Ghost Walking (A Maggie York Paranormal Mystery Book 1) (14 page)

“Yes, and I’ve driven by your apartment,” he said. “Someone has tried to kill you more than once. I thought a little caution wouldn’t hurt.”

She looked at him for a long moment before shrugging. “Fine, but I want you to stop.”

“OK.” He grinned at her. “Now how about that ride?”

Her gaze flashed back to his face. “You’ll stop? Really? All I had to do was ask?”

“York, I’m trying to help, not be part of the problem.” He’d just be doubly careful not to get caught in the future. “Can we get out of here now?”

Without further protest, she followed him to his car, and they rode in uneasy silence to her apartment building. He pulled into an empty parking space and turned off the engine. She didn’t immediately get out, but she didn’t invite him up to her apartment either.

He broke the awkwardness. “The black paint was from a Tahoe, any model since 2000. Given your description, probably the last year or two, but that still leaves us with more than twenty-one hundred registered vehicles in the New Orleans’ area.”

“Told you it was a waste of time.”

He shifted to look at her. “You know every piece counts. Eventually they’ll all point to the right person.”

She turned to meet his gaze. “Do you honestly believe that?”

“Routine police work. Why so negative?”

“So far everything’s gone wrong on this case. Compromised evidence, dead witnesses, worthless theories. I’ve about given up on due process finding the answers.”

“I know it seems that way. So much so, I wonder if there aren’t too many incidents of bad luck. Too many inconsistencies.”

She raised a brow, her eyes suddenly alert. “Meaning exactly what?”

“I’m not sure…yet. But it’s raised a lot of unanswered questions. For instance—why no attacks on you for seven months, then suddenly an intruder two weeks ago? Then the Tahoe driver on the swamp road. And how did the intruder get into your apartment or know there’d be a gun in the nightstand he or she could use?”

“The gun could have been a guess, if he knew I was a cop,” she said tentatively. “But the others? I’ve wondered too. Of course I was pretty safe in the hospital and during the weeks of rehab, but I’ve been home for months. Maybe I was only a threat while on the job.”

“So, why now?” He frowned. “Bobby Hurst. He has to be the connection.”

She stiffened, her eyes widened for a moment, and then she looked away. “Uh, yeah, his murder, you mean.”

Brandt frowned at her reaction but went on. “And the fingerprint ID that led us to him and probably got him killed. That seemed to trigger recent events—both good and bad.”

“So if his murder is solved, it all falls into place?”

“Maybe. It’d be a good start.”

They’d had similar discussions before—maybe not as pointed—but this wasn’t really a new line of thinking, and yet they both still sat there. An indefinable energy hung in the air, waiting for one of them to make a move.

He stole a glance at her, intrigued by the changing expressions on her face as she sorted through the discrepancies they’d discussed. She seemed in no more hurry to end the evening than he was. If she weren’t the victim on his case, a fellow officer, and a woman who’d been repeatedly traumatized, he would be following-up on this moment. And he’d find out if those lips were really as soft and welcoming as they looked.

He couldn’t…wouldn’t take advantage. But he was fascinated. Maybe he’d give her a call when her case was solved. His lips twitched. A little incentive never hurt.

“I’ll look for a new angle on the Hurst case tomorrow, pick up the ballistics report. Maybe I’ll get lucky this time.” He nodded toward the building. “I’ll walk you up.”

She opened the door and quickly hopped out as if reminded she’d stayed too long. “No, thanks. I’ll be fine. And thanks for the ride. See you around.” She stuck her head back in, a hint of humor in her eyes. “And quit stalking me.”

Brandt grinned. “Anything you say, Maggie.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

While Maggie was driving to Dalia’s on Monday morning to report her failed attempt to learn anything from Hurst, Annie called with another of Brandt’s secrets. “Your sexy cop has had a run of bad luck lately. Last week I discovered his mother no longer lives in Massachusetts, and I’ve searched all kinds of records since. I finally found her. She’s right here in New Orleans. But she’s in a care facility, dying of lung cancer.”

“Geez, Annie. Kind of makes my problems insignificant. He probably thinks I’m a whiny bitch.”

