by Ally Shields
“Coffee would be great.” Brandt followed him to the bar and leaned against the counter while Sam poured two cups. The sound system played soft jazz in the background. “Coltrane, isn’t it?”
“Yep, so smooth. He’ll always be a favorite. It gets too noisy at night to appreciate, so I put him on when I’m here by myself. Now, how can I help the PD?”
“Tell me what you can about Bobby Hurst. What was he like? Who were his friends…and enemies?”
“Don’t know about his enemies. I guess he had some since I heard he was shot. But he got along fine around here. I’d heard rumors now and then. Drugs, fights. But the only real conversation we had was about Saints football. We’re both big fans. Mostly he hung with his girl JoJo. They came in at least twice a week. A time or two I saw him with a black dude, lots of arm tattoos.”
“Catch a name?”
“Mick, I think. Can I ask what brought you to my club?”
Brandt took a cautious sip of the steaming coffee. Hot, all right. “Advertising. Found your matchbook at JoJo’s place.”
Sam flashed a grin. “Good to know I’m not wasting those dollars.”
A crime scene wasn’t the best place to advertise, but maybe Sam adhered to the belief that any publicity was a good thing. “What did you mean when you said he was a popular guy now he was dead?”
“Just that you’re not the only one who’s asked about him.” Sam polished the counter while they talked, even though it already gleamed. “Maybe I shouldn’t have talked to her, but she was such a babe.”
Brandt was instantly alert. “Who was she?”
“Hot-looking redhead with big blue eyes. Came in about eight-thirty last night.” Sam repeated his conversation with her. “Showed me that same photo.” Sam squinted. “Sure hope she didn’t kill him.”
Had to be York. She was here with a mug shot before the bodies were found. Interesting. But not unexpected.
Brandt shook his head in response to Sam’s concern. “Hurst was dead before last night.”
“Oh, that’s good.” Sam blew out his cheeks in obvious relief. “I liked her, except for those eyes. Cop eyes, like yours. She work with you?”
“Nope.” Brandt didn’t elaborate. “You know how to reach this Mick guy?”
“No clue. Like I said, I only saw him once or twice.” He grinned and picked up the empty coffee cups. “He wasn’t as memorable as the redhead.”
“No doubt.” Brandt laid a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Thanks for the coffee and conversation.”
Sam waved him off. “It’s on the house.”
Brandt shrugged and walked toward the door. “That’s the tip.”
He drove to city hall, picked up the warrant, and headed for Hurst’s apartment. If York was tracking Hurst last night, she must have been at the crime scene with Coridan. So why had she returned this morning? Was she after something? Had he interrupted her before she got what she came for? He swung by the house, stopped and checked the doors and windows. No sign of forced entry. No movement inside. It didn’t appear as if she’d been back. Maybe he was being paranoid, but she wasn’t being honest about something. He was sure of it.
He returned to his car and located the Chartres address. The apartment manager lived on the first floor. Brandt served the search warrant, and the manager accompanied him to the third floor with the keys.
“Looks like it’s already unlocked.” The bald man seemed unconcerned.
Brandt pushed him out of the way and drew his gun. “Stay here.”
“Naw. I got things to do. This has got nothing to do with me.” The manager flipped a dismissive hand and turned away.
Ignoring him, Brandt opened the door, staying off to one side. “Police. Anybody in here?”
* * *
Maggie jerked her head up when she heard voices in the hallway. She’d nearly finished a search of Hurst’s apartment, and the only thing she’d found was a small notebook. There’d been no sign of the ghostly figure that led her there, so if she was supposed to find something, she’d been left on her own to do it. If the guy weren’t already dead, she’d strangle him for that.
She stuffed the book in her pocket and darted from the bedroom. As soon as the apartment door rattled and she heard Brandt’s sharp order to “stay here,” she climbed out the living room window onto the fire escape, scrambled down the steps, and jumped the last fifteen feet. She took off running. At the end of the alley, she glanced back. No one in sight. Had Brandt seen her? Was he circling the building to cut her off? Thank God she’d parked two blocks away. She zigzagged a few blocks. Still no pursuer. She returned to her car, checked to make sure no one was watching, then slid into the driver’s seat and pulled away from the curb.
