Ghost Walking (A Maggie York Paranormal Mystery Book 1) (22 page)

Brandt edged toward the circle of officers, which included Ray Coridan, protecting someone lying on the street. It spoke volumes that they weren’t tending his wounds. Fatality. When someone moved, Brandt glimpsed the body. Long, lanky form with very blond hair. His mouth grew dry, a pit formed in the bottom of his stomach. Aw, hell. It was Wernier.

An instant later, pure fear spiked through him. Was Harry still safe? Brandt snatched his phone and jammed in the number. One ring. Two. Three.

“Hey, bro. What’s up?”

Brandt sucked in a sharp breath as relief washed over him. “Where are you?”

“At home in my apartment. You sound different. Has something happened?”

“Detective Wernier was killed just minutes ago. Sniper. Don’t go anywhere. Stay away from your windows, lock your doors, and don’t answer until you hear from me.”

“Was this because of me?” Harry’s voice was quiet.

“I don’t know for sure. He wasn’t near your apartment. It may be unrelated. But until I have some answers, you need to lay low. Promise me.”

“Yeah, Josh. I’ll be here. God, I’m sorry. He seemed like a nice guy.”

Brandt’s next call went to Maggie. She didn’t need more bad news, but he’d rather she heard it from him than over the TV. He waited impatiently for her to answer.

“Maggie, it’s me.”

“You’re a brave man, Josh. I wasn’t sure I’d hear from you again.”

“I’m not that easy to get rid of. Are you watching TV?”

“No, why?” Her voice sharpened. “What’s going on?” He heard her switch it on in the background.

“Sniper shooting. It’s Weiner. He didn’t make it.”

“Oh my God. He has a wife and two small children. Did they get the sniper?”

“Not yet. They’re searching a building now, but I’m betting he’s gone.”

“What about Harry? Was he there?”

“He’s fine. He was home, not even close to the shooting scene.”

“That’s a relief. I can’t believe Shanks is gone. He’s…” Her voice caught and then firmed, her tone turning sharp. “So what happened? Who’d dare to shoot a cop?”

“I don’t know. The scene’s not secure yet. I haven’t heard how it went down. Coridan might know more. He was on the scene before I was. Are you OK? I know you worked with Wernier on a couple of Castile’s cases.”

“Like everyone else, I’m pissed off, Brandt. He was a good cop. Always had a joke, but he was smart, careful. I can’t imagine how— Wait, do you remember what he said last night?”

“About having good news soon? Yeah, I thought of that too. I intend to bring it to his commander’s attention. But I’m not sure how helpful it will be. He clearly had a lead on something, but we don’t know what. He looked at you when he said it. So maybe Castile?”

Maggie swore softly. “You’re right. He said it directly to me.” Her voice steadied as the conversation refocused on the investigative issues. “It’s not proof of anything, but Castile wouldn’t bat an eye at targeting a cop.”

“It’s a lead to follow if we don’t nail this guy. I should go.”

“Josh, will you keep me in the loop?”

His lips parted in a curve. She could call Coridan or anyone else on the squad to get an update. By asking him, she’d indicated she wasn’t backing away from the intimacy created during last night’s confession. “You bet. As soon as I know anything.”

He hung up, and the smile faded as he turned back to the grim scene.

An hour later it became clear the sniper had escaped, and Brandt met with Captain Jenson back at the station. He’d changed his mind about going to Wernier’s supervisor and revealing anything associated with Harry. He didn’t trust anyone with his brother’s life, but Jenson already knew everything about Boston, the Witness Protection Program, and why Harry was in New Orleans. The full story had been a condition of Brandt’s hiring.

As Brandt laid out the details of his discussions with the dead cop and the connection to Harry, Jenson’s face went from grave to forbidding. “It isn’t clear what Wernier meant, and I understand your hesitation to expose Harry, but we can’t suppress a possible motive.”

“I’m not asking that, captain. Just keep Harry’s identity under wraps. He only met Wernier last night. He doesn’t know anything about him, and questioning Harry would only put him at greater risk.”

Jenson leaned back, his hands braced on the chair arms, and frowned. “It sounds like you don’t trust your fellow cops. Is this about the lab leak? You think it’s a dirty cop?”

