Ghost Walk

by Heather Graham

  Great mouth. Full, sensual lips set against a firm chin. He couldn’t see any of that at the moment. It was simply ingrained in his memory.

  She was seated at the table, a massive book in front of her. An officer at her side was slowly turning pages.

  She shook her head, looking up at the assisting officer.

  Haunted eyes, Massey had said.

  Good description. Her friend was dead, but there was more than just fear, anger and frustration in her gaze. There was something like desperation. A feeling she undoubtedly loathed, since it was apparent that she’d been blessed with determination and no lack of courage.

  Brent gazed down at the desk in front of him. Massey had given him a nice clear shot of Tom Garfield in his last disguise. Garfield had been good at his work. He had infiltrated cartels in South Florida, Texas and California, fingering those who needed to be fingered, then getting away clean. He’d been a good-looking, hardened man in his mid-thirties, and not even the scraggly beard and dirty countenance he’d taken on really hid his inner strength. That would have worked well for him, trying to get close to the big leaguers. He’d had the ability to bluff his way through the toughest situation.

  Brent’s gaze shifted from the photo before him on the desk back toward the conference room.

  “She’s looking for people she might have seen the night before her friend’s death?”

  “She’s got a ‘hunch,’” Massey said wearily. “She saw some guy when she was with her friend, and says she saw him again last night, out on the street. I tried to tell her that she might see the same tourist types over and over again. Even the same bums. And that it doesn’t matter how many times she might have seen the guy—it wouldn’t make him guilty of murder. But what the hell, I got nothing else. So she’s looking through mug shots.”

  “For a bum?” Brent said a little sharply.

  Massey frowned, looking at him. Not angry, just curious. “Yeah, someone she saw begging at a café.”

  “Would you mind?” Brent asked Massey, indicating Garfield’s photo.

  “You’re going to show her a dead guy?” Massey said.

  “Hey, you got nothing else, right?”

  “She couldn’t have seen a dead guy on the street last night,” Massey said.

  Brent shrugged, smiling dryly. “How many of those books have you got? This could go on a long, long time.”

  “But that’s a dead guy.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Hey…go ahead. Knock yourself out.”

  Nikki was tired. Faces swam before her.

  New Orleans had quite a photo gallery of suspicious types. She was glad they hadn’t asked her to go through all the mug shots on the computer. She would have an even worse headache by now.

  They’d even narrowed down the choices for her, looking specifically for a white guy in his late twenties to early forties.

  Scary…to see all the possible perps!

  “Nothing?” Julian asked a little tensely.

  She shook her head. Julian was growing impatient. He’d gotten her an emergency appointment with his shrink, and he was clearly anxious to get going.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  “No one even close, huh?” That question came from Marc Joulette, Owen Massey’s younger partner. “People can change, you know. Minus a beard, dyed hair, that kind of thing,” he pointed out helpfully. Whereas Massey was a big solid guy with a ruddy complexion, Joulette was taller, leaner, darker. Of mixed race, he was neither white nor black but a striking golden hue. Though he was too striking ever to blend into a crowd, Nikki assumed he must be one hell of a detective, because he had great people skills. His voice was gentle and melodic. Soothing, comforting. His manner was equally gentle. She had a feeling he could garner a confession before the suspect even knew he’d been talking.

  Nikki sat back, rubbing her temples, shaking her head again. “I’m sorry. I really want to find this guy. I know you can’t arrest people on feelings, but I can’t help but believe he’s involved somehow. But I can’t find him, and I feel like I’m wasting your time,” she apologized.

  Julian made a grunting sound. She ignored him.

  Detective Joulette smiled. “Hey, this job is pure tedium at times, and you’re not wasting my time. It’s the little things that sometimes get the job done, huh? We can go to the computer, or…” He paused, turning.

  Nikki and Julian both looked toward the door, as well.

  She barely swallowed back a gasp.

