by Ally Shields
Brandt left them photographing the area and pulled the front door closed behind him. As he slid onto the sun-baked seat of his unmarked Ford, he turned the AC on high, retrieved his shaver from the glove box, and headed back to the precinct to run the info on Hurst’s buddies and the girlfriend’s workplace. He also wanted to see that matchbook. It might tell him where Bobby spent his time. The head shots, the clean up…not random or spur-of-the-moment. Careful planning involved. Why would a two-bit thug merit such attention? He intended to put Hurst’s life under a microscope and find out.
Three hours later, Brandt pushed away from his gray metal desk in the major crimes squad room at District 13, stood, and walked over to study the Hurst/Harrington murder board. At best the guy had been a low-level drug dealer, not a hit man. If he was York’s shooter, why? What would make him step out of his league and go after a cop? As far as Brandt could tell, York and Hurst had no prior connection. Same with JoJo Harrington. The answer had to be somewhere in the other people they knew.
He grabbed a printout from his desk. It contained the list of Hurst’s associates and their last known addresses, JoJo’s parents, and her work address. He glanced at his captain’s office. His partner Eddie wouldn’t be back from vacation for three weeks. He was tempted to ask for a partner to help run down leads, but he hated getting used to someone new, and the unit hadn’t exactly been welcoming. York had been popular, and they saw him as her replacement. He shook his head. He might as well stick it out on his own. When Eddie retired in four months, he’d worry about someone new. He grabbed his gun from his desk drawer and headed out the door.
His first stop was JoJo’s family home. Her middle class parents couldn’t explain why their daughter had dropped out of school or associated with someone like Hurst. They’d never met any of JoEllen’s friends, much less enemies. They’d loved her, spoken to her often, and she’d visited every two weeks, but she hadn’t lived at home for eight years. They referred him to Dixie, a woman she’d mentioned from work.
Brandt located the Creole Cafe easy enough. Maximum seating was under thirty, suggesting a fast-food menu, and it smelled of fried everything—shrimp, okra, spicy chicken. Management didn’t have much to offer regarding JoJo. She’d worked as a waitress for two years and been an OK employee. Not a ringing endorsement.
When he asked for Dixie, the manager pointed to a bleached blonde carrying a loaded tray. “Don’t keep her long. We’re busy.”
So much for cooperation and caring. But it didn’t take Brandt more than a couple of questions to discover Dixie and JoJo had been workplace friends only.
“I’m not sure she saw anybody after hours except Bobby. They were always together. I can’t believe this happened.” Dixie brushed a stray wisp of hair back from her face and frowned at him. “Who would do something like that? She was just a waitress.”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.” He handed her his card. “If you think of anything else…”
“Where were they found? Her place or his?”
Brandt paused. “He had a place of his own? I assumed he was living with her.”
“He’d just taken an apartment on Chartres Street. I dropped her off there last week.”
He left with the address scrawled on a drink napkin stuffed in his pocket.
CHAPTER THREE
Maggie was still fuming over Brandt’s high-handed treatment when she called Coridan. “You might have told me.”
“Told you what?”
“I just met Detective Brandt, who informed me he’s in charge of my case.”
“Oh, hell, Maggie. I’m sorry you found out that way. I was going to tell you that they forced me out, but every time I started…well, you haven’t been exactly yourself.”
“That’s BS, and you know it. I don’t need you acting like my big brother, Coridan. I just need access to information. How have you been giving me updates if you’re off the case?”
“It hasn’t been easy,” he said. “I’ve gone out of my way for you.”
Stopped by a stab by guilt, she drew a quick breath. “I know that, and I appreciate it. But for God’s sake, don’t lie to me anymore. Who is this Brandt guy?”
“Your replacement.”
Ouch. Well, Maggie, you took that one on the nose.
Coridan went on. “He transferred in from Boston right after you were shot. I guess he’s OK. We don’t socialize much.”
