Ghost Walking Page 8

  “None that want to kill me or frame me for whatever,” she said dryly.

  Brandt noted the lack of detail, but maybe there was nothing in particular to tell. The thought rather pleased him. He’d looked for evidence of a male frequenting her apartment and hadn’t seen any.

  He continued through a list of business contacts, creditors, hang-up calls, problems at work. Each time her answer was negative. Since everyone has issues at one time or another, he suspected she was too focused on the job to even notice outside annoyances.

  “That just leaves the files.” He leaned forward, opened the first one, and looked up at her. “Are you going to sit down?”

  “Not yet. I need to ask you something.”

  Brandt leaned back again, his eyes on her face, suspecting what was coming next. “Go ahead.”

  “I know about Boston. Ten months ago you were arrested and charged with possession of heroin.”

  In the pregnant silence that followed, Maggie watched for his reaction. Except for a slight tightening along the jawline, he gave no overt response.

  “Is there a question in there somewhere?” His voice displayed similar control.

  “Don’t play games. What happened? Are you a user? Or were you dealing as a side job?”

  “How is it any of your business?” He still seemed calm, if she ignored the storm clouds in those steel-blue eyes.

  “It is, if your judgment is compromised by drugs or dictated by some drug lord like Bullet Castile.”

  “Fair enough. The answer to both is no.”

  When he didn’t go on, she frowned at him. “And I should just accept that?”

  “If you don’t intend to believe me, why did you ask?” The storm clouds darkened. “A game of gotcha is beneath you, York. Now can we get on with these files?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’re refusing to tell me?”

  “I thought I did.” His steady voice was maddening. “If you want more, you’ll have to be more specific.”

  “What happened in Boston?” she snapped.

  He lifted a brow.

  “OK, that’s not more specific, but I’m not playing twenty questions with you. Why were the charges dropped?”

  “The DA decided he had insufficient grounds for prosecution.”

  Her frustration mounted. “But you had drugs on you at the time of arrest.”

  “Again, not a question, but yes, I did.”

  Maggie’s heart sank. She hadn’t wanted him to be guilty.

  She dropped into the chair across from him, searching her mind for an explanation that would mitigate his actions. “I don’t understand. Were you working undercover? Maybe turning in drugs you’d found or confiscated?”

  “No.” He gave her a pointed look. “I’ve given you an answer. Several, in fact. Can we get back to the files?”

  She looked at him for a long moment. “Fine. But this isn’t finished. There’s some kind of explanation or you wouldn’t be running around free.” She leaned forward to catch his eye. “I’m going to figure it out.”

  “I don’t think so.” A hint of a smile touched his lips. “Right now, let’s concentrate on you. Tell me about Paul Castile and why you’re so focused on him. I understand he’s been operating in New Orleans more than twenty years and never been caught on anything worse than trespass, interference, and numerous parking tickets.”

  Maggie followed his redirection. “He’s a scumbag. Castile runs the biggest, most corrupt organization in New Orleans. Murder, drugs, prostitution, gambling, human trafficking—”

  “I know what he does. But your dogged pursuit of him looks personal. Is it? Do you know him?”

  Maggie sighed. “I’ve never met him, but I know men like him. In Chicago they ran our neighborhood. I was ten when I saw a kid killed in a drug-related drive-by. It warps your perspective.” She shifted uncomfortably. “My first murder case in New Orleans is still open. Oh, not technically. We caught the killer, but the man behind it was Castile. I can’t prove it, but he had his own man executed for whatever reason, and a young woman, a bystander, was shot in the process. Collateral damage. People like Castile leave a lot of it lying around. So, yes. It’s personal.”

  “Does he know of your interest? Could he be coming after you before you become a threat to him?”

  “I doubt if I’m even a blip on his radar. There’s never been enough evidence to bring him in.”

