Ghost Walking

  He didn’t believe that. Did she suspect a cop was involved? Or someone in the lab? A leak perhaps?

  “Well, I have to run,” she said. “Thanks for the call, detective. I really appreciate it. I hope you’ll continue to keep me informed.”

  “I’ll do what I can.” He disconnected and leaned back in his desk chair. Definitely something had changed. She’d been matter-of-fact, almost to the point of curtness. Maybe this was a sign of the instability he’d been warned about. In any case, it was a good reminder to keep his distance.

  He spent the next few hours running down associates of Hurst, including Mick, the black guy the bartender had mentioned, checking out the gym where Hurst had spent several mornings a week, and looking through the tip file on the York case. A few items caught his attention—nothing big—but he made a to-do list for follow up. By mid-afternoon, he stacked the files on his desk and left for the firing range.

  Three shooting lanes were already occupied, which left seven open at the police-only firing range. Brandt chose a space two down from the nearest officer. He wasn’t being unfriendly, but in his opinion, the small dividers allowed too many ejected casings to reach the next pod as flying missiles.

  He’d completed three rounds with his Beretta and two with his backup Ruger, when he felt someone watching. He glanced over his shoulder and recognized York’s former partner, Ray Coridan. The other detective’s jawline was stiff, and he looked like a man with something to say. Sure enough, Coridan pointed to the earmuffs, then the door. The invitation was plain.

  Curious, Brandt nodded. He shot one more round with the Ruger, then packed his gear. Coridan was waiting outside the door.

  “Nice shooting,” Coridan said. “You must spend a lot of time at the range.”

  His words were friendly enough but clipped, as if hurrying through the formalities.

  “A fair amount.” Brandt waited for him to get to the point. It sure wasn’t his shooting ability.

  “You took Maggie back to the courtyard.”

  “It was helpful for me to understand what happened that night.” Where the hell was this going?

  “She’s not ready. I talked to her afterward, and she was shaky. Maggie’s come a long way, and I don’t want some hot shot from back East to hinder her progress.”

  Coridan’s stance had gone from casual to bulldog as he talked, his chin jutting out. Why was he so bent out of shape? Were he and Maggie an item? Brandt felt a twinge of regret. It might explain her coolness. Still, he hadn’t heard a relationship hinted around the office. But then he wasn’t exactly part of the gossip line.

  He ignored the hotshot crack. “I just talked with her this morning. She seemed fine. Why the attitude? Is your interest personal?”

  “You bet it’s personal. She’s my partner and deserves a chance to get past this. It won’t happen if you keep hounding her.”

  Hounding? Coridan’s reaction seemed over-the-top. But he could see how York would bring out a man’s protective instincts. Maybe he’d feel the same if she were his partner.

  “Look, Coridan. I have no intention of adding to her trauma. But I’m treating her like any other victim and asking her to help to the extent she can. That meant a trip to the scene. It’s over, and I don’t foresee going back. Satisfied?”

  The other cop snorted. “Far from it. She can’t help you. She doesn’t remember anything. Just leave her alone.” He spun on his heels and walked away.

  Brandt shifted the gun bag on his shoulder. Coridan didn’t understand human nature very well. By warning him off, he’d just upped Brandt’s interest. And given him more questions to think about.

  * * *

  Maggie had run two miles that morning and was on her second cup of coffee when Annie called. “Hey, girlfriend.” Maggie set down her mug. “Thanks for keeping me company last night. It was good to do something fun for a change. I’m in a great mood today.”

  “It was fun, but you’re making me feel guilty for calling. I, uh, started the research on Brandt, and it didn’t take long to find one part of the story. It’s not good.”

  Maggie’s heart plummeted. She’d hoped to hear something that dispelled her suspicions. “OK.” She reached for the coffee pot and rewarmed her mug. “Tell me the worst.”

  “It’s an article from a Boston newspaper in January of this year about a BPD detective arrested for possession of heroin. The officer was Joshua Brandt, a seven year veteran of the major crimes unit.”

