This wants to be more than 3K, but I shall be firm. For now.
At least we had one clue: the identity of our murder victim. “You came damned close, Sunshine,” Marsh told me as he pulled a sloppy folder out of his filing cabinet. “The dear departed was one David Shane. You can probably guess that he was known to the police.”
“If not quite by name,” I observed while opening the file. “Ah. He had an alias.” My eyebrows raised. “Many, many aliases.”
“He was in the sort of business where he’d need a few. Ghostlegger. You familiar with them, Lieutenant?”
“A bit,” Curwin admitted. “We’d get the odd addict from far foreign, looking for their fix of spookweed. Tobacco mixed with ghost-stuff, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Not souls, although ectohuffers would smoke them too, if only the perverts could. Strip a ghost of its old memories, mix the stuff up with whatever street-sweeping baccy’s around, and smoke somebody else’s life away. Hell of a high, I’ve heard the poor bastards say.” Marsh’s frown showed teeth. “Even more of a low, when you haven’t gotten any for a bit.”