Ghost Walking (A Maggie York Paranormal Mystery Book 1) (8 page)

Afterward Maggie analyzed every word the captain had said, but she couldn’t decipher a hidden meaning, nothing left to interpretation except the implied admission in those two words: whatever happened. But the captain claimed he was reliable. Did that mean he’d been to drug treatment? Nine months was too short a time to assume a druggie would stay clean. Oh, hell, what was she doing, dissecting conversations like some teenager. She had way too much time on her hands.

Maggie headed for the gym and spent an hour swimming laps in the pool. When she finished, she took an allergy pill. It was time for her weekly volunteer visit to the animal shelter. She loved dogs and cats, enjoyed being around them and watching their antics. Unfortunately she was allergic to their dander. Since she couldn’t take one into her home, she spent time helping to groom new arrivals once a week. Afterward, she’d need to shower and disinfect her clothes in the washer. But she never missed a visit. It was her feel-good moment of the week.

It was nearly dark when Maggie left the shelter and drove home. She hummed to herself, smiling as she remembered the antics of the shelter’s new litter of kittens. She’d just parked her car on the street when her arms prickled, a wave of unease sweeping over her. Her head whipped up, and she spotted Hurst standing in front of her apartment building.

Her good mood vanished instantly. He hadn’t been around in days. She’d hoped…well, it didn’t make a difference now. Dalia had warned her he’d be back.

She pushed an instinctual sense of dread away and walked steadily toward the building entrance. He slid directly in her path. She stopped and looked around, checking for observers. “What do you want?”

He appeared to bounce around, his movements less human than before, his image fading into gray around the edges.

“That’s it?” she said impatiently. “How am I supposed to interpret that?” She tried to walk around him, but he glided in front of her. Maggie frowned, gritted her teeth, and walked straight through him, shuddering at the sudden cold. She rubbed her arms, but before she could open the door, he was in front of her again, barring the entrance.

“This is getting old. You seem to be nothing more than a ghostly stalker. Go away,” she snapped, her frustration morphing into a spurt of anger. He didn’t move, still blocking her path, and she wasn’t walking through that eerie cold again. OK, Dalia, let’s see if you know your stuff. Maggie drew in a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut, and focused on commanding him to leave—repeating the order three times, as Dalia had told her.

She cautiously lifted her lashes and peered around. Disbelief, then a sense of relief, even elation flooded over her. He was gone. Maggie grinned. Who knew it could be that easy?

Still marveling over her success, Maggie entered her apartment, threw her clothes in the washer, and quickly showered. She’d changed into sweats and wandered into the kitchen to check out the contents of the fridge when she heard a noise. Unidentified but distinct enough to draw her attention. She tensed and automatically reached for her gun. It was still in the laundry room where she’d left it.

Hurst? But he’d never made noise before or entered her apartment. Mice? Rats?

Maggie flattened against the wall and listened, her heartbeat racing. Seconds ticked off slowly. When the sound wasn’t repeated, she pushed away from the wall and stepped toward the living area for a better look around. There was nothing. She must be jumpy from the encounter with Hurst.

Her appetite had fled, but she returned to the kitchen for a soda. A little carbonation to settle her overactive nerves. She opened the refrigerator and crouched to grab a cola from the bottom shelf.

A pistol shot rang out; a thud hit the fridge door. Maggie dropped to the hardwood floor and rolled behind the counter. Damn, damn, damn. Why hadn’t she gotten her gun? The kitchen drawer had a few knives. Not a good defense against a gun, but if he got close enough… She moved into a crouch and reached a hand toward the drawer.

The front door slammed. Then silence. Maggie peeked over the counter. When no one shot at her, she sprang to her feet, grabbed her phone from the counter, and dialed 911. Retrieving her SIG Sauer from the laundry, she ran to the front door. The hallway was empty, except for a man looking cautiously out his door. She waved him back inside and took the stairs to the first floor, checking the street in front and then the side alley. She shook her head in disgust. The intruder was long gone.

Two minutes later four street cops arrived, and she explained what happened. Two of them immediately checked the rest of her apartment, and two went downstairs to look around outside. She was staring at the bullet hole in her refrigerator door when Coridan walked in. Brandt was only a few seconds behind. She noticed neither spoke to the other.

Coridan put an arm around her. “Are you OK? Did you see who it was?”