“Oh, please. Somebody’s tried to kill you. I don’t think lodging a complaint about it can be classified as whining.”

Maggie ignored her. How hard it must be for Brandt to face that kind of family crisis and still do his job. Homicide cases sucked the life out of you. But the terminal illness of a parent would even be worse, and he’d brought his mother here from Massachusetts to share her remaining time. Each new fact Maggie learned about Brandt made her question the drug charges again. His arrest just didn’t fit.

“What about the brother? Is he here too? Maybe that’s why you haven’t located him in Massachusetts.”

“Nope. Already checked. But you’d think he’d visit a dying parent. I’ll try to get a look at her visitors’ log, even if I have to go there.”

“For God’s sake, don’t get caught. It would be awful trying to explain to Brandt why we were checking on his mother.”

“Yeah, insensitive at the least. I’ll be careful.”

Instead of sharing Maggie’s disappointment, Dalia was thrilled about Maggie’s contact with Hurst. Maggie suspected it had more to do with her presumed progress with her abilities and less with solving her case.

“But why wouldn’t he just nod his head yes or no?” Maggie asked. “He used his hand to point. He sort of walks, although it was more gliding and floating than it was a week or two ago. He also seemed to fade more often. Is that normal, uh, common?”

“He’s evolving. Less human, more spirit. Maybe he didn’t nod because he doesn’t know the answer.”

“But I’m sure he does.”

“Then keep trying. None of us fully understand the spirit world, how they think or why they do the things they do. They seem to forget ordinary human responses very quickly, but repetition sometimes helps.”

“OK. I’ll try again.”

Maggie slipped out the side door of her building around 7:30 that evening to make her second contact with Hurst. Only this time she was determined not to be interrupted, not even by her sexy cop—as Annie insisted on calling him. Maggie peered around the corner, searching the street in front for Brandt’s car.

Well, damn. What’s this? Hurst stood on the sidewalk directly across the street. She glanced around for potential observers before hurrying to the other side. “Why are you here? Have you decided to help me?” she whispered.

Hurst gave her that same blank face and turned to move down the street.

“Wait. Please. I want to talk to you.”

He stopped, looked back at her, and started forward again. She felt a spark of excitement as she realized he wanted her to follow.

It wasn’t as easy as it had been when he’d led her to his apartment. His ghostly image faded repeatedly, and he didn’t skirt around objects anymore. He simply walked through them. Since Maggie couldn’t do that, she spent a lot of time catching-up. At one intersection she thought she’d lost him when he walked through oncoming traffic, and she had to wait for the lights to change. But she found Hurst hovering on the other side. He finally stopped at a jeep parked on a residential side street and sat on the hood.

Maggie looked it over and didn’t see anything unusual except a couple of dents in the back. The license plate had been damaged, and she caught her fingernail while bending it back to copy the plate number. She wiped the blood off with a tissue and stuck it in her pocket. Then she called Coridan to run the number for her, left a message when he didn’t pick up, and waited. He frequently let messages go to phone mail, then followed up. She debated what to do if he didn’t call back. Maybe dispatch would still run a check for her. She wasn’t calling Brandt and have him ask a hundred awkward questions.

She waited a few more minutes. Hurst hadn’t moved from the hood, as if he was waiting too and had all night. She frowned, wondering if time had any meaning for him.

She finally contacted dispatch and recognized a voice she knew. “Hi, Lucy. This is Maggie York. Can you run a plate on a suspicious vehicle for me?” At the affirmative response, she gave her the number. A moment later Lucy came back on the line.

“Jeep Cherokee belongs to Frederick Pardson, 730 1/2D Baronne Street. Need anything else?”

“That’ll do it. Thanks, Lucy.”

Maggie looked the Jeep over again. What was it doing here? Baronne St. was at least twenty blocks away. She looked around the neighborhood. Was the owner visiting someone? If so, they should have noticed her by now, but no one had come out to ask who she was or why she was poking around his vehicle.

“Come on, Hurst. Let’s check out his address.” When he continued to sit on the hood, she took a more friendly approach. “OK, Bobby. Time to go.” He still didn’t move, so she shrugged and walked off. He’d gotten her a name. Maybe he thought his part was done. Geez. She wasn’t only talking to a ghost. Now she was trying to think like him.

