Ghost Walking (A Maggie York Paranormal Mystery Book 1) (21 page)

She nodded, her eyes larger and darker than usual. “I get it.”

He nudged Maggie. “Are you ready to go?”

She sensed his suppressed anger, a noticeable heat even on a hot August night. “Sure. Nice seeing you, Wernier.” She slid out of the booth. “Keep this guy safe.”

“We’ll try. If a hunch pays off, I might have good news for you soon.”

She stopped and looked back at him. “Want to share?”

“Not yet.” Wernier gave her a cheeky grin. “You might try to steal my thunder.”

Neither Brandt nor Maggie said anything on the way to his car. Once inside, he sat for a moment. “For a long time I wanted Harry to take charge of his life, be responsible for his actions, but his newfound need to set things right is liable to get him killed.”

“It’s a tough situation, and I don’t like Annie in the middle of it either.” Maggie didn’t know what else to say. Brandt didn’t want sympathy. Maybe he was just thinking aloud.

How’d Harry get into all this trouble? He seemed like a genuinely nice guy. Not the type to run drugs or hang out on the streets. If he’d gotten hooked on drugs, Annie was in for a lot of heartache. It was a tough addiction to break. And he might not have a chance if a hired gun was after him. She’d gotten the gist of Wernier’s protection plan—one officer, surveillance only. Not exactly foolproof, but better than nothing.

Brandt cut across town, turned onto the block that housed the NOPD District 13 and its in-house forensics lab. She glanced at the building where she’d spent so many satisfying hours over the past ten years, from a nineteen-year-old rookie to homicide detective. Would she ever get back there?

She craned her neck as they drove past and suddenly grabbed Brandt’s arm. “Stop the car. Now.”

He pulled over, and she was out the door before he’d brought the car to a full stop. Maggie raced toward the front of the police station, her heart pounding as fast as her feet.

Hurst’s ghost sat on the potted plant container near the door—directly under the District 13 words carved on the stone facing—and floated off when she raced through the black iron entrance gate.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

He didn’t reply, just hovered there.

She pointed a finger at him. “Hey, give me a clue. Is something bad going to happen here? A shooting? A bomb?”

The edges of his image fluttered, losing substance, then regrouping. His head moved ever so slowly from left to right and back again, the first direct response she’d ever gotten to a question. She sucked in a breath. If not here, where?

She heard Brandt’s footsteps behind her, and Hurst faded. No, damn it. Not now. She clenched her fists to keep from venting her frustration on Brandt.

“Maggie, what’s going on?”

She took a deep breath before turning, but she couldn’t meet his gaze. “It’s nothing. I thought I saw some vandals, but it must have been shadows.” She stepped around him and started back to the car. “I’d like to go home.”

* * *

Confused, Brandt frowned at her back, noting the tight shoulders. It wasn’t “nothing.” She was pale…and angry. He could swear she’d been talking to someone, shaking her finger at him…them…similar to that night in the courtyard. Was this evidence of the ghost hallucinations Coridan had mentioned? Was she losing it?

She’d been through a lot recently and been shaken by events, but not once had he considered her unstable. He didn’t know much about PTSD. Could it come on in a flash? Maybe triggered by the tight spot Harry was in or the risk to Annie? He’d find out, ask some quiet questions. He’d like to help her.

Brandt followed her and got into the car. She sat with her head turned away, staring out the window.

“Do you want to talk about this?”

“No.”

He started the car and drove her home. When they arrived at her apartment building, Maggie quickly got out, but he followed her toward the building.

“I got it from here, Brandt. Thanks for the ride, the evening. You don’t need to walk me up.”

“But I want to.”

She let the entrance door swing past her, but he caught it and beat her to the stairway, holding it open while she swept past, still not looking at him. What was she thinking behind that set, expressionless face?

At her apartment door, she once again tried to ditch him, but Brandt ignored her hints and even her curt goodnight. Instead, he followed her inside and leaned against the closed door.

She finally turned and glared at him. “You’re pushing too hard. I’m tired, and I’m going to bed.”

“Fine. We can talk in the bedroom.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Have you forgotten I carry a gun? I also sleep with one.”

