Ghost Walking (A Maggie York Paranormal Mystery Book 1) (20 page)

When she arrived home—alone, since Annie had rushed off to contact Harry—Maggie pulled out an old murder board stored in her closet and replaced everything with new 3x5 note cards, making a graphic representation of the current murders, her shooting, and the links between them. At the top was a card that simply read: Paul Castile. She sat cross-legged on her living room floor, studied the board, rearranged items, and added notes for more than an hour.

If she was right, she was somehow the trigger for everything that followed. Pardson had been sent to kill her. He’d failed, but Hurst had seen him or something just as damning. Since Pardson had blown the contract on her, and Hurst’s fingerprints were left at the scene and finally tied to him, someone else was hired to eliminate both of them. So far it made sense, but then she ran into inconsistencies. Why hadn’t they followed through by killing her? Instead, there’d been attempts to discredit her and scare her by breaking into her place and running her off the road. Neither guaranteed a permanent solution. A fourth player? One more reluctant to kill a cop but still determined to keep her from asking too many questions. Maggie sighed. She had a lot of questions and theories. A few answers would be better.

She glanced at the clock above the TV. After midnight. Too late to call Brandt and discuss the fact that Hurst’s killer was still out there…um, might be out there. She’d have to present it as a theory. He wasn’t going the buy the CI approach again. Actually, this was a good time to leave a message on his office phone. That way there’d be no questions, and he’d know first thing in the morning.

She pulled out his card and dialed the number. It rang twice. She was looking at the murder board again while waiting for the automation and jerked her head up when a voice husky with sleep said, “Brandt.”

Startled into silence, she didn’t answer until he asked, “Who is this?”

“It’s Maggie. I’m sorry. I meant to call your office number.”

“You did. My calls are forwarded. What’s up?”

“It’ll keep till morning. Go back to bed or, er, stay in bed.” A vivid picture of him, tousled, sleepy, and tangled in sheets came unbidden…and a speculation on what was underneath. She shut it down immediately.

“Nothing,” he said.

“What?”

“I sleep in the nude. Isn’t that what you were wondering?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. That comes under the category of too much information, Brandt.”

He chuckled. Deep, sexy. God, this had to stop.

“I’m wide awake now, Maggie. Tell me why you called.”

“It’s the Hurst murder. If Pardson screwed up the contract on me, would Castile be likely to give him another? Isn’t it more likely someone else cleaned up by getting rid of them both?” She told him about the murder board and her charting—everything except Hurst’s appearance.

“It certainly could have happened that way, but without proof, it’s just another theory.”

“It’s not. I know—” She stopped. “I’m convinced there’s a second killer.”

“Why? Oh, don’t tell me. Your confidential informant again.”

“No, it is just a theory. A good one that fits the facts.”

But she’d hesitated too long, and his voice tightened. “Aren’t you getting tired of the games? You’re not telling me something, and its hampering my investigation. You’ve been hiding it all along. I can’t adopt your theory without facts.”

“Suit yourself. But you of all people are aware some things can’t be shared.” He wouldn’t believe her if she told him the truth.

“Here we go again.” Frustration roughened his voice. “You’re making this about Boston. Maybe I’ll tell you some day. But I’m not going to do it when it’s a condition for your trust. Goodnight, Maggie.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Despite her late night conversation with Brandt—a source of annoyance and even a little amusement when she let herself think about it—Maggie got back to her normal routine on Saturday morning.

She met with Dalia and even had a specific request this time, something she’d found in the witchcraft book’s chapter on the veil. It had hinted at a secret ward to protect against the ghostly chill’s taint, and Maggie wanted to know how to do that.

While Dalia was enthusiastic over her interest, she cautioned that Maggie needed more experience before she could manage it. That wasn’t what Maggie wanted to hear now that she’d found some use for all this nonsense. Dalia had finally shown her the basics and agreed to begin working on it next week. Actually, Maggie wasn’t overly worried. Hurst hadn’t displayed any aggression toward her. She seemed safe around him, as long as she was careful. Hopefully it would be a long time before a nasty spirit appeared—like never.