  The man standing in the doorway was the same man who had come striding into the fight the night before.

  Like Joulette, he would never blend into any crowd.

  He stood about six-two, with a solid, yet lean, agile-looking build. His dead-straight black hair was telltale, though Nikki vaguely remembered someone telling her once that hair couldn’t really be black, only a very dark brown.

  Could have fooled her. This man’s hair was so dark it wasn’t just black, but jet.

  Then there were his eyes. A deep and startling green against the bronze of his skin.

  She met those eyes with surprise. And as her eyes touched his, she felt a strange tremor deep inside. Just as she had when their hands had met the night before.

  “You,” Julian breathed.

  “You all know each other?” Massey, who was behind the unnamed man, demanded in surprise.

  “We met at a minor street brawl last night,” the man said, smiling. “Well, actually, we didn’t meet formally.”

  The guy had a truly great face, Nikki thought. Full of character. A chin like concrete. High, broad cheekbones. Bone structure to die for…

  Die for…

  Not a term to use these days.

  “Thanks again for the help,” Julian said, striding around the desk to shake hands.

  “I’ll make the formal introduction, then,” Massey said. “Nikki DuMonde, Julian Lalac, this is Brent Blackhawk. Brent, Nikki, Julian…”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Brent said, smiling in acknowledgment.

  “Are you a cop?” Nikki asked.

  His smile deepened. He shook his head. “Kind of a troubleshooter,” he murmured vaguely.

  “Here as a guest,” Massey said.

  Marc Joulette rose, stretching. “This is a good break. Nikki, you want a soda? A coffee? Julian? Anyone…? I’ve got to go get another book.”

  “Nothing for me, thanks,” Brent Blackhawk said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I kind of came in on a…well, I’m curious. Thought you might have run into this guy.”

  He strode to the desk, setting down a picture.

  Nikki gasped, stared at the picture, then back at Brent Blackhawk. His eyes were strangely knowing. She looked around at the others.

  “That’s him!” she exclaimed. She looked around at the others, triumphant. “That’s him,” she repeated.

  “Good. We know who it is, then,” Julian said, pleased.

  But the others didn’t say a word. They were staring at her strangely. Massey and Joulette looked stunned. Brent Blackhawk seemed to be seeing something beneath the surface that brought a pensive look to his eyes as he studied her.

  “What’s the matter? Who is he?” Nikki asked, feeling a headache coming on strong.

  “You have to be mistaken,” Joulette said softly.

  “No, I’m not,” Nikki said firmly.

  “Nikki, you’ve been through a lot,” Massey said.

  “This is the man I saw,” Nikki said indignantly. “I know it. So what’s the problem?”

  “You couldn’t have seen him,” Massey said. “Not last night.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because he’s dead,” Joulette explained very softly.

  The room spun. Nikki was suddenly afraid she was going to pass out. Fear washed over her in terrible, sweeping waves.

  She fought the sensation furiously.

  She gritted her teeth hard and rose.

  “He has a double, a twin or something, then.
Or you’ve been deceived. I saw this man last night. I saw him. I have excellent eyesight. Twenty-twenty.” When no one said anything in response, she went on, “Excuse me, it’s obvious you don’t intend to believe me.”

  She started out of the room. Brent Blackhawk was watching her just as intently as the others. And he was in her way.

  It suddenly seemed to be all his fault. After all, he’d brought in the picture.

  “Excuse me,” she said, trying to get past him.

  “Miss DuMonde,” he said, “I’d really like to talk to you—”

  “Not now.” Julian was behind her. Both Joulette and Massey were silent.

  “Not now,” she agreed icily. She had to get out of there. She had to get away from the police station, out onto the street.

  For a moment she was afraid he was going to stop her. That he was going to take her bodily by the shoulders and insist on speaking with her.

  But he stepped back. Suddenly she was aware only of his eyes, and she had the most bizarre thought.

