About The Lukas Boston Mysteries:

  “Dead Wrong” (Previously published under the title “Twice As Dead” by G.M.Hague)

  Logan May is a pen name for G.M.Hague. Lukas Boston books are not episodes of a larger story and it isn’t necessary to read them in correct order, although the backgrounds to some of the characters and events will be made clearer if you do. If you’d like to be told when other Lukas Boston stories are available, I’ve created a newsletter at www.graemehague.com.au you can sign up—I promise not to send you anything except info on Lukas Boston, myself, my books and my music.

  This book is subject to copyright. Please refer to the pages at the end of this novel for all copyright information

  DEDICATION.

  This book is dedicated to all the wonderful, furry friends that have graced our lives, past and present. People who know me will understand where some of my novel’s character’s names have come from.

  And, of course, to my beautiful wife Lisa who allows me to pursue this crazy idea of being a writer.

  Very Important Note For Readers

  Dead Wrong was previously published under the title Twice As Dead by G.M.Hague. The story has undergone significant editing and some rewriting, and re-released under the pen name Logan May to separate it from my other works published in very different genres. While this release has been heavily reworked, the storyline and characters are essentially the same. If you’ve previously read Twice As Dead, I suggest you return this title for a refund.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Dead Wrong

  ONE

  It occurred to Lukas that it would help matters right now if he was wearing some pants—or anything really—rather than be stark, bollock naked. Most problems, including ghosts, are more easily dealt with when you’ve got pants on.

  Was it really a ghost? Someone from the Other Side come back to haunt him? A poltergeist intent on sucking him into the television? Could they still do that with flat-screen TV’s?

  What the hell does it matter? Lukas thought. It was more important to figure out what to do.

  Okay, this was definitely a ghost. Standing motionless against the bedroom wall and watching him. Lukas could see the faded wallpaper through the man’s body. Still, the smoky figure was solid enough to have a recognisable face and that had Lukas slowly groping under the bed for his gun. It didn’t make much sense to try and shoot a ghost, and the chairwoman of the apartment’s Owners Standards Committee would give him hell for putting a big hole in the plaster, but it was the only idea coming to Lukas for the moment.

  Lukas had sensed the strange presence in the bedroom, waking him—or maybe he slept with one eye open and didn’t even know it? Lukas had long ago learned to sleep lightly, wary that someone seeking revenge might slip into his room. Plenty of people held a nasty grudge against him. Jail time can do that.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Lukas groaned, remembering something else. He gave up on finding the gun, pushed himself into a sitting position and risked taking his eyes off the ghost for a moment, glancing at the other side of the bed. The empty, rumpled sheets were stained, smeared with lipstick and make-up. The girl who made the mess was gone.

  Where the hell was she?

  He held a hand up towards the apparition, ‘Hey, can... can you just hold on for a minute?’

  The ghost didn’t move.

  Lukas worried she was in the bathroom or maybe the kitchen getting a drink. Any second now she’d walk back in, see his ghostly visitor and start screaming the place down, which wouldn’t improve things. The chairwoman had already complained about some of his noisier overnight visitors. Lukas needed to keep his missing guest out of the bedroom somehow. Give him time to deal with Caspar the Unfriendly Ex-Criminal Ghost, before she caught sight of anything.

  Except, thanks to an appalling hangover, Lukas couldn’t remember her name.

  Damn it, Caroline? Charmaine? Damn, damn, damn... He was a detective, for Christ’s sake! He was supposed to be good at shit like remembering names.

  Lukas called towards the closed bathroom door, ‘Hey—ah... are you in there?’ No one answered. ‘Babe? Are you in the kitchen?’

  Silence.

  He said, ‘Because there’s this really big spider on the ceiling in here and if you don’t like spiders, you’d better stay exactly where you are until I kill the damned thing. I mean, it’s a monster. Maybe one of those bird-eating things you see on the telly.’

  Still nobody replied.

  It was unthinkable to Lukas that the girl had left altogether. Quite impossible. Surely no woman would climb out of his bed without at least telling him how great a time they’d had. Saying goodbye and making him promise to keep in touch. Swapping phone numbers—the usual stuff after a night of unbelievable sex.

  All right… so maybe last night he hadn’t been at his absolute best. Ralph the barman’s generosity with the bourbon bottle had impacted on Lukas’ usually smooth, cool persona. And those stairs next to the bar? Hell, anyone could have fallen down those. Lukas nearly broke his bloody neck. Anyway, it hadn’t stopped... Cloe? Clara? ... from coming home with him, right? Practically ripping his clothes off. He could clearly remember some of the amazing things they did—well, some of the things.

  The ghost spoke, startling Lukas and reminding him that he had a more pressing issue.

  ‘I want you to do something about it.’ The voice was whispering, calm.

  Lukas’ answer was a hoarse croak. ‘Do something about what?’

  The spirit vanished.

  ‘Great, why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Lukas sighed.

  Shaken and out of breath, Lukas searched under the bed again, this time for his tracksuit pants which were on permanent standby. His fingers touched the Glock, but Lukas left it there.