Brandt shrugged. “I know Castile has a pipeline into this building. That’s reason enough to keep Harry far away from here.”

“You trusted Wernier.”

“A calculated risk that may have gotten him killed.”

Jenson rubbed the back of his neck as he seemed to think it through, and then he leaned forward again. “I might as well admit I have another problem with this situation. Wernier didn’t trust anyone either, and I let him get away with it. In hindsight, that may have been a mistake. At least for me. His commander doesn’t know about the lab investigation. He’ll be pissed—and with some justification—that his officer was involved in two secret cases.” Jenson shook his head slowly, possibly envisioning the unpleasant scene. “So let me meet with him first. I’ll tell him about the lab, and the undercover work protecting an unnamed witness linked to Paul Castile. And I’ll relate what he said to you last night. We’ll leave out that anyone else was present. If he wants to talk with you, I’ll make it clear he can’t ask about the undercover work.”

“I owe you, captain.”

Jenson gave him an unreadable look. “I hope your brother is worth it. You’ve used up a lot of good will on his behalf.”

“Yes, sir. I’m trying to keep him alive, so he has a chance to prove me right.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Maggie stood at the window of her apartment watching nothing, hugging her arms, shocked and saddened by Shanks Wernier’s death. She’d miss his boyish smile and those long legs making District 13’s endless corridors seem short. He’d been a cop’s cop. There wasn’t a better tribute.

Following the bleak news, she’d prowled her apartment for nearly an hour, pacing back and forth, desperate to think of something she could do for Wernier…or his grieving family. What would those kids do without him?

Someone needed to make Castile pay this time, bring him to his knees. She knew with uncanny certainty he’d ordered Shanks’s death. It didn’t matter which case prompted it. Castile was responsible. And dammit, she was hampered in what she could do without her badge.

Or was she? In some ways wasn’t she free of the department’s rules? Maggie dropped her arms, and a grim smile tightened her lips. If they couldn’t catch him after-the-fact, how about in the act? What if she could make him come after her? She was certainly better equipped to protect herself than Harry was, and he was hanging out there with a sign on his back.

Besides, if the worst happened, she’d come back and haunt Castile to death.

She called Coridan and asked him to send her their background file on Castile. After asking her why she wanted it and getting only vague answers about needing something to do, he refused.

“I can’t do that, Maggie. You’re not entitled to case files as long as you’re on medical leave.”

“This isn’t a case file. All I want is the background file from my desk. They must have boxed and stored it somewhere. Come on, Coridan,” she coaxed. “I put most of it together.”

He finally relented. “OK. When I have time. We’re all pretty busy looking for the sniper.”

“They need to get Castile for this one,” she said, gritting her teeth.

“Castile? Do you know something I don’t? They haven’t identified a suspect.”

“As if we don’t know who ordered it. Who’s behind major crime in this district? A cop killing is right down his line.”

“I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “No one admits seeing anything. And some time passed before it was reported. It could be anybody. They haven’t excluded a lone wolf sniper.”

“I hear you.” Her partner had always been the more cautious one, waiting for all the evidence before espousing a theory. She was the one examining multiple threads. In this case, all the threads led to Castile. But arguing with Coridan was a waste of time. She switched the conversation back to Wernier, plans for taking care of his family…and for his funeral.

“Count me in on donations,” she said.

“Will do. I’ll call as soon as arrangements are set.”

Maggie waited two hours, watching her combo fax/scanner/printer for Coridan to send the info she needed. But he’d either forgotten or was too busy. She finally called Emma at the lab and made the same request.

“Coridan was supposed to fax them an hour ago, but I guess he forgot. Could you do it for me?”

“Well, I don’t know…”

“It’s just background stuff. Nothing official. I wanted to look something up for Brandt.”

The detective’s name worked like magic, and Maggie waited by her machine until the pages came through: Castile’s photo—average-looking Caucasian, dark brown hair, brown eyes, medium height—his biographical history, a long list of suspected crimes, convictions (lamentably few), known associates, connecting cases. She pulled out the last sheet and added the most recent incidents: her own shooting, Hurst and JoJo, the Tahoe in the swamp (with a question mark), the apartment intrusion (another question mark), Pardson’s death, and Wernier’s. The only common denominator that jumped out was Maggie.