“I’m counting on your better sense to prevail before you actually shoot me.”

She gave a mocking bark of laughter. “That’s risky. I’m not sure I have any.” Her slender shoulders slumped, and she put a few more steps between them. Her voice sounded weary now. “Go home, Josh.

“I’m not leaving till you tell me the truth.”

“About what?” Anger sparked again. “Still looking for a murder confession? I’m not a killer. Not Hurst or his girlfriend. Not Pardson. Not anyone.”

Brandt shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out to her. He hated to do this, but it didn’t seem there was any other way. He kept his voice level. “I want you to tell me about the ghosts.”

Silence. Harsh, raw. He waited.

“Damn Coridan.” She said it so softly he barely heard the words. Her back stiffened; she curled her fingers into fists at her side and spun around. Suppressed fury flowed from her in waves. “Want to hear just how crazy I am? Is that it? It’s no business of yours. Get out of here. Get out of my life.”

He shook his head, letting her anger wash over him, and started toward her.

“Oh, no. Don’t you dare feel sorry for me,” she snapped.

“Maggie…” He reached out a hand, and she batted it away.

“I may be crazy or a friggin’ freak, but I don’t need your sympathy. What do you want from me? Do you really want to hear about the ghostly spirits flitting in and out of my life? Or the weird
gift
I inherited? Oh, yeah, they—my relatives who are even crazier than I am—call it that, not the horrible curse it is.”

She was trembling, and Brandt closed the distance between them, wrapping her in his arms. He held her tightly, ignoring her angry words and the repeated attempts to hit him, until she laid her head against his chest. She didn’t make a sound, but her shoulders moved as if she were crying. He murmured to her softly, not thinking about or caring what he said.

When she finally lifted her head and wiggled to be free, he opened his arms and let her go. “Will you tell me everything?” he asked.

She nodded and scrubbed her face, removing the remnants of her tears. “Why not?”

He suffered a flash of guilt at her defeated tone and wondered if he’d made a mistake. “Why don’t you sit down. I’m sure I can find everything to fix coffee.”

She rallied enough to flash a weak smile. “I’ll do it. I’m crazy, not helpless.”

He sighed but let the sarcasm pass. “We’ll do it together.”

They let conversation hang while they measured the coffee, filled the machine, and waited for it to brew. With steaming mugs finally in hand, they moved into the living room. She sat on one end of the couch; he chose a chair across from her, giving her space to tell her story. She delivered it in a matter-of-fact tone, from the first voices in the recovery room to Hurst, Dalia, and Selena. She related each of Hurst’s appearances, including what seemed to be his unheeded warning the night of the intrusion.

Brandt listened in silence and watched her marshal her thoughts to deliver them in a detailed, cohesive report he could understand. Actually, he didn’t understand anything. Her story was fantastic, unbelievable. But she wasn’t lying…nor had she suffered a psychotic break. Overwhelmed, maybe, but not the least bit crazy. She believed what she was saying.

He sighed, struggling between trusting her and swallowing this story. It would make sense out of certain things. The PTSD diagnosis, her secrecy, the mysterious confidential informant, finding Hurst’s apartment and Pardson’s car.

“Sometimes I don’t know who I am anymore.” Her voice brought his attention back to her. Maggie’s eyes were big and dark and questioning. “Ready to run?”

“Not yet.” He produced a half-smile. Responding to a rush of protectiveness, he moved to the couch and pulled her against his shoulder. “I can’t explain what’s happened to you, Maggie, but we’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah, maybe. I don’t expect you to just accept this. It’s taken me six, seven months now, and I’m still not there. If I hadn’t seen…experienced it for myself…”

He hushed her and rested his chin in her hair. Her stiff shoulders gradually relaxed, and he continued to silently hold her until he realized she’d fallen asleep. When he carried her to bed, he lay down beside her, intending to stay until he was sure she would stay asleep. Instead, he dozed off. At six, he brushed his lips against her temple and left. He had a lot of thinking to do.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Brandt blinked in the morning sunlight as he exited Maggie’s building. What a weird night. He’d never thought much about ghosts. If he had, he’d have laughed. Probably said they didn’t exist. But there were plenty of unanswered mysteries in the world, things that had to be taken on faith. And, dammit, he believed in Maggie.

