Ghost Walking (A Maggie York Paranormal Mystery Book 1) (11 page)

So where did that leave him…and his case? Had she made up the intruder? Then she’d also staged the scene, including the bullet in her fridge, and he didn’t believe that. For one thing, she’d never do such a lousy job. No, she’d have to be totally out of touch, and he’d spent eight hours with a troubled but very sane woman yesterday.

Why the hell had Coridan told him about this ghost business? Didn’t he know it was career-ending gossip? York was his partner, a bond as strong or stronger than many marriages. You didn’t piss on your partner.

Angry with Coridan for telling him, angry with himself for the doubts it raised in his mind, and angry with Maggie for not warning him, he stalked toward the precinct entrance. Knowing his anger in all three instances was unreasonable didn’t improve his mood.

Maybe Coridan was right. For her sake and his, he should change his line of inquiry and dump the Otley case.

Instead, he tapped the Otley file against the palm of his hand on the way out the door.

The scene of the Otley murder was much as she’d described. A dump. The tenants of the surrounding rundown buildings had overfilled the trash bins and resorted to dumping trash bags and junk—shredded bike tires, broken containers and furniture, anything that didn’t fit or was beyond repair—on the ground nearby. The only thing noteworthy about the scene was its close proximity to York’s shooting three blocks away.

He turned around, surveying the neighborhood. It was a high crime area. Maybe he shouldn’t read too much into the closeness of the locations. If you dealt with criminals, violence, and drugs, it was a likely area to frequent.

He poked around for several minutes without finding anything or gaining new insight to make his impulsive trip worthwhile.

“Did ya lose something again?”

It was the same freckle-faced kid. Only this time a woman in her late twenties was holding his hand. Brandt smiled. “Joey, wasn’t it? I didn’t expect to see you again.” He shifted his gaze to the woman. “You must be his mother. I’m Detective Brandt, ma’am.”

She nodded. “He got all excited when he saw you arrive. And said he’d talked with you before on his way to school. Then he ran to his room and brought me this.” A .223 casing lay on the palm of her hand.

My God. From York’s crime scene. Hey, wait, back up, Brandt. You don’t know that yet. He picked up the casing and squatted in front of Joey. “Can you tell me where you got this?”

“From Teddy. I was going to call you. Honest. But I forgot. And I guess I lost your card.”

“That’s OK. You remembered now. Do you know where Teddy got it?”

“He found it. On the ground.”

“Yes, but where?”

Joey frowned. “That other place. You know, where you were looking. I told him you needed it back.”

“That’s great.” Brandt was tempted to hug him, but that kind of interaction with kids was discouraged on the force. He stuck out his hand instead. “Thank you. You’ll make a fine detective someday.”

The kid’s eyes got big. “Really?”

“Sure. I’ll get you a PD shirt if you’d like one…if your mom says it’s OK and will give me your address.”

His mother smiled. “Of course. I can give you Teddy’s address too. I imagine you’ll need to talk with him.”

Brandt followed them back to their residence, a rundown but tidy apartment in a building half a block away. He obtained the necessary information and left to drop the casing off at the lab. It might not yield much physical evidence, but just knowing it was a .223 told him quite a bit.

It was a sniper all right with an assault rifle. Probably not a bolt action or it wouldn’t have ejected a casing at the scene. A semi-automatic then. Not as accurate, and not the first choice of a real pro. The sniper was likely local talent, a gangbanger using something showy like the Tavor. Deadly enough within two hundred yards, but geared toward looking badass rather than long-distance accuracy.

After he dropped off the casing, he stopped at Public Affairs and picked up a couple of small shirts. Next stop, Teddy’s. Joey’s mother had called to warn them, so Teddy and his mother were waiting. After Teddy verified the find in the gutter, probably the morning after the shooting, Brandt offered him one of the shirts.

The child’s chocolate cheeks broke into a grin. “Wow, thanks. Joey didn’t say I’d get a T-shirt.”

“The police department likes to honor good citizens,” Brandt said solemnly. “You may have helped me crack this case.”

“Oooh.” The boy’s brown eyes danced, and he gave him a high five.

Grinning, Brandt excused himself and left on a good note. He returned to his car, drove to Joey’s home, and delivered the second shirt. Joey had already pulled it over his head before Brandt reached the front door on his way out.

