Taylor glanced down at her watch. "Well, detectives, clearly you don’t need my help, as it seems you already have this information. I have a column due in, in a few hours, so I should go finish that." She made to stand, the chair scraping behind her, but Flack reached out and grabbed her wrist. She stared up at him. "What?"
"Where were you three nights ago, between the hours of 6 and 10pm?" he asked her.
Taylor’s mouth dropped open. "Are you kidding me?" She snatched her hand back.
Flack stared stonily at her.
"I write about crime, I don’t commit it," Taylor told him, somewhat indignantly.
"The information released to the public didn’t include a description of the knife. The only way you would know that piece of information is if you were there," Flack returned.
“So now you think I’m a suspect?" she cried incredulously. "I came here to help you identify that girl. I mean, seriously, if I was going to murder someone, do you really think I would turn up and claim I had seen a ghost? Really?" she asked, staring in disbelief at the two detectives.
"Where were you, Miss Turner?" repeated Mac.
Taylor sat down and ran her hair through her hair, sending droplets of water to the floor. The rain had reverted it back to the soft curls she was used to spending time trying to cover up. "I can’t believe you are treating me like a suspect," she muttered. "I was vegging out on my couch, with a bottle of wine, a chicken chow mien, and a DVD box set of Family Guy."
"And can anyone verify this?" Mac asked as Flack took notes.
Taylor shrugged. "The takeaway was delivered at 7. Oh, and my mother called me at 9." She got back to her feet. "Now can I go? Or are you going to arrest me?"
"We’re going to have to verify this information," explained Mac, "But yes, you can go. Just make sure you stick around."
"I guess I had better cancel my world cruise then," she said sarcastically, leaving the room. As the door shut behind her, she stopped, sighed and went back in.
"What the hell was that about?" Flack was asking Mac, whistling slightly as he circled his finger around his ear. He stopped when he saw Taylor glaring at him.
"I forgot,” Taylor snapped. “The girl?"
"Rebecca?" Mac asked.
"Yeah,” Taylor nodded. “She showed me an ID card for a Prep school. Um, Carol Anne Lewis Prep School. You should be able to identify her there." she sighed and left the room again, heading down the corridor. She spotted a bathroom and ducked in, heading straight for the sink. She was busy splashing water on her face when a toilet flushed behind her.
"Are you alright?"
Taylor looked up and caught sight of an attractive brunette with a mass of curls staring at her in concern. She had detective written all over her.
Taylor was about to tell her she was fine, when she caught sight of her reflection. Her hair was a plastered to her head at the top, whilst the rest had turned into an uncontrollable mass of waves and ringlets at the bottom. Her black camisole was drenched, as were her grey combats, and her face? Her mascara was streaking off in various directions. Instead, Taylor started laughing. In all honesty, she looked pretty pathetic.
"One of those days?" the detective asked as she began rummaging around in her purse. She pulled out a pack of face wipes and a stick of mascara.
Taylor nodded, accepting the items. "You have no idea," she muttered, as she began wiping away the trails of mascara.
"Oh, I’ve spent a fair few hours processing the scene of a crime in the rain, only to return to the lab resembling a panda."
Taylor smiled, the understanding dawning on her. "Criminalist?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Journalist," she told her, finally handing the items back to their owner, "Thank you." She glanced down at her watch and groaned. “Speaking of, I have a column due in soon. I should get going. Thank you so much." She dashed out of the door, and out of the building, in just as big a rush as she had been upon entering the building, that she nearly sent the same couple flying as she had earlier, as they re-entered the building. Shouting a hurried apology over her shoulder, she ran back to her apartment.
The bonus to being soaking when you go out in the rain is that the next time you went out it, you couldn’t really get any wetter. Taylor got home, stripped off to have a quick shower to warm herself up, then wrapped herself up in a robe. With her towel on her head, she sat down at her computer. She was used to cutting it short, but she got the confirmation email that her piece had arrived at the paper, with two minutes before her deadline.
