by Ally Shields
Or was she? In some ways wasn’t she free of the department’s rules? Maggie dropped her arms, and a grim smile tightened her lips. If they couldn’t catch him after-the-fact, how about in the act? What if she could make him come after her? She was certainly better equipped to protect herself than Harry was, and he was hanging out there with a sign on his back.
Besides, if the worst happened, she’d come back and haunt Castile to death.
She called Coridan and asked him to send her their background file on Castile. After asking her why she wanted it and getting only vague answers about needing something to do, he refused.
“I can’t do that, Maggie. You’re not entitled to case files as long as you’re on medical leave.”
“This isn’t a case file. All I want is the background file from my desk. They must have boxed and stored it somewhere. Come on, Coridan,” she coaxed. “I put most of it together.”
He finally relented. “OK. When I have time. We’re all pretty busy looking for the sniper.”
“They need to get Castile for this one,” she said, gritting her teeth.
“Castile? Do you know something I don’t? They haven’t identified a suspect.”
“As if we don’t know who ordered it. Who’s behind major crime in this district? A cop killing is right down his line.”
“I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “No one admits seeing anything. And some time passed before it was reported. It could be anybody. They haven’t excluded a lone wolf sniper.”
“I hear you.” Her partner had always been the more cautious one, waiting for all the evidence before espousing a theory. She was the one examining multiple threads. In this case, all the threads led to Castile. But arguing with Coridan was a waste of time. She switched the conversation back to Wernier, plans for taking care of his family…and for his funeral.
“Count me in on donations,” she said.
“Will do. I’ll call as soon as arrangements are set.”
Maggie waited two hours, watching her combo fax/scanner/printer for Coridan to send the info she needed. But he’d either forgotten or was too busy. She finally called Emma at the lab and made the same request.
“Coridan was supposed to fax them an hour ago, but I guess he forgot. Could you do it for me?”
“Well, I don’t know…”
“It’s just background stuff. Nothing official. I wanted to look something up for Brandt.”
The detective’s name worked like magic, and Maggie waited by her machine until the pages came through: Castile’s photo—average-looking Caucasian, dark brown hair, brown eyes, medium height—his biographical history, a long list of suspected crimes, convictions (lamentably few), known associates, connecting cases. She pulled out the last sheet and added the most recent incidents: her own shooting, Hurst and JoJo, the Tahoe in the swamp (with a question mark), the apartment intrusion (another question mark), Pardson’s death, and Wernier’s. The only common denominator that jumped out was Maggie.
She picked up the rest of the pages, settled at the kitchen table, and studied them in a way she hadn’t done before, developing a profile. She was looking for insight to what made Castile tick, something to give her an edge. Maggie had decided it was time for her and the crime boss to meet.
At the first sign of dusk, Maggie set her plan in action by looking for Hurst. Since his presence was supposed to be strongest where he’d died, she headed for his girlfriend’s former residence. She hadn’t changed her doubts about the spirit world, but if she had to have a resident ghost, even a temporary one, he might as well make himself useful.
Bullet Castile was a careful man, moving his headquarters constantly, making it hard for his enemies to find him. It was also the main reason police rarely questioned him. They simply couldn’t find him at the proper times. She hoped Hurst would use whatever mysterious senses he had to show her the way. In fact, she was counting on it.
She stopped in front of JoJo’s home and focused on Hurst’s human image—including his sports logo sweatshirt—and repeated his name three times. Dalia claimed that was how it worked. But Maggie was still startled and creeped out when Hurst popped up no more than five feet away. She glanced around to verify no one would observe her one-sided conversation.
“Um, don’t come any closer,” she said, peering at the shadowy figure. “I’ve come to ask for your help. I know Pardson didn’t kill you, but I think it was someone Castile sent. If I can talk with Castile, I might learn who it was. Can you take me to him?”
Hurst’s wavery image continued to hover, the shadows under the hood darker, less distinct tonight, yet Maggie felt his unblinking regard.
She snorted. “Don’t give me that look.”
The figure fluttered and backed away at her impatient tone. Geez, were all spirits this skittish? But Dalia had said most ghosts were like children, and she softened her tone.
“Wait, don’t leave yet. I know you understand me. Take me to Castile, so we both can get on with our lives.” Or whatever you call your existence. She kept her mental fingers crossed, but when he still didn’t react, Maggie’s shoulders slumped.
Maybe locating someone took time. Or he needed to consult with someone, obtain permission. And maybe she was asking the impossible. Maggie scowled, annoyed with him…and with herself for being there. Even with Dalia help, she was no expert on the ground rules for ghostly behavior.
Discouraged, she turned to leave. She should have known it wouldn’t be this easy. Maggie stopped in mid-stride and turned back. “By the way, it isn’t helpful to just sit outside the PD’s door if you’re trying to tell me a cop’s in danger. Or anything else, for that matter. Whatever you intended, I didn’t get the message.”
The ghostly figure flared, seeming to expand its boundaries, then shrank back to its original size, fading in and out in that creepy way.