Finally he couldn’t put it off any longer—he called York. He wasn’t sure how to act around her. Not if she was still hallucinating. But he’d promised to keep her updated, and the bullet casing was big news.

* * *

Maggie woke with a headache. She’d slept poorly. Everything she’d discussed with Brandt—the victims on her cases, the crime scenes, the autopsies, and her own shooting—had played a kaleidoscope in her head all night. So much blood, so many unanswered questions. She frowned, rubbing her head, already tired and edgy.

A mug of coffee didn’t help, and when she opened her apartment door to find the shimmering figures of Hurst and his girlfriend sitting next to her newspaper, she froze. When the two figures suddenly moved forward to converge on her, she leaped back and slammed the door.

Damn, damn, damn. She hadn’t expected that. And she sure as hell wasn’t allowing him—or her—inside her home. Some gut instinct was telling her this ghost thing wasn’t only wrong, but dangerous.

Nothing otherworldly had appeared since the night of the intruder, and she’d hoped the herbs, the crystals, and the candles had driven Hurst away forever. She didn’t want or need his help. After all, she’d been solving cases without ghostly assistance for several years. She hadn’t minded a few little adjustments to her life, including the protection stone she slipped in her pocket every time she left the house. But this…she couldn’t live with.

Her fingers were unsteady as she punched in the numbers on her phone. “OK. I admit I need help,” she blurted the instant Dalia answered. “There are
things
in my hallway, and they tried to get in my apartment.”

“Is it Hurst again?”

“
And
his girlfriend.”

“Focus your energy, Maggie. They won’t hurt you. Do it now.”

Yeah, easy for her to say. How did she know they weren’t dangerous?

But Maggie tried, closing her eyes, concentrating on something else—like her plans for the day, and willing Hurst and his girlfriend to go away. She took a deep breath, calmer now, enough to be embarrassed by her frantic call.

“Better?” Dalia finally asked.

“Yes. I guess seeing them so early, so close, was the last straw.”

“Then I believe you’re ready for the next step,” Dalia said. “I can teach you about witchcraft, but what you need is an expert on ghosts. I’ll make an appointment. In the meantime, watch your sleep and diet. The spirits have more power over you when your defenses are down.”

“So I should treat this like a disease?” Maggie asked dryly.

Dalia’s voice held mild rebuke. “I wouldn’t put it that way, but it does require extra care. And clear your mind each night before you go to sleep. You’ll hear from me in a day or two.”

Once off the phone, Maggie thought about what Dalia had said. She
was
tired. Maybe she needed a vacation like Coridan had suggested a few weeks ago. But what was this about an appointment? Another shrink? A ghost shrink? Maggie’s lips twitched at the thought.

She looked at the front door, tempted to crawl into bed and pull up the covers, but she had to know. She checked the hallway. All clear. Wow, the focusing had worked. But why had Hurst been there? And why had he brought his girlfriend? To remind her there’d been two victims and a killer was still on the loose? Geez, as if she’d forget.

Still rattled by the early visit, Maggie took the edge off with a hundred laps at the gym pool and an intense hour on the gun range. She finally called Annie from the range parking lot.

“We’ve been busted.” Maggie related her conversation with Brandt about the DA’s call. “So he knows about you, and I told him I wouldn’t mention the drug charges again.”

“Does that mean I’m off the case?”

Maggie smiled. “Not at all. I still want to know. I just won’t discuss it with him, unless the truth is really bad or I find out he lied to me.” Her voice tightened. “In that case, all bets are off.”

“Why don’t we meet for a drink later, and I’ll give you the latest?”

Maggie kept talking as she slid into her car. “Tell me now. I’d love to meet for drinks, but no shoptalk once we’re finished here. I’d like to sleep tonight.”

Most of what Annie reported was merely background stuff. Brandt’s widowed mother lived in Springfield, Massachusetts, where Brandt had grown up. He had one brother, Henry, age twenty-eight, four years younger than Brandt. The brothers were reputed to be close, but Annie couldn’t find Henry’s current location. “It’s strange. He abruptly dropped out in his second year of veterinary school, and there’s no address or employer for the past year.”