She picked up the rest of the pages, settled at the kitchen table, and studied them in a way she hadn’t done before, developing a profile. She was looking for insight to what made Castile tick, something to give her an edge. Maggie had decided it was time for her and the crime boss to meet.

At the first sign of dusk, Maggie set her plan in action by looking for Hurst. Since his presence was supposed to be strongest where he’d died, she headed for his girlfriend’s former residence. She hadn’t changed her doubts about the spirit world, but if she had to have a resident ghost, even a temporary one, he might as well make himself useful.

Bullet Castile was a careful man, moving his headquarters constantly, making it hard for his enemies to find him. It was also the main reason police rarely questioned him. They simply couldn’t find him at the proper times. She hoped Hurst would use whatever mysterious senses he had to show her the way. In fact, she was counting on it.

She stopped in front of JoJo’s home and focused on Hurst’s human image—including his sports logo sweatshirt—and repeated his name three times. Dalia claimed that was how it worked. But Maggie was still startled and creeped out when Hurst popped up no more than five feet away. She glanced around to verify no one would observe her one-sided conversation.

“Um, don’t come any closer,” she said, peering at the shadowy figure. “I’ve come to ask for your help. I know Pardson didn’t kill you, but I think it was someone Castile sent. If I can talk with Castile, I might learn who it was. Can you take me to him?”

Hurst’s wavery image continued to hover, the shadows under the hood darker, less distinct tonight, yet Maggie felt his unblinking regard.

She snorted. “Don’t give me that look.”

The figure fluttered and backed away at her impatient tone. Geez, were all spirits this skittish? But Dalia had said most ghosts were like children, and she softened her tone.

“Wait, don’t leave yet. I know you understand me. Take me to Castile, so we both can get on with our lives.”
Or whatever you call your existence.
She kept her mental fingers crossed, but when he still didn’t react, Maggie’s shoulders slumped.

Maybe locating someone took time. Or he needed to consult with someone, obtain permission. And maybe she was asking the impossible. Maggie scowled, annoyed with him…and with herself for being there. Even with Dalia help, she was no expert on the ground rules for ghostly behavior.

Discouraged, she turned to leave. She should have known it wouldn’t be this easy. Maggie stopped in mid-stride and turned back. “By the way, it isn’t helpful to just sit outside the PD’s door if you’re trying to tell me a cop’s in danger. Or anything else, for that matter. Whatever you intended, I didn’t get the message.”

The ghostly figure flared, seeming to expand its boundaries, then shrank back to its original size, fading in and out in that creepy way.

Holy Hell
. She backed away, not trusting that thing at her back, and left. That didn’t seem child-like to her, unless it had just had a tantrum. On the way home, Maggie stopped at the gun range and took out her frustrations with an hour of precision shooting.

* * *

Maggie opened her apartment door the next morning and stopped with her hand in midair as she reached for the daily paper. Hurst’s figure, looking more incorporeal than the night before…but acting less scary, hovered in the hallway. She glanced up and down the corridor, then eyed him crossly. “You might have given me some clue you understood. This flaring up but silent act doesn’t work for me.”

No response. Well, what had she expected? “I hope this means you’ve found Castile. I’ll follow you, but you’ll have to wait a few minutes. I’m not confronting him in my pj’s.”

Her lips parted in surprise when Hurst seemed to accept that and folded his ghostly image to settle against the far wall. Maggie stepped back inside. Uneasy that she might have misread his sudden reappearance and ignored another warning, she triple-locked the door and kept her SIG with her while she showered and dressed in a NOPD T-shirt and black jeans.

When she opened the door again, Hurst was right where she’d left him. She smoothed the collar of the white big shirt she’d thrown on to cover the SIG tucked at the small of her back. Her secondary gun rested in an ankle holster inside her left boot. They were mostly habit, maybe a confidence boost. She only intended to talk, pull Castile’s chain a little, make him wonder what she was up to. If he chose to come after her later…well, she’d be waiting. In the middle of Castile’s headquarters surrounded by his large organization of thugs, she wasn’t going to prevail in a gun battle. But…on the remote chance it came to a shootout, he’d be her first target.