Yeah, she could imagine her squad freezing him out. While they meant well, and she valued the loyalty, it didn’t make her feel better in the long run. Brandt would need a little cooperation, and she wanted the case solved.
“Do me a favor. Stay close to the investigation. I’d still appreciate knowing anything you hear. And help Brandt get up to speed on whatever he needs. Encourage the other guys to pitch in too.” She paused before adding, “It isn’t his fault I’m not there.”
“Yeah, OK. I’ll do what I can.”
“And Ray, I mean it—please don’t lie to me again. I can handle anything except that.”
“Got ya, kid. I’ll call if anything breaks.” His words were casual, friendly, but she got the feeling he wasn’t eager to help Brandt with anything. In fact, he sounded annoyed, as if he wanted off the phone. She let him go.
Maggie set out for her meeting with Dalia LeMay with a scowl on her face. So Brandt was her replacement, huh? Arrogant SOB. If she could have had just a few more minutes at the crime scene… She sighed. Not that she wouldn’t have thrown him out if their roles had been reversed. Maybe it was his blunt manner—or more likely those eyes that saw too much. She shouldn’t have let him get to her like that. She’d already wasted too much time reliving their conversation and the things she should have said.
Stretching her shoulders to relax her tense muscles, Maggie turned into the public park on Rampart Street. She scanned the crowd strolling the paths or seated on benches and searched for a woman who fit the sparse description she’d been given—curly gray hair, flowered shirt. Maggie had chosen the location, refusing to visit Dalia’s home or let her near her own apartment. Too much like acknowledging the dubious connection before she had proof this wasn’t some kind of scam.
A woman waved both hands at her. Maggie switched direction and studied her alleged relative. Older, yes, and the flowered shirt was there, but not the matronly figure she’d expected. Skinny jeans flattered a sixty-year-old body that had retained its fitness.
“I’m pleased to see you, Maggie,” Dalia said, giving her a ready smile. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”
“Sorry if I seemed rude before.”
The woman’s eyes lit with humor. “No more than I expected…calling you out of the blue like that, revealing a heritage you knew nothing about. Shall we sit?” Dalia pointed toward an open bench.
“If you like.” Maggie chose the far end of the five-foot bench, angling her body so she could watch the older woman’s face. “Why wouldn’t my mother have told me about this family history? She must not have believed in it.”
“To the contrary. She moved from New Orleans to avoid it.”
Dalia’s frank words hung on the air. They might explain a lot—why her mother never talked about New Orleans or their relatives, why they’d never come back for visits, and why her mother was so upset when Maggie took the job with the NOPD.
“I don’t understand why she’d need to do that. What exactly is the it we’re talking about?”
Dalia gave her a rueful look. “There’s no easy answer. I hope you’ll be patient and listen until I’m finished.”
“I’m here, aren’t I? And I have a couple of hours.” Maggie heard the challenge in her tone, but she didn’t try to soften it.
“Then let’s get started.” Dalia set a large bag between them. “Our family has lived in this area since the early 1700s, long enough to respect the old ways. Current New Orleans witchcraft…” She lifted a finger when Maggie opened her mouth to protest. “Not yet.”
Maggie crossed her
arms and subsided.
“As I started to say,” Dalia continued, “modern witchcraft is a hodge-podge of voodoo, hoodoo, traditional European craft, and various other beliefs and practices. But true Louisiana magic is more intuitive and relies on innate abilities more than ritual.” She gestured toward the bag. “Look inside.”
Maggie pulled the top open with one hand. Candles, bottles of oil, crystals, small bundles of dried herbs. Everything but a pointy hat and a broom. “So?”
“These are useful for spellcasting, blessings, and as focal points for many spiritual rituals, but they’re only things. Real magic is here.” She laid a hand over her heart. “It’s a gift fostered by belief and acceptance.”
“That rules me out then.”
“Sometimes a gift cannot be denied.”
“Gift? Not exactly how I’d put it.” Maggie stifled a flash of annoyance and clamped her lips tight. If her recent experiences were any part of it, a curse would be more accurate, but she wasn’t ready to discuss her own issues.
