by Ally Shields
“That’s great.” Brandt was tempted to hug him, but that kind of interaction with kids was discouraged on the force. He stuck out his hand instead. “Thank you. You’ll make a fine detective someday.”
The kid’s eyes got big. “Really?”
“Sure. I’ll get you a PD shirt if you’d like one…if your mom says it’s OK and will give me your address.”
His mother smiled. “Of course. I can give you Teddy’s address too. I imagine you’ll need to talk with him.”
Brandt followed them back to their residence, a rundown but tidy apartment in a building half a block away. He obtained the necessary information and left to drop the casing off at the lab. It might not yield much physical evidence, but just knowing it was a .223 told him quite a bit.
It was a sniper all right with an assault rifle. Probably not a bolt action or it wouldn’t have ejected a casing at the scene. A semi-automatic then. Not as accurate, and not the first choice of a real pro. The sniper was likely local talent, a gangbanger using something showy like the Tavor. Deadly enough within two hundred yards, but geared toward looking badass rather than long-distance accuracy.
After he dropped off the casing, he stopped at Public Affairs and picked up a couple of small shirts. Next stop, Teddy’s. Joey’s mother had called to warn them, so Teddy and his mother were waiting. After Teddy verified the find in the gutter, probably the morning after the shooting, Brandt offered him one of the shirts.
The child’s chocolate cheeks broke into a grin. “Wow, thanks. Joey didn’t say I’d get a T-shirt.”
“The police department likes to honor good citizens,” Brandt said solemnly. “You may have helped me crack this case.”
“Oooh.” The boy’s brown eyes danced, and he gave him a high five.
Grinning, Brandt excused himself and left on a good note. He returned to his car, drove to Joey’s home, and delivered the second shirt. Joey had already pulled it over his head before Brandt reached the front door on his way out.
Finally he couldn’t put it off any longer—he called York. He wasn’t sure how to act around her. Not if she was still hallucinating. But he’d promised to keep her updated, and the bullet casing was big news.
* * *
Maggie woke with a headache. She’d slept poorly. Everything she’d discussed with Brandt—the victims on her cases, the crime scenes, the autopsies, and her own shooting—had played a kaleidoscope in her head all night. So much blood, so many unanswered questions. She frowned, rubbing her head, already tired and edgy.
A mug of coffee didn’t help, and when she opened her apartment door to find the shimmering figures of Hurst and his girlfriend sitting next to her newspaper, she froze. When the two figures suddenly moved forward to converge on her, she leaped back and slammed the door.
Damn, damn, damn. She hadn’t expected that. And she sure as hell wasn’t allowing him—or her—inside her home. Some gut instinct was telling her this ghost thing wasn’t only wrong, but dangerous.
Nothing otherworldly had appeared since the night of the intruder, and she’d hoped the herbs, the crystals, and the candles had driven Hurst away forever. She didn’t want or need his help. After all, she’d been solving cases without ghostly assistance for several years. She hadn’t minded a few little adjustments to her life, including the protection stone she slipped in her pocket every time she left the house. But this…she couldn’t live with.
Her fingers were unsteady as she punched in the numbers on her phone. “OK. I admit I need help,” she blurted the instant Dalia answered. “There are things in my hallway, and they tried to get in my apartment.”
“Is it Hurst again?”
“And his girlfriend.”
“Focus your energy, Maggie. They won’t hurt you. Do it now.”
Yeah, easy for her to say. How did she know they weren’t dangerous?
But Maggie tried, closing her eyes, concentrating on something else—like her plans for the day, and willing Hurst and his girlfriend to go away. She took a deep breath, calmer now, enough to be embarrassed by her frantic call.
“Better?” Dalia finally asked.
“Yes. I guess seeing them so early, so close, was the last straw.”
“Then I believe you’re ready for the next step,” Dalia said. “I can teach you about witchcraft, but what you need is an expert on ghosts. I’ll make an appointment. In the meantime, watch your sleep and diet. The spirits have more power over you when your defenses are down.”
