Ghost Walking (A Maggie York Paranormal Mystery Book 1) (13 page)

“Hey, girlfriend,” Maggie said, keeping her voice light. “Tell me about your day. Mine wasn’t worth mentioning. So dull, I need to live vicariously through yours.”

CHAPTER TEN

The following morning Maggie was driving home from Dalia’s when police lights flashed behind her. She looked in her rearview mirror and frowned. Wasn’t that Brandt in his unmarked car signaling her to pull over? She acknowledged him with a wave, found a business parking lot two blocks away, and stopped. She got out and stalked toward him.

“What the hell are you doing, Brandt, pulling me over like that?”

“Your left taillight is out.” He pointed toward her damaged back bumper. “Did you tangle with a brick wall?”

“No, I did not.” Her indignant response was automatic. She followed his line of sight, but she’d checked earlier and knew what she’d see. A sizable dent and scraped paint on the left fender, gouge marks the length of her bumper. The covers on both taillights had been broken. She hadn’t realized one of the lights was out. He frowned as he ran his fingers along the deep streaks on her bumper. “It must have been quite an accident. How’d it happen?”

Maggie sighed. Damn those eagle eyes. “It wasn’t an accident. Somebody tried to run me into the swamp last night.”

His gaze flashed to her face. “Did you call it in?”

“I didn’t have cell coverage at the time. But no, I didn’t bother.”

He shot her another unreadable look and crouched to check a spot on the bumper. “Looks like black paint.”

“Yeah, a big SUV.”

He finished his inspection and slowly stood. “Want to tell me about it?”

She gave a dismissive lift of one shoulder. “Not much to tell. We were coming back from visiting a friend in the bayou. The black SUV, with what sounded like a modified engine, came out of a side road, bumped my back bumper. Hard, a couple times. He speeded up, pushing us toward the water at the edge of the road. I did a spin around, and he drove on.”

“Who was with you?”

“A cousin. She wasn’t hurt.” She gave him the rest before he asked. “No plate on the SUV, and I didn’t get a look at the driver.”

“All the same, you should have called it in. You know the routine, Maggie. Eventually we’re going to get this guy, and every scrape of evidence helps the prosecutor put him away. Besides solving your case, it would be nice if we could keep you alive.”

“Yeah, I’d like that too.” Not that it was a priority for anyone except her. “Well, you know now.”

“You need to get those lights fixed,” he said walking toward his car.

“Does that mean I can go?”

“Hell, no.” He opened his door and grabbed his phone from somewhere inside. “I’m calling the lab to get a sample of that black paint.” He walked back toward her as he talked to the lab, and she heard his last words. “Yeah, hit and run. Photographs too. We’ll be here.”

“This is a waste of time.”

“Maybe, but when someone tries to kill a fellow officer, I like to be thorough.” He pulled out his notebook. “Where, what time, and what kind of SUV?”

“It looked like a black Tahoe, but like I said, it was specially equipped.” She gave him the rest of the particulars, including the approximate location and Dalia’s name and number.

By the time they were finished, a lab tech arrived, took a half-dozen photos, and scraped black paint off her car. While he worked, Brandt got in his car and left.

She watched him drive away. Not even a good-bye. She’d been right before. His attitude sucked. What rumor had he heard this time? Maggie compressed her lips in a thin line. They were all pretty much the same, centering on her alleged instability. At least he was still working her case.

But why was he keeping such close track of her? Was he also watching her house?

Her eyes narrowed. Who else was watching? How did the driver of the Tahoe know she’d be on that lonely road last night, unless he followed her there?

Did Brandt own a Tahoe?

She rubbed her forehead with one hand. Coridan might be right. She needed to get out of town, escape the ghosts, the uncertainties, the damned spies—well-meaning or not—and develop a little perspective.

When the tech finished, she drove toward home, keeping an eye on both side mirrors and the rearview for potential tails. She went out of her way, doubled back, circled again, checking to see if she spotted any vehicle more than once. When she was satisfied no one was currently following her, she stopped in front of her apartment building and ran inside to pack.