  Pulling on the track pants restored Lukas’ dignity and self-confidence. A cigarette from the bedside table calmed him further. He went to the window, raising it fully open, and poked his head out, leaning on the sill and staring down two stories at the quiet street below. Lukas gratefully speared smoke into the clean morning air. The kerb was lined with expensive cars. This was a rich inner-city Melbourne suburb with trendy apartments squeezed onto prime real estate. It was populated by lawyers, accountants, CEOs and a certain ex-police detective now turned private investigator, Lukas Boston.

  ‘What the hell was that all about?’ Lukas asked a ginger cat curled on the bonnet of a distant BMW. The cat lifted its head and glared disdainfully back at him.

  Lukas heard a snapping noise along with the smack of something slamming into the wall behind him. It took a too-long moment of disbelief for him to realise what had happened.

  Only bullets passing that close make such a distinctive sound.

  Lukas scrambled backwards, hitting his head painfully on the window frame. He flattened himself against the wall and tried to figure it out. It didn’t need much thinking.

  This was bad. For three good reasons.

  First, Lukas hadn’t heard a shot. This meant the shooter had a rifle—it had to be a rifle—equipped with a silencer. Every second farmer in Australia had a dozen high-powered rifles stuffed under
the mattress, but silencers were bloody hard to get—let alone a weapon that could mount one. So the killer knew all kinds of the right people.

  A professional.

  Second, now there was large hole in the plasterboard opposite. If that meddling woman from the Owners Standards Committee found out about it the "please explain" paperwork would be endless. It wasn’t enough that Lukas owned the place. The committee took its self-appointed role of maintaining a high standard of tenant seriously and would take a very dim view of anybody who irresponsibly allowed high-velocity sniper rounds through an open window to ruin the decor. The chairwoman, an imposing, large women called Irene, would go nuts.

  And third, someone was trying to kill him.

  Lukas dropped to his hands and knees, crawled under the window to the other side, then snatched at the hanging cord to bring the blinds crashing down with a cloud of dust and dead insects. A twist closed the louvres although the morning sun still got between the gaps. Lukas waited for another bullet to punch through, the shooter trying his luck, and he wasn’t surprised it didn’t come. If the man was a pro he wouldn’t waste his time or the ammunition on a blind shot. More likely, he was already far away, well aware that Lukas wouldn’t give him another opportunity. Not today.

  But to be absolutely safe, Lukas took care to avoid the direct field of fire through the window. Still unconvinced his guest had completely abandoned the sexual experience of her lifetime Lukas went looking for her. In the living room he found a note had been pushed under the front door.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ he said, unfolding the paper and reading it.

  Next time I won’t miss. Do as you’re told. Leave the past in the past.

  ‘Clever bastard,’ Lukas said, balling the page and tossing it into a corner. It must have been delivered earlier. So was the shot a deliberate miss or not? The message could be just insurance against bad marksmanship. The paper, he knew, would be forensically clean and useless.

  The coffee machine needed time to boil. Waiting, Lukas stared unseeing into his empty cup, lost in thought.

  This was a hell of a morning. Bloody upsetting, when you think about it.

  Surely he hadn’t been that bad at sex last night? So disappointing that she didn’t even say goodbye or leave a note? Was he losing his touch in bed?

  Lukas sighed. Worried.

  TWO

  Lukas wasn’t so surprised that he’d seen a ghost. When he was ten years old his grandmother told him, ‘Boy, you have the Gift.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said solemnly, but it was encouraging. Lukas was hoping for a new bicycle.

  The old woman bent closer enveloping Lukas in a waft of whiskey-laden breath and stale clothes. ‘Yes, you do. It will take time to discover it, that’s all.’

  This was still okay. There weren’t many places you could hide a whole bike. Lukas nodded, his face serious. ‘All right, grandma. If you say so, but can you give me a clue?’

  Her voice shook and she raised her eyes to the ceiling. Unseen, Lukas pulled a face. This was where talking to his grandmother often got confusing. She said, ‘There are more souls surrounding you than those you can simply see. One day, you will know how to open your eyes.’

  Lukas repeated this in his head several times trying to decipher the riddle. He frowned, asking, ‘It’s in the shoe cupboard, grandma? Really?’ Heck of a small bicycle. She did this a lot—failing to notice just how much he’d grown.

  ‘Shoes, boy? What are you talking about?’

  Hardly a fair question. ‘It’s okay, grandma. I understand.’ It was the family’s agreed get-out-of-jail response to the old girl’s ravings.

  ‘Make sure you do, boy. It’s not something to dismiss as a trifle.’ She pointed a crooked finger at him.

  Now it was about puddings, which was enough to send Lukas in search of his parents for clarification. They were in the lounge watching television.

  ‘Grandma’s bought me a new bicycle and she won’t tell me where it is,’ he told them.

  ‘Mother’s done what?’ his mother asked, warily.

  ‘She said I have a gift and I’ve been asking for a new bicycle for ages, so I guess...’ Lukas left the rest of his obvious logic unspoken. These were adults after all.