Holy Hell. She backed away, not trusting that thing at her back, and left. That didn’t seem child-like to her, unless it had just had a tantrum. On the way home, Maggie stopped at the gun range and took out her frustrations with an hour of precision shooting.
* * *
Maggie opened her apartment door the next morning and stopped with her hand in midair as she reached for the daily paper. Hurst’s figure, looking more incorporeal than the night before…but acting less scary, hovered in the hallway. She glanced up and down the corridor, then eyed him crossly. “You might have given me some clue you understood. This flaring up but silent act doesn’t work for me.”
No response. Well, what had she expected? “I hope this means you’ve found Castile. I’ll follow you, but you’ll have to wait a few minutes. I’m not confronting him in my pj’s.”
Her lips parted in surprise when Hurst seemed to accept that and folded his ghostly image to settle against the far wall. Maggie stepped back inside. Uneasy that she might have misread his sudden reappearance and ignored another warning, she triple-locked the door and kept her SIG with her while she showered and dressed in a NOPD T-shirt and black jeans.
When she opened the door again, Hurst was right where she’d left him. She smoothed the collar of the white big shirt she’d thrown on to cover the SIG tucked at the small of her back. Her secondary gun rested in an ankle holster inside her left boot. They were mostly habit, maybe a confidence boost. She only intended to talk, pull Castile’s chain a little, make him wonder what she was up to. If he chose to come after her later…well, she’d be waiting. In the middle of Castile’s headquarters surrounded by his large organization of thugs, she wasn’t going to prevail in a gun battle. But…on the remote chance it came to a shootout, he’d be her first target.
Hurst floated upright. She waved her arm toward the stairs indicating her willingness to follow him, but his image flowed through the exterior wall. “Well, hold on,” she muttered. “I can’t do that.” Maggie bounded down the stairs and out the front door.
Hurst’s ghostly form waited in the middle of the street, oblivious to the traffic that passed th
rough him. She followed along the sidewalk, anxious not to lose him as he walked through buildings or whatever else was in his path. He paid no attention to Maggie, except waiting for her to catch up when she fell behind.
After forty-five minutes, they’d entered an area where she wouldn’t normally go when off duty, filled with abandoned buildings not yet reclaimed from Katrina. He stopped in front of a warehouse, and she hung back in the shadows of the building across the road, assessing the scene. Even in daylight, the storehouse wasn’t inviting. Shuttered, metal roof dented and rusting. Every window boarded over. Weeds grew along the foundation. There might as well have been a large No Trespassing or Else sign over the entrance.
Hurst’s figure suddenly vanished in a poof. OK, so it was up to her now.
Maggie hesitated. Last chance to change her mind. Once she’d thrown down a challenge, she had to expect him to pick it up. It was risky, maybe crazy—but what else was new. She wasn’t waiting for another friend to die, or for him to spring another surprise ambush on her some dark night. This way they both knew exactly where they stood.
Maggie took a quick breath, crossed the road, and reached for the warehouse’s front door handle. She spun around when she heard someone behind her.
“What are you doing here?” The rough voice belonged to a big man. Six-five easy, pushing two hundred and thirty pounds. Most of it was muscle. He looked unfriendly in spite of the smirk on his face. So did the black pistol stuck in the front of his khaki pants.
“I came to see Castile.”
He looked her up and down, slowly and deliberately. She’d had scumbags do it before, but it still made her skin crawl. She’d need a shower after this.
“You got an appointment?” His smirk morphed into a provocative sneer.
“Didn’t know I needed one. You tell him Maggie York wants to talk.”
The guy eyed her. “That supposed to mean something to him?
“I think it will.”
He waited a few seconds more. “I guess we’ll find out. Wait here, and don’t try to sneak inside. We don’t take to uninvited guests.” He disappeared around the corner.
Three minutes later, another man—not as big but tougher-looking—opened the door and beckoned her inside. She’d counted on Castile’s curiosity to get her this far, and apparently the gamble had paid off. Without a word, the man led her down a narrow hall and stopped in front of a closed door.
“You carrying?” he asked. Not waiting for an answer, he reached out as if to frisk her.
Maggie stepped back, her voice cold. “Keep your hands off me. Unless you want to lose them.”
The door opened, and another thug looked out. “What’s the problem?”
Her burly escort smirked again. “She don’t take to the idea of being frisked.”
“We’ll see about that.” The thug opened the door wider to step out.
“It doesn’t matter,” said a voice from inside the room. “Detective York didn’t come here to shoot anybody.” Paul Castile sat behind a desk and motioned her toward a chair. “Please join me. Would you care for something to drink?”
“No thanks. I won’t be staying that long.” Maggie stepped inside but ignored the chair and took her first good look at the crime boss. True to his reputation, he wore an expensive business suit, Gucci shoes, gold rings on both hands. His brown hair was styled in a windswept look. It didn’t work for him. He still looked like an accountant. Except his coffee-colored eyes watched her like the predator he was.
“Well, then…perhaps you’d like to explain why you’re here, so I can get back to the meeting I interrupted for you.”
“How accommodating.”