After leaving Dalia’s, she swam several laps at the gym, had a good practice at the firing range, and restocked her fridge. By mid-afternoon she was considering her options for the evening when the phone rang. Brandt. That was a surprise.

“Are you still talking to me?” she asked, skipping the pleasantries.

“I must be, since I’m calling you,” he responded, smooth as ever. He didn’t elaborate but moved on. “I spoke with my mother. She’s having a good day and would love company. Do you already have plans for tonight?”

“Only if you consider takeout as plans.”

He chuckled. “I think you have time for both. Why don’t I pick you up at seven?”

“Seven it is.”

She didn’t dwell on why he’d asked her or why she’d said yes but spent the next half hour going through her closet and deciding which jeans and top to wear with her new boots. She finally settled on black jeans and a sea green top.

She tried to set aside thoughts of Brandt for the rest of the day, but she was still ready fifteen minutes early, and second-guessing the clothes choices she’d made. She contemplated changing tops, and then it was too late. Promptly at seven, he tapped on her door. Didn’t he ever use the downstairs’ buzzer?

She opened the door to find Brandt leaning on one arm against her door frame in jeans and a black shirt that showed off the tight abs underneath. His rolled up sleeves exposed forearms that were a credit to his workout routine and would make a girl feel safe enclosed in them.

He caught her once-over and grinned. “Did I pass? I can’t hope to compete with you. The green makes your eyes stand out.”

“If that’s a good thing, then thank you.”

“Absolutely good.”

“And yes, you definitely pass.” She smiled and walked into the hallway before she did something rash like suggesting they remain at home. Why was her response to him so intense? She didn’t normally throw herself at a guy, but Brandt was a nearly irresistible temptation. Especially when he looked like this.

Surprised by the level of sexual tension, Maggie was quieter than usual during the drive. Brandt, on the other hand, acted entirely at ease, as if he hadn’t noticed. He kept up a stream of small talk, information on the care center, and his mother’s former career as a librarian.

“If you need a topic of conversation, just ask her anything about books,” he said as he parked the car and got out.

She threw him a quick look, grateful for the suggestion, and hopped out before he could come around and open the door. That would be too much like a real date, and this was just two cops cheering up a sick patient. He smiled at her action but didn’t comment.

Carolyn Brandt sat in a chair in her room, a blanket over her lap and legs. Obviously she was gravely ill, but her eyes lit when she spotted her son. He went to her immediately, taking one hand and kissing her check. “How’s my best girl?”

“Fine, honey. I’m doing OK.”

The affection that passed between them caused Maggie a twinge of envy for a closeness she’d never shared with her own mother. She now understood the distance had been rooted in her mother’s fear of her gift, but it didn’t make the loss easier.

Maggie shifted her feet, wondering if she should give them some time alone, but Carolyn Brandt looked past her son, and her warm, intelligent gaze fell on Maggie. “You must be Maggie. How nice of you to come.”

Brandt immediately waved her forward. “This is my mother, Carolyn. Maggie York.”

Almost immediately Maggie felt drawn into their family circle, and they chatted for nearly an hour before Harry and Annie walked arm-in-arm through the door.

“Maggie!” Annie gave her friend a quick hug. “I had no idea you’d be here. Tell me everything later,” she added in a whisper. She shot a look at Harry. “Did you know?”

He shrugged, convincing Maggie the brothers had discussed and orchestrated the evening. Harry looked a lot like his older brother. His jaw wasn’t quite as firm, his dark hair a little longer, and his eyes were definitely less intense, unguarded. He laughed easily.

Brandt relaxed around his family, and the verbal sparring between brothers made him seem more like Josh than Detective Brandt. The five of them grew comfortable—sharing stories from their past and eventually getting around to places the brothers should visit in the New Orleans area. After a while it grew obvious Carolyn was tiring. She’d coughed more frequently the last fifteen minutes, taking longer to recover. When she had a prolonged bout of struggling for breath, Brandt handed her a fresh tissue, reached over the bed, and pushed the nurse’s button.

A white-gowned woman carrying a tray of pill cups responded immediately. “It’s time for your medication, Carolyn.”

“And for us to leave,” Brandt added.

They hurriedly said good-bye and moved toward the hallway. Maggie looked over her shoulder at a fresh round of raspy coughing.