“So I should treat this like a disease?” Maggie asked dryly.
Dalia’s voice held mild rebuke. “I wouldn’t put it that way, but it does require extra care. And clear your mind each night before you go to sleep. You’ll hear from me in a day or two.”
Once off the phone, Maggie thought about what Dalia had said. She was tired. Maybe she needed a vacation like Coridan had suggested a few weeks ago. But what was this about an appointment? Another shrink? A ghost shrink? Maggie’s lips twitched at the thought.
She looked at the front door, tempted to crawl into bed and pull up the covers, but she had to know. She checked the hallway. All clear. Wow, the focusing had worked. But why had Hurst been there? And why had he brought his girlfriend? To remind her there’d been two victims and a killer was still on the loose? Geez, as if she’d forget.
Still rattled by the early visit, Maggie took the edge off with a hundred laps at the gym pool and an intense hour on the gun range. She finally called Annie from the range parking lot.
“We’ve been busted.” Maggie related her conversation with Brandt about the DA’s call. “So he knows about you, and I told him I wouldn’t mention the drug charges again.”
“Does that mean I’m off the case?”
Maggie smiled. “Not at all. I still want to know. I just won’t discuss it with him, unless the truth is really bad or I find out he lied to me.” Her voice tightened. “In that case, all bets are off.”
“Why don’t we meet for a drink later, and I’ll give you the latest?”
Maggie kept talking as she slid into her car. “Tell me now. I’d love to meet for drinks, but no shoptalk once we’re finished here. I’d like to sleep tonight.”
Most of what Annie reported was merely background stuff. Brandt’s widowed mother lived in Springfield, Massachusetts, where Brandt had grown up. He had one brother, Henry, age twenty-eight, four years younger than Brandt. The brothers were reputed to be close, but Annie couldn’t find Henry’s current location. “It’s strange. He abruptly dropped out in his second year of veterinary school, and there’s no address or employer for the past year.”
“Maybe he died.”
“If so, I can’t find an obituary. There’s nothing.”
Maggie quirked a brow. So the Brandt mystery deepened.
Her other line beeped. “Annie, I have another call coming in. I’ll call you back. Be thinking where you want to meet.”
She switched lines, and Brandt’s voice filled her ear. Despite her misgivings, a smile played across her lips.
“I had a bit of luck today,” he said. Terse, matter of fact. “A kid turned in a bullet casing from your shooting scene. It’s a .223.”
She started. Unexpected news. And her smile faded at his abrupt delivery. Her cop side asserted control, pushing other thoughts aside.
A .223 casing meant a tactical rifle. “Prints? Ballistic match?”
“Prints aren’t likely after it’s been passed around among seven-year-old boys,” he said. “But I dropped it at the lab. If there’s anything, they’ll find it.”
“Was the kid there that night? Did he see anything?”
“No. The casing was found in the street the next day. I thought you’d want to know, but I’m short on time. Gotta go. I’ll call if anything else comes up.”
The line was dead before she had a chance to ask anything else. She frowned at the phone. What was wrong with him? Was he hiding something new? Or had he backed off for some other reason? Yesterday she’d th
ought…well, it didn’t make any difference what she’d thought. For whatever reason, he’d established some distance.
Just as well. He had some mysterious family thing going, and she had…whatever her early morning visitors were. She couldn’t confide in him or anyone, except Annie and Dalia, that her PTSD had turned out to be some weird gift. And it looked like such appearances might be part of her life from now on.
Besides, she had more critical things to worry about. Like who’d been behind that .223 bullet.
CHAPTER NINE
Maggie didn’t hear from Brandt, Dalia…or Hurst…for the next forty-eight hours. In some ways it was a welcome reprieve. But she couldn’t stand being out of the loop. She finally called Coridan and learned the squad had been hit with two new murder cases. He didn’t mention Brandt, and she didn’t ask.
She felt a twinge of guilt over the squad’s overwork and that she wasn’t doing her part. Yet she had to quit thinking along that line. It was time she considered a new career or at least a career somewhere other than New Orleans. She couldn’t live on medical pay forever.