  Shocked, Maggie nearly spilled her coffee. That was the last thing she’d expected to hear. Drugs? He didn’t look or act the type.

  “There’s a grainy photo of the arrest,” Annie continued, “but it’s him. I’m sorry, Maggie. It looks like your hunky cop is a druggie.”

  Maggie blinked, thinking hard. “So what’s he doing here…still a cop and not in jail?”

  “Maybe he made a deal to get off with probation, or they dropped the charges in return for his cooperation. Don’t they do that sort of thing?”

  “Sometimes. But our captain would never hire a felon, convicted or not. And there’s no way he wouldn’t know about this.”

  “I’ll keep digging, but it doesn’t look good.”

  No, it didn’t. Maggie sighed deeply, disappointed, even feeling betrayed. She’d been drawn to Brandt, opened up to him. Just more proof that she couldn’t trust anyone, even herself. Her instincts were off.

  “Thanks, Annie. Call me if you find anything else.”

  Maggie disconnected and dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. She propped one elbow on the table and rested her chin on her palm. And she thought about his deceiving steel-blue eyes.

  * * *

  Maggie spent the weekend practicing the skills Dalia had taught her. She was getting better at meditation and visualization, although she preferred to think of it as focusing. The large crystal sat on her nightstand, and two of the sachets were under her pillow to encourage good dreams. To her surprise, something must have worked. The nightmares stopped.

  Monday and Tuesday she returned to work with Dalia during the morning and talked with Annie every day. While her reporter friend dug for details, Maggie checked online police records and discovered the drug charges against Brandt had been dismissed four months later. Neither Annie nor Maggie could find any explanation…but he hadn’t been reinstated on the Boston police force. That smacked of a deal or a technical out.

  By Wednesday, Maggie decided there was only one way she might get the truth, and she called Captain Jenson. He seemed pleasantly surprised to hear from her until she asked about Brandt’s arrest.

  “Where’d you hear that rumor?” he demanded gruffly.

  “It’s not a rumor. It was in the Boston paper, and I found the arrest online. Charges were dropped. I want to know why.”

  “I can’t discuss another officer with you.” Jenson’s voice was curt. “This is none of your business, Maggie.”

  “I disagree…as long as he’s assigned to my case. I have a right to know if he’s reliable.”

  “Then I’ll tell you. He’s reliable.”

  “Not good enough.”

  The captain released a sharp hiss. “I’m trying to cut you some slack because you’ve been a good officer and you’ve been through a bad time, but don’t push me on this. Whatever happened to Brandt in Boston is behind him. Now if you want to talk about something else, I’d be happy to, but otherwise this conversation is over.”

  Afterward Maggie analyzed every word the captain had said, but she couldn’t decipher a hidden meaning, nothing left to interpretation except the implied admission in those two words: whatever happened. But the captain claimed he was reliable. Did that mean he’d been to drug treatment? Nine months was too short a time to assume a druggie would stay clean. Oh, hell, what was she doing, dissecting conversations like some teenager. She had way too much time on her hands.

  Maggie headed for the gym and spent an hour swimming laps in the pool. When she finished, she took an allergy pil
l. It was time for her weekly volunteer visit to the animal shelter. She loved dogs and cats, enjoyed being around them and watching their antics. Unfortunately she was allergic to their dander. Since she couldn’t take one into her home, she spent time helping to groom new arrivals once a week. Afterward, she’d need to shower and disinfect her clothes in the washer. But she never missed a visit. It was her feel-good moment of the week.

  It was nearly dark when Maggie left the shelter and drove home. She hummed to herself, smiling as she remembered the antics of the shelter’s new litter of kittens. She’d just parked her car on the street when her arms prickled, a wave of unease sweeping over her. Her head whipped up, and she spotted Hurst standing in front of her apartment building.

  Her good mood vanished instantly. He hadn’t been around in days. She’d hoped…well, it didn’t make a difference now. Dalia had warned her he’d be back.