“I didn’t see anything.” She explained what had happened. “When I heard the door slam, I got my gun and followed, but he was already out of the building.”

“He?” her partner prompted.

“Sorry, figure of speech. I didn’t even get a glimpse of the shooter. A neighbor guy was looking out his door in the hallway. Maybe he saw something.”

“We’ll check it out.” Coridan frowned at her. “So you didn’t have your gun handy? Good thing he ran, or you could have been in real trouble. Must have been a burglar who didn’t expect to find anyone at home.”

She shook her head. “I had the lights on. And the shower had been running just minutes before.” Maggie winced, thinking what could have happened if he’d caught her in the shower. From now on her SIG would go everywhere with her.

“All that’s important is he didn’t get a chance to hurt you,” Coridan said.

“I don’t think he wanted to,” Brandt said mildly. He’d been looking at the fridge door during the conversation. “Seems more like a warning, a threat of some kind. Any unusual phone calls lately? Anyone hanging around, following you?”

She shook her head again. “Nothing out of the ordinary.” Except a ghost. And Maggie was pretty sure Hurst wasn’t carrying a gun. She frowned. But it was odd Hurst had been around tonight. Oh god. Had he tried to warn her? Was the intruder already inside her apartment…waiting? She shivered and rubbed her arms. She hadn’t checked. She’d assumed her apartment was safe.

“Did you think of something?” Brandt asked.

Maggie met his gaze. Did he have to notice everything? “No, I’m just getting a headache.” She rubbed her temples.

One of the patrol cops came in the front door. “We found a gun outside. A SIG Sauer. Smells like it’s been fired, but we didn’t touch it in case of prints. My partner stayed with it.”

Coridan turned to look at Maggie. “Don’t you carry a SIG?”

“I have two. But my primary is behind me on the counter,” she said, waving a hand toward the pistol. “My backup is in the nightstand.”

“I’ll check to see if it’s still there.” Coridan disappeared behind the dividing wall.

Brandt placed a call to the crime scene techs before turning back to Maggie. “Any idea how he got in?”

“None. I hadn’t been home long. Maybe twenty minutes. But I’m sure the door was locked when I got here, and I locked it again behind me. It’s automatic. Do you think he was already inside?” She cringed at the uncertainty in her voice.

“We’ll have a better answer after the scene is processed. Do you have someplace to stay tonight where you’ll feel safe?”

Was he kidding? Maggie straightened. Maybe she deserved that question. Hadn’t she been playing the what-if game with her head a few minutes ago like some rookie? “I’m not leaving. Nobody’s chasing me out of my apartment.”

The corner of Brandt’s mouth twitched, and he turned away. “Suit yourself.”

Had he deliberately goaded her?

“No gun in the nightstand,” Coridan announced as he returned.

Maggie sighed. “Then I’d bet my prints are the only ones you’ll find on the gun outside.”

Brandt didn’t stay long, and Coridan left as soon as Maggie assured him again she was all right. The techs arrived, dug the bullet from the fridge door, checked the locks on her apartment, and left, presumably taking her spare SIG back to the lab. It was nearly two o’clock when her apartment was finally empty and quiet again. Surprisingly, she fell asleep immediately and slept without interruption.

By eight she was contemplating the cost of a new refrigerator and drinking coffee at the kitchen counter when Coridan called.

“The lab put a rush on the evidence from last night, and you were right. The gun is registered to you. The bullet from the fridge is a match, and the only prints on the SIG are yours.”

“So he wore gloves. Not a surprise.” She took a sip of coffee.

“That’s one interpretation.” His uneasy hesitation was obvious.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t get upset, Maggie, but they’re questioning whether there was an intruder.”

She straightened. “I don’t understand. Someone thinks I imagined it? Or made it up? What about the bullet? Am I supposed to have shot up my fridge too?” When he didn’t respond, she demanded, “Who’s they?”

“Not me.” His mild tone, clearly intended to be soothing, grated on her nerves. “I believe your version, others don’t.”

“Who?” she repeated. “Brandt? The captain?”

“They don’t know you as well as I do.”

She dropped into a kitchen chair. Could things get any crazier? “Did they actually say that?”