Dalia cocked her head, her expression sympathetic. “I’d heard you’d had…problems. It’s why I called.”
“Just who are you?” Maggie demanded. “You said you’re related, and you’ve implied you knew my mother. Can you prove it?”
“Of course, I can. I have pictures from family gatherings. I even have a baby picture of you before Sarah took you away.” She picked up her bag and dug in the bottom. “I was sure you’d ask. This is you, your mother, and father a week after you were born.” She handed Maggie a Kodak print. “It was the last time I saw her…or you.”
The picture was grainy and cracked from bending, but the handsome couple was her parents all right. Thirty years younger and more carefree than she’d ever seen them. Yet, soon after it was taken, they’d put New Orleans behind them forever. “They look happy. What made them leave so abruptly?”
“Ophelia. That foolish old woman. Never could keep her mouth shut until the day she died. She told your mama you were unusually gifted with a strong affinity for spirits. Spooked Sarah something fierce, and three weeks later your family was gone.”
There was that word gift again. “Did my father know about all of this?”
“Oh, yes. He was more accepting than Sarah—I suppose because he didn’t have to live with it—but he loved her, and they set out to start a new life. I tried to contact Sarah over the years, but she didn’t return my calls or letters. Then we heard about the plane crash. I’m so sorry, Maggie. I loved her too, and I can only imagine how awful the last five years have been.”
Maggie gave a brief nod, handed the photo back, and clenched her hands in her lap. She wasn’t going to talk about the shock of the plane crash. Losing both parents at once wasn’t just awful, it was devastating. “What made Ophelia tell her I was gifted? I would have been less than a month old.” She couldn’t resist adding, “Surely even witches don’t do magic that young.”
“Your aura. It’s very bright.”
Maggie gave an audible huff of disbelief. “Now wait. I said I’d listen, but not to pure fantasy. I don’t have an aura.”
Dalia popped to her feet and picked up her bag. “Come with me.”
“Where? I thought we agreed to talk here,” Maggie said, not budging.
“To my place. I have things to show you.”
Maggie slowly stood, debating with herself. Dalia might be a little odd, but she didn’t seem dangerous. And she had the photo…
Two hours later, Maggie leaned back on Dalia’s hemp-colored couch and clutched one of the green and ivory throw pillows against her chest. When she realized the defensive reaction, she set the pillow aside. “I am not a witch.”
Dalia shrugged. “Maybe not, but you saw my aura in the darkroom. You’ve heard the history of our family. Seen the photos. And I think there’s something you’ve yet to tell me.”
Maggie had seen a faint glow around the woman after Dalia taught her to focus…or it was a trick of her mind induced by suggestion. The photos were real enough. The story about French witches? Anybody could make up a good tale. But why would Dalia do it? Was this some kind of scam? Would a request for money come next?
“Just supposing I believed any of this, what does it mean to me?”
“That you need to control and use the gift you’ve been given or it will mess up your life. Isn’t that what you fear the most?” The woman’s clear hazel eyes studied her.
Maggie stood and paced across the room. “I don’t know what you think you know—”
“Tell me why you’re not a cop anymore.”
Maggie whirled to look at the older woman calmly sitting in a rattan rocker. “I am a cop. It’s just…I’m taking some time off.”
When Dalia lifted her brows, Maggie went on. “Ok. I may have seen or heard a few things that concerned my captain.”
Dalia let out an audible sigh and leaned forward. “Tell me what happened. Maybe I can help you make sense of it.”
“They say it’s PTSD.”
“But we both know better.”
Maggie bristled, then her shoulders slumped. She felt a compulsion to confide in this woman. The empathy, the lack of judgment, were seductive. Since those first days in the hospital when she’d blurted everything and been ordered into a psych eval—which she’d barely passed by lying her head off—she’d had to watch everything she said. She’d lost weight, ten pounds she didn’t need to lose, and developed dark circles around her eyes. Even her best friend Annie had doubts about her—not openly, because Maggie couldn’t bring herself to talk about the sightings any longer, but Annie was worried. Maybe Dalia’s tenuous family connection made the difference.
