Behind them sat Jack Blair in the doorway where he’d been the last time.
“We meet again,” Landry said, and the man nodded. “What can you tell me about the sign?”
“I dreamed it too. It hung there like she told you. The words were, LaPiere Building, a dash, and the year 1803.”
“When did these dreams of yours happen?”
“Who knows? Time doesn’t mean much to me. I dream stuff so real about that building it about scares me to death.” He reached into his box, pulled out a can of beer, and took a swig.
Tiffany leaned up and whispered something in Landry’s ear. Then she asked Jack exactly where the sign on the building had been.
He pointed. “Up high on the stone just below where the roof eave is. It was long and narrow, centered under the middle one of those little windows up top.”
She gave Landry a satisfied smile. “He gave you the precise location I whispered. Now do you believe me?”
He laughed and fibbed that he was convinced. Corroboration from a drunk was barely better than nothing. Tiffany seemed so sincere, so mystified and so nervous that he wanted to believe her story, but in this business, there was no room for his wants. From personal experience he’d become a believer in the supernatural, and his fans relied upon Landry to separate unexplainable mysteries from hocus-pocus, tall tales and rumors.
Something had changed about the building. Nailed to the gate was a for sale sign with a Realtor’s name and number, and a lockbox so agents could get in.
Prospects always wanted a walk-through. That meant instead of its being off-limits, Landry could now get inside and poke around. He wasn’t a buyer, although he didn’t mind posing as one if it did the job.
He asked Jack how long the sign had been there. He said people had come and gone over the past few days, and yesterday a woman had hung the sign.
“Let’s peek inside,” Landry said to Tiffany. “It can’t be so scary in the daytime.”
Her emphatic answer proved she didn’t agree with his last statement.
Jack said, “You can’t get in because the door’s locked. I tried it this morning, just for kicks. But you won’t catch me going back in by myself. I guarantee the place is haunted. I saw ghosts. A girl and an old woman who said something to me. Scared the crap out of me.”
“When were you inside?”
“I don’t know. Sometime after I saw you in there, I guess. I was up on that balcony in the courtyard —"
Landry stopped him. “There hasn’t been a balcony or stairway for years, and so you couldn’t have stood on it. You’re lying. I can’t imagine why, but you are. Come on, Tiffany. Let’s go.”
Jack stared blankly at them. “Maybe you’re right. Sometimes I can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t. But I sure thought I was in there.”
As they walked away, he shouted, “Wait! Look here! I tore my jacket. That old woman pushed me off the balcony, and I tore my jacket. Look here!” They turned back and saw Jack holding up a coat with a rip in the side. “That proves it!”
Landry shot back, “So you tore your jacket. That’s not proof.”
“Wait. I want to ask him something,” Tiffany said as she ran back.
“You say there was a girl. What did she look like?”
“Uh, she was young and pretty. She had beautiful chocolate skin and she was wearing a white dress.”
She knelt and patted his shoulder. “You’re not lying, because I saw her too.”
Mr. B’s Bistro had a thirty-minute wait for tables. Instead they went into the bar, he chatted with his friend the bartender, and soon they had a tiny corner table by a window overlooking Royal Street.
“You must come here a lot,” she said, and he admitted although he enjoyed it, the dining room traffic often forced him to eat elsewhere.
“The Quarter’s full of wonderful restaurants, and the Brennan family’s been part of the New Orleans dining tradition for decades. I love some of their other places, but this one’s my favorite lunch spot.” The waiter came, they ordered Abita Ambers, and she asked him what he recommended.
“Are you a crawfish fan?” the server asked.
“I’m from LA. This is my second time in Louisiana. What do you think?”
He laughed. “Okay, no crawfish. Try the gulf redfish. We can fix it any way you like.”
Landry’s phone rang; he looked at the screen and excused himself. Cate rarely called during the day, and she was surprised to hear he was having lunch with Tiffany from the ghost tour. He explained the situation and she said, “How weird you were just at the building. I was calling to let you know that it’s on the market.”
“How do you know that? The sign just went up yesterday.”
“Because of Dad’s real estate work. He’s got all these online services that alert him when properties that meet certain criteria go on the market.”
Cate’s father was Madison John Adams, a wealthy and prominent Galveston psychiatrist who also bought distressed properties and tax liens. He paid pennies on the dollar and made money when owners repaid their overdue taxes or when he sold the real estate. Doc Adams owned several hundred parcels, many of them in south Louisiana, and he always looked for the next bargain.
Landry told her he had to get back to the table but asked if she could figure out a way to get him into that old building alone. She said she’d try.
An hour later she texted.
4-6-9-1.
That’s the code to the lockbox on the front gate.
CHAPTER TWELVE
He read Cate’s text aloud, and they wondered how she got the code so fast. No one appreciated Cate Adams’s resourcefulness more than Landry, but even he was surprised.
He looked at Tiffany. “Now we can get in. Are you sure you won’t go?”
“Yes! That place terrifies me. You don’t understand —"
“I do, but I was hoping by facing reality — it’s just a decaying old building with an eerie past, like a hundred other structures in the Quarter — you might overcome your dreams and fears.”