She turned off her computer, went and changed into some nightwear, and was about to head to the kitchen when her phone rang. She answered it – it was her mother. "When are you coming home, dear?" her thick Italian accent rolling over her words.
Taylor rolled her eyes and headed straight to the wine rack, pulling out a fresh bottle of red, and poured herself a large glass as she propped her phone under her ear. "Mamma, I keep telling you, work is very busy at the moment." There was also the other fact that she too terrified of flying to do that anytime soon.
Her mother let out an aggravated sigh. "Fine. Have you found yourself a marito, yet?"
The conversation was going the same way it did every time. Taylor was tempted to just let her machine get all her calls in the future. She headed back to her living room and over to the window, watching the rain lash at her window. "No, mother, I am still a single woman," she told her, even though she was tempted to turn around and say something completely different.
"You should be on the lookout, you know. You’re just about to get past your prime, and no man will want you then."
"Gee, thanks, mother." She turned around, and let out a small yelp, dropping her glass of wine and the phone to the carpet. Standing in front of her, again, was Rebecca. "You!" she cried, ignoring the panicked shouts coming from the phone on the floor.
"Help me," said Rebecca.
"I have helped,” Taylor told her. “What more do you want from me?"
"Help me."
The cries from the phone were growing louder, so Taylor bent down and retrieved her phone. “Sorry, mamma, I have to go." She hung up before her mother could say anything, and turned back to the ghost. Except she wasn’t there. "I’m losing my mind," she muttered wearily. She made her way back to the kitchen for a sponge, ignoring the phone which was ringing again.
Taylor mopped up the red wine from her cream carpet – it was never going to come out – and was busy rinsing the sponge out when she heard her again. "Help me."
Taylor whirled around. "What else can I do? Seriously?"
Rebecca opened up the palm of her hand. Taylor cautiously crept over and eyed up the item she was holding. It was a picture of a tattoo – a cross with a dragon entwined around it.
"Who does that belong to?" Taylor asked her helplessly.
"Help me." Rebecca vanished.
Taylor resisted the urge to start shouting, and instead decided to call it a night. Returning to the precinct would wait until the following morning. It was getting late, and she was tired, besides, they probably wouldn’t still be there at this hour, and she didn’t want to deal with another set of detectives questioning her. She headed to her bed and pulled the covers up around her, flicking on the television before turning the lights out. With a Sex and the City marathon showing, she made herself comfortable. An hour later, she was fast asleep.
She awoke, with the TV still on, and peaked open her eyes. Standing opposite was Rebecca, watching her sleep. She bolted upright in bed. "Are you kidding me?" she yelled.
"Help me."
Taylor really wanted to throw something large and heavy at her. "Help me? Is that all you can say?"
"Help me."
Taylor flung her head back and began hitting it against the leather covered bedhead behind her. "Fine," she growled. "I’m going." She pulled back her covers and got out of bed. She pulled on another pair of black combat pants and a cerise camisole, along with a pair of running shoes, before grabbing a jacket, and an umbrella.
With it being so late in the night, she opted to take the brightly lit route, rather than the one she had taken earlier, adding a few extra blocks to the route, making the journey longer. She arrived at the precinct and went in, heading straight to the front desk. "Can I help you, ma’am?"
"I’m looking for a Detective Taylor," she sighed.
"He’s next door, thirty fifth floor."
Taylor’s mouth dropped open. "He’s still here, even at this time?"
"He’s a strange one. Always seems to be working," the officer frowned. "If you didn’t think he would be there, why did you come?"
Taylor just smiled at him, and hurried back out of the building. She figured it was a better option than saying, well, if I didn’t, a certain ghost wasn’t going to let me sleep. She headed next door and took the lift up. The doors pinged open to a well lit, modern looking lab. There were people busy working in glass-walled rooms, but the reception desk was un-manned, leaving no one around to help her. Taking a deep breath, she began walking down the corridor until she heard voices filtering out of one of the rooms.
“So, you’re telling me that the only reason we managed to identify the girl was because some nut came in claiming that she saw her ghost?" she could hear one male voice say.