“Maybe he died.”

“If so, I can’t find an obituary. There’s nothing.”

Maggie quirked a brow. So the Brandt mystery deepened.

Her other line beeped. “Annie, I have another call coming in. I’ll call you back. Be thinking where you want to meet.”

She switched lines, and Brandt’s voice filled her ear. Despite her misgivings, a smile played across her lips.

“I had a bit of luck today,” he said. Terse, matter of fact. “A kid turned in a bullet casing from your shooting scene. It’s a .223.”

She started. Unexpected news. And her smile faded at his abrupt delivery. Her cop side asserted control, pushing other thoughts aside.

A .223 casing meant a tactical rifle. “Prints? Ballistic match?”

“Prints aren’t likely after it’s been passed around among seven-year-old boys,” he said. “But I dropped it at the lab. If there’s anything, they’ll find it.”

“Was the kid there that night? Did he see anything?”

“No. The casing was found in the street the next day. I thought you’d want to know, but I’m short on time. Gotta go. I’ll call if anything else comes up.”

The line was dead before she had a chance to ask anything else. She frowned at the phone. What was wrong with him? Was he hiding something new? Or had he backed off for some other reason? Yesterday she’d thought…well, it didn’t make any difference what she’d thought. For whatever reason, he’d established some distance.

Just as well. He had some mysterious family thing going, and she had…whatever her early morning visitors were. She couldn’t confide in him or anyone, except Annie and Dalia, that her PTSD had turned out to be some weird
gift
. And it looked like such appearances might be part of her life from now on.

Besides, she had more critical things to worry about. Like who’d been behind that .223 bullet.

CHAPTER NINE

Maggie didn’t hear from Brandt, Dalia…or Hurst…for the next forty-eight hours. In some ways it was a welcome reprieve. But she couldn’t stand being out of the loop. She finally called Coridan and learned the squad had been hit with two new murder cases. He didn’t mention Brandt, and she didn’t ask.

She felt a twinge of guilt over the squad’s overwork and that she wasn’t doing her part. Yet she had to quit thinking along that line. It was time she considered a new career or at least a career somewhere other than New Orleans. She couldn’t live on medical pay forever.

Maybe she could follow Brandt’s example and start over with another department. That would depend on Jenson’s willingness to give her a good recommendation. She’d talk with him about the possibility. Soon. But not quite yet. When they had that conversation, it would mean her career in New Orleans was really over.

Dalia finally called late Tuesday afternoon. “I have someone I want you to meet. If you don’t mind driving, why don’t you pick me up about five o’clock? We’re headed down into bayou country.”

“Who lives in the swamp?”

“You’ll see. Selena is better seen than described.”

After that cryptic comment, Dalia wouldn’t add even a hint. Maggie wasn’t fooled. She braced herself to meet the promised ghost expert.

Shortly after five, Maggie and Dalia drove across the river bridge and headed for the swamplands outside the city. Dalia talked constantly about herbs and powders for the next half hour, and Maggie was relieved when Dalia directed her to a side road on the left. The pavement gradually narrowed to one lane and wound back and forth through the bayou. Swamp grasses and glimpses of water appeared along the side, and the surface under the wheels deteriorated to gravel. Water lapped on both sides now, nearly reaching the negligible roadway.

Maggie gave her passenger a doubtful look. “Are we going much farther? We’ll need a boat soon.”

“Not far. You’ll know when you get there.”

Two minutes later they rounded a turn and drove into the dirt parking area behind what Maggie considered a shanty. These little swamp cabins—no more than a twenty by fifteen rectangular boxes with attached front porches that partially sat in the water—were all over the area, but she’d never had an occasion to visit one. She couldn’t imagine what kind of woman chose to live out here in the sticks. Was Selena a snake or alligator hunter?

When she asked Dalia, the other woman laughed. “I don’t think so, but I bet she’d win if she took either one on.”

The cabin door banged opened, and Maggie got her first view of Selena. Long white hair twisted into a single braid that hung over her left shoulder; a build like a sumo wrestler draped in a flowery muumuu and multiple strands of colorful, beaded necklaces. She was definitely memorable, but it was the wide smile and eyes filled with wisdom that caught Maggie’s attention.