Harrison Investigations 2 Ghost Walk (31 page)

She began drifting to sleep, exhausted.

She didn't even start when she felt the hand on her hip, the soft whisper of his words as they drifted against her ear.

"How mad are you?" Brent asked.

She turned to him. Saw his face in the shadows, felt his warmth, the vitality and life that radiated from his body, so near her own.

"Pretty mad," she murmured.

"How mad?"

He touched her, sliding in beside her.

"Maybe not
that
mad," she said, and seconds later she whispered, "Never
that
mad."

She remembered vaguely that she had heard couples should never spend a night in anger. And she wondered even more vaguely if it was still night.

It didn't matter.

Later, just before she drifted to sleep, she wondered if she dared believe that they were a couple.

And she knew that she didn't care if she spent the rest of her life seeing ghosts. She wanted the rest of her life to be with him.

 

Massey stared at Brent Blackhawk with disbelief. "You're not even a cop, but you want me to let you talk to a victim of a purse snatching."

"Yes."

"You have a lot of nerve, buddy."

He did. The guy always managed to appear relaxed and in control—except when he was with Nikki DuMonde. When he thought that she was threatened. Then he was as wired as a pit bull.

That was important. Massey made a mental note of it.

"Look, we both want to catch the perp who killed a federal agent and an innocent woman."

"We still don't know the two are related. In fact, a lot of the guys don't think they can possibly have anything to do with each other."

"They're wrong, and we both know it," Brent said.

Massey felt a little chill. Could this guy read minds, as well?

"Look, it's not legal for me to give you names and addresses. You know that."

"We're talking public record," Brent reminded him. "There was a police report, right?"

"Public record and contacting a victim are two different things."

"It would be perfectly legal for you to leave a slip of paper on your desk, and then I could read it," Brent pointed out.

Massey shook his head. "Look, I'm supposed to be helping you out. But you haven't given me anything. Nothing at all."

Blackhawk actually hesitated, dead-black lashes falling over those green eyes that seemed to cut like a laser. "Give me a few hours. I may have something for you."

"What's wrong with now?"

"I just need a little time."

"Blackhawk—"

"Leave that slip of paper on your desk. I swear, I'll have something in a few hours."

Massey shook his head in exasperation.

"You're becoming a bigger pain in the ass than that FBI guy."

"Really?"

"Well, maybe not quite. Hell, now I've got some of his partners in here looking for him. The guy wants to be the Lone Ranger, without even letting Tonto in. Sorry, no offense meant, no ethnic slur intended."

"No offense taken," Brent said.

"At least he thinks the rest of his own office is as inept as we are. Hold on," he muttered.

He dug in his desk, then shoved a file toward Brent.

"I've been playing straight with you, Blackhawk. So help me, you'd better be playing straight with me."

"I'll be back with info. Honest Injun," Brent said wryly.

 

Nikki realized, as she went to meet the morning cemetery tour, mat she had forgotten to ask Brent about his late-night excursion. She had even forgotten to ask what he was doing that morning.

She was scheduled to work with Julian. She arrived at Madame's first, and as she nursed a
café au lait, she wondered how his romance was going, and then began to hope that he would show up. She realized that she was feeling good—better than she had felt in what seemed like forever.

And all because she'd had a good conversation with a ghost.

She had no intention of telling Julian about the previous evening, and she knew now why you rarely heard about people who had conversations with ghosts—they kept quiet because the rest of the world would think they were crazy.

Julian arrived in sunglasses, looking sharp in a polo shirt and chinos. He sat across from her, sipping coffee as if it were a lifesaver.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey, yourself."

"You look tired."

"She's a barracuda," he said.

"Susan?" she asked, smiling.

"You don't think I've started acquiring a harem by going to
Girls! Girls! Girls
! do you?"

"You do look a little worn." She laughed.

He groaned. "She never sleeps."

"I'll do the talking. You just trail behind, how's that?" she asked him.

He frowned. "You're looking chipper. How is it that you're so happy when I seriously doubt you're getting any more sleep than I am?"

