Ghost Walking (A Maggie York Paranormal Mystery Book 1) (6 page)

Brandt watched, a puzzled look on his face. “Find anything?” He turned on a flashlight he’d brought from the car and shined the light along the foot of the wall.

She checked the length of the wall on the side where Hurst had been sitting, then jumped down, crossed to the other side, and checked it too. Finding nothing, she returned to help Brandt search the ground.

It had been six months. Any evidence that once existed would be long gone. And what were the chances a pro would leave anything behind?

“It was worth a try,” Brandt said, finally turning the flashlight off. “I’ll take another look at the bullets collected from the scene, but there wasn’t anything that was obviously a sniper round.”

Maggie sighed. Even if they had the bullet, it would be difficult to prove it. This wasn’t the first shooting in the neighborhood, and the CS techs had found all kinds of evidence, most of it old, and all of it hopelessly scattered during the fight and by rescuers’ feet.

“The idea of a sniper puts a different spin on the case,” Brandt said. “Was Castile even present?”

“No. In fact, the fight was just between two street gangs, local punks.”

“So the tip was a setup. Premeditated. You were lured here.”

Someone had planned her death? It was a sobering thought.

CHAPTER FIVE

The following morning Brandt was back at the courtyard shortly after seven with a disposable coffee cup in hand. York’s focus on the wall had made him more than curious, and he wanted a better look for himself. What had she been thinking? She’d started to say, “I saw…” what? A rifle flash? Not likely with her back turned.

He checked the gutters along the street first and the cracks in the sidewalk. Any place that might hide a bullet casing. There was no guarantee any had been left behind, but finding one would confirm her theory. He scuffed his toe along the bottom of the wall both inside and outside the courtyard and dug around with a stick in a nearby flowerbed. Not a glint of metal.

He threw the now-empty coffee container in a nearby waste can and returned to lever himself onto the wall. He sat with his legs on the courtyard side and scrutinized the area. A shooter would have had a clear shot of anyone in the courtyard. Why had he chosen York? Had he been waiting for her?

Witnesses reported only one shot. If it was a bolt-action sniper rifle, it’s unlikely a casing was left behind. A semi-auto, maybe. On the off chance something was ejected, where might it have gone that he hadn’t already looked?

“What ya doing up there, mister?”

Brandt looked down to see of boy of about seven, reddish brown hair and freckles, blue backpack. “Looking for something I lost.”

“Up there?” The kid frowned.

“No, but I thought I could see better from up here.”

“Can I come up and help?”

Brandt smiled. “I’m done looking, and I’m coming down.” He hopped off the wall. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Not yet.” The boy tilted his head. “What did ya lose?”

Couldn’t hurt to tell him. Maybe he’d seen something. Boys picked up all kinds of junk. Brandt used to have a collection of stones and odd things he kept in a shoebox until his younger brother stole it.

“A bullet casing. Do you know what that is?” When the boy shook his head, Brandt explained, showing him the under two-inch length with his fingers. “It’s a small metal cylinder about this long and kind of a gold color. Have you seen anything like that?”

“Nope, but my mom doesn’t let me hang out here much.”

“Well, then…if you’re not supposed to be here, maybe you should go on to school.”

“Yeah, OK.” He adjusted his backpack. “I can ask my friends. They sometimes play here.”

“That would be great. If you find it, give me a call.” Brandt took a card from his shirt pocket and stuck it in the boy’s backpack. “By the way, I’m Detective Brandt.” He stuck out his hand.

“I’m Joey.” He shook hands solemnly. “I hope you find your bullet thing.”

“Me too.” Brandt smiled as Joey half-skipped down the street. That’s why they did this job, to keep the streets safe for kids like him.

After a last look around the courtyard, Brandt returned to his car, sliding onto a seat already warmed by the morning sun. Low nineties today. Humid, of course. That was New Orleans for you. Even fall was AC weather. He flipped on the cooling system and blew out a frustrated breath. Back to the paperwork. He hadn’t learned anything this morning to support York’s sniper theory…or disprove it.