  He didn’t have to stop her physically. He knew, knew, that he would find her, that he would speak to her.

  “I have to get out of here,” she insisted, and she pushed blindly past him.

  She fought for control as she pushed her way outside, back to the busy street, the tourists and the vendors, the ever-present music.

  Julian was close behind, and when she stopped on the sidewalk, he was right beside her.

  Control. She took a deep breath and tried to sound completely casual. “We should have lunch, or something.”

  “We should head straight to Dr. Boulet’s,” he said, and taking her firmly by the elbow, he led her along the sidewalk, past a voodoo shop, an antique shop, a toy store…and a strip club.

  It was New Orleans, after all.

  “They’re mistaken,” she said. “That guy has to be alive. Or there’s someone who looks just like him.”

  “Yeah, and Andy’s alive, too?” he asked softly.

  She fell silent and didn’t say anything else the rest of the way to the doctor’s office, which was above a souvenir shop, next to another strip joint. Yup, this was New Orleans.

  “Who exactly is Nikki DuMonde?” Brent asked the detectives.

  Massey snorted. “A wacko, that’s what it’s beginning to look like,” he said, shaking his head.

  Joulette shrugged with a wry grin. “Damn gorgeous wacko. I think she was serious, though. She really believes she saw this guy. Hey,” he said to his partner, “you’ve spent more time with her than I have, but she’s never seemed to be anything less than intelligent.”

  Owen Massey let out a sigh. “Yeah, yeah. But she’s high-strung.”

  “She’s convinced her friend was murdered, what do you want?” Joulette asked.

  And she’s probably right, Brent thought.

  “What does she do for a living?” Brent asked.

  “She works for one of the tour companies, unofficial manager for an absentee owner. They’re good, I understand. They do history tours, with an emphasis on ghosts and spooky stuff. And she’s a native,” Massey told him. “Of New Orleans, I mean,” he added hastily. He frowned suddenly. “What the hell made you show her Tom’s picture, anyway?”

  “Just a hunch,” Brent said.

  “Tom was dead. She couldn’t have seen him last night,” Massey said. “Tell me you don’t really believe she could have seen a ghost?”

  “She saw something,” Brent said evenly.

  “You really are one of those psychics, huh?” Massey said.

  “No. I’m not a psychic,” Brent told him.

  “Then…?” Joulette asked.

  “A researcher.”

  “Yeah?” Joulette pressed. “What kind?”

  Brent smiled, shaking his head. “Let’s just say ‘different’ for now, huh? I don’t want to alienate you before we get started. I get the feeling you’re both good at what you do. I’ll bet your CSI folks are good at what they do, too. I just come at things from a different angle.”

  “We’ve got plenty of voodoo in New Orleans already,” Joulette drawled, challenging him.

  “I don’t practice voodoo,” Brent said evenly.

  Both detectives studied him, and Massey said, “Whoever or whatever you are, your boss is apparently in with the bigwigs. We have the FBI in on this, too. Lots of agents, one main liaison between the departments. Guy’s name is Haggerty. And he says you’re definitely not a fed. In fact, he has his panties in a knot about you being here.”

  “Oh?” Brent said. He wasn’t surprised that the FBI had men on the case—they’d lost one of their own.

  “Yeah, Vince Haggerty isn’t into mumbo jumbo,” Massey responded.

  Brent ignored the mumbo-jumbo part. “You’re conducting separate investigations?” he asked.

  “Not really,” Joulette said. “Haggerty has access to everything we’ve got. But the guy is a real loner. He wants to work on his own, and doesn’t want to share what he has. He will give us whatever he’s got eventually. If we can find him. You’d think Owen and I grew up in the bayou and never went to school, the way he acts. Or,” he added bitterly, “that I should still be saying ‘Massuh’ when I talk to the guy.”