Coridan snorted. “Does it matter? If they haven’t yet, they will. It’s what the evidence says.” He ticked off the damning points. “Your gun, your fingerprints, no forced entry, not finishing the job even though you were unarmed. The story’s all over District 13.”

Oh god. Her face burned. Could she ever set foot in the precinct again? She couldn’t even talk about it right now. “Thanks for telling me, Coridan, but I’ve got to go.”

“Are you OK? Maggie, I’m sorry I upset you, but I thought you’d want to know. Shall I come over?”

She bit back an angry response. It wasn’t his fault. “I’m fine, but I have things to do. I’ll call you later.”

Maggie disconnected before he could pour on more sympathy. She was sick of being treated like a helpless or unstable victim. So she’d better quit acting like one and start thinking like a cop again. Which she hadn’t been doing, especially the last few days. How could she leave her firearm in the laundry room? She’d never done that before. Or leave the chains off the front door? She’d lost her edge. If she didn’t get it back, she’d not only be unemployed, she’d be dead.

She downed another cup of coffee, grabbed her SIG, and headed for the firing range. Maggie had thinking to do, and shooting sharpened her thoughts better than anything else.

When she exited the range two hours later, she felt calmer than she had all week. She walked toward her Toyota and sighed when she saw Brandt’s Ford parked next to it. Now came the accusations. Thanks to Coridan, she was ready. As she drew near, he lowered his window.

“Detective Brandt, how’d you find me this time?”

“Easy enough. I thought about where I would go.” He opened his car door and got out. “But all the practice in the world won’t help if your weapon’s in the other room.”

“Yeah, that was a serious lapse. It won’t happen again.”

He studied her face. “I can see that.”

Maggie bristled. “You think I’ve gotten a grip on myself? I was
never
as out of control as you think.”

He frowned at her emphatic response. “Meaning?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why did you track me down? To talk about last night?”

“Sure. That will do. Do you have anything to tell me?”

“Like confessing I did it?” she snapped. “Well, I didn’t. I don’t care what the evidence says.”

His frown cleared, and he almost smiled. “Ah, the fingerprint results. Not unexpected. If the intruder was going to set you up to look bad, he’d hardly risk leaving his own prints behind by not wearing gloves.”

“But I thought—” Maggie blinked. “You believe it was a setup?”

“That’s how I read it. If he wanted you dead, why not finish the job? And why drop the gun outside? What I don’t know is how he got into your apartment, and why he went to all this trouble.”

“But Cor—” She stopped and said ruefully, “I thought no one believed me. Given all that’s happened over the past few months.”

He offered no response to her comment but leaned against the side of his car. “It appears somebody wants you discredited. The question is why. To stop you from doing or saying something? Or at least stop anyone from believing it?” He turned a level gaze on her. “Do you know some secret, York?”

“If I do, I don’t know what it is. If you think it’s about my shooting, I’ve already told you I didn’t see anything in the courtyard that night.”

He shrugged and looked away. “Maybe it wasn’t that night. Maybe it was the night before. Or a month before.”

“What are you saying?”

“I don’t know. I’m just thinking aloud. None of it makes sense…yet.” He suddenly flashed a smile that made her heart skip a beat. “Sometimes I have to go down a lot of wrong roads before I arrive at the truth, but it’ll come.” He reached into his open car window, pulled out a brown paper bag, and handed it to her. “Your backup SIG. We’re through with it. Keep it close. You were lucky last night, but the shooter might have something else in mind next time.”

Without saying good-bye, Brandt got back in his car, nodded to her, and drove away. Maggie watched him go. He’d given her a lot to think about. But it was the smile that held her attention, the way it reached and lit up his eyes. Damn, she hoped he didn’t turn out to be a dirty cop.

By the time she parked near her home, Maggie’s mood had deteriorated to a frown. She’d gone over the parking lot conversation in her head a couple of time, and one question kept jumping out. How had last night’s intruder gotten inside? It almost seemed like he’d had a key. But she hadn’t shared her apartment key with anyone. Not a cleaning service, no one watered her plants, even Annie didn’t have a key. And she certainly didn’t have one hidden under a potted plant. So how would he get one? The landlord? Worth checking but doubtful. Otherwise, it seemed inescapable that he’d borrowed or stolen her keys and made a copy—or he’d made an impression of the lock. Either way, she must have seen the intruder before, probably knew him. He might even have visited her home.