Brandt leaned close to her ear. “The medication will help.”

Once they were in the hallway and the door was closed, Harry grabbed Brandt’s shoulder. “Was there blood?”

Brandt met his eyes. “Yes.”

No one asked what that meant. It was a bad development. Brandt held the facility's front entrance door for Maggie, and she stepped outside first. Catching movement from the corner of her eye, she stepped back, looked again, then spun around and pushed Annie back inside. Maggie drew her gun, and Brandt grabbed her, dragging her into the lobby just before the door swung shut.

“Let me go. Somebody’s out there under the trees. They ducked when I spotted them. Far end of the parking lot.”

“Stay here and guard them,” he said tersely. “I’ll come around from the back.” He ran toward the corridor.

Maggie spotted a tall, loose-limbed figure coming across the parking lot. “No, wait, Josh. I think it’s Wernier…from vice. What’s he doing here?” She stuck her SIG in her waistband.

“Dammit.” Brandt swung around, adding a few more four letter words under his breath, and slammed the door open, stalking toward the other detective.

Maggie hurried to keep up with him. “Did you ask Weiner for help?”

“No. Not this kind.” His curt reply didn’t encourage further questions.

“Sorry about that,” Wernier said when he was less than five feet away. “You caught me out of place. Maggie, I didn’t expect to see you.”

“Likewise, Shanks. Long time.”

“Too long.” He grinned. “I’ve actually missed hearing that awful nickname. How about coffee—”

“Can we skip the reunion?” Brandt growled. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Keeping an eye on your brother.” Wernier quirked a brow. “You didn’t really think it would take us long to figure it out, did you?”

“I hoped you wouldn’t try. Did the hit order come through? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Check your messages.”

Brandt grabbed his phone and turned it on. Due to medical equipment on site, facility protocol demanded cell phones be turned off during visits.

Maggie glanced behind them as Harry and Annie came out of the building. “Maybe we should continue this someplace other than the parking lot.”

“Good idea.” Wernier looked at Brandt. “Would you rather keep this between the two of us?”

Brandt’s look was dark. “It’s a little late for that.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Wernier didn’t seem bothered by it. “I know a little pizza joint around the corner. Why don’t we meet there?”

Brandt nodded. “Give us a couple of minutes.”

* * *

Maggie watched Brandt’s face, knowing what he would try next. After explaining to Harry and Annie who Wernier was, he’d suggested Annie go home. She’d resisted, and Harry had backed her up. Now he was looking at Maggie.

“Don’t waste your breath with me,” she said, before he got the words out.

Brandt shrugged; they’d piled into two cars and met again at the restaurant. Wernier had already ordered, and he downed two cheesy slices before explaining his rationale for the surveillance. “We got verification of the contract this afternoon. If Castile accepts it—which he will—and sends someone after Harry, we’ll take the shooter down, make a deal, and have enough to put Castile away. At least for a while.” He shrugged. “It’s that simple. In the meantime, Harry gets protection courtesy of the NOPD. Seems like a win-win to me.”

“Except you’ve put him in a spotlight,” Brandt said. “A pro’s going to notice the surveillance just like Maggie did. You’ve set him up as bait.”

Wernier frowned, his voice impatient. “You really think Castile doesn’t know exactly where he is?”

Maggie leaned forward. “You’re undoubtedly both right. But, Shanks, the greater good theory doesn’t sound so neat when it’s someone you know.”

“I understand that—”

“Does anyone care what I think?” Harry asked.

Maggie thought Brandt suppressed an automatic no. “Sure, go ahead,” he said.

“I don’t like the idea of someone following me around. And I certainly don’t want to get shot at. But if it will get another crime boss off the streets…even temporarily…I’m willing.” He shot a look at his brother. “I’ll feel better if I do this.”

“Good man.” Wernier extended his hand across the table and shook Harry’s. “Brandt, you OK with this?”

Brandt leaned back, compressing his lips, but eyeing the two men. “You know what I think, but it’s not my decision to make.” He zeroed in on Harry. “Don’t give anyone an easy target. Stay out of the mall and off the streets. You’re not bullet proof.” He glanced at Annie. “Neither are you.”