Crimes by Moonlight

I started to get a glimmer of the problem. “So you’re just very good traders, is that it? Never wrong-footed by the market, ice-cool under pressure, all that?”

Ernest had the grace to look embarrassed. “More or less.”

“Someone’s feeding you trades.” I didn’t make it a question.

“No.”

“No?”

“Not someone,” he said. “Something.”

CONSIDERING how much sheer energy and intellect has gone into analyzing the markets, it’s surprising that no one saw the correlation decades before. Hemlines, sunspots, AFC vs. NFC in the Super Bowl-every other conceivable, spurious relationship has been studied to death. But only recently did someone notice that market volatility marched neatly in step with parapsychological phenomena.

In other words, the more ghosts showing up, the wackier the Dow.

Ouija boards and seances? Had their peak in the late 1920s and early ’30s, and you know what was happening then. The Age of Aquarius? Maybe it was all the dope those kids were smoking, but paranormal visitations skyrocketed right when the economy tanked in the early 1970s. Which led directly to all that New Age out-of-body crap and the first Reagan recession-and by the time the bubble economy crashed, everyone and their dog seemed to have a personal angel.

Potted history, to be sure, but now that we’re in the Great Depression Two, the ectoplasm’s been flying like mud. Basically, economic distress translates into a lot of unhappy deaths, with hauntings following right behind.

“I don’t know who he is,” said Ernest. “I’ve never seen… one before.”

“What’s he look like?”

“You know-like a ghost.” Ernest frowned impatiently. “His shirt’s all torn up, blood everywhere on his head and chest, and he kind of shimmers, and you can see outlines of the furniture behind him.”

“So he didn’t die in his sleep.”

Here’s how it works-or the best current understanding, maybe not worth much. Most people, they die, and they go somewhere else straightaway. Nobody knows what’s beyond that long tu

It’s almost always revenge, of course. Once in a blue moon some star-crossed Romeo can’t believe he died before his beloved, and he comes back, blubbering and fading in and out, until Juliet gets fed up and tells him to just get going, already. But usually shades are angry, vindictive losers who are happy to take a rain check on heaven if they can get just one more chance to screw with their enemies still on earth.

I’d never heard of a ghost who stayed behind simply to help out.

“Why you?” I asked.

“I have no idea.” Ernest hesitated. “And, well, I haven’t tried to press, you know? I mean, the guy’s making me a fortune, no reason to rock the applecart.”

Nice. The hedge fund mentality in a nutshell, if anyone still doesn’t understand why Wall Street cratered the world economy recently. But we could let that go for now.

“He appears in my office,” said Ernest. “Always late at night, when I’m the only one there.”

“How often?”

“Every week or two at first. Then more frequently. This week on Monday and Thursday.”

“And he-”

“Gives me a recommendation. This or that currency, up or down, for the first thing the next morning.”

Forex, especially in the bizarro currencies Ernest had mentioned, was more than volatile. It would be like putting your entire stack on red or black, every time. And with leverage-he could probably multiply his bets by ten or twenty, on margin, with a cooperative broker-he was gambling the car, the mortgage, and the girlfriend, too.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “How does he communicate the details?”

“He must have died with a pen in his hand.” Ernest shrugged. “He writes on his shirttail and shows it to me.”

That’s another of the rules: the ghost shows up with whatever he happened to be wearing or holding at the instant of death. For most people, of course, that means a hospital joh

Ernest’s ghost was apparently killed in the office.

“How long does he stay?”

“The first time, maybe half an hour. It took me a while to get the idea, you can imagine. After that, hardly more than a minute, just long enough to show me the tip.”

“He sounds efficient, this shade.”

“The last few times it’s been longer, like five or ten minutes. I don’t know why.”

“And every tip is good?”

“Every single one. He’s never missed, even once.”

I chewed some donut. “Is your fund still taking investors?”

“What?”

“Never mind.” I probably couldn’t make the minimum. “You know, most of my clients in situations like this, they want help getting rid of a shade. The golden-goose thing, I’m not sure what the problem is.”

“I saw a lawyer.” Ernest frowned. “He says the situation might be construed as insider trading, depending on who the… who he is. Was.”

“Really?” I couldn’t see how, exactly-had the SEC started going after psychics and palm readers? But paranormal litigation was a brand-new specialty, and case law was scant. “I think I see why you’re talking to me, though.”

“That’s right-everyone says you’re the best.” Ernest looked at me, well… earnestly. “I need to know who this ghost is.”

IT’S always scams or revenge.

Maybe not words to live by, but true for most of my cases.

Except now. I just couldn’t see the angle. Any angle. Some dead guy-murdered, from the description-takes an indefinite stopover from the Paradise Express, simply to help make Ernest very, very rich.

At least I didn’t feel guilty tripling my usual rates.

It was Monday, and Ernest expected the ghost that evening, so I went over to his office after di

Out of the elevator it was all teak and marble and handwoven Kashmiri rugs. Ernest had the corner office, a single desk lamp lit, so we could see the skyline glitter and twinkle all the way downtown.

Oh, and a surprise.

“This is Jake Tims,” said Ernest, as a man stepped from the shadows.

Mid-thirties, a little younger than Ernest, dressed in hedge fund casual: gray pants, open-collar shirt, John Lobb loafers, and a Breguet wristwatch.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Jake is making an investment,” said Ernest. “A major investment in the fund.”

“Six hundred million,” said Jake.

I nodded like this was the sort of pocket change I could lose at the dry cleaners, too. “Let me guess-you’re here for the due diligence?”

“Damn right.” Jake smiled tightly at Ernest. “If I’m shifting 90 percent of current assets, I need to see the genie at work.”

“Of course.” Ernest turned to me. “You don’t mind?”

“Not at all.”

We settled into some incredibly soft leather armchairs near the windows. I tried to figure Ernest’s game-was he using me for protection? To evaluate Jake? To bolster the ghost’s legitimacy somehow?

No obvious answers, so I just sat quiet, listening to them talk about real estate. You’d think, a couple of guys this wealthy, they’d be living on a whole different plane, but no, it was just the usual complaints about parking and brokers and the other co-op owners.

More square feet, of course.

After a half hour Ernest looked at his watch-a Patek Philippe maybe, I couldn’t be sure in the dim light, but definitely more gauche than Jake’s-and said, “Should be just a few minutes now.”