She lengthened her stride.

Maggie studied the old, two-story apartment building as she approached. It would hold eight apartments, four on each floor. According to the numbers, Pardson’s should be on the second floor, right rear. No one was in sight, and she walked straight to the front door. No security, no buzzer.

She pushed the door open and stepped inside, met by the mixed odors of stale cigarette smoke, cooking oil, and something musty, probably mold. She took the front stairs to the second floor, opened the stairwell door, and stepped out. The hallway was dim, a small window at each end let in only a minimal amount of the outside twilight.

And the overhead lights were out.

Maggie froze and reached for her SIG…even before she saw the figure on the floor at the far end. Holding her weapon in both hands, she ran silently down the hall, staying to one side and keeping an eye on every door. She reached the crumpled figure, noted the arterial spray on the walls and the pool of blood near the victim’s head. She squatted to look at his face. An unknown. Was this Pardson? Or his latest victim?

She didn’t touch him. No need to check for a pulse with that deep slash across his throat. Bleed out would have been quick, no more than a minute or two. But it had been recent. The blood was wet and still seeping slowly.

She stilled, listening for any sign the killer might be close.

A noise from the back stairway brought her to her feet. She sprinted toward it, certain she heard footsteps now, pausing only long enough to peer around the corner before leaping onto the open stairs. Maggie raced downward, vaulting over the last few steps and hitting the release bar on the exit door. She burst into a narrow side access, looked both ways, and turned toward the right.

“Drop the gun. Do it now.” Two patrol officers faced her with guns drawn at the entrance from the street.

“I’m a cop,” she said, holding her arms away from her body.

“I don’t care who you are. Drop it.”

“Do it, Maggie.” Brandt appeared behind the other officers.

She laid the SIG at her feet. Brandt didn’t look like he was in any mood to argue. She’d seen a moment of shocked surprise before his cop face slid into place. Now his eyes were hooded, unreadable.

“What the hell are you doing here? No, don’t answer that yet.” He motioned for the two cops to approach. “Bag the weapon, and stay with her until I get back. See that she doesn’t leave.” He turned on his heels and disappeared into the building.

Things only got worse when Coridan arrived minutes later. He grabbed her arm, his body rigid with tension. “Maggie, what have you done?”

“Nothing. I know it looks bad, but nothing.” Her throat tightened, and she tried to jerk her arm away. He tightened his grip.

“Radio reported the suspected sniper was dead, and a suspect in his death was detained at the scene.”

“What sniper? Who’s the dead man?” The twisting in her gut gave her the answer, one she didn’t want to hear.

“Freddie Pardson. The guy we just identified as your shooter.”

Maggie swore under her breath. The answers had been snatched from under her nose this time. “I was so close to getting him.”

Coridan stuck out his jaw, staring at her. “So you knew who he was? How?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.” Brandt walked up behind them. “Get lost, detective. This is my case.”

Coridan bristled. “And my partner.”

Brandt narrowed his eyes, and Maggie saw the temptation to punch Coridan flash across his face. “I shouldn’t have to remind you…but you have no business being here or talking with her before she’s been formally questioned.”

“You’re a prick, Brandt.” Coridan threw him a black look. “Maggie, you don’t have to tell him anything. Ask for a rep, or a lawyer.” But he turned and stomped off.

“Let me set this straight,” Maggie said. “I’ve never seen this guy—not alive.”

Brandt’s intense eyes searched her face. “Are you sure? This is the second person involved in your case who winds up dead, and you’re at both murder scenes.”

She gaped at him, the clear implication spinning in her head. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

Maggie swallowed hard. “I didn’t kill him.”

Again that unreadable look. “His throat was cut. Let me see your hands.”

“You can’t think I’m walking around with blood dripping from my fingers. If I had done this, I would have shot him.”

“Then you won’t mind showing me your hands and having a tech swab them for blood.”

“Geez, Brandt.” She held them out.

He called a tech over and watched while samples were taken. “We’ll need your clothes too. I’ll have an officer take you home so you can change.” He cocked his head. “How do you know who Pardson is?”