  “I’d still bet he knows who you are. These creeps usually have a pretty good ear on the community, and a cop or two in their pocket. But we’ll set him aside for now. Let me know if he’s connected to other cases as we discuss them.” He glanced at the open file in front of him. “What happened in the Otley case?”

  They went through the pile one case at a time. He asked good questions regarding missing witnesses, open cases, lost evidence. Any case that had an irregularity—and what case didn’t if someone looked closely enough? She wondered if he was looking for her shooter/intruder or investigating her.

  She finally interrupted. “Why is all this important?”

  He looked up and stretched a shoulder. “Because I think you know or have seen something incriminating. And someone doesn’t want you to remember it.”

  She gaped at him and leaned forward. “But I don’t. I’m not hiding anything.”

  “Not that you’re aware of. What if it’s something you don’t recall or haven’t figured out its importance? A face in a crowd, an unguarded word, a seemingly harmless piece of evidence sitting in our lab. It could be anything.”

  “If that’s the case, I’m not much of a threat.”

  “Until you make the connection. Anything can trigger a memory.” He frowned, as if she were being needlessly oppositional.

  OK. Maybe she was. “If you’re right, how do I figure it out?”

  “We prod your memory. Just like we’re doing.”

  Maggie sighed, got up, and put the coffee pot on. They were both going to need a caffeine transfusion before this session was over.

  At six they ordered oriental takeout. At eight-thirty, Brandt looked at his watch and closed the last file. “That’s it. And nothing’s jumped out and shouted ‘look at me’ in the last seven hours.”

  Maggie stood and stretched. “My brain’s fried. How about a beer or a glass of wine?”

  “What are you having?”

  “Beer, I think.”

  “Make it two.”

  She nabbed the bottles from the new fridge delivered that day and handed him one.

  “Thanks.” He extended his long legs out in front of him. “I have a preference for bottles too.” He frowned and tapped his pen on a case file he’d set to one side.

  “Why the dark frown?” she asked. “Don’t you ever relax?”

  “Not when something is bothering me.” He pulled his legs in and straightened. “I keep thinking we’ve missed something about your last open case, the Otley file.”

  “Not that unique, except we haven’t identified the shooter. Ordinary hit job by Castile’s gang. The victim was an upstart minor competitor, and Castile had him eliminated.”

  “Maybe there’s something that could tie back to him, and you were shot to stop you from nosing around.”

  “Then why wouldn’t he go after Coridan too? The case is still under investigation.”

  “But unsolved six months later.”

  “Eight months. We’d had it for sixty days before I was shot.”

  He glanced at the file again. “No prints. No ID. No ballistics match. What did you have? What were you working on that isn’t in here?”

  “Nothing really. We had 9mm shell casings that may or may not be involved, witnesses who saw nothing. Case was open, but going nowhere. We’d investigated and closed two shootings after it.”

  “I see the casings are marked as unusable, but nothing about bullets. Too mangled for a match?”

  She shrugged. “Never found any. The kill shot was a through and through to the head.”

  He frow
ned at her. Another compromised crime scene? “Did the CS techs screw up?”

  “I don’t think so. It was obvious where Otley’d been shot from the pool of blood and the spatter pattern, but the body had been tossed in one of several trash bins. The bullet could have landed a block away or fallen on the ground and rolled away. It was a tough area to search with rubbish scattered all over. The techs looked everywhere, including the walls of nearby buildings, according to the predicted trajectories. Maybe the shooter spotted it and took it with him. We were lucky they recovered anything in that mess.”

  “Four casings, I believe. Indicating three misses. That’s a lot of bullets to lose.

  She shook her head. “I don’t think there were four shots. Witnesses only heard one, and the casings were too widely scattered. I spotted one—thought it was the bullet, at first—under the trash bin with the body, but another was found twenty feet away.”

  “Sloppy. Why wouldn’t he police his brass?” Brandt mused.