Maybe she could follow Brandt’s example and start over with another department. That would depend on Jenson’s willingness to give her a good recommendation. She’d talk with him about the possibility. Soon. But not quite yet. When they had that conversation, it would mean her career in New Orleans was really over.
Dalia finally called late Tuesday afternoon. “I have someone I want you to meet. If you don’t mind driving, why don’t you pick me up about five o’clock? We’re headed down into bayou country.”
“Who lives in the swamp?”
“You’ll see. Selena is better seen than described.”
After that cryptic comment, Dalia wouldn’t add even a hint. Maggie wasn’t fooled. She braced herself to meet the promised ghost expert.
Shortly after five, Maggie and Dalia drove across the river bridge and headed for the swamplands outside the city. Dalia talked constantly about herbs and powders for the next half hour, and Maggie was relieved when Dalia directed her to a side road on the left. The pavement gradually narrowed to one lane and wound back and forth through the bayou. Swamp grasses and glimpses of water appeared along the side, and the surface under the wheels deteriorated to gravel. Water lapped on both sides now, nearly reaching the negligible roadway.
Maggie gave her passenger a doubtful look. “Are we going much farther? We’ll need a boat soon.”
“Not far. You’ll know when you get there.”
Two minutes later they rounded a turn and drove into the dirt parking area behind what Maggie considered a shanty. These little swamp cabins—no more than a twenty by fifteen rectangular boxes with attached front porches that partially sat in the water—were all over the area, but she’d never had an occasion to visit one. She couldn’t imagine what kind of woman chose to live out here in the sticks. Was Selena a snake or alligator hunter?
When she asked Dalia, the other woman laughed. “I don’t think so, but I bet she’d win if she took either one on.”
The cabin door banged opened, and Maggie got her first view of Selena. Long white hair twisted into a single braid that hung over her left shoulder; a build like a sumo wrestler draped in a flowery muumuu and multiple strands of colorful, beaded necklaces. She was definitely memorable, but it was the wide smile and eyes filled with wisdom that caught Maggie’s attention.
“Dalia! How wonderful to see you.” Surprisingly fast on her feet, Selena swept forward and engulfed Dalia in a huge hug. For a moment, Maggie wondered if her distant cousin would be smothered by the woman’s ample breasts. But finally Selena released her and looked at Maggie. “And who is this?”
Please, no hugs. Maggie prepared to step back if the woman rushed her.
“As if you didn’t know. This is Maggie York. Sarah’s child.” Dalia turned to Maggie. “Selena is another cousin or maybe a great aunt of some kind.”
“Sarah’s, huh?” Selena inspected her. “Yes, I see the resemblance. That fiery hair, for sure. Well, come on in. What can I get you to drink?”
Both women declined the drinks but followed her inside. Maggie blinked. Except for the smell of melted wax and incense, the interior wasn’t at all what she’d expected. Neat, tidy, efficient. On one side, a dresser stood next to a cot covered with colorful knitted pillows. A yellow and white tabby had claimed one of them for her nap. A shawl, also knitted, draped over the back of a wood rocking chair. Pots of live herbs lined two walls, and on the other side of the room a small refrigerator—probably powered by a generator—and a propane cookstove served as the kitchen. A table for two squatted under the only window, which looked over the bayou. And everywhere, every single surface, held a sparkling crystal or a candle or both.
Over Selena’s objections, they took the straight-backed kitchen chairs and left her the rocker. The older woman settled her body in the rocker’s perfect fit and picked up a deck of tarot cards. Maggie suppressed a skeptical sigh. Now comes the hocus-pocus. Selena turned over the first card in the deck.
Despite her doubts, Maggie’s pulse jumped. The card held the dark figure of a skeleton. “Isn’t that the death card?”
Selena cocked her head at her. “It means change, not necessarily physical death.” Her head swung to Dalia. “Well, cousin, is that why you’ve brought her to me?”
“In a way. Maggie recently learned she has the gift and a unique affinity for spirits. She’s not happy about it, and I hoped you could add some perspective…and advice.”