* * *

Maggie bolted upright in bed, sweating, head pounding. Then she realized it had been a dream. Disgust washed over her. Why did she keep letting things get to her like this? She rubbed a hand over her forehead. She’d relived the shooting again, only this time a few details had changed—the shooter was a ghost crouched on the courtyard wall. After the first shot, he’d dropped the rifle and floated across the courtyard, growing larger and larger as he came straight at her. Then she’d woken.

It had to stop. She got out of bed, padded to the bathroom, and splashed water on her face. All of it had to stop. The nightmares. The ghosts. And for sure, Hurst had to stop these unexpected appearances.

She glanced at the clock. Seven. Not outrageously early. Picking up her phone, she punched in Dalia’s number. “I’d like to talk with you.”

“Of course, Maggie.” Not a hint of surprise. “Coffee’s already on. Come whenever you can.”

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

After a shower and coffee to-go from the cafe on the corner, Maggie set out on foot for Dalia’s home. Her steps slowed the closer she got, and she stopped on the front porch. She could still leave. With some distance from the bad dream, she regretted her impulsive call. Getting further involved with this confessed witch was like…embracing all this spirit world stuff. It was the last thing she wanted. But nothing else had worked, and she wanted her life back. It couldn’t really hurt, could it?

Brandt’s comment had stuck with her. He’d accused her of giving up, and he was right about one thing—it wasn’t like Maggie York. Whatever her new reality was, she had to find a way to deal with it. She squared her shoulders and knocked.

Dalia answered, took a quick look at her face, and lightly touched her arm. “Come in, dear. It’ll get better. I promise.”

“Let’s get on with it. I want to know everything.”

“That’s a tall order for one day, but we’ll do what we can.”

After Maggie told her about the latest encounters with Hurst’s ghost—she still cringed at the word—Dalia showed her a few simple techniques she should be using every day. In addition to explaining the properties of ordinary herbs and plants, the older woman gave her a bag of protection stones, and they spent the rest of morning on meditation techniques.

“It’s really about controlling your mind and body more than the outside forces.”

“But will this keep Hurst away?”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Dalia said patiently. “He’s coming to you whenever he chooses because you’re letting him.”

“Is he really a ghost?” Maggie interrupted. “Or is my mind doing all of this?”

“Oh, he’s real. He’s not going to leave you alone until you satisfy him. And yes, before you ask, I believe he wants you to catch his killer.”

Maggie let out a deep sigh. “Why doesn’t he just tell me?”

“He can’t. There are rules. The veil is thin in New Orleans, allowing spirits to wander through, but they can only speak through certain people and most don’t have the power to touch or move objects. There are rare exceptions, but I don’t think Hurst is one of them. But all spirits can go anywhere they please, including through doors and walls, unless you block them out.”

Maggie frowned. Ghosts had rules? Hardly seemed fair. Once you were dead, shouldn’t you be able to do what you pleased? Except for Hurst…who needed to leave her alone. She sighed. “So, how do I block him?”

“The protection stones, herbal sachets, salt across your thresholds. All the things we’ve been talking about.”

Maggie cocked her head and pictured her best friend Annie Lynn or Coridan coming to her apartment and seeing salt on the floor. How would she explain that? Bad housekeeping? Over-enthusiastic seasoning? “What kind of herbal sachets?”

“Let’s have lunch, and then we’ll make a few. I hope you like shrimp gumbo.”

By mid-afternoon, Maggie’d had all the witchcraft she could take. Her head swam with a jumble of new information, including the detailed history of her more
unique
ancestors. This included her great-aunt Ophelia, the busybody clairvoyant who’d frightened her mother into leaving New Orleans, and the scariest member, Maria, a 1700s shirttail cousin even more distant than Dalia, who’d run her own dark coven. Maggie stood abruptly, shaking her head over Maria’s reported demise by levitating into the hereafter during a ritual. More likely someone had murdered her, given the witch’s history of nasty curses and betrayals.

Emotionally exhausted, Maggie left her cousin’s after promising to return the day after tomorrow. She was taking this one day at a time and still struggling to calm the raging skeptic inside. However, she carried a bag of herbal sachets, her protection stones, a couple of candles to focus her meditations, and a crystal for her nightstand.