She was sweating, breathing hard, and finally stopped the car near Jackson Square and got out. Close call. If Detective Brandt had caught her trespassing again, tampering with evidence this time, he probably would have arrested her. She headed for the riverbank, seeking a cool breeze, and turned to stroll along the walk that followed the curve of the Mississippi. Seagulls called overhead, sunlight glistened off the placid waves, but Maggie’s thoughts were too jumbled to appreciate the scene.
She’d have to be more careful in the future. Not underestimate Brandt. He’d found Hurst’s apartment quickly and without the dubious benefit of the spirit being she’d followed. If she hadn’t opened the window to air out the stifling heat… She pictured the awful scene if she’d been hauled into the station in cuffs. The disbelief, followed by unwelcome sympathy and averted gazes. She sank onto a deserted wooden bench and covered her face with both hands. After a moment, she dropped her hands from her flushed face and stared stonily out at the water.
“We need to talk.”
Maggie started, whipping her head around to lock eyes with Brandt. “How’d you find me?” She swallowed the rest of the questions that might be more incriminating. Instead, she asked, “What do you want now, Brandt?”
His jaw tightened, but the words were casual. “Why don’t I buy you a cup of coffee?”
“Just say what you came to say.”
He looked at her a moment, his gray-blue eyes hooded, then despite her cold reception, he sat on the bench beside her. “You need to give me space to maneuver.”
His statement caught her unaware. “Did I miss something? What’s that mean?”
Brandt leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs, and stared at the river. “You’re crowding me. If I’m going to solve this case, you have to back off.”
“You saw me?”
“The red hair is hard to miss.”
She stole a look at his profile, sculptured cheekbones, firm jaw. She wished she could see his eyes. “What are you going to do about it?”
“What’s it going to take? A call to your captain? Wouldn’t look good for a detective who wants to be reinstated.”
“Are you kidding?” she snapped. He’d struck a nerve. “They’re never going to take me back. I’m damaged goods.”
He looked at her then. A level look. “Giving up? That surprises me. Doesn’t fit your reputation. But that’s your business, I guess.”
Suddenly uncertain, Maggie didn’t say anything. She didn’t have an answer.
“OK, what would you do if our roles were reversed?” he asked.
“I’d haul your ass to jail.”
“Yeah, that figures.” Brandt leaned back on the bench and rested one arm on the top slat. He seemed to debate what to say next. “How’d you find Hurst’s apartment?”
Uh-oh. Now what could she say? A little ghost told me? Anonymous tip? No, too lame. “A CI pointed me in the right direction.”
“Private citizens don’t have confidential informants.” She shrugged, and he grimaced at her silence. “OK, I’ll give you a pass on that one. Find anything interesting?”
Maggie hesitated an instant too long, and he leaned forward, holding out his hand, inviting her to turn it over. When she didn’t move, he cocked his head. “D
on’t make me search you.”
“Geez, Brandt.” She didn’t doubt he’d do it. It might be interesting to see him try, but she pulled the notebook from her jeans’ pocket. “I didn’t get a chance to look at the contents, but he’d hidden it under the mattress. It might be important.”
The detective took it and flipped it open. “Dates, initials, numbers.” He sat forward and held it where she could see. “Mean anything to you?”
“It’s the kind of record a bookie keeps. Drug drops?”
“Yeah, maybe. These initials could be contacts. Either buyers or sellers.”
She leaned closer to read the notations, and her arm brushed his. The contact made her skin tingle, she moved away, and his mouth curved in a brief smile. Dammit. He saw entirely too much. “Could be a lot of things,” she said levelly. “How do we match them up with people?”
“We don’t. Nice try, York, but you’re off this case—as of now. Out of courtesy, I’ll keep you informed of any major developments, but I don’t want to see you trespassing or sneaking away with the evidence again.”
“I wasn’t sneaking,” she said indignantly. Then added, “Well, I wouldn’t have been if you hadn’t surprised me. I would have given you the book if it turned out to be important.”
“Then I saved you the trouble.” He stood, six feet two of temptation, and offered a hand. “Come with me. In return for not arresting you, I need you to do something for me.”
* * *
Maggie froze at the public courtyard entrance and stared at the darkening scene: white stone walls on all sides, wide, black iron gates in the middle of each end offered access to an area of red brick walkways, a few small trees, several fragrant flower beds, benches, and a fountain. A growing sense of dread churned in her stomach. Brandt had insisted she come back to the scene of her shooting and walk him through what she remembered. A reasonable request, but she hadn’t been there since the night they hauled her out on a stretcher. Since Coridan, the initial lead cop on her case, had been there during the shooting, she hadn’t been forced to go over the details. Not till now. She’d tried to block the actual events from her mind. In fact, it had been somewhat hazy, and she’d preferred it that way. Now, this persistent cop was asking her to relive that horrible night. She shivered.
Brandt stepped up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders as if sensing her need for support. She should have pulled away, but it steadied her, and she stood without protest.
“What brought you here that night?” His voice was matter-of-fact.
“An anonymous tip to Vice.” The steadiness of her voice surprised her. Apparently it reassured Brandt, and he dropped his hands and moved beside her, watching her face now. “We’d been working the murder of a minor drug dealer, hoping it would lead us to the head man. We were pretty sure it was Bullet—that’s Paul Castile. The informant said a deal was going down and Castile would be there in person. A couple of guys from Vice tagged us, making it a joint response.” She glanced at him. “It looked like a break for everyone.”
“Why weren’t you wearing a vest?”
“Didn’t have them. We were on an interview in Coridan’s off duty car when Vice called. There was no time to go back for them.”
“Bad decision, but it squares with what I’d assumed from the file. Now walk me through your movements that night.”
“Ray Coridan and I came in from this side, Vice from the back street.” Maggie closed her mind to the feelings threatening to surface and focused on the scene as it had unfolded that night. “We parked down the street and immediately heard what sounded like a fight in the courtyard. So we ran to the gate and saw six guys swinging lead pipes and nunchucks at each other. Not at all the gunfight we would have expected.”
“Show me where you were.”
Maggie walked over and stood on the right side of the front gate. “Coridan was next to me. I heard one of the vice guys yell ‘police,’ and we drew our guns and raced in to back up their action. I broke left, Coridan to the right, and I’m not sure where he went after that.”
“That’s fine. Just tell me what you recall.”
Surprisingly, the images in her head were clear now. Her pulse picked up a beat. Maybe she’d remember something important, something that would make a difference. “It was so hazy before today, but coming here…I know exactly what I did.”
“It happens, once victims get past the trauma.”
“Yeah, I knew that but never understood it.” She walked into the alley. “The noises were loud. Scuffling, body blows, yelling. I was surprised there was no shooting. Hurst was there for sure. I remember seeing him.” She stopped, mesmerized by the face of the man now haunting her. So she had seen him before, but he’d been wearing a dark T-shirt that night, not a hoodie.
“Something else?”
“Uh, no, just thinking. I’d just pulled one of the thugs out of the fight and had turned to restrain him when I heard the gun shot, felt the jolt, the first stab of pain—”
“You turned?” he interrupted. “Show me.”
She went through the actions as she remembered them and turned to face the alley entrance. “I had my cuffs out when it happened.” Even in the dimming light of the alley, she saw the odd expression on Brandt’s face. “What is it?”
“Since you were shot in the back, the shooter couldn’t have been at the entrance as everyone assumed. Not if you’d turned around. Are you sure that’s how it happened?”
“As sure as I can be. I fell against my suspect.”
“Which explains your position,” Brandt finished. “He would have pushed you away, altering the fall pattern.” He raised his eyes toward the back of the block-long courtyard. “The shooter was back there. We’ve been looking in the wrong place.”
She followed his line of sight and swallowed a gasp. Bobby Hurst—hoodie and all—sat on top of the back wall.
Then he faded away.
“Is something wrong?” Brandt asked, alert to her reaction.
“Something caught in my throat. Come on. Let’s check the back wall.”
“Wall?” he questioned, keeping pace with her. “That would take a sniper. What makes you think the shooter was that far away? Isn’t it more likely he was among the gang fighters in the center?”
“I saw…um, I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.” She kept walking. He’d think she was a nutcase for sure if she even hinted about Hurst. Reaching the six-foot stone wall, she grabbed the edge and pulled her 5’8” frame onto the flat top surface. It was wide enough to sit or couch, but the shooter would need a very steady hand to hold a rifle still enough to fire accurately. Someone experienced, like a pro.
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?”