She grinned in return. "It's just that I'm getting quality sleep," she assured him. "Hey, look. That's Harold Grant inside again, isn't it?"

As Julian turned, she studied the man inside
Madame's, buying coffee at the counter. She was surprised to feel a pang of pity for him, and she wondered why. He was a stalwart politician. To the best of her knowledge, he tried to keep his promises. And he hadn't lost the election. Not yet, anyway.

"He looks tired, too, huh?" she said to Julian.

"Why not? Billy Banks is yapping right at his heels."

The man walked out of the coffee shop, two of his aides in tow. Passing their table, he smiled at them absently and hurried on.

"He didn't even tell us to vote for him," Julian said.

"You think it makes all that much difference, who's in and who's out?"

Julian shrugged. "I don't know that much about politics and local government," he said, "but the guy looks tired. I wouldn't want the job. I can't imagine where in the world it would be harder to create a climate of honesty and ethics than here, in the land of
Girls! Girls! Girls
! People love New Orleans because there's a sense you can do what you want to do here—short of the obviously illegal, of course. If someone could come in and maintain that, and still wipe out the stuff that comes with it—you know, murder, hard-core drugs, child porn, all that stuff—I'd vote for him in a minute. Maybe that is Harold Grant. And maybe we need Billy Banks, although he seems to me like a Bible-thumper who doesn't show up in church come Sunday." Julian shrugged. "I'll probably be voting for old Harold. He looks worn but tough. You know, like a good old bulldog."

Nikki rose. "Our customers are starting to arrive."

"Where's lover boy this morning?" Julian asked.

"Off somewhere."

"Good heavens, the romance can't be over already?"

She smiled. "We didn't turn into one person," she told him.

He inched his sunglasses up. "No? Just about. It seems as if you don't need me anymore."

She kissed his cheek. "I'll always need you. You're my best friend. But… well, looks like you've got your barracuda."

He groaned. "You're not going to believe this—and if you repeat it, I'll call you a liar and wash your mouth out with soap—but I can't keep up with her."

Nikki laughed. "So where is she now?"

"Back at my place." He shook his head. "Nikki, I may have to move. Hey… maybe I could have to work late tonight, huh? We could have a planning meeting or something."

"Hey, I'm not the boss."

"Oh, convenient. Push us all around in his absence, then, when I need help, pretend that Max cares."

"I think he does care."

"Not enough to be here," Julian said.

"He knows what's going on," Nikki said. "He can be generous when he wants. And I'm willing to bet he knows everything that's happening."

"So call him. Tell him we need a planning meeting."

"Julian, be a big boy. Tell her that you have a life.
Now come on. Those people over there are looking for a tour guide."

Julian nodded and followed her over to the group that was forming.

 

The most striking thing about Nancy Griffin was her resemblance to Nikki, at least from the back.

She was the same height, and she had very similar hair. Her eyes were different, a deep brown, but she was attractive, about the same weight, and she moved in the same easy, naturally sensual way.

She met Brent at Café du Monde. He knew who she was the second he saw her coming.

"Mr. Blackhawk?" she asked, coming over to the table.

He had risen. "Yes, and thanks for meeting me."

She shrugged. "The police have basically said that they can't do anything about it. I've already canceled my cards." She sighed. "What I'm really sorry about are the pictures, some of nieces and nephews that I probably can't replace. One of my sister and me as little kids… well, you know. I lost some cash, but hey, that can be replaced."

"They may still find your discarded purse somewhere," Brent told her.

"I hope so. Are you some kind of special agent?" she asked. She flushed slightly. "The only reason I'm meeting you is that you called me from the police station."

"Smart girl. You checked that out?"

"Caller ID." She laughed. "Luckily, my cell was in my pocket. Anyway—"

She broke off as their impatient waiter came to the table. "Miss?"

"Café au lait, please," she said.

"No beignets?" Brent asked.