"Oh, she’s not just any nut. She’s the nut who writes the Crime Files." She recognized that voice – it belonged to the other detective she had spoken to earlier, Detective Flack.
"Taylor Turner is a chick?" said the first voice.
"And what’s wrong with that, Messer?" came a third voice – a female – not a native to the state, like the others were.
“She doesn’t write like a chick, that’s all. Don’t get all feminist on me, Montana."
Montana? Well, that explains the accent. Taylor thought.
"Who cares whether she’s a chick or not. She’s needs a psych evaluation, that’s what she needs," said Flack.
That was it. Taylor was going home. Or at least, that was her intention, until she turned around straight and walked straight into Detective Taylor. "Miss Turner?"
"Hi," she squeaked, offering a weak grin.
He watched her carefully. "And how can I help you at this hour?"
Taylor rubbed at the back of her neck. "Actually, I’m here to help you again."
Mac eyed the woman up and down, nodded, and then ushered her into the room she had just been eavesdropping on. The three occupants looked up from the coffee they were drinking, and over at the journalist.
"Back, huh?" smirked Flack.
"Yeah. I just wanted to make sure you were absolutely certain I was a nut before I went to visit a shrink," Taylor shot at him.
Flack had the grace to look slightly uncomfortable.
"Danny, Lindsay," said Mac, “This is Taylor Turner."
"Two Taylors? Well that could get a little confusing," muttered Danny, as Lindsay suppressed a grin.
"Don’t worry," assured Taylor, "I’m not sticking around long enough for names to become an issue."
"Why are you here, Miss Turner?" Flack asked her.
Taylor shut her eyes. "It turns out that Rebecca hasn’t finished with me yet. She came back."
"The dead girl came and saw you. Again?" asked Flack. If she hadn’t just heard him refer to her as a nut, his tone left no question about his opinion of her.
Taylor opened her eyes to glare at him. "Do you really think I like seeing a dead girl with a knife sticking out of her standing in the middle of my apartment," she growled.
"It depends on your definition of seeing a dead girl," Flack argued.
Taylor threw her arms in the air in exasperation, "You know what? Never mind. Forget it! I clearly made a mistake coming here in the first place." She stormed out of the room and back to the elevator.
"Where were you three nights ago, between the hours of 6 and 10pm?" he asked her.
Taylor’s mouth dropped open. "Are you kidding me?" She snatched her hand back.
Flack stared stonily at her.
"I write about crime, I don’t commit it," Taylor told him, somewhat indignantly.
"The information released to the public didn’t include a description of the knife. The only way you would know that piece of information is if you were there," Flack returned.
“So now you think I’m a suspect?" she cried incredulously. "I came here to help you identify that girl. I mean, seriously, if I was going to murder someone, do you really think I would turn up and claim I had seen a ghost? Really?" she asked, staring in disbelief at the two detectives.
"Where were you, Miss Turner?" repeated Mac.
Taylor sat down and ran her hair through her hair, sending droplets of water to the floor. The rain had reverted it back to the soft curls she was used to spending time trying to cover up. "I can’t believe you are treating me like a suspect," she muttered. "I was vegging out on my couch, with a bottle of wine, a chicken chow mien, and a DVD box set of Family Guy."
"And can anyone verify this?" Mac asked as Flack took notes.
Taylor shrugged. "The takeaway was delivered at 7. Oh, and my mother called me at 9." She got back to her feet. "Now can I go? Or are you going to arrest me?"
"We’re going to have to verify this information," explained Mac, "But yes, you can go. Just make sure you stick around."
"I guess I had better cancel my world cruise then," she said sarcastically, leaving the room. As the door shut behind her, she stopped, sighed and went back in.
"What the hell was that about?" Flack was asking Mac, whistling slightly as he circled his finger around his ear. He stopped when he saw Taylor glaring at him.
"I forgot,” Taylor snapped. “The girl?"
"Rebecca?" Mac asked.
"Yeah,” Taylor nodded. “She showed me an ID card for a Prep school. Um, Carol Anne Lewis Prep School. You should be able to identify her there." she sighed and left the room again, heading down the corridor. She spotted a bathroom and ducked in, heading straight for the sink. She was busy splashing water on her face when a toilet flushed behind her.