  She pushed an instinctual sense of dread away and walked steadily toward the building entrance. He slid directly in her path. She stopped and looked around, checking for observers. “What do you want?”

  He appeared to bounce around, his movements less human than before, his image fading into gray around the edges.

  “That’s it?” she said impatiently. “How am I supposed to interpret that?” She tried to walk around him, but he glided in front of her. Maggie frowned, gritted her teeth, and walked straight through him, shuddering at the sudden cold. She rubbed her arms, but before she could open the door, he was in front of her again, barring the entrance.

  “This is getting old. You seem to be nothing more than a ghostly stalker. Go away,” she snapped, her frustration morphing into a spurt of anger. He didn’t move, still blocking her path, and she wasn’t walking through that eerie cold again. OK, Dalia, let’s see if you know your stuff. Maggie drew in a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut, and focused on commanding him to leave—repeating the order three times, as Dalia had told her.

  She cautiously lifted her lashes and peered around. Disbelief, then a sense of relief, even elation flooded over her. He was gone. Maggie grinned. Who knew it could be that easy?

  Still marveling over her success, Maggie entered her apartment, threw her clothes in the washer, and quickly showered. She’d changed into sweats and wandered into the kitchen to check out the contents of the fridge when she heard a noise. Unidentified but distinct enough to draw her attention. She tensed and automatically reached for her gun. It was still in the laundry room where she’d left it.

  Hurst? But he’d never made noise before or entered her apartment. Mice? Rats?

  Maggie flattened against the wall and listened, her heartbeat racing. Seconds ticked off slowly. When the sound wasn’t repeated, she pushed away from the wall and stepped toward the living area for a better look around. There was nothing. She must be jumpy from the encounter with Hurst.

  Her appetite had fled, but she returned to the kitchen for a soda. A little carbonation to settle her overactive nerves. She opened the refrigerator and crouched to grab a cola from the bottom shelf.

  A pistol shot rang out; a thud hit the fridge door. Maggie dropped to the hardwood floor and rolled behind the counter. Damn, damn, damn. Why hadn’t she gotten her gun? The kitchen drawer had a few knives. Not a good defense against a gun, but if he got close enough… She moved into a crouch and reached a hand toward the drawer.

  The front door slammed. Then silence. Maggie peeked over the counter. When no one shot at her, she sprang to her feet, grabbed her phone from the counter, and dialed 911. Retrieving her SIG Sauer from the laundry, she ran to the front door. The hallway was empty, except for a man looking cautiously out his door. She waved him back inside and took the stairs to the first floor, checking the street in front and then the side alley. She shook her head in disgust. The intruder was long gone.

  Two minutes later four street cops arrived, and she explained what happened. Two of them immediately checked the rest of her apartment, and two went downstairs to look around outside. She was staring at the bullet hole in her refrigerator door when Coridan walked in. Brandt was only a few seconds behind. She noticed neither spoke to the other.

  Coridan put an arm around her. “Are you OK? Did you see who it was?”

  “I didn’t see anything.” She explained what had happened. “When I heard the door slam, I got my gun and followed, but he was already out of the building.”

  “He?” her partner prompted.

  “Sorry, figure of speech. I didn’t even get a glimpse of the shooter. A neighbor guy was looking out his door in the hallway. Maybe he saw something.”

  “We’ll check it out.” Coridan frowned at her. “So you didn’t have your gun handy? Good thing he ran, or you could have been in real trouble. Must have been a burglar who didn’t expect to find anyone at home.”

  She shook her head. “I had the lights on. And the shower had been running just minutes before.” Maggie winced, thinking what could have happened if he’d caught her in the shower. From now on her SIG would go everywhere with her.

  “All that’s important is he didn’t get a chance to hurt you,” Coridan said.

  “I don’t think he wanted to,” Brandt said mildly. He’d been looking at the fridge door during the conversation. “Seems more like a warning, a threat of some kind. Any unusual phone calls lately? Anyone hanging around, following you?”

  