Krewe of Hunters 1 Phantom Evil (19 page)

“All right, all right, Gabby. It's all right. I don't know why you're so afraid, but if you're going home, that's what's important.”

The girl stared at her a long time, and then smiled. “Angela Hawkins. I know your name. You're investigating the Madden C. Newton house. The senator's house.
Are
you a ghost hunter?”

“How do you know my name?” Angela asked her.

“It was in the newspaper—you dug a skeleton out of the floor.”

“I see. Of course,” Angela murmured.

Gabby suddenly looked frightened again. “You can't say that you met me—please, you can't say that you met me!” She looked as if she was going to rise and run out of the restaurant.

And right back to the church.

“Please don't worry. I won't say anything about meeting you, honestly. I'm going to put you in a cab right now, and send you home, and we'll never say that we met at all, okay?”

She nodded. “I should call them.” She laughed bitterly. “But I don't have a phone anymore. They don't believe we should have phones.”

“How did you get here?”

“I walked. It's only a few miles.”

Angela reached in her bag for her cell phone. She handed it to Gabby. “Call them,” she suggested softly.

What followed tore at her heart. She could vaguely hear the answer at the other end of the line. When the young woman first heard her mother's voice, tears sprang into her eyes again. “Mommy?” she asked after a moment.

The woman's joy at the sound of her daughter's voice was now more than audible, even across the table. Then Gabby talked and cried, her words disrupted, but her emotion totally comprehensible. “I'm coming home, Mommy. I'm coming home. Now.”

After a moment, wiping her face again, she handed the phone back to Angela. “I don't have any money. But I'll get a real job, and get it back to you, if you lend me the money for the cab.”

“I'm going to pay this bill and take you outside and put you in a cab,” Angela said firmly. “Come on. It's going to be a wonderful night for you, I promise.”

She wanted to get the young woman into a cab for home before Gabby could change her mind. She threw money down on the table for the food, and hurried out with her, holding the girl's hand all the while. She saw an empty cab headed down Royal and quickly hailed it.

Gabby clutched her hand suddenly. “Why are you doing this for me?” she whispered. “You're so kind! I'm just a stranger, I just…you must have really, really nice parents!”

Something seemed to catch in Angela's throat. “I did,” she said quietly.

“What happened to them?”

“They died. Now, please, go home, and appreciate yours. Give me the address and get in.”

She wanted the address. She didn't intend to betray Gabby, but she knew she needed the address. The girl's home was in Metairie. She gave the driver a ten-dollar tip to make sure that he got her there safely.

She watched as the cab went slowly down Royal.

Then she turned back toward Bourbon Street.

She didn't find Jackson in front of the cowboy bar, though she did wind up in a friendly crush of drunks coming and going. She saw the courtyard he had been talking about, and wandered to the gate. There were tarot readers set up in the courtyard area, and beyond, she saw a small walk-by bar that advertised quick, cheapie, frozen drinks, and beyond that, in oddly subdued neon lettering, a sign that advertised: Discreet! The Finest Dancers in All New Orleans. Men And Women Welcome.

She had a number of friends who would walk into any strip club, totally intrigued, amused and unashamed.

Sadly, she wasn't one of them.

But then, it was worse just standing there on Bourbon Street with the crowds sweeping around her. People were mostly young and fun, but smiling back and laughing casually at the “Oh, baby, baby!” calls that were coming her way was getting to be a bit much for her.

She slipped past the tarot readers headed for the strip club in back. Luckily, as she did so, her phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID. It was Jackson.

“Where are you?” Jackson asked without greeting her. “I thought you'd be a few minutes—it's almost an hour.”

“Long story. You're not going to believe what I have to tell you. But where are you?”

“Watching Lovely Lola Lolita on the pole.”

“Great. I'm downstairs.”

“Okay, I'm coming for you.”

A moment later, he emerged out of the darkened doorway. He offered her a hand. She arched a brow. “It's not that bad!” he called to her.

“Can't wait,” she muttered, and went forward to take his hand.