"Are you alright?"
Taylor looked up and caught sight of an attractive brunette with a mass of curls staring at her in concern. She had detective written all over her.
Taylor was about to tell her she was fine, when she caught sight of her reflection. Her hair was a plastered to her head at the top, whilst the rest had turned into an uncontrollable mass of waves and ringlets at the bottom. Her black camisole was drenched, as were her grey combats, and her face? Her mascara was streaking off in various directions. Instead, Taylor started laughing. In all honesty, she looked pretty pathetic.
"One of those days?" the detective asked as she began rummaging around in her purse. She pulled out a pack of face wipes and a stick of mascara.
Taylor nodded, accepting the items. "You have no idea," she muttered, as she began wiping away the trails of mascara.
"Oh, I’ve spent a fair few hours processing the scene of a crime in the rain, only to return to the lab resembling a panda."
Taylor smiled, the understanding dawning on her. "Criminalist?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Journalist," she told her, finally handing the items back to their owner, "Thank you." She glanced down at her watch and groaned. “Speaking of, I have a column due in soon. I should get going. Thank you so much." She dashed out of the door, and out of the building, in just as big a rush as she had been upon entering the building, that she nearly sent the same couple flying as she had earlier, as they re-entered the building. Shouting a hurried apology over her shoulder, she ran back to her apartment.
The bonus to being soaking when you go out in the rain is that the next time you went out it, you couldn’t really get any wetter. Taylor got home, stripped off to have a quick shower to warm herself up, then wrapped herself up in a robe. With her towel on her head, she sat down at her computer. She was used to cutting it short, but she got the confirmation email that her piece had arrived at the paper, with two minutes before her deadline.
She turned off her computer, went and changed into some nightwear, and was about to head to the kitchen when her phone rang. She answered it – it was her mother. "When are you coming home, dear?" her thick Italian accent rolling over her words.
Taylor rolled her eyes and headed straight to the wine rack, pulling out a fresh bottle of red, and poured herself a large glass as she propped her phone under her ear. "Mamma, I keep telling you, work is very busy at the moment." There was also the other fact that she too terrified of flying to do that anytime soon.
Her mother let out an aggravated sigh. "Fine. Have you found yourself a marito, yet?"
The conversation was going the same way it did every time. Taylor was tempted to just let her machine get all her calls in the future. She headed back to her living room and over to the window, watching the rain lash at her window. "No, mother, I am still a single woman," she told her, even though she was tempted to turn around and say something completely different.
"You should be on the lookout, you know. You’re just about to get past your prime, and no man will want you then."
"Gee, thanks, mother." She turned around, and let out a small yelp, dropping her glass of wine and the phone to the carpet. Standing in front of her, again, was Rebecca. "You!" she cried, ignoring the panicked shouts coming from the phone on the floor.
"Help me," said Rebecca.
"I have helped,” Taylor told her. “What more do you want from me?"
"Help me."
The cries from the phone were growing louder, so Taylor bent down and retrieved her phone. “Sorry, mamma, I have to go." She hung up before her mother could say anything, and turned back to the ghost. Except she wasn’t there. "I’m losing my mind," she muttered wearily. She made her way back to the kitchen for a sponge, ignoring the phone which was ringing again.
Taylor mopped up the red wine from her cream carpet – it was never going to come out – and was busy rinsing the sponge out when she heard her again. "Help me."
Taylor whirled around. "What else can I do? Seriously?"
Rebecca opened up the palm of her hand. Taylor cautiously crept over and eyed up the item she was holding. It was a picture of a tattoo – a cross with a dragon entwined around it.
"Who does that belong to?" Taylor asked her helplessly.
"Help me." Rebecca vanished.
Taylor resisted the urge to start shouting, and instead decided to call it a night. Returning to the precinct would wait until the following morning. It was getting late, and she was tired, besides, they probably wouldn’t still be there at this hour, and she didn’t want to deal with another set of detectives questioning her. She headed to her bed and pulled the covers up around her, flicking on the television before turning the lights out. With a Sex and the City marathon showing, she made herself comfortable. An hour later, she was fast asleep.