“You don’t get it. It’s not just an old building. Evil things hide in there. I can’t explain how I know, but it’s true. Why do you want to put me through that? It’s a haunted building! Don’t you think ghosts exist? Can’t you understand?”
Landry said, “Of course, but nothing so far tells me that’s what we have here. I went inside the other day, all the way to the courtyard. I had to leave when Jack Blair yelled at me to get out. It scares him too, but for me to believe, I have to see it myself.”
Tiffany said, “Remember when I ran back to Jack? I asked him to describe the girl in the building. She’s the same person who’s in my memories. Same face, same dress, everything. She’s a ghost, she’s haunting the building, and you want me to go inside to face her.”
“I don’t mean to pressure you. I’m trying to help.”
“Help who? You or me? You’re dying to find out if something happens to me inside. Go by yourself. I’ll pass. Let’s get out of here. How about giving me a tour of your TV station?”
As they walked, Landry pondered why he kept pushing her. That wasn’t how he worked, but it appeared something was also enticing him into those ancient walls.
He introduced her to his co-workers as a friend from California. She watched their team broadcast the four o’clock news, after which he drove her to the airport. Promising to stay in touch, she waved goodbye as she entered the terminal.
In one respect Landry considered this a day wasted, but he also knew staying with Tiffany had been the right thing to do. She was lost and confused, and in a way so was he. Her dreams were significant, but how? She and Jack claimed to have seen a sign that didn’t exist. They both saw the same girl. And what about the nagging feeling he was also being drawn in?
On his way back to town, he crafted a plan. He called Cate and learned her father had had prior dealings with the same listing agent. He’d bought several distressed properties through the firm, and the Re
altor provided the code without hesitation. They saw her dad as a potential buyer with the means to give them a quick sale.
They talked about Tiffany’s seemingly hopeless situation. If she could be believed, her dream sequences had brought her to the Toulouse building where she found Jack Blair, a man with experiences eerily similar to hers.
She had returned to New Orleans in an apparently somnambulistic state, which he explained was frightening but not unique. There were documented cases of patients sleepwalking, going outside, talking to others and even getting on a plane. Medical journals believed somnambulism could be related to high levels of stress or anxiety. Landry suggested that be why Tiffany woke up on an airplane with no recollection of being there.
Tiffany’s situation differed from typical somnambulism because of the direct connection between her dreams and the building. She was drawn to an unfamiliar city and a particular place, and Landry thought it something worth investigating.
“What are you going to do with the lockbox code?” Cate asked, and he said he intended to look around inside the building later tonight after the crowds died down and Jack was asleep. He wanted to visit with an open mind. The only things he’d learned last time were that the fountain still existed, but the balcony didn’t. That was a start, but there was much more to learn.
She told him to be careful and laughed when he feigned disappointment that she believed he took unnecessary risks. Back at his apartment, he ordered a pizza and tried to watch a documentary while his mind wandered back to the building.
He left around ten. A light drizzle earlier had turned to steady rain as Landry went downstairs, raised his umbrella and stepped out onto St. Philip Street. The night before Mardi Gras was among the busiest of the year in the French Quarter. As he navigated the narrow streets, he noticed that although some rowdy folks were still outdoors, most had sought refuge from the rain in the noisy bars he passed.
He approached the building and looked into Jack’s doorway. A pair of legs covered by a tarp stuck out of the box. The rain was coming down in sheets, but Jack seemed oblivious. That suited Landry; he didn’t want company.
He found the lockbox hanging wide open on a slat. The open padlock had a key in it and the gate stood open. It appeared someone was inside — maybe an agent and his client. He pushed the gate open and looked down the dark hallway. There were no voices and no footsteps. The building appeared deserted.
He closed the gate and walked down the hallway. The shadowy courtyard was punctuated by slashes of lightning that tore across the sky as the rain intensified. Raising his umbrella, he stood near the fountain and examined the side of the building.
What is that? What am I seeing?
Between the darkness and the downpour, it was difficult to make anything out. For a moment he thought he saw a balcony, but he knew better. They’d torn it down years ago.
As he stared, a huge streak of lightning lit the patio for several seconds. It was there! He stepped back to get a better angle and stumbled over something on the ground behind him. He fell, landing hard on his left hip next to whatever he tripped over. He reached out and felt cloth.
He fumbled for his phone and directed the light.
On the hard stones in the rain lay Tiffany Bertrand.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Landry shook her and called her name, but Tiffany did not respond. He called 911, covered her with his jacket, and racked his brain to come up with a believable explanation how he and an injured woman were inside a vacant building at night in a rainstorm. He had dropped her at the airport hours ago. She should have been in California by now, but here she lay in the rain.
He called Cate and they talked until he heard a siren. Unable to rouse her, the EMTs took her to the ER at University Hospital. The ambulance’s flashing lights had attracted a crowd of gawkers, and as it pulled away, Landry stepped onto the sidewalk and locked the gate.
Someone shouted, “That’s Landry Drake. Hey, Landry! Did a ghost kill somebody in there?”
