Ghost Walking (A Maggie York Paranormal Mystery Book 1) (3 page)

Maggie froze, her heart hammering. Someone was in the house. She hadn’t been particularly silent, so they must know she was there. Why so quiet? She glided back to the door, the SIG Sauer already in her hand. When the hardwood floor emitted a second small sound, she whipped around the corner, pointing her gun at the intruder.

And faced the deadly end of a Beretta, held by a tall man with compelling, steel-blue eyes. The air vibrated with energy…and for one long moment, they stared at one another.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“Police. And you?” The voice was cool, richly masculine.

She took in the dark blue jacket over a white shirt open at the collar, a loose tie slightly askew, and his black hair just long enough that an unruly strand curled over his forehead.

“Show me your badge.” She was stalling for time. Maggie didn’t doubt the confident, intense man on the other end of the gun was a cop. A very good-looking cop who wasn’t the least bit happy to find her there. How could she explain her presence?

He flipped open his jacket with one hand, revealing the badge clipped to his belt. “Detective Brandt. Now put down your gun and back away from it.”

He hadn’t raised his voice, but the
or else
was loud and clear. She nodded, slipped the safety on, and set the weapon on the floor, keeping her hands where he could see them.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked.

She figured he’d soon find out anyway, so she told him the truth—albeit a limited version. “Assessing the murder scene. The male victim was involved in my own shooting.”

The cop’s eyes narrowed, but the gun didn’t waver. “Should I know you?”

She shrugged. “I’m Maggie York.”

“Detective York?” Disbelief, then recognition flashed across his face, and something else she couldn’t read, but he relaxed enough to let his gun arm drop. “You might have started with that,” he said, shoving his Beretta into its shoulder holster. “It still doesn’t explain why you’re here. I heard you were on leave. What makes you think this killing has any connection to you?”

“Fingerprint match.” She crouched to retrieve her SIG but peered up at him before touching it. “May I?”

His eyes assessed her. “You got a private license for it?”

“Sure do.” She one-handedly pulled it from her pocket and showed her permit. When he nodded, she picked up the gun, stood, and reholstered it.

“I don’t suppose you want to tell me who leaked you the info on the prints.” He turned away, clearly not expecting an answer. “Found anything useful?”

She frowned at his back, surprised he’d asked. No one had wanted her input for months. “Nothing I’m sure you haven’t already noticed.”

“Haven’t noticed much yet. This is my first visit. The case was transferred this morning when they realized who the male victim was and that your former partner found the bodies.” He turned abruptly, and his face was close enough she couldn’t miss the thick, dark lashes framing those penetrating eyes. “Were you here last night?”

“Of course not.” She stepped back, more affected by his blatant masculinity and the woodsy smell of him than by his abrupt manner. She held his gaze, hoping he wouldn’t see the guilt written there. “As you said, I’m on leave.”

“Yeah. PTSD or something like that.” The words were tossed out as he turned away and continued to inspect the room.

Geez, he didn’t pull any punches. Maggie said nothing.

He turned his head to glance at her. “You better now?”

“I think so, but the department doesn’t.” She raised her chin. Why was she confiding in this guy? “They won’t put me back on active duty, but I intend to find the killer, with or without their help.”

“Would-be killer,” Brandt corrected.

“Yeah, whatever.” She frowned. Just who was this guy anyway? He was too smooth, too confident for a rookie. Why hadn’t she met him before? “You must be new to the unit. Where’d you transfer from?”

“Out of state. You remember anything new about that night?”

“Unfortunately not, or I would have reported it. I wouldn’t withhold information.”

“See that you don’t.” He stopped in front of her, deliberately invading her space and setting her on edge. “I can’t stop you from nosing around the community, but don’t muddy my case, Ms. York.” He stressed the Ms., reminding her of her citizen status. “Right now, you’re trespassing on my crime scene.” He jerked his head toward the back door as she opened her mouth to protest. “I’d hate to arrest you for interference.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Want to try me?”

Maggie clenched her jaw, but she mentally stepped back. Fighting with this cop wouldn’t solve anything. It certainly wouldn’t get her what she wanted. “OK, I’m leaving.” She shot him a biting look. “Thanks so much for all the generous help.”