She awoke, with the TV still on, and peaked open her eyes. Standing opposite was Rebecca, watching her sleep. She bolted upright in bed. "Are you kidding me?" she yelled.
"Help me."
Taylor really wanted to throw something large and heavy at her. "Help me? Is that all you can say?"
"Help me."
Taylor flung her head back and began hitting it against the leather covered bedhead behind her. "Fine," she growled. "I’m going." She pulled back her covers and got out of bed. She pulled on another pair of black combat pants and a cerise camisole, along with a pair of running shoes, before grabbing a jacket, and an umbrella.
With it being so late in the night, she opted to take the brightly lit route, rather than the one she had taken earlier, adding a few extra blocks to the route, making the journey longer. She arrived at the precinct and went in, heading straight to the front desk. "Can I help you, ma’am?"
"I’m looking for a Detective Taylor," she sighed.
"He’s next door, thirty fifth floor."
Taylor’s mouth dropped open. "He’s still here, even at this time?"
"He’s a strange one. Always seems to be working," the officer frowned. "If you didn’t think he would be there, why did you come?"
Taylor just smiled at him, and hurried back out of the building. She figured it was a better option than saying, well, if I didn’t, a certain ghost wasn’t going to let me sleep. She headed next door and took the lift up. The doors pinged open to a well lit, modern looking lab. There were people busy working in glass-walled rooms, but the reception desk was un-manned, leaving no one around to help her. Taking a deep breath, she began walking down the corridor until she heard voices filtering out of one of the rooms.
“So, you’re telling me that the only reason we managed to identify the girl was because some nut came in claiming that she saw her ghost?" she could hear one male voice say.
"Oh, she’s not just any nut. She’s the nut who writes the Crime Files." She recognized that voice – it belonged to the other detective she had spoken to earlier, Detective Flack.
"Taylor Turner is a chick?" said the first voice.
"And what’s wrong with that, Messer?" came a third voice – a female – not a native to the state, like the others were.
“She doesn’t write like a chick, that’s all. Don’t get all feminist on me, Montana."
Montana? Well, that explains the accent. Taylor thought.
"Who cares whether she’s a chick or not. She’s needs a psych evaluation, that’s what she needs," said Flack.
That was it. Taylor was going home. Or at least, that was her intention, until she turned around straight and walked straight into Detective Taylor. "Miss Turner?"
"Hi," she squeaked, offering a weak grin.
He watched her carefully. "And how can I help you at this hour?"
Taylor rubbed at the back of her neck. "Actually, I’m here to help you again."
Mac eyed the woman up and down, nodded, and then ushered her into the room she had just been eavesdropping on. The three occupants looked up from the coffee they were drinking, and over at the journalist.
"Back, huh?" smirked Flack.
"Yeah. I just wanted to make sure you were absolutely certain I was a nut before I went to visit a shrink," Taylor shot at him.
Flack had the grace to look slightly uncomfortable.
"Danny, Lindsay," said Mac, “This is Taylor Turner."
"Two Taylors? Well that could get a little confusing," muttered Danny, as Lindsay suppressed a grin.
"Don’t worry," assured Taylor, "I’m not sticking around long enough for names to become an issue."
"Why are you here, Miss Turner?" Flack asked her.
Taylor shut her eyes. "It turns out that Rebecca hasn’t finished with me yet. She came back."
"The dead girl came and saw you. Again?" asked Flack. If she hadn’t just heard him refer to her as a nut, his tone left no question about his opinion of her.
Taylor opened her eyes to glare at him. "Do you really think I like seeing a dead girl with a knife sticking out of her standing in the middle of my apartment," she growled.
"It depends on your definition of seeing a dead girl," Flack argued.
Taylor threw her arms in the air in exasperation, "You know what? Never mind. Forget it! I clearly made a mistake coming here in the first place." She stormed out of the room and back to the elevator.
Originally posted: 10/05/2006