  “That’s just the thing, he may have. The casings were unusable because they didn’t match each other. Like someone might have grabbed them off the floor of a shooting range. It was odd, and could have been an attempt to throw us off. But in that area, everybody’s got a gun. We find damaged brass discarded all the time.”

  She frowned. But it was strange she’d mistaken the casing for a bullet. It had only been a quick glance, but still… Later, the lab had been adamant—no bullets found. And whether planted or innocently discarded, the casings had been worthless. So was every other lead they’d had on the case.

  Brandt set his empty bottle down and stood, gathering his files. “It’s getting late, and I’ve taken up most of your day. Thanks for the beer. And for your time. We may not have pinpointed the answer, but I have a better feel for your cases. If anything else occurs to you, call me.”

  “I’ll do that.” She walked him to the door, oddly reluctant to see him go and feeling she should say something. She’d been pretty aggressive about the drug charges, and yet he’d devoted a lot of time going over her case…considered cold three months ago. “Brandt, I appreciate your efforts. And…I won’t bring up Boston again.”

  He looked at her, his eyes hooded. “You could tell Annie Moore to back off too. I don’t need a news article dredging it up again.”

  Maggie was taken aback that he’d made the connection, but she wasn’t going to lie to him. “That won’t happen. She isn’t researching an article. Annie’s a friend. She’s been checking around on my behalf.”

  He gave her a long look this time, his eyes unreadable.

  “Who told you?” she finally asked to break the charged silence.

  “Boston DA. Goodnight, Maggie.” He let himself out.

  She leaned against the door. Maggie. Not York this time, but Maggie.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Brandt strode away from her apartment building, slid into his car, and revved the engine. He pulled onto the street before he gave in to less civilized impulses. He wanted to go back and strangle her. Or kiss her until those cool eyes melted. Somehow the two didn’t seem incompatible. What an infuriating woman she was. What business did she have digging around in his past? Or looking so tired and vulnerable when she thought he wasn’t looking?

  She was gutsy. No one else had gotten in his face and demanded an explanation of the drug charges. And he’d been tempted to tell her the truth. He made a derisive noise in his throat. Was her good opinion that important? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. He wasn’t getting involved with another ambition-driven woman.

  But he would like to keep her alive. And out of trouble, if he could.

  After the long session today, he knew her better than before. She was no longer just a pretty face and penetrating blue eyes. She was real. That was good for the case. Maybe bad for him. He liked her, too much…and he’d rather not.

  The following morning the office tension had lessened. Of course, it was Saturday, and not everybody was in. But there had been a subtle change. While no one was lined up to be Brandt’s buddy, they’d lost the intense hostility. A few continued to ignore him. He nodded at two officers who looked up as he crossed the room; one even nodded back. Progress.

  He gave a head dip to Ross and received a nod in return. Sometime he’d find a way to repay his debt to Ross and Barclay.

  His set his files on his desk, opened the Otley file again, and read it through one more time. The answer was here. His gut said so. But he still didn’t find anything. He looked across the room at York’s former partner. Had Coridan done any recent work on the case? He’d like to know if he’d made progress or had any insight that could point Brandt in the right direction. Unlikely he’d get a straight answer from him about anything else, but if Coridan cared about York, wouldn’t he cooperate to help her?

  Brandt waited until most of the detectives had cleared out to appointments or early lunch before he approached Ray Coridan. No reason to put on a show for the entire squad if this didn’t go well.

  The older detective looked up and frowned at him. “Something on your mind, Brandt?”

  “The Otley case.”

  Surprised flitted across Coridan’s face. “That’s my case. Why would you have it? Too much time on your hands, or do you think you can do a better job?”

  “Neither. It was York’s case too, and I keep thinking it is somehow connected to her problems. At least to the shooting.”

  “Not likely. He was nothing but a two-bit drug pusher. You know the kind of low-life I mean.” He put a personal spin on the words, turning them into an indictment.

  Brandt didn’t take the bait. “Any progress on identifying the shooter or tying it to Castile?”