She smiled again. "I'm on a diet. Eternally. You can gain some mean weight in New Orleans. So… what can I tell you? It was night, and I was pretty much so an idiot. I saw the bum—that police officer did a perfect sketch of him—and a minute later, my purse was gone."

"From what I understand, you didn't actually see the person who lifted your bag."

She shook her head and thanked the waiter as he delivered her coffee. "No, I was standing by an alley."

"Off Royal?"

"Yes. I felt a tug, and it was gone. That's all there is to it. What else can I tell you?" she asked.

"I'm curious about the rest of your day," he told her. "Before your purse was stolen."

She frowned. "Why?"

"You might have been followed."

"Why would anyone follow me?"

Because you look just like someone else, he thought.

"You never know," he told her. "I may not be able to get your pictures or anything else back for you, but… " He shrugged. "I can try."

"Let's see… I came here for breakfast. I went to the Civil War museum, and then the new museum on World War II."

"Go on. Did you take any tours… go into the cemeteries, anything like that?"

"Not that day. I came here, went to the museums… and we—my girlfriends and I—were shopping in the French Quarter. It was night by then. Oh, we ate hamburgers that night at a place on the fringe of the old area… lunch was at the hotel. That's about it."

"You weren't in any of the cemeteries, you're certain?"

"I'm certain."

Brent was disappointed; he had been sure he would find a connection to Nikki, especially once he had seen Nancy.

He didn't show his disappointment. "I'll do anything I can to help find your pictures," he assured her.

"Thanks," she said, and asked, sounding puzzled, "Are you a cop?"

"No, I'm with a private agency, and what happened to you may be connected to a few other things going on," he told her.

"Ah." She lingered with her coffee cup, looking down at it for a minute, then back at him. "You're nicer than the cops. They just seemed tired. I guess they get too much of this kind of thing."

"Maybe."

"Well, feel free to call me if you need anything more."

"Thank you."

He set a bill on the table and rose. She did the same. "Seriously, feel free to call me any time," she told him.

He smiled. Not long ago, he might have been happy to pick up on the obvious invitation. "I will."

"You're not from here, I take it?" she said.

"Actually, I am."

"Are you married?" she asked bluntly.

"No. But… "

"Involved," she said with a sigh, and smiled, a dimple showing. "All the good ones are. Ignore me. And thanks. And if you can get those pictures back, great."

She started to walk away, hesitated, then turned back. "Actually," she said with a frown, "now that I think about it, we didn't come here for breakfast that morning. It was another little place. I can't think of the name of it. But you'd asked me about tours. Tour groups meet there. It was called… "

"Madame D'Orso's?" he suggested.

She snapped her fingers. "That's it! That's where we ate. Anyway, good luck."

With a wave, she was gone.

 

"Marie Laveau," Nikki said, "has the reputation of being
the
voodoo queen of New Orleans, though there were those in power before her and those who came after her. Actually, at the end of her life, she returned to being a devout Catholic, and throughout her practice, Marie combined gris-gris with statues of saints. There were those who said she was in league with the devil—Papa Las Bas, as he was known—and there were those who thought that she had divine connections. What she definitely had was an uncanny ability to listen. As she did the hair of the rich, she eavesdropped. She was careful to learn everything she could about everybody. She was definitely a woman who wanted power and knew how to achieve it.

"She died in 1881. We're here now at her grave. Many people come here now, some with their own beliefs—and others because it's the thing to do," Nikki said, smiling. "As you can see, there are exes and crosses marked on her grave… and someone left an offering of a po'boy! Interesting. The cemetery insects are going to be very happy. As to Marie's spirit, many believe that it rises every June 23, St. John's Eve. They believe that she reigns over a magnificent ritual carried out on that night."

Nikki's audience appeared to be entranced. No matter what other stories she and the others told in the cemetery, Marie Laveau's legend was the one people wanted to hear.

She saw Julian at the back of the crowd, leaning against one of the tombs. His head was lowered. He really was exhausted, she thought.

"So her fortune-telling was just repeating what she'd overheard, right?" a man asked.