Something flickered in his eyes and then was gone. “I try to be.” He leaned back in his chair. “I have no wish to quarrel with the NOPD.”
“And yet you killed one of our officers yesterday.”
“You’re mistaken. I heard about the event of course. Most unfortunate.”
She ignored his denial. “I guess it would be more precise to say you ordered him killed. Detective Wernier was a friend, but even if he wasn’t, you’ve gone far over the line. Consider this a heads-up visit. You’re not getting away with it this time.”
One of his henchmen stirred, but Castile stopped him with a raised hand. His eyes turned cold and flat. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you just threatened me.”
Maggie cocked her head. “Is there some doubt? I didn’t mean to be vague. You’ve targeted me, murdered a friend. I intend to see you behind bars before this is over.”
“Others have tried.” Castile stood. “Roscoe, you can show the detective out. She won’t be returning.”
“Oh, I’ll be back,” she corrected. “Only next time I’ll have a warrant for your arrest. Probably when you least expect me.”
She left the room with her shoulders straight and her stride sure and confident…in spite of four killers staring at her back. Maggie didn’t breathe easily until she was out of the building and a good block away.
Geez. She’d actually done it. And she wasn’t the least bit sorry. The friggin’ prick.
She couldn’t actually arrest him while on medical leave, but if she found the evidence, Coridan or Brandt would do it for her. And she’d find the evidence. Badge or not, with or without the department’s approval, and haunted by ghosts, she would take him down.
She released a sharp, tension-filled breath, lengthened her stride toward downtown, and called Annie.
“Are you busy, girlfriend? I could use a drink.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Brandt called her that night shortly after eight. His voice was tense and weary, immediately reminding her how awful the day must have been at District 13. “I need to talk with you.” he said. “Is now OK?”
“Sure. I just put a pot of coffee on. How soon?”
“I’m standing outside.”
Smiling, she opened the door but quickly stepped away at the thunderous look on his face. This was fresh anger, more raw than day-old grief. His eyes were stormy, neck muscles taunt. He prowled past her, the rippling of muscles in his tight jeans and fitted T-shirt giving him a predatory look.
Her thoughts immediately flashed to her visit with Castile, but how could he possibly know? She closed the door and turned to face him.
“What the hell were you doing this morning?”
Oh, God. He did know. Her pulse leaped, but she told him the truth. “Delivering a warning.”
“To Castile?” He threw up his hands. “My God, you are crazy.”
She winced, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Do you have some kind of death wish?” he demanded. “Maggie, I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you, but how am I supposed to protect you and Harry if you run around doing reckless things like this? What’s the matter with you? Don’t you care about yourself?” He raked a hand through his hair and looked at the ceiling. “I’ve heard of suicide by cop, but suicide by gangster is a new one.”
Her hand flashed out to slap him. He was faster and grabbed her wrist before her fingers connected. Energy sparked with the contact, blatant anger fueled with something more primitive.
They glared at one another nose to nose.
“Let go of me, Josh.” She tried to wiggle out of his hold, but he tightened his grip. “Get out. Out of my apartment, out of my life. I don’t need you to protect me. No one asked you to.” She twisted away so violently that he was forced to release her wrist.
Before she could recover, he spun her around, grabbed her upper arms, and pinned her against the wall. “Are you going to try to hit me again?” he growled between clenched teeth.
“If you don’t back off, you won’t be having any children.”
“Fight dirty, do you?”
“You bet.”
She bent a knee to prove it, but he shifted abruptly to one side. In doing so he released his grip on her right arm and swung her around with the other, bringing her directly against his ches
t. A moment later she was plastered against his hard body in a fierce embrace, and his mouth was devouring hers. Anger swiftly turned to passion. They might have ripped their clothes off on the spot, if Josh hadn’t taken a step back steering them toward the couch, stumbled over the ottoman, and dumped them both on the floor.
Maggie looked at their tangled legs, Josh’s startled face, and laughed. “Not cool, Brandt.”
He pushed himself up on his elbows with a rueful grin. “Talk about a mood kill.”
“So easily discouraged?”
He gave her a look that had her scrambling to her feet. She crossed the room and watched him uncertainly, as he stood and shoved the ottoman back where it belonged. This was all wrong. She’d just ordered him out of her house, and now she’d all but invited him into her bed.
She found the anger again. “I think we’ve gotten off track, and you should stay over there. How did you know I saw Castile? Are you having me followed?”
His eyes narrowed, acknowledging the swift change of mood. “Geez, York. Keep at it, and I may murder you before Castile gets a chance. Can’t we at least declare a truce?”
She wasn’t letting him off that easily. “Not until I know why you’re following me.”
“No one’s following you. The intel came from an informant. I happened to have real ones,” he added with a pointed look. “Her boyfriend works for Castile, but she works for me and called about an hour ago. She says Castile doesn’t like you much.”
Maggie made a disgusted noise in her throat. “It was mutual. He’s a slick SOB with a cold, mean streak.”
“Yeah, we already knew that. What did you have to say to him that was so damned important? Or did you just want to piss him off? According to my informant, you succeeded. He’ll come after you harder now.”