Ghost Walking
Table of Contents
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Copyright Warning
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
~ Also by Ally Shields ~
More Fantasy from Etopia Press
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Praise for Awakening the Fire (Guardian Witch #1)
“I can't wait for the rest of the series from this exciting new author because I will definitely be reading them all.”
5 Stars from The Romance Studio
“If you love paranormal and a good mystery, then I can't recommend this book enough.”
5 Stars from Paranormal Romance Guild
“Vampires, werewolves, and witches oh my! In a journey through a magical world...a witch named Arianna will have you lost under her spell.”
5 Stars from I Heart Books
For Burning Both Ends (Guardian Witch #3)
“[F]ull of action, romance, betrayals and lies. [A] wonderful series.”
5 Stars from Paranormal Romance Guild
For Fire Storm (Guardian Witch #5)
“...[A]n amazing addition to the Guardian Witch series. Ally had me hooked from the very beginning and, just when I thought things couldn’t get any more intense, she kicked it up a notch! It was one hell of a journey and I loved every moment of it.”
—5 Stars from Mean Who You Are Blog
For Wild Fire (Guardian Witch #6)
“I said it before and I will say it again, I love this series... As with all the other books in the series, this book has romance, lies, deceit, secrets and some very interesting surprises. If you love a good paranormal series, one that leaves you satisfied after each book then don't miss this one.”
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Praise for Cross Keys
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—Night Owl Reviews
“A great storyline and adventure. You will love this book.”
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Look for these titles from Ally Shields
Now Available
Maggie York Paranormal Mysteries
Ghost Walking (Book 1)
The Guardian Witch Series
Awakening the Fire (Book 1)
Fire Within (Book 2)
Burning Both Ends (Book 3)
Blood and Fire (Book 4)
Fire Storm (Book 5)
Wild Fire (Book 6)
Eternal Fires (Book 7)
“Heart’s Pride” Valentines Heat I
Elvenrude Novels
Cross Keys (Book One)
Cross Keys: Revelations (Book Two)
Cross Keys: Unity (Book Three)
Ghost Walking
A Maggie York Paranormal Mystery Book One
Ally Shields
Copyright Warning
EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Published By
Etopia Press
1643 Warwick Ave., #124
Warwick, RI 02889
http://www.etopiapress.com
Ghost Walking
Copyright © 2016 by Ally Shields
ISBN: 978-1-944138-43-1
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Etopia Press electronic publication: April 2016
DEDICATION
To the city of New Orleans, a vibrant and indomitable haven of dreams—real and imagined.
Disclaimer: Ghost Walking is a work of fiction. Certain liberties were taken with New Orleans’ locations, police procedures, and municipal buildings in its creation; characters and events exist only in the author’s imagination. To my knowledge there is no District 13.
CHAPTER ONE
New Orleans streets at night were darker, more mysterious than most places on earth. If ghosts were going to live anywhere, this was the place, and October was the time of year. A faint breeze stirred the humid air, but Maggie barely noticed. Her eyes scanned the shadows, watching for movement, anything that didn’t fit…human or not. Not that she accepted the local belief in paranormal beings. Like, um, ghosts, for example. Not one bit. She shook her head, sending her red hair swinging against her cheeks. More likely she was going crazy.
Her boots clicked loudly on the uneven sidewalk, and she studied the unlit stoops of the houses that butted up to the concrete. Maybe it was the narrow streets or the black recesses created by spreading live oaks that made this portion of the French Quarter so eerie, as if it was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
She paused at the corner, looked over her shoulder, then continued across the cobblestone street. Even the beam from the single light pole was swallowed by the night, giving off only a hazy glow. It was hard to read the building numbers. She was looking for Daddy Mo’s, one of New Orleans’ late-hours jazz clubs.
Hoping to find a murderer. Her murderer. Or he had intended to be.
She shifted her tense shoulders, and the resulting twinge in her rib cage was a sharp reminder of that night six months ago. The bullet had nicked her heart, collapsed her lung. By the time the paramedics rolled her gurney into the hospital, she’d coded twice and was legally dead. But they’d brought her back.