Ten minutes later she wove around town, watching for Brandt’s car or anyone else suspicious. On an impulse, she pulled over at a city park, checked under her bumpers and on the undercarriage, looking for trackers that someone might have planted. Geez, York. Paranoid much?

When she didn’t find anything that shouldn’t be there, she stopped at an auto repair shop, had her taillights fixed and got an estimate on the other repair work. Since the car ran fine, the bodywork might have to wait until she was fully employed again.

Finally, she headed out on I10 east toward Slidell. She’d called Dalia to let her know she was playing hooky for a few days, and she’d called Annie. Her best friend enthusiastically entered into planning a getaway and made several suggestions, including a live theatre performance on the other side of Lake Pontchartrain. She became so enamored with the idea, she offered to join Maggie tomorrow night and make a holiday of it. They’d been to a live performance once before with a wedding party. There was a cute bed and breakfast nearby, and a day spa mere blocks away. Since Maggie didn’t care what she did, it sounded like a perfect plan. Not too far, good company, and most important—nothing to do with her daily life.

* * *

Brandt drove by Maggie’s apartment about nine o’clock that night. He’d found himself checking on her and watching for her around the French Quarter more than he could justify as routine casework. He’d spotted her car turning the corner ahead of him this morning but wouldn’t have noticed the broken taillight if she hadn’t hit her brakes at the crosswalk. And here he was again…checking on her safety. Or so he told himself. But he’d been thinking about their earlier meeting and feeling a bit guilty, wondering if he should offer an apology. He’d been angry—another attempt had been made on her life, and she hadn’t trusted the department or him enough to report it. He understood her frustration, but it was simply bad police work.

That still didn’t excuse his rough tone, abrupt departure, or his pretended indifference. She already felt isolated. Well, congratulations, Brandt. He’d just added to it.

He looked up at her window. No lights. He drove on with a mixture of relief and regret. He still wasn’t sure how to act around her. The ghost thing had thrown him. He’d been raised in a traditional family. His father, also a police officer, had instilled a no-nonsense philosophy—no ghosts, no witches, nothing you couldn’t see, feel, touch, and explain with cold, hard facts. New Orleans was a whole different world—maybe a different planet. Nothing surprised people here.

Who was he to say paranormal phenomenon didn’t exist? Or that York hadn’t had some kind of spiritual experience? He could have given her the benefit of the doubt.

Thursday and Friday night’s checks outside her apartment yielded no better results. He told himself she was out enjoying herself and there was no reason to worry…but he wished she’d come home.

By Saturday night he was ready to start an official inquiry. He let out an audible sigh of relief when he saw a light in her living room and her car parked on the street. Its rear light covers had been replaced.

Before driving home, Brandt glanced at her window again, wondering where she’d been…and more importantly, who she’d been with.

* * *

Maggie returned from her trip ready to take charge of her life. Someone had said the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over yet expecting a different result. She’d tried ignoring Hurst, and it definitely hadn’t worked. Maybe Selena and Dalia were right, she should enlist his help…or at least try.

The soul taint was scary, so horrifying it seemed unbelievable…but Maggie knew it was true. She’d sensed an atmosphere of danger hovering over Hurst, and in a weird way, it was a relief to know what it was. He didn’t appear to be one of the really bad ones, and Maggie would avoid any more risky close encounters.

She’d shared everything with Annie. In between theatre shows, the beach, and drinking sparkling wines at a local club, they discussed it so much that the idea of working with a ghost didn’t seem any stranger than the rest of her life.

Early Sunday morning, she discussed the possible methods of contacting Hurst with Dalia. Since the veil between worlds was thinnest at night, that was the obvious time to try. Dalia suggested choosing a place Hurst had been before. Someplace significant. And simply putting out a mental call of his name.

“If he’s willing to make contact, that’s all it should take,” Dalia assured her.

At eight that evening, Maggie left her apartment building on foot. Wary of potential surveillance, she looked both ways, circled the block, and cut through an alley before heading north to the courtyard where she’d been shot.

