Ghost Walking, Page 2

  Hurst and his girlfriend sprawled, fully dressed, across the bed as if dumped there. Both had been shot in the head. Maggie froze, swallowed hard, and breathed through her mouth to block out the odor of decaying flesh. They’d been executed. And from the smell, it hadn’t been tonight.

  She backed into the hallway and turned blindly away. Not from the smell or brutality. But she’d recognized the male victim. Bobby Hurst was the ghostly figure from the bar.

  Maggie shoved past Coridan and headed outside. She needed a moment to ensure she didn’t lose it in front of another cop. Not even Coridan. She drew in a deep breath of fresh air, welcoming the comparative coolness of the humid night. What was happening to her?

  She paced a few feet up and back the front sidewalk, forcing her mind to analyze the scene. Her partner came up behind her. “Maggie?”

  She ignored the question in his voice. “Did you notice the precision? It was a hit. Someone didn’t want him talking to us.”

  “You don’t know that. He’s a low life. Any number of people could have wanted him dead.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” But the timing seemed too convenient. Hurst had been safe enough in the six months since her shooting, until his prints were identified. As soon as the police wanted to question him, somebody decided he needed to die. That didn’t sound like a coincidence to her. “Perhaps forensics can help us. You better call it in.”

  “Not until you’re away from here. The captain would fry my ass. Did you touch anything?”

  “Only the bedroom doorknob. Oh, and the back door.”

  “I’ll take care of it, claim the front door was open as my excuse to enter, and call you later.”

  “OK.” Still unable to think beyond that moment of recognition, she walked rapidly away. How could she have imagined the man at the club before seeing his body? From his mug shot? Unlikely. At the bar, the hood had concealed his face. And Hurst hadn’t been wearing a black and gold hoodie in the police photo. Not like the body in the bedroom.

  And yet, she knew they were the same…

  * * *

  Maggie paced the floor of her modified studio apartment, struggling to make sense of what had happened the last few hours. She frowned, moving back and forth from the kitchen counter, past the off-white sofa and chairs, to the double-chained front door, then changed direction, turning left toward the three-quarter dividing wall that hid her bedroom area. Reaching the wall, she circled back again.

  For months she’d believed she was hallucinating, that her mind was playing her false. But how could she explain tonight’s events by any rational means?

  She rubbed her temples with her fingertips. Maybe she should have listened to Dalia. The woman had called three weeks after Maggie left the hospital and claimed to be some kind of shirttail relation—what was a third cousin twice removed anyway? She’d spouted some family history about witches and empaths and intuitives that Maggie had laughed off. She’d tried not to be too rude, but told the woman not to call again. She’d made it plain she didn’t believe in all that hocus-pocus.

  Some of her friends did, even a few of the cops. The ones who’d grown up in New Orleans accepted all kinds of paranormal phenomenon as just another fact of life. But Maggie’s parents had left Louisiana when she was an infant, and she’d been raised in a Yankee prove-it-to-me culture just outside of Chicago. Ghosts, psychics, voodoo, intuitives were all foreign to her, and she wasn’t buying it. Not until now.

  She halted abruptly. No, she still didn’t believe it. But it was hard to deny what she’d seen last night, and it probably wouldn’t hurt to listen to Dalia. She still had the number on her phone. The wall clock read 2:00 a.m. Too late to call and arrange a meeting.

  Maggie plopped onto the couch and turned her mind to things she understood—like murder. Who had killed Hurst, and why? Because he knew too much? Why the girlfriend? Wrong time, wrong place? She closed her eyes briefly and pictured the vivid sights and smells of the crime scene. What were Coridan and the crime scene techs finding as they sorted through the evidence?

  She covered a yawn with one hand. When had she last had a full night’s sleep? She yawned again and stood. A few hours would be better than nothing. Tomorrow she intended to follow up with Coridan and then confront Dalia, demanding the truth about her family. She reached for the light switch but paused as goose bumps covered her arms. Where was it—the Hurst thing she’d seen? She went to the window and peered at the street below, not sure what she expected to find. A ghost sitting on the curb?

  She bit off a scornful laugh. The sudden sound jarred the stillness of her apartment. Maybe she was going insane after all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  By mid-morning the next day, Maggie lost patience. What was taking the lab so long? She’d called Coridan twice already and gone straight to voice mail. She couldn’t sit around waiting for his call any longer. She grabbed her phone and secured the SIG in her ankle holster. A daylight view of the crime scene might be useful. She’d barely gotten a look at it last night.

  Shortly after ten o’clock she casually walked past the house where Hurst and his girlfriend had been found. Yellow tape hung across the door, but as she’d anticipated, the crime scene techs were gone. The house was quiet, almost morose, squatting in the heat.

  She went around the block to the back and slipped into the small patio yard that was barely large enough for a rusty wrought iron table and chairs. A window near the rear door had been left open a few inches, probably to air out the stench. That was a plus.

  Although the back door was locked, Maggie gained access with a set of lock picks. She closed the door behind her and paused to acclimate to the lingering odor and the oppressive energy. Murder scenes had emitted this claustrophobic closeness from the very first one, when she’d gagged and run outside to avoid contaminating the evidence by throwing up her breakfast. Rookie behavior. Embarrassing, but she hadn’t done it again. She’d learned to master her reflexes and the eerie feelings. Had that intense awareness been a premonition of what was to come?

  She’d have to ask Dalia when they met this afternoon. The woman had been almost too eager when Maggie called to arrange a meeting. Was she getting involved with a kook? Maggie gave a soft snort. Who was she to be asking that kind of question?

  She shoved her doubts to a back burner and focused on the crime scene. This time she’d entered through the kitchen at the back of the house instead of the living room at the front. Her gaze sharpened as the old routine fell into place. Discarded clothing near an old washing machine, empty beer cans. Hurst and his girlfriend hadn’t been especially tidy, but she’d seen worse. The kitchen was clutter-free except for an empty pizza box on the counter. Large. Smelled like pepperoni. The fridge contained three takeout cartons of leftovers—gumbo, red beans, something indefinable—a quart of milk, half used, and three beer cans in the plastic holder from a six-pack. Apparently no one cooked.

  She entered the hallway. A check of the guest bedroom and a glance in the living room yielded nothing unusual, only the expected drawer or cushion out of place due to the police search.

  She’d left the main bedroom for last.

  The bodies were gone and the bed stripped. She knelt to look under the bed, but anything on the floor and nightstand had been bagged and removed to the lab. Otherwise, it was much as she remembered. Ten by ten, holding a full-size bed and one dresser. She moved across the room to check the closet…and heard a floorboard creak in the hallway.

  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.r />
  “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 k
nee 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.