Yeah, well, sort of. Not the old Maggie—seasoned, no-nonsense homicide cop—but a new version of Marguerite Durant York, one she didn’t yet understand. She’d returned…changed, hearing voices and seeing things she shouldn’t be able to see.
It cost her the one thing that mattered—her career on the major crimes squad. Oh, sure, she’d been placed on extended medical leave for PTSD rather than fired, but no one came back to the force from that kind of diagnosis. At twenty-nine, she’d been at the top of her game, and the fall had been a bitter blow. Due to the shooting and her hallucinations—before she’d learned to shut up—the department had insisted on counseling, and she’d gone a
few times before dropping out. She couldn’t tell her shrink the truth, and keeping up the lies was just too hard. Instead, she’d spent a day at the spa, and she and her best friend had indulged in a week of shopping therapy. At night she spent long hours working out her issues at the gun range. But nothing made them go away.
Now, all that was left was the hunt.
Finally spotting the right building number, Maggie hurried around the corner and approached the lighted side entrance. Music and loud voices drifted through the door. As she pushed it open, the scent of bourbon, cigar smoke, and the beat of Creole music bombarded her. She edged her way through the standing-room-only crowd and ordered a whiskey sour at the bar. While she waited, she leaned against the counter and surveyed the room.
A man at a nearby table lifted his brows in invitation. Maggie shook her head and looked away. Her gaze slid around the room, stopping to assess each dark-haired male. Seeking a two-bit player named Bobby Hurst.
After months of fruitless searching, she had the name of someone who’d been on the scene that night. Maybe he was the shooter, maybe not, but his prints had been the only clear set found at the scene. A thumb and index finger on a metal pipe used in the fight she and her partner had attempted to break up. Unidentified, until Hurst’s recent arrest for drunken driving. He still might have gone unnoticed, except he’d failed to appear for his court hearing two days ago and his last known address had been vacated.
Someone took a deeper look at the case, ran the prints…and Ray Coridan called her.
She owed Coridan. Her former partner had continued to give her behind-the-scenes access to the police investigation. Without that, she would have gone crazy. A grim smile flitted across her lips. “Crazier” might be more accurate.
She stiffened, her stomach suddenly churning. She felt one of them, the reason she was no longer an active force cop, and she turned toward the sensory projection.
A man wearing a gold and black sports hoodie stood across the room, his hands shoved in his jeans pockets. The hood was pulled forward over his head leaving his face and eyes in shadow, but she knew he was staring at her. Medium height and build, slightly disheveled. Nothing about him was remarkable, except he faded in and out—and nobody else could see him.
Maggie closed her eyes, willing the sight to go away, but when she opened them again, he was still there. She swallowed hard against a flash of fear and took a deep breath. She had to get a grip, tame her imagination. She angled her body so he…it…was outside her line of vision, forced herself to focus on finding Hurst, and searched the rest of the room.
Several minutes later, she was positive none of the customers matched Hurst’s mug shot. She waved at the bartender to get his attention and pulled a photo from her pocket. “Seen this guy around?”
“You a cop?”
“Nope. Do I look like a cop?” She’d worn jeans and a tight tank top. It showed off all the right things.
“Those eyes do.”
She smiled and batted her dark lashes. “Do they look better now?”
The bartender grinned in appreciation and glanced at the picture. “That’s Bobby, but he hasn’t been in tonight.”
“You know where he stays?”
The man wiped the counter and looked around to see if other patrons were listening, before lifting a brow.
“I just want to ask him a question or two,” she said. “Nothing that’ll come back on you.”
“He’s got a girlfriend. You might find him there.” He gave her an address on Toulouse. “Don’t tell him who gave it to you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She exited the club. The moment Maggie reached the sidewalk, the back of her neck prickled, and she whirled to confront the figure in the black and gold hoodie following her. “What do you want? Get away from me,” she said in a hushed growl. “You don’t exist. Get!”
He silently closed in on her, the darkness inside his hood a pool of unreadable shadows.
Maggie stood her ground, even took a step forward. But he lifted a hand as if to touch her, and she struck out, her fist flashing through his unresisting image. She jerked back, shivering from the sudden icy cold she’d encountered.