A hostess with enormous breasts and tassels on her nipples was in the shadowed hallway when they entered. She was wearing something like a slinky harem skirt, and she had a smile as big as her breasts. “Welcome back!” she said to Jackson. “And this is your lady! Now I understand how you might want to enjoy our entertainment together!”

Jackson pulled her close. “Oh, yes, there's just nothing like watching a good dancer together, isn't that true, sweetheart?”

“Um, sure,” she managed to mutter. When the hostess turned to lead them in, she jabbed him in the ribs.

“Ouch!” Jackson was taken by surprise.

The hostess turned back.

Jackson smiled at her. “Sometimes,” he said, “she likes it a little rough, you know?”

The hostess laughed. “Oh, honey, we see everything here. Come on back in, you two!”

“Bastard,” Angela whispered, smiling around her clenched teeth. If he wanted to play it this way, she could pitch in easily enough. With her arm slipped around him, she came up on her toes and whispered against his ear, “Is there really anything we're going to gain by being here? I can leave you on your own, you know. Let you get to know some of the girls up close and personal.” She couldn't help herself. She nipped his earlobe.

He glared down at her as she slid back down, looking up at him. Then he laughed. “Okay, I deserved that one.”

She wished that she didn't like him, and his sense of humor, his sense of being,
him,
quite so much. She had learned about loving and loving could be so much pain.

They were led to a table. It was in the back, and behind Martin DuPre and his group.

Jackson thanked the hostess and they took their seats at a plush, black, circular table.

Angela quickly noted that Martin DuPre and his party were closer to the stage where a scantily clad woman—a very beautiful one—was doing amazing calisthenics on a pole.

“Well. This is really comfortable,” Angela said.

“DuPre and his group have already had about twenty lap dances,” Jackson said.

“And you've just been sitting here?” Angela inquired sweetly.

“Hey, I'm working,” he told her. He leaned toward her. “So?”

“So, I honestly think that I did a very good deed—and found out more about Martin DuPre than you did,” she said. “Tell me.”

She quickly gave him a version of her time with Gabby.

He listened with grave intent.

“So,” he said when she had told him about her time with Gabby. “So…Martin DuPre, aide to the senator, is a member of the Church of Christ Arisen. There's an oxymoron for you.”

“Jackson, I really think that he's the father of her baby.”

“And you want him to provide child support?” he asked.

“Naturally, he's going to owe child support,” Angela said indignantly. “But she may not want it. Once Gabby is away from the Church of Christ Arisen, she may discover that she never wants to see anyone who had anything to do with it ever again—even the father of her child. And, after tonight, I think he's…I think he's slimy enough to have done anything,” she said.

He didn't seem to notice the woman on the pole. He was deep in thought. “He's a slimy bastard. But did he kill Regina Holloway? And if so, how?”

“We both looked at those crime scene photos,” Angela told him heatedly. “She was thrown. Or pushed. There was weight and impetus behind whatever happened.”

“I'm honestly not sure if the senator suspects that DuPre is part of the church that is always spouting against him. And I'm not sure that being a total ass makes a man a murderer.”

“He seems the best suspect to me so far,” Angela told him.

He didn't reply. A waitress came by. She was almost as scantily clad as the stripper at the pole.

They ordered drinks, and the waitress moved on.

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Jackson?” Angela said.

“Yes?”

“What did you see tonight?” she asked quietly.

She was almost certain that he understood her question from the beginning.

“A lot of lap dances,” he said.

She shook her head. “In my room. Or, really, in Regina's room.”

He was quiet for a minute, and she thought that he would evade her again.

But he didn't. He looked at her, blue eyes nearly as dark and compelling as a stygian mystery.

“I saw them,” he told her.

“Them?”

“The children,” he told her.

She felt as if her breath caught, as if her heart stopped for a moment.

“You see…”

“I see what you see, frequently,” he said, and then looked
toward the stage again. “I see what we conjure in our minds, what remains behind—what is there, what is heart, what is soul, what remains to help us, when we desperately need help.”

She was almost afraid to speak again.

He had sounded so casual. And yet, he had made an admission she thought that he rarely made.

“There he goes again,” Jackson said softly.