She’d gotten under his skin. Something about her touched him, beyond the obvious sexual chemistry. He’d watched her face while she’d related her story, seen the pain, the denial, the resignation, and he believed she’d experienced a series of inexplicable events. He couldn’t think of any rational answers, and until he did, he’d keep an open mind. That she still struggled against the paranormal possibilities only made her story more compelling.

After a shower at home and a change of clothes, he considered going in to the precinct. It was Sunday, but it would be quiet enough to get some paperwork down. He called his mother’s room first, discovered she’d had a bad night, and changed his plans. It turned out to be the normal progress of the disease, but he spent the rest of Sunday playing cards with Harry and their mom or watching her sleep. He talked with Maggie only once. She sounded wary at first but relaxed by the end of the conversation. He hadn’t had anything in particular to say, but he was glad he’d called.

On Monday, he made it to the station by seven thirty. Retrieving the Hurst case from Ross’s desk, he searched for clues to a different killer…but his thoughts kept wandering to the incident outside District 13 last night. Had Hurst’s ghost really been there or had her subconscious conjured his presence? Either way, it must mean something.

The answer that popped into mind was the mole in the lab. Would a ghost care about that? Brandt snorted. How would he know? But Maggie would care, if it was her subconscious at work. On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t a person but evidence they’d overlooked, something buried in a box in the lab. Wasn’t evidence what Hurst had pointed her to in the past? Brandt shook his head, still amazed he was following up a lead from some spooky presence. This was going to take getting used to.

Even after combing the Hurst file again and examining the case-related evidence box, he found nothing he could put a different spin on. At the morning meeting, he explained his renewed interest in the case by repeating the discrepancies that had been there all along.

“We have zero direct evidence that points to Pardson. No witnesses that place him in the area, no ballistics matches, no fingerprints, no fiber evidence. Besides, he was a sniper. They don’t like up close and personal, not the way Hurst and his girlfriend were executed.”

“Doesn’t that logic mean we have a third killer?” Ross asked. “‘Cause a man who uses a gun wouldn’t stab his target. Not unless something went wrong during the hit, and there wasn’t any sign of a struggle or slip-up in Pardson’s murder.”

“You both could be right—unless one of these killers deliberately changed his MO to throw us off,” Barclay cautioned.

Bishop nodded. “Yeah, good thought.”

“Which just proves we’re a long way from closing this case.” Brandt stood. “It’s time we were getting back to work, but for now, the Hurst case stays open.”

Brandt dropped into his desk chair, relieved that had gone smoothly. Now came the hard part—proving there was a second, or even third, killer and identifying potential suspects. He sighed, picked up the crime scene photos from the Pardson murder, and took a magnifying glass from his drawer. It was as good a place as any to start.

“Officer down! Active shooter on the scene.”

Brandt whipped his head toward the officer shouting from the squad room doorway. When the officer gave an address only six blocks away, he sprang to his feet, grabbed his service pistol, and ran toward the door. In fact, every detective in the room responded. An officer involved shooting, especially one close by, always sparked an automatic response.

Brandt’s vehicle was parked in front, and Bishop, Ross, and Barclay piled in with him, the last man barely getting the door closed before they sped down the street, whipping around traffic. Brandt slammed on his brakes a half block from the shooting scene, flipped off the engine, and leaped into the street. He ran toward a cluster of officers while other police vehicles pulled up nearby. Newly arrived cops spread out and moved swiftly toward the scene with guns drawn. Their priority was to backup the officers involved and then provide containment, keeping the bad guys in and bystanders out.

Brandt noted the lack of current gunfire. He spotted the vice unit supervisor directing operations—which indicated the officer involved might be under his command. Police converged on a seven-story building on the right. Someone said the word sniper, and Brandt’s gut clenched, knowing the implications. An experienced sniper didn’t often miss with that first shot or two, and the distance from his victim might have let the killer slip away before anyone started looking.