“I
will
help you,” he said, ignoring the sarcasm. “I’m actually pretty good at my job. I intend to find the shooter or shooters on both cases.”

She paused and looked back at him in surprise. Her partner had been the lead detective on her shooting. “You have my case too? What about Coridan?”

Brandt frowned at her. “The case was reassigned nearly four months ago. Brass thought he was too close to be objective. Didn’t he tell you?”

No, he hadn’t. Dammit. Even Coridan was treating her with kid gloves, as if she couldn’t deal with bad news.

“So you’ve had it four months with no progress?” She should shut up, but he’d pricked her frustrations. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t hold my breath over your good intentions.”

“This is our first break.” His face clouded. “Not, I might add, for lack of trying. The physical evidence on your case was badly compromised—moved, lost, hopelessly contaminated—by cops and EMTs coming to your rescue.”

“Well, excuse me for nearly dying and messing up your crime scene.”

His brows shot up, a glint in his eye. “Touchy, aren’t you?”

“You don’t want this guy half as much as I do. I’m not backing off. I can’t.” Her final words cut off as she marched out the back door and yanked it closed behind her.

* * *

Detective Joshua Brandt rubbed the slight stubble on his chin—he’d have to get rid of that before he reached the station—and watched through a back window as she walked away. His lips twitched in amusement. Irritation showed in every swing of her hips. He hadn’t missed her parting comment. A woman obsessed. Not without reason, but if she became a problem, he might have to ask her former partner or commander to tell her to back off.

Unstable or not, she was a damned sexy woman. As many times as he’d gone through her case file, why hadn’t he recognized her immediately from the victim photos? Because they hadn’t done her justice. Unconscious, covered with splattered blood, deathly pale—she’d been more dead than alive in the pictures. But this woman… Her hair was a deep, vibrant red, and she’d changed the style. Her expression varied with every thought, her complexion smooth, and soft, kissable lips. But it was her energy and those blue eyes waiting to pull you in that would haunt him.

Why had he been told she was too fragile to interview? Overly protective fellow officers? He frowned. He was still the outsider with a partner who had one foot in retirement.

Brandt sighed, turning back toward the bedroom. Forget the woman. He had a murder—no, two murders and a shooting—to solve. Unfortunately Hurst was the only real lead they’d had to York’s shooting. With him dead, Brandt wasn’t as confident as he’d implied about catching the gunman.

Unless she was right. If the same shooter killed tonight’s victims, maybe the suspect had made a mistake this time. Brandt retraced his footsteps to the living room where he’d left the Hurst case file after hearing movement in the bedroom. He opened it now and studied the crime scene photos, imagining how the house had looked the night before.

Both victims had been fully dressed. Not much blood on the sheets. The bodies had been moved to the bedroom. But why? And from where?

Something nagged at him about the living room. He methodically checked it again. Fake leather brown couch, two beaten-up recliners, TV, lamps, two small tables. Brandt frowned. Why was the TV over there? He crossed the room and studied the arrangement from another angle. For this set up to work, the couch needed to be moved a few feet.

Shoving it a foot backward and then two feet to the left put it in line with the television. He knelt on one knee to examine the exposed wood floor. What was the dark stain between the boards? It had been wiped clean, but it could be dried blood. If the couch had been in this position, the stain would be directly in front of it. Just where someone getting up might have fallen.

He stood, pulled out his phone, and called the lab. “It’s Detective Brandt. I need a couple of techs at last night’s homicide scene. The Hurst double murder. Bring a blood test kit.” After a brief discussion, he hung up and waited.

So what could he read from this? The bedroom scene might have implied they’d been surprised, caught unaware by a burglar or other intruder as they were getting ready for bed, but the living room was a different matter. They’d been awake, attentive, maybe watching TV. They’d seen the killer, probably invited him into their home. He—or she—wasn’t a stranger.

He made a mental note to check known associates. What about the girl…um, JoJo Harrington? Could she be the cause of this? He’d check her connections too—ex boyfriends, workplace jealousies, or rivals for Bobby’s attention.