Angela saw that the dancer who had left the stage had approached the group in front of them, and Martin DuPre had his money out. The beautiful stripper walked toward him and took the offered bill. She crawled over his lap. She twisted and shimmied. He didn't touch her.

“You do know that this is a really weird situation for me?” Angela said to Jackson.

He squeezed her hand across the table.

“Sorry, we can go. I have what I need to know,” he told her.

“The bastard is living a double life. He's a member of the Church of Christ Arisen, while pretending to be the senator's staunchest supporter. He's planning his own political career on the senator's back. He's a lecher—a man who wants continual entertainment and stimulation. He'll leave here—and go seduce another innocent. All in the name of God, of course. How has the senator been so stupid and blind?”

“I don't know,” Jackson said. “But…I believe the death of his son certainly contributed to the fact that he leaned on others—and never became suspicious of certain behaviors.”

“He's disgustingly creepy!” Angela said, indicating Martin DuPre, who now had his face buried between the stripper's breasts.

“That's more than a boy being a boy,” Jackson said. “How
the hell has Martin DuPre gotten away with leading such a double life? Convincing the senator that he's his most loyal proponent, cutting side deals and being a biggie in a church—and I use that term loosely—that considers the senator's entire platform to be blasphemy?”

“Jackson, Gabby is afraid of him,” Angela said.

“She was following him—but you think that she's afraid of him?”

“She wouldn't tell me who the father was, but, in that conversation, it was apparent. She was afraid. We really have to find out more about that place. And we have to let the senator know that we know all about Martin DuPre,” Angela said.

“Not yet,” Jackson told her.

“What do you mean, not yet?” Angela asked indignantly.

“We have to figure out what the senator knows, what he doesn't know and if he has been involved in all of this in any way,” Jackson told her.

“I am so confused—how could the senator be involved in a church that protests and pickets his platform?” Angela asked him.

“I don't think he's involved in the church. And I think DuPre will be out when the senator finds out that he is. But DuPre is dirty to the core. And whether or not the senator makes use of that, I don't know. Maybe he managed his gleaming image for so long because he's had DuPre doing what he can't be seen doing.”

“Like killing his wife?” Angela asked.

Jackson shrugged. “We know someone was in with her. Someone who had access to the house. Someone who came and went without setting off any kind of alarm,” Jackson said.

She saw him change subtly. There was a slight tensing in
his features. “Come closer, hold my hands—whisper to me,” he said.

She frowned, and then saw what he had seen.

They
had been noted.

She was grateful for the shadows. She inched closer to Jackson, lowered her head and kept her eyelashes low. Martin DuPre had looked back and seen them.

He forgot about his lap dancer, pushing the stripper away. He rose, thought to excuse himself to his buddies and headed toward them.

“Closer,” Jackson said, his right arm coming tightly around her as he cupped her chin with his left hand, bringing his face just inches from hers. “He's coming, right?”

“Right.”

“Giggle.”

“What?”

“Giggle.”

She let out a small string of husky laughter.

DuPre actually stopped for a moment. She knew that he was staring at them, even while she murmured something else unintelligible to Jackson. Jackson seemed to sense that DuPre was close behind them, but in the shadows, apparently determining whether to accost them or not.

“I think we need to take this back to some privacy now,” Jackson said, his voice rising just slightly, a sensual burr as thick as molasses in his tone.

“Yes, now. Now,” she replied, keeping her voice low, breathy and urgent.

DuPre backed away farther. Jackson rose, catching her hand and drawing her up against him. “What's he doing now?” he
whispered, nuzzling his forehead against hers while they stood in the body crunch.

“Still staring,” Angela whispered.

“I knew you would love this place. Beauty is beauty, and movement, well…” Jackson purred. “Yes.”

“I'm burning up,” Jackson said.

She kept her voice low, and very dry. “Yep. I'm just a hunk, a hunk of burning love.”

His smile then was real, even as he asked again, “He's still watching?”

“Yes?”

He nuzzled her impossibly close, and kissed her. It wasn't a stage kiss. It was a full, passionate, filled-with-tongue kiss, and despite herself, she was swept away by it, forgetting their real mission, and simply luxuriating in the rampant wall of heat provided by the muscled hardness of his chest and the lava-flow sweetness of his kiss. She closed her eyes, stunned and seduced in one, and feeling a tidal wave of arousal sweep over her, something that the eroticism of the most accomplished dancer couldn't begin to create.