  ‘Oh shit,’ his mother said with a sigh. ‘The crazy old bat.’ She added sweetly, ‘Lukas, can you go get me some chocolate from the kitchen?’

  His father supped on a can of beer, still watching the screen. When Lukas was gone he said absently, ‘She’s as mad as a witch. Now what do we do?’

  ‘What do you damned-well think?’

  ‘How the hell should I know? She’s your weird mother.’

  ‘Tomorrow you go and find Lukas his new bicycle.’

  ‘But we haven’t bought him—’ A sharp jab in the ribs explained things best. ‘All right, but she can pay for the bloody thing.’

  ‘Oh George! You can afford to buy him a hundred bicycles—a thousand of the damned things. Just get him a new bike.’

  ‘Okay, okay, whatever you say.’ Which for George Boston meant he’d send any one of his dozen assistants, who were highly qualified in business management, accounting and financing, down to a mall to buy a bicycle.

  ‘Do it yourself, George.’

  ‘Yes dear,’ George lied.

  ‘Or would you prefer to explain everything about my mother to Lukas instead?’

  Since George didn’t understand much at all about his nutty mother-in-law and her gypsy-like ravings, and he preferred it stayed that way, he stuck with the easy way out.

  ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘You’re right, he really needs a new bike.’

  It was years until Lukas finally realised what his grandmother meant. On occasions he felt just the slightest whim of how his supposed Gift could work. His friends and colleagues learned not to play cards against Lukas for money, because he had an uncanny ability to know what hands they held. Later as a detective his sixth sense, the one that all good policemen possessed, worked better than most. It was a warning system for unseen danger and a nose for the evidence that wasn’t so clear.

  As for seeing ghosts now, that was something new and totally unexpected—and shocking, if he cared to admit it. But still not exactly surprising.

  *****

  What gave Lukas most cause for concern was the identity of his ghostly intruder.

  The late Gavin Hucknall had alternated between being a petty thief, an all-round nuisance and a hired goon who everyone knew shouldn’t be given too much responsibility. Put simply, Gavin wasn’t that bright. Yet he’d managed to get involved in a complex drug operation that went sour when a very large shipment of cocaine went AWOL. People got angry and Hucknall disappeared—from a workplace environment where “disappeared” could be a fatal condition. Prior to this Lukas had been riding Hucknall pretty hard, picking him up regularly for impromptu questioning, putting the pressure on, making Hucknall’s life miserable. Nothing worked and Hucknall never cracked. When Hucknall vanished it didn’t exactly create a manhunt for his whereabouts—he was just another piece of the puzzle, albeit a missing piece now, not worth pursuing. Lukas remained a part of the task force that attempted to get to the bottom of things. The criminal underworld was certainly rumbling with discontent and heads were rolling. One particular drug dealer from St Kilda was discovered in far too many pieces for his health. His head was put in a milk crate to stop it rolling away.

  The code of silence prevailed and the task force failed to unearth much in the way of solid information. Gavin Hucknall wasn’t seen again alive or dead. The worst was assumed, but you never knew. Perhaps Hucknall had seen the writing on the wall and fled in time? To live in terror somewhere, hidden and very far away.

  At least Lukas had the answer to that now. The man was dead. But why, after all these years, was his ghost suddenly annoying him?

  THREE

  Lukas knew how to dial through the switchboard system and connect directly to Detective Senior Sergeant Peter G
oodall’s desk.

  ‘Pete, how’s it going?’

  There was a short silence. ‘Hello, Lukas.’ Goodall managed to instill dread, resignation and weariness all in two words.

  ‘Don’t be like that.’

  ‘I could pretend to be happy hearing from you, but I’m sure I’ll be feeling like crap by the end of this phone call, so what’s the point?’

  ‘Sounds like you need a holiday, Pete. Long service leave can’t be far away, right?’

  ‘What do you want, Lukas?’

  ‘Just some files from ages ago. Old shit, no one will mind.’

  ‘I’m not allowed to give you any files. Old shit, new shit or even shit straight out of my own arse that I could copyright myself. You know that.’

  Lukas understood that Goodall had to make all the right noises. In the end he’d agree knowing that Lukas was useful to have around and might even do some of the police work for him. Lukas said, ‘You know I’ll be very careful and not make copies. Destroy everything when I’m finished. For the usual fee, of course.’

  ‘Nope, no good,’ Goodall surprised him. ‘I’ve still got four full bottles hidden in the shed and the wife’s read me the riot act about my drinking. I have to slow down—or at least not let her see me on the booze.’

  ‘So just start drinking in the shed, Pete. That’s a no-brainer.’

  ‘You’re a funny bastard and obviously not married. Tell me what you want and I’ll figure out what it’s worth.’

  Lukas didn’t like the sound of that. ‘All right… I’m after anything you can give me on Gavin Hucknall and all that shit he got caught up in. It was a few years back.’

  There was another pause while Goodall dredged though his memory. Lukas used the opportunity to light a cigarette and noticed a butt rimmed with lipstick in the ashtray.