When the techs arrived and were testing the stain, he studied the photo of the living room taken last night. The only items missing were from the table: two beer cans, an ashtray with cigarette butts, and a matchbook—and they appeared on the list of evidence bagged for the lab. He peered at the matchbook in the picture but couldn’t read the printing.

The senior tech on scene interrupted to confirm the stain was blood. “Somebody did a quick job of cleaning it up, but it’s there.” He pressed his lips into a rueful look. “Sorry it was missed last night. I guess we were too busy in the bedroom.”

Brandt frowned. Pretty poor excuse for carelessness. Why hadn’t Coridan double-checked? He shrugged. Probably intended to follow up this morning.

Brandt left them photographing the area and pulled the front door closed behind him. As he slid onto the sun-baked seat of his unmarked Ford, he turned the AC on high, retrieved his shaver from the glove box, and headed back to the precinct to run the info on Hurst’s buddies and the girlfriend’s workplace. He also wanted to see that matchbook. It might tell him where Bobby spent his time. The head shots, the clean up…not random or spur-of-the-moment. Careful planning involved. Why would a two-bit thug merit such attention? He intended to put Hurst’s life under a microscope and find out.

Three hours later, Brandt pushed away from his gray metal desk in the major crimes squad room at District 13, stood, and walked over to study the Hurst/Harrington murder board. At best the guy had been a low-level drug dealer, not a hit man. If he was York’s shooter, why? What would make him step out of his league and go after a cop? As far as Brandt could tell, York and Hurst had no prior connection. Same with JoJo Harrington. The answer had to be somewhere in the other people they knew.

He grabbed a printout from his desk. It contained the list of Hurst’s associates and their last known addresses, JoJo’s parents, and her work address. He glanced at his captain’s office. His partner Eddie wouldn’t be back from vacation for three weeks. He was tempted to ask for a partner to help run down leads, but he hated getting used to someone new, and the unit hadn’t exactly been welcoming. York had been popular, and they saw him as her replacement. He shook his head. He might as well stick it out on his own. When Eddie retired in four months, he’d worry about someone new. He grabbed his gun from his desk drawer and headed out the door.

His first stop was JoJo’s family home. Her middle class parents couldn’t explain why their daughter had dropped out of school or associated with someone like Hurst. They’d never met any of JoEllen’s friends, much less enemies. They’d loved her, spoken to her often, and she’d visited every two weeks, but she hadn’t lived at home for eight years. They referred him to Dixie, a woman she’d mentioned from work.

Brandt located the Creole Cafe easy enough. Maximum seating was under thirty, suggesting a fast-food menu, and it smelled of fried everything—shrimp, okra, spicy chicken. Management didn’t have much to offer regarding JoJo. She’d worked as a waitress for two years and been an OK employee. Not a ringing endorsement.

When he asked for Dixie, the manager pointed to a bleached blonde carrying a loaded tray. “Don’t keep her long. We’re busy.”

So much for cooperation and caring. But it didn’t take Brandt more than a couple of questions to discover Dixie and JoJo had been workplace friends only.

“I’m not sure she saw anybody after hours except Bobby. They were always together. I can’t believe this happened.” Dixie brushed a stray wisp of hair back from her face and frowned at him. “Who would do something like that? She was just a waitress.”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.” He handed her his card. “If you think of anything else…”

“Where were they found? Her place or his?”

Brandt paused. “He had a place of his own? I assumed he was living with her.”

“He’d just taken an apartment on Chartres Street. I dropped her off there last week.”

He left with the address scrawled on a drink napkin stuffed in his pocket.

CHAPTER THREE

Maggie was still fuming over Brandt’s high-handed treatment when she called Coridan. “You might have told me.”

“Told you what?”

“I just met Detective Brandt, who informed me he’s in charge of my case.”

“Oh, hell, Maggie. I’m sorry you found out that way. I was going to tell you that they forced me out, but every time I started…well, you haven’t been exactly yourself.”

“That’s BS, and you know it. I don’t need you acting like my big brother, Coridan. I just need access to information. How have you been giving me updates if you’re off the case?”