Halfway home, her phone buzzed. Coridan. “Hey, partner, what’s going on? Anything new?” she asked.

“Not on this end. Are you up for coffee?”

“Sure. Where do you want to meet?”

He mentioned a local cafe, well within walking distance.

When she arrived fifteen minutes later, he was already seated at a table. He waved, and a smile lit his rugged face. Her lips curved in response. Meeting him was just what she needed. A return to normalcy after a very weird day.

“Looks like you’ve been shopping,” he said when she plopped Dalia’s bag on a spare chair.

“Just a few things from a friend.” What on earth would he think if he looked inside? Coridan was so grounded in the traditional. She almost chuckled imagining his reaction.

They spent several minutes on squad room gossip, but finally, he said casually, “I hear you remembered something about the shooting.”

She shot a look at his closed face. “A little. Brandt insisted I return to the scene. I think the shot came from the other end of the courtyard.”

Coridan stirred more sugar into his coffee. “That’s what I heard. Did you find any evidence?”

“After six months? No. It’s just a theory.”

“You should have called me.”

“About what? It’s not like I saw anything or know who did it.” Was he upset that she hadn’t discussed the new development with him first?

“It’s a start. Maybe you’ll think of something else.”

“Like what? My back was to the shooter. There’s nothing to remember. I couldn’t possibly see him.”

He raised his gaze. “What about before you turned to cuff the guy?”

She thought back to the scene. The fight. The fists and swinging steel bars. Ducking to avoid a direct hit and jerking one of the thugs to the side. She shook her head. “No, I was too focused on the fight and then the suspect.”

“Well, it was worth a shot to ask.” He grimaced. “Sorry, partner, poor choice of words. Other than Brandt’s pestering, are you OK? You seemed tense on the phone.”

“It’s a process, but I’m getting better at handling it.” She cocked her head. “You sound like you don’t like Brandt.”

Coridan made an offhanded wave of one hand. “He’s too cocky. And he’s hiding part of his past. There’s something not right about a seasoned homicide cop suddenly transferring from Boston to New Orleans.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like cold weather.”

But it
was
strange. Coridan’s doubts stayed with her after she left the cafe. What if Brandt wasn’t the solid guy he’d seemed? She frowned, caught off guard by a stab of disappointment. Why should she care? Except, his interest in her case was the only hope she’d had in months it would be solved. But if he was some kind of fraud…or worse yet, a corrupt cop…where did that leave her?

Hell of a day. First she’d listened to all that spirit world stuff, now questions about Brandt. She did what every woman did when the chips were down: she called her best friend Annie Lynn and arranged for a girls’ night out. Then she went home and took a long, bubble bath.

Brandt called just after six o’clock when she was putting on her makeup. She ignored the call. Whatever he wanted, it could wait until she had time to think things through. It was hard to separate the truth anymore, and she trusted Coridan’s instincts. If he was suspicious…

Brandt had shown up in New Orleans from the East Coast right after she was shot. Was it a coincidence? If not, what did that mean? Or had he been in the city longer than anyone knew? One of Paul Castile’s hired hit men? She snorted. Now she was getting fanciful.

Nevertheless, she got out her inside-the-waistband holster and secured her SIG. In case her shooting had been more than a random act and until she could figure out who to trust, she wasn’t taking any chances. She’d trust no one. Except Annie.

The movie was great, the popcorn dripping with butter. By the time the show was over and they stopped for a late dinner and drinks, Maggie felt almost normal. Well, as normal as possible these days.

They chatted about nothing while they ate, then Annie asked, “Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Something has happened. I can see it on your face.”

“I’m just confused. I’m a homicide cop, for God’s sake. I should be able to sort out my life, but I can’t seem to do it.” The events of the past few days came pouring out—the sighting of Hurst’s ghost in the bar, the murder scene, Brandt, Dalia, and finally the suspicions Coridan had raised. “I thought if I could solve my shooting, my life would go back the way it was. But that isn’t going to happen.” Maggie stopped and gave her silent friend a rueful look. “It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it? I should have told you I was still seeing things, but I was afraid it’d prove I was crazy.”