  “Nope. No leads. It’s a dead end. If Maggie suggested you should follow this line of thinking, don’t be misled. She sees Castile’s hand everywhere.”

  “You don’t think he was involved?”

  Coridan shook his head and made a disparaging face. “Why would he be? Too penny-ante for him. Castile’s a big player in this town. This vic was a nobody.”

  Brandt persisted, appealing to the other detective’s expertise. “Anything about his death—the crime scene, the witnesses—strike you as unusual, trigger your cop instincts?”

  “Like I told you. Ordinary.” Coridan suddenly leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Look, Brandt, I don’t know what Maggie said, but she’s imagining things. I didn’t want to mention it—she doesn’t need any more flak—but you should know she’s been seeing things…like ghost sightings. So I wouldn’t put too much stock in her theories until she gets her head on straight.” He stood. “I’m going to lunch. But give her a break. Move on to more pressing cases. She got shot in the middle of a gang fight, pure and simple, and the recent intruder? Maybe he’s just another ghost. Think about it.”

  Coridan headed for the squad room door and left him standing there.

  Brandt’s mouth wasn’t hanging open, but it might as well have been. He certainly hadn’t expected that. He rubbed the back of his neck. No wonder she’d lost confidence and doubted herself. But ghosts? A lot to take in. He hoped he was open-minded, but maybe not that much. It explained the candles and crystals on her living room floor last Friday night. He shook his head. PTSD could take some very strange forms.

  So where did that leave him…and his case? Had she made up the intruder? Then she’d also staged the scene, including the bullet in her fridge, and he didn’t believe that. For one thing, she’d never do such a lousy job. No, she’d have to be totally out of touch, and he’d spent eight hours with a troubled but very sane woman yesterday.

  Why the hell had Coridan told him about this ghost business? Didn’t he know it was career-ending gossip? York was his partner, a bond as strong or stronger than many marriages. You didn’t piss on your partner.

  Angry with Coridan for telling him, angry with himself for the doubts it raised in his mind, and angry with Maggie for not warning him, he stalked toward the precinct ent
rance. Knowing his anger in all three instances was unreasonable didn’t improve his mood.

  Maybe Coridan was right. For her sake and his, he should change his line of inquiry and dump the Otley case.

  Instead, he tapped the Otley file against the palm of his hand on the way out the door.

  The scene of the Otley murder was much as she’d described. A dump. The tenants of the surrounding rundown buildings had overfilled the trash bins and resorted to dumping trash bags and junk—shredded bike tires, broken containers and furniture, anything that didn’t fit or was beyond repair—on the ground nearby. The only thing noteworthy about the scene was its close proximity to York’s shooting three blocks away.

  He turned around, surveying the neighborhood. It was a high crime area. Maybe he shouldn’t read too much into the closeness of the locations. If you dealt with criminals, violence, and drugs, it was a likely area to frequent.

  He poked around for several minutes without finding anything or gaining new insight to make his impulsive trip worthwhile.

  “Did ya lose something again?”

  It was the same freckle-faced kid. Only this time a woman in her late twenties was holding his hand. Brandt smiled. “Joey, wasn’t it? I didn’t expect to see you again.” He shifted his gaze to the woman. “You must be his mother. I’m Detective Brandt, ma’am.”

  She nodded. “He got all excited when he saw you arrive. And said he’d talked with you before on his way to school. Then he ran to his room and brought me this.” A .223 casing lay on the palm of her hand.

  My God. From York’s crime scene. Hey, wait, back up, Brandt. You don’t know that yet. He picked up the casing and squatted in front of Joey. “Can you tell me where you got this?”

  “From Teddy. I was going to call you. Honest. But I forgot. And I guess I lost your card.”

  “That’s OK. You remembered now. Do you know where Teddy got it?”

  “He found it. On the ground.”

  “Yes, but where?”

  Joey frowned. “That other place. You know, where you were looking. I told him you needed it back.”