He broke the kiss, his lips a bare half inch away.

“Is he still there?”

“What?”

“DuPre.”

“Oh!” She almost jerked away, but she held her ground. She brushed her lips against his teasingly, whispering all the while. “No. He's gone back to his chair. I think he's still looking.”

“All right, then. I think we'll notice him.”

He pulled around to his side; they were ready to leave. But as he did so, he looked out to the tables closer to the stage.

“DuPre,” he said, not loudly. He lifted a hand to wave.

DuPre lifted a hand as well. He stood, walking away from the group to join them. Onstage, a new girl—Angela was pretty sure she had been announced as Cherry Candy—was winding lithely around the pole.

Martin DuPre looked at the two of them as if seeing them for the first time. He grinned wryly. “Wow. Imagine the two of you here. I didn't even know you were a couple.”

Jackson laughed, pulling her close. “There's nothing against fraternizing on our team, we're really kind of a special unit.”

“Yeah, ghost busters,” DuPre snorted.

“Imagine
you
here,” Angela said.

“Part of the job, I'm afraid,” he said. “David Holloway is kind of a loner, a family man, but to most people, this is good clean fun. Oil guys,” he said, indicating the three men at his table. “They don't get out that much… They're just having fun.” He looked at the two of them, with another smile. He was convinced his story was totally plausible, but then he seemed to think that theirs was, too.

“Sorry, still can't imagine the two of you here,” DuPre said.

Jackson pulled her closer. “Well, this one, she's a wicked little hellion when she wants to be. It just increases all the good stuff when you get home, huh, honey?”

She kept her smile in place, staring at DuPre, and feeling like a fool.

“It helps Jackson along a lot, you know—keeping things going, and sometimes, you know, a working guy can be just a little worn-out,” she said sweetly. She felt Jackson tense, though there wasn't a single change in his face.

“What can I say?” he asked. “She's insatiable.”

“Wow,” DuPre said, looking at her. Her arm was around Jackson's waist, his was around her shoulder. She gave his midriff a solid pinch. He flinched, but again gave no sign.

“I have to take her to the S and M clubs sometimes, you know?” Jackson said.

“Wow,” DuPre repeated, looking at her with new appreciation.

“And we've just got to get home now—honey,” she said to Jackson.

“Yes, we do,” Jackson agreed. “Seize the moment,” he told DuPre.

“Well, good to see you two out and about and enjoying the city. Good night,” DuPre said.

“Good night!” Angela said cheerfully. Jackson waved.

And finally, they were out, and back on Bourbon Street where the bars remained crowded, the music was cacophony and life seemed to scream out loud.

Angela pulled away from Jackson and glared at him. “An S and M club?” she demanded.

“Hey! You implied that I was impotent!”

“You made me out to be an animal,” she said.

“Technically, we're all animals,” he reminded her.

“Oh!” She stared at him with aggravation and started walking. “Hey, I think it's better to be a wildcat than a limp rag!” he said, humor in his voice as he walked after her.

She turned back, not sure what she was going to say, but it was going to be fierce. But she saw the amusement in his eyes. He lifted his hands. “Hey, it's all in a day's work,” he said lightly.

She burst out laughing. His smile deepened; she waited and he stepped forward to start walking with her again.

“And quite a day's work,” Angela said. “You know, I'm worried. There has to be a reason that Gabby was so terrified of me saying anything to anyone. She didn't want me to tell anyone at all that I met her. But she's going home. What if she is in danger? I doubt if her parents are prepared to protect her if someone really lethal is out there.”

“You have her full name and address?” he asked.

“Yes, I made sure I gave the cabdriver the money and her address,” Angela assured him.

“Let's get back to the house. I'll put a call through to Andy Devereaux and see if he can, at the very least, make sure that a patrol car keeps a close watch on the place.”

She nodded. They kept walking. Close. When a staggering group would walk by, Jackson either caught her by the shoulders or slipped an arm around her, drawing her close—and away from a potential human gridlock.