For whatever the reason, it all came spilling out: waking in the hospital recovery room and hearing dozens of jumbled voices, seeing shadowy figures literally filling the room. She’d panicked, closed her eyes, and drifted off again. When she’d woken the next time, it had been better, but then the individual sightings began…in her room, in the hallway. As the weeks passed, the voices had grown quiet and the sightings less frequent, but the images became more distinct. Like the man from the bar…um, the one who looked like Hurst.
“So what was that? His ghost?” Maggie asked flippantly.
“Ghost, spirit. Whatever term you prefer. They’re all around us. But we don’t see them unless they want to be seen. You were looking for him, and he found you.”
Maggie whipped her head around. “Are you saying I called this thing to me?”
Dalia shrugged. “He wouldn’t have come unless he had business with you. He was trying to tell you something.”
“Like what? His killer’s name?” This was just too weird. Now ghosts wanted her to solve their murders?
“Possibly. Pay attention next time.”
“I don’t want a next time. Besides, he didn’t say anything.” Maggie frowned. Curiosity prompted her to ask, “How do you expect me to communicate with a ghost?”
“I don’t expect you to do anything.” Dalia rose and placed her arm around Maggie’s shoulder. “You’ll figure it out…or he will. When you’re ready, I’ll take you to someone who knows more about ghosts than I do. In the meantime, I can help you understand your basic abilities.”
Maggie stiffened. Ok, here it comes. The pitch. Just when she’d thought Dalia might be the real thing—or at least well intentioned. “How much is this going to cost me?”
Her cousin’s arm dropped, and the woman stepped away. “Why nothing. I wouldn’t accept payment. I simply thought we could talk.” Dalia released a resigned sigh. “You’re much too negative, Maggie, but eventually you’ll want answers…and solutions. When you do, come see me.”
Maggie hesitated, tempted to say…what? That she believed her? Oh, no, going way too far. Instead she turned and headed for the door. She paused before stepping outside. “I’ll call if I change my mind.”
Maggie walked away from Dalia’s house lost in thought. She didn’t realize she had a tail for several blocks, not unti
l she looked over her shoulder and glimpsed a black and gold hoodie. Geez, this thing just didn’t give up. Anger flared, but it felt better than paralyzing fear. She picked up her pace and continued to shoot wary glances behind her at the image that faded in and out between shade and sunshine. Maybe it would eventually disappear. She could only hope.
But Dalia had said to pay attention to it. The idea of communicating with a ghost was absurd, but she slowed her steps, finally stopped, and turned. The figure halted also, then reversed and started moving the other direction.
What the— She frowned at the retreating…whatever it was. If it wanted to tell her something so badly, this was a strange way to go about it. Then the figure stopped again, the hooded head turned and seemed to be looking back at her from lighter orbs within the hood’s shadows. An eerie sensation trickled over her arms, and she suddenly knew it wanted her to follow.
Maggie’s breath quickened. God, she was losing it fast. But on the off chance there was any truth in all this hocus-pocus, she cautiously started after him. Over the next fifteen minutes, she almost turned back several times—this was ridiculous, not to mention creepy—but the figure moved on, and she followed. He finally entered an apartment building on Chartres Street.
She stopped to check the names on the apartment buzzers. A handwritten label under 314 read B Hurst.
CHAPTER FOUR
After talking with Dixie, Detective Brandt was eager to check out Hurst’s apartment, but he wanted to do it by the book. He called in for a warrant, and while he was waiting, he followed up on the matchbook lead by stopping at Daddy Mo’s lounge. It was closed, but he saw movement inside and pounded on the door until a man finally answered.
“Sorry, we don’t open till nine. You’ll have to come back.”
Brandt held up his badge. “Just a few questions about one of your customers.” He showed him Hurst’s mug shot. “Know this guy?”