He ignored them, hailed a cab and went to the hospital. Located downtown, this one handled most of the incidents from the French Quarter and lower-income areas. At midnight on the beginning of Mardi Gras day, it was as crazy there as on Bourbon Street. The waiting room was filled with people who took up every seat and most of the floor space too. He gave a bored clerk Tiffany’s name and his phone number, and she told him to take a seat. Someone would contact him eventually.
Pairs of eyes glanced his way as people wondered what the ghost hunter was doing here. A child far too young to be here this late said, “I seen you on the television. You’re some kind of star.”
“Not exactly,” he replied with a smile. “Why aren’t you home —" He regretted the words the moment they came out, and a large woman next to the boy snapped, “’Cause ain’t nobody there to watch him, like it’s any of your business.”
He apologized and stared at his phone, averting his eyes from the teeming mass of humanity in this place for one awful reason or another. Sooner than he expected, he got a text telling him to go through a numbered door at the back of the room. He maneuvered around people, opened the door and looked for a nurse. Instead he found a police sergeant in his fifties who was all business. He ushered Landry to one of several tiny rooms apparently used for interrogations. As he sat, Landry thought how odd it was that an emergency room contained a makeshift police station.
The cop took Landry’s name, address and phone number and asked what happened in the building. He said he spent the day with Tiffany and dropped her at the airport around six. He didn’t know why she didn’t fly home or how she got inside the building. When he came to look around, he found her unconscious, and called 911.
“What’s the relationship between you two?”
“Nothing. I met her one time before today. She and I were on a ghost tour —"
The officer stopped taking notes and looked Landry in the eyes. “Mr. Drake, I know who you are and I have no interest in creating problems for you, but you need to help me out here. You have to be completely honest with your answers. Here’s what I know so far. You’re in an old building in the middle of the night. There’s a woman with you. She’s lying unconscious on the pavement. You call 911. The doc says she lay there for hours. She’s in bad shape, Mr. Drake. Really bad shape. Let’s cut to the chase. What happened to her, and why did you wait so long to call for help?”
There was no misunderstanding what the cop was inferring. Even Landry knew the story didn’t ring true. He was in the middle of a situation he couldn’t explain. The officer thought he was the perpetrator of a crime, and he was asking for answers.
“I want an attorney.”
“I’m not surprised,” the policeman said with a sigh. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. It ain’t pretty, but it’s procedure.”
A moment later the door to the waiting room opened, and the cop marched Landry through the room filled with curious onlookers and outside to a cruiser. Everyone knew Landry’s hands were cuffed behind him, but the officer was decent enough to cover the cuffs with Landry’s jacket. As dozens of faces stared through the emergency room windows, he pushed Landry’s head down until he plopped into the back of the sedan.
When they pulled into the garage at the jail, there was a TV news van filming a line of cop cars bringing unfortunates to justice. The cameras were rolling as drunks stumbled into the building.
The cop said, “I’ll do you a favor. Keep your head down and do what I say.”
Instead of stopping at the prisoner entrance, he pulled further down to a door marked Authorized Personnel Only. “This is where attorneys come in,” he explained as he helped Landry cover his head with his jacket for the quick trip inside. They walked down a long hallway into an enormous and very noisy room.
If the hospital was a crazy place on Mardi Gras, the jail’s intake area was mind-boggling. A teenaged girl with her hands cuffed behind her back vomited on the floor, people in the drunk tank shrieked f
rom the throes of withdrawal, and prostitutes wearing little more than a few beads stared off into space as they waited for their pimps to bail them out.
The cop put Landry in a tiny room. “Who’s your lawyer?” he asked, but Landry said first he wanted to talk to Shane Young, a NOPD detective with whom he’d worked on another case. The officer refused, saying there was no way in hell he’d call a detective in the middle of the night just to let him know Landry Drake was in jail.
“Please call him. I promise you he’ll come down.”
And to the cop’s astonishment, Young heard the summary of the situation and said he was on his way.
“Tell Landry he’s free to call a lawyer, but he can wait until I get there and decide. Don’t give him a hard time,” Young added, and the officer wondered if the detective would feel that way if he’d seen the girl’s condition. Somebody had beaten the hell out of her, and even famous people did bad things sometimes.
Landry knew a respected criminal defense attorney, but he said he’d wait. The officer brought him a bottle of water and left him alone. Half an hour later, Detective Young and the cop came in.
“Hey, Landry. Sounds like you’re in a mess. Have you called an attorney?”
Landry said no, and when the policeman set a recorder on the table, Young pushed it back. “He’s not represented, and this isn’t a formal interrogation. I want to ask him a few questions. Do you know who he is?”
Irritated, the cop smirked and said, “Sure. Everybody knows Landry Drake. That doesn’t make him innocent —"
“Agreed, but sometimes the things he’s involved in seem more bizarre than they are.” He looked at Landry. “I’m not cutting you slack; if you’re beyond the presumption of innocence, we’ll handle this strictly by the book.”
Landry nodded. He understood, and he appreciated Young’s willingness to listen. He explained everything, beginning with the ghost tour and ending with finding Tiffany unconscious on the pavement.
“Any initial thoughts? Could someone inside the building have attacked her?”
Die Again (The Bayou Hauntings Book 6) Page 5