  “So, here we are,” Massey said. “Marc and I working two cases…and in neither case do we have so much as a semisolid lead to anything. At least in Garfield’s case we can hit the clubs, get some help from the narcs. As to the Andrea Ciello case, well, I’d hoped Nikki DuMonde would be able to give us something solid. All she did was hand us a ghost.”

  Brent was silent for a moment, then lifted his shoulders and let out a sigh. “I think I’ll take one of Miss DuMonde’s tours,” he said.

  “That’s how you’re going to find a killer?” Joulette said skeptically.

  “I think your murders have something to do with one another,” Brent said flatly.

  “We don’t even know that the girl’s death was a murder. What makes you think the two deaths are connected?” Massey said. “A fed, undercover, and a former junkie. What motive could connect them?”

  “I don’t know. But you’re looking at two heroin overdoses.”

  “Hey, he’s a psychic,” Joulette told Massey.

  “Look, guys—” Brent began.

  But Joulette started to laugh. “Hey, go for it, man.”

  “Yeah, you do what you have to do,” Massey said.

  Brent arched a brow.

  “We actually kinda like you,” Joulette explained. “’Cause you’re not some superior fed.”

  “Next to him, hell, you can bring in all the ghost busters, voodoo priestesses, palm readers…whatever. You want ’em, you bring ’em on,” Massey said.

  “Great. Well, then, gentlemen, let me get to it. And I swear, what I know, you’ll know,” Brent promised.

  Brent left the station thinking the two of them were probably laughing at his expense.

  But what the hell, they liked him.

  Things could be worse.

  Dr. Boulet was a man of about forty. He was pleasant, nicely dressed and comfortable to talk to.

  He did have a couch, but he also had an easy chair.

  “Am I supposed to lie down?” she asked.

  “If you like. Or just take a seat.”

  She chose the chair.

  “So what’s the problem?” he asked.

  “I’m seeing dead people.”

  “Do you want to give me a few details?”

  She waved a hand in the air. “Ghosts.”

  “Have you always seen ghosts?” he asked, not blinking.

  She smiled, lowering her head. “Only since my friend died. Or maybe right before she died.”

  “Why don’t you tell me the story from the beginning.”

  She did, and he paid rapt attention, his expression grave. He took notes.

  When she had explained it all—starting with the man in the café and ending with her recent shock at the police station—he quit writing and waited.
/>   “That’s it,” she said.

  “Do you really believe in ghosts?” he asked.

  “I must—I’m seeing them now.”

  His smile deepened. “But you didn’t—before all this?”

  “Um…no.”

  “Even though you give ghost tours for a living?”

  “I’ve always had a…sense, I guess you’d call it.”

  “A sense?”

  She waved a hand vaguely in the air. “I don’t know how to explain it. When…I’m in certain places, I can feel past events…even see something like a mist.”

  “Aha.” He started to write.

  “No, it’s not an aha!” Nikki protested. “I’ve never actually seen a ghost before, and sure as hell, one never talked to me before.”

  “Someone important to you died tragically,” he reminded her softly.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, the mind is far more incredible than any computer. You might have imagined your dream, you see. It might have been implanted when you heard what happened, or even when the policeman came up to you. Take déjà vu for instance. We go somewhere, and we know we’ve never been there, but it’s familiar. So…were we there in another lifetime? Or has the brain given us a memory that doesn’t exist?”

  “You’re asking me?” Nikki said.

  “I’m giving you suggestions. When someone close to us is killed, there’s often a matter of guilt. Survivor’s guilt, it’s called. She’s dead, I’m not.”

  “But I don’t feel guilty. I don’t feel that I should be dead. I’m horrified that Andy died, and I’m angry. I’m furious that someone could do that to her.”

  At that point, he looked at his watch.

  The sigh he gave then was everything she would have imagined, as were his next words.

  “I’m afraid we’re out of time. You might want to think about the things I’ve said. And schedule an appointment for next week with my secretary. Do you want something to help you sleep?”

  “Pills?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”