Ghost Walking (A Maggie York Paranormal Mystery Book 1) (2 page)

Maggie closed her eyes, willing the sight to go away, but when she opened them again, he was still there. She swallowed hard against a flash of fear and took a deep breath. She had to get a grip, tame her imagination. She angled her body so he…
it
…was outside her line of vision, forced herself to focus on finding Hurst, and searched the rest of the room.

Several minutes later, she was positive none of the customers matched Hurst’s mug shot. She waved at the bartender to get his attention and pulled a photo from her pocket. “Seen this guy around?”

“You a cop?”

“Nope. Do I look like a cop?” She’d worn jeans and a tight tank top. It showed off all the right things.

“Those eyes do.”

She smiled and batted her dark lashes. “Do they look better now?”

The bartender grinned in appreciation and glanced at the picture. “That’s Bobby, but he hasn’t been in tonight.”

“You know where he stays?”

The man wiped the counter and looked around to see if other patrons were listening, before lifting a brow.

“I just want to ask him a question or two,” she said. “Nothing that’ll come back on you.”

“He’s got a girlfriend. You might find him there.” He gave her an address on Toulouse. “Don’t tell him who gave it to you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She exited the club. The moment Maggie reached the sidewalk, the back of her neck prickled, and she whirled to confront the figure in the black and gold hoodie following her. “What do you want? Get away from me,” she said in a hushed growl. “You don’t exist. Get!”

He silently closed in on her, the darkness inside his hood a pool of unreadable shadows.

Maggie stood her ground, even took a step forward. But he lifted a hand as if to touch her, and she struck out, her fist flashing through his unresisting image. She jerked back, shivering from the sudden icy cold she’d encountered.

Horror washed over her, and she whirled to flee up the street, skirting around a couple who stopped and stared after her. No doubt they thought she was crazy or on drugs. But her only interest was getting away. Her boots pounded on the sidewalk, her breath coming in short bursts. Four blocks later, she slowed and looked behind her. She was alone.

Maggie stopped, trembling and drawing in large gulps of air. It’s not real.
It’s not real
, she repeated. Her heart gradually slowed its hammering, and she clenched her fists, willing her body and mind into submission. She closed her eyes and focused on what she’d learned from the bartender.

Her breathing steadied. When she felt settled enough, she pulled out her phone and called Coridan. “I have an address for Hurst’s girlfriend. Can you meet me there?”

“Uh, sure. Are you OK?”

“I’m fine.” Somehow he always knew, but she didn’t mention the sighting. She regretted she’d ever told him, and she’d learned months ago to keep the ongoing insanity to herself—even from her partner. “I’m just excited about this lead.”

His hesitation was barely noticeable. “Where are we going?”

She recited the address.

“Want me to bring backup or is this off the books?”

“Let’s keep it to ourselves for now. If Hurst isn’t the shooter, we may need to put a little pressure on to get him to talk. PD brass might not approve my interference or methods.”

“Got it. It’ll take me about thirty minutes. Wait for me. Don’t go in alone. I mean it, Maggie.” He grew silent, waiting for a response.

“I’ll wait.” She was impatient now that answers were close, but she wouldn’t do anything to let the suspect get away or expose Coridan to censure for helping her. If she walked to the address, they should arrive about the same time, and she wouldn’t be tempted to break her promise. She started off at a brisk stride.

As the blocks passed, she pushed the encounter at the club out of her mind and looked forward to finally confronting one of the thugs who’d tried to kill her. She wanted to know why. Impatience rushed her steps. When she was a block away, she glanced at the time on her phone. Ten minutes early. She stopped in the shadow of a dark building to wait. She wouldn’t get too close and risk spooking him. Not yet.

Eight minutes later, Coridan’s unmarked car cruised down the street and turned the corner. She hurried after him and found the lanky, former Californian lounging in the seat of his parked vehicle, well out of sight of the target location.

“The neighborhood looks quiet,” he remarked when she slid into the passenger seat.

“Nothing’s moved since I got here. You ready? Let’s see if anyone’s home.” She pulled up the left leg of her jeans to reveal the ankle holster, released the thumb break, and palmed her SIG 938. As she exited the car again, she stuck the pistol in her waistband.

Coridan climbed out and eased his door shut. “Together or front and back?”

She thought about it. “I’ll take the back. The house is dark. It’s likely they’re not home or sleeping, but I don’t want anyone sneaking out on us.”

He nodded, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and smoothed his ruffled brown hair. “I hate August,” he mumbled. “It never cools off. Let’s get this over with, so I can get back to the AC.”

“The AC, or is someone waiting?” He had a well-earned reputation for one-night stands. Despite a few invitations, she’d never felt the need to become one of them.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

She smiled. “Actually, no.”

They split up then, and Maggie circled the house. She heard him knock at the front door and after a moment, he knocked again. Still no response. She tried the back doorknob, and it turned in her hand. Not a good sign. Not in New Orleans where residents were more careful than that.

She drew her gun and ran around the house. “Back’s unlocked.”

“Same here.” He turned the knob, and the door swung inward. “In fact, it’s standing wide open. Somebody inside could be in trouble.”

“Undoubtedly.” Maggie grinned. “We’d better check it out. If we just happen to run into Bobby Hurst, there is an outstanding arrest warrant.” Coridan’s action was a rather lame attempt to create exigent circumstances to enter without a search warrant. But if they found nothing, they’d simply leave with no explanations needed.

Coridan drew his gun, and they slipped inside. It was like a furnace. No AC, and no open windows to pick up even a slight breeze. The stale air carried a faint odor as if someone had forgotten to take the garbage out.

“Police,” he called. “Anyone home?”

Maggie dug the key chain from her pocket and turned on the attached penlight. The front room was empty. They walked down the hall. Two bedrooms, both doors were closed. Coridan opened the first and shook his head. Maggie tried the second. As she opened it, putrid air poured out, and she knew immediately what she’d find.

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.