Horror washed over her, and she whirled to flee up the street, skirting around a couple who stopped and stared after her. No doubt they thought she was crazy or on drugs. But her only interest was getting away. Her boots pounded on the sidewalk, her breath coming in short bursts. Four blocks later, she slowed and looked behind her. She was alone.
Maggie stopped, trembling and drawing in large gulps of air. It’s not real. It’s not real, she repeated. Her heart gradually slowed its hammering, and she clenched her fists, willing her body and mind into submission. She closed her eyes and focused on what she’d learned from the bartender.
Her breathing steadied. When she felt settled enough, she pulled out her phone and called Coridan. “I have an address for Hurst’s girlfriend. Can you meet me there?”
“Uh, sure. Are you OK?”
“I’m fine.” Somehow he always knew, but she didn’t mention the sighting. She regretted she’d ever told him, and she’d learned months ago to keep the ongoing insanity to herself—even from her partner. “I’m just excited about this lead.”
His hesitation was barely noticeable. “Where are we going?”
She recited the address.
“Want me to bring backup or is this off the books?”
“Let’s keep it to ourselves for now. If Hurst isn’t the shooter, we may need to put a little pressure on to get him to talk. PD brass might not approve my interference or methods.”
“Got it. It’ll take me about thirty minutes. Wait for me. Don’t go in alone. I mean it, Maggie.” He grew silent, waiting for a response.
“I’ll wait.” She was impatient now that answers were close, but she wouldn’t do anything to let the suspect get away or expose Coridan to censure for helping her. If she walked to the address, they should arrive about the same time, and she wouldn’t be tempted to break her promise. She started off at a brisk stride.
As the blocks passed, she pushed the encounter at the club out of her mind and looked forward to finally confronting one of the thugs who’d tried to kill her. She wanted to know why. Impatience rushed her steps. When she was a block away, she glanced at the time on her phone. Ten minutes early. She stopped in the shadow of a dark building to wait. She wouldn’t get too close and risk spooking him. Not yet.
Eight minutes later, Coridan’s unmarked car cruised down the street and turned the corner. She hurried after him and found the lanky, former Californian lounging in the seat of his parked vehicle, well out of sight of the target location.
“The neighborhood looks quiet,” he remarked when she slid into the passenger seat.
“Nothing’s moved since I got here. You ready? Let’s see if anyone’s home.” She pulled up the left leg of her jeans to reveal the ankle holster, released the thumb break, and palmed her SIG 938. As she exited the car again, she stuck the pistol in her waistband.
Coridan climbed out and eased his door shut. “Together or front and back?”
She thought about it. “I’ll take the back. The house is dark. It’s likely they’re not home or sleeping, but I don’t want anyone sneaking out on us.”
He nodded, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and smoothed his ruffled brown hair. “I hate August,” he mumbled. “It never cools off. Let’s get this over with, so I can get back to the AC.”
“The AC, or is someone waiting?” He had a well-earned reputation for one-night stands. Despite a few invitations, she’d never felt the need to become one of them.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
She smiled. “Actually, no.”
They split up then, and Maggie circled the house. She heard him knock at the front door and after a moment, he knocked again. Still no response. She tried the back doorknob, and it turned in her hand. Not a good sign. Not in New Orleans where residents were more
careful than that.
She drew her gun and ran around the house. “Back’s unlocked.”
“Same here.” He turned the knob, and the door swung inward. “In fact, it’s standing wide open. Somebody inside could be in trouble.”
“Undoubtedly.” Maggie grinned. “We’d better check it out. If we just happen to run into Bobby Hurst, there is an outstanding arrest warrant.” Coridan’s action was a rather lame attempt to create exigent circumstances to enter without a search warrant. But if they found nothing, they’d simply leave with no explanations needed.
Coridan drew his gun, and they slipped inside. It was like a furnace. No AC, and no open windows to pick up even a slight breeze. The stale air carried a faint odor as if someone had forgotten to take the garbage out.
“Police,” he called. “Anyone home?”
Maggie dug the key chain from her pocket and turned on the attached penlight. The front room was empty. They walked down the hall. Two bedrooms, both doors were closed. Coridan opened the first and shook his head. Maggie tried the second. As she opened it, putrid air poured out, and she knew immediately what she’d find.