could have dropped an enraged rhino with a glance. She always threw lavish parties, but never ate more than a crumb. “Not possible.”
    “Not only did she drown in the syrup, but her belly was stuffed full of chocolate bars. Junk food everywhere at the scene, all washed down with cheap soda.” Cate shook her head. “Nothing to suggest anything but an accidental death. Or suicide.”
    “Neither of which could be reported, so her society friends wouldn’t snigger at her passing.” I frowned. “No leads?”
    “Plenty. Problem’s no investigation. I pester Prout. He hears, but doesn’t listen.”
    “Which is odd since you suspect our killer is talented.”
    “Has to be. And strong.”
    Just being born with talent isn’t enough. Talent needs a trigger, and not many folks find that trigger. Mine’s whiskey—I discovered it when I was four by sucking drops from my old man’s shot glass after he passed out. The better the whiskey, the faster the power comes.
    Once you find the trigger, you next have to learn your channel. For most folks it’s the elements: earth, air, fire, or water. A talented gardener with an earth channel is good; one who works with plants is better. Some channels are a bit more esoteric, like emotions. I even met a guy whose channel was Death.
    Not really a fun guy, that one.
    If there was a killer, knowing his trigger and channel would be useful. I could guess on the channel being emotional or biological, but that didn’t narrow things down much. More importantly, it really did nothing to figure out why the murders were taking place. Without a why , figuring out who was going to be tough.
    I set the PDA down. “What’s in this for me?”
    Cate rocked back. “Stopping a murderer isn’t enough?”
    “Not like it’s my hobby. I work mopping up puke in a strip club. I know where I stand in the world. I don’t see this getting me ahead.”
    “Maybe it won’t, Molloy, maybe it won’t.” Cate’s eyes half lidded and she gave me a pretty good Preakness-class glance. “Maybe it’ll stop you from sinking any lower.”
    “Is that possible?”
    “You’re not there yet.” Her expression hardened. “If you were I’d ask if you had an alibi for when Anderson died.”

    I guess being a murderer would be a step down. Not that I minded Anderson being dead. Given the right circumstances I might even have killed him. Or, at least, let him die. A shrink would have said it because he was a surrogate for my mother, and that secretly I was wishing her dead.
    There wasn’t any “secretly” about it. I knew I had to start with her, so I reluctantly left Cate. The part I was resisting was that seeing her would prove she was still alive.
    I tried to look on the bright side.
    Maybe she was sick, really, really sick.
    And not just in the head this time.
    The Anderson Estate up in Union Heights was hard to miss. Fortune 500 companies had smaller corporate headquarters. The fence surrounding it had just enough juice flowing through to stun you, then the dogs would gnaw on you for a good long time.
    The gate was already open and a squad car was parked there. The officers waved me past, but it wasn’t any blue-brotherhood thing. I’d never known then when I was on the force. I’d just gotten their asses out of trouble at the strip club.
    Took me two minutes to reach the front door. Would have been longer, but I cut straight across the lawn. Wilkerson, the chief-of-staff—which is how you now pronounce the word “butler”—opened the door before I’d hit the top step. “It will do no good to say the lady of the house does not wish to see you, correct?”
    He didn’t even wait for me to reply before he stepped aside. He looked me up and down once. He channeled my mother’s mortification, then led the way up the grand staircase to my mother’s dressing room. He hesitated for a moment and memorized the