The old woman hesitated, her eyes studying Maggie. “You’re awfully old to be introduced to witchcraft.”
Maggie’s brows lowered. She wasn’t looking for an introduction to witchcraft. And she certainly didn’t consider herself old.
“Selena, my dear, choose your words with better care.” Dalia’s voice held mild reprove.
“Oh, I didn’t mean you were old.” Selena gave Maggie an apologetic shake of her head. “Goodness no, you’re just a child, but most of us grew up with the Craft and learned it from infancy. It must seem very strange to you.”
“Well, yes. I don’t believe in magic.”
Selena looked at Dalia. “We do have our work cut out for us. Why don’t we start by telling me what happened that brought you here? How did your gift come to light?”
Between them, Maggie and Dalia filled in the details, from Maggie’s waking in the emergency room to the latest encounter with Hurst and JoJo in the hallway.
“What I really need to know is how to get rid of the ghosts,” Maggie said. “Something feels so off, creepy even…and the cold…” She shivered, remembering that ominous chill. “Of course I don’t want the voices back either.”
“You’ve felt the chill?” Selena looked at Dalia. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“I didn’t know.”
Maggie felt she’d missed something. Both women suddenly looked solemn. “Is that bad?”
“It’s normal, but—” Selena shook her head. “Let’s not begin there. The good news—and bad—is the voices are gone. Once they fade, they don’t come back. They were a temporary side effect of the trauma. In your case, it’s actually unfortunate you’ve lost that ability. Satisfying the spirits is easier if they can tell you what they want.”
Maggie blew out an audible breath. “Well, frankly, I’m relieved. I don’t want to hear them.”
“You will,” Selena said, nodding sagely. “Mark my words. Ghosts can be very persistent, and they won’t leave until their needs are met. Do you know what they want?”
“I think so. Hurst expects me to find his killer.”
Selena looked taken aback. “Why you? That seems a rather outrageous and dangerous demand, even for a ghost.”
“Actually, that part’s not so strange. I’m a police officer. Or was at the time I was shot.
“You were wounded in the line of duty?” The older woman pursed her lips and rocked gently back and forth. “You hadn’t mentioned that before.”
> “I assumed Dalia told you before we came. And Hurst was there when it happened.”
Selena stopped rocking. “He saw who shot you? Was he shot by the same person?”
“I’m not certain the same person held the gun, but I think the same man ordered it. Our cases are definitely tied together.”
“So if you find the shooter, you’ll both get what you want.” Selena leaned toward Maggie with a pointed look. “Each family member with a special ability was given it for a reason. Seeing into the future, speaking with animals, communing with the dead, healing the sick or injured. You’re being asked to do what you already do best. Solve crimes. Is that really so bad? Haven’t you always acted on behalf of the victims? Your gift makes it more personal.” Selena allowed a smile to surface. “It’s like you have clients who can assist you in doing your job even better. Hurst may be useful in finding your killer and his, if you let him.”
“How? He doesn’t say anything.”
“Did you consider he might be able to hear you? Talk to him.” When Maggie twisted her face in a doubtful frown, Selena gave an impatient snort. “You are the doubter, aren’t you? Ghosts are nothing more than confused dead people. They don’t understand what they’re supposed to do. In some ways they’re like children. You have to take charge. Tell them what you want. Nine times out of ten they’ll eventually do it.”
“What if Hurst is the exception?”
“Then he won’t pay any attention to you at all. But I don’t think that’s likely.” Selena spread her hands. “What do you have to lose?”
Maggie shrugged. “Are the ghosts of all murder victims out there wandering around? Are they going to come to me with requests?”
“Heavens, no. Ghosts have to have a personal connection to reveal themselves, even to someone with the ability to see them.”
“Like being at the murder scene or sharing a killer?” Maggie asked.
“Yes, that would be enough,” Selena agreed. “Most ghosts move on immediately, even some who died violent deaths. Only those with an unresolved issue make it through the veil, and they disappear when it’s resolved.”