It wasn’t exactly smart for a woman to be alone in this area at this time of evening, but she had a can of mace in her jacket pocket, her SIG, and her backup weapon. With any luck, she’d get in and out unnoticed. She wasn’t looking for trouble, just for ghosts. A grim smile flitted across her lips.

The courtyard was deserted. It still gave her the creeps. She had a momentary flashback to those moments just before she was shot. If she could have them back, what would she do differently?

Stop it, she scolded herself. She hadn’t come there to waste time on what ifs. Crossing the courtyard, she took a seat on the edge of a raised flowerbed, closed her eyes, and silently said Hurst’s name. She opened her eyes again and waited.

“OK, Hurst. Where the hell are you?” She spoke softly and glared around at the shadows, trying not to feel silly. “You keep hanging around as if you want something. So now I’m ready to talk.”

She continued to sit there, her discomfort increasing by the second. Why had she ever thought this would work?

Without warning, Hurst popped into view, not more than ten feet in front of her. He still wore the gold and black hoodie. Did ghosts ever wash or change their clothes?

She stood, and he backed away, beginning to fade. “No, don’t go.” She sat down on the concrete edge again, and his image became firm. “I’m told you’re, um, waiting for me to catch your killer. I want that too, but you also need to do something for me. I know you were here the night I was shot. Who was the sniper? I’m pretty sure he worked for Castile. Did he also kill you and JoJo?” Her voice dwindled to a stop. It was surprisingly difficult to carry on a conversation without feedback. She peered at Hurst’s still figure. “Do you understand me? I’m told you can’t talk, although I don’t understand why, but can’t you at least nod?”

Hurst continued to look at her silently, but the dark shadows under the hood didn’t seem so menacing anymore. Not now that Selena had likened him to a child. “Aren’t you allowed to do that either? Or maybe you can’t.” Maggie sighed and gave him an impatient look. “What can you do?”

He suddenly raised a hand, pointed toward the rear wall, and glided in that direction. Maggie stood and followed him. He floated onto the wall and sat down.

“Yeah, I already got that. The sniper shot from there.” She glanced at the street to be sure no one was watching and kept her voice low. “But that doesn’t tell me who he was or why he did it. I need a name, an address. Something.”

A footstep crunched behind her. Hurst’s image blinked out as quickly as it had appeared.

“Maggie, what are you doing here at this time of night?”

She whirled, grabbing her gun before the voice registered. “Brandt!” Irritation quickly followed. “Why are you following me?”

“This area isn’t safe for anyone alone at night, even cops. You’re asking for trouble.” He glanced at the gun in her hand. “Were you looking for an excuse to shoot someone?”

“Geez, Brandt. I hope you’re not serious.” What was he implying? That she had homicidal or suicidal tendencies?

“Then put that thing away.”

She glanced at his face in the dim street light. His eyes smoldered with genuine anger. She put a rein on her own temper and holstered her weapon. “I was restless and came here looking for insight. Maybe jog that memory you were asking for.”

“Who were you talking to?”

“I guess I was thinking out loud.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, clearly wanting more.

She shook her head in disgust. “Look, I’m frustrated. If someone wants me dead, I should know exactly who it is. And why. But I don’t. I’ve missed something. I was going over everything in my head again—that night, the hours and weeks that led up to it.”

“And?”

“Nada.”

* * *

Brandt stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. Now that he was there, he wasn’t sure what to say to her. Why
was
he confronting her like this? She was a cop, well-trained, capable, and yet she triggered his protective instincts like no woman he’d ever known. If he wasn’t careful, she’d have him hauled in for stalking.

Talking to herself, huh? Or to her ghosts? He should ask her straight out about it, but something held him back. Concerned he’d offend her? Frighten her off? Or because he didn’t want to hear the answer?

“Why don’t I give you a ride home? I know you walked. I saw you leave your street.”

“And followed me here.”

“Busted.”

She cocked her head. “Why the surveillance? Tonight, and pulling me over downtown. It’s getting creepy, Brandt.”

“Hey, I wasn’t following you when I saw the taillight damage. Maybe watching for your car, but I don’t have time to tail you all day.”

She looked doubtful. “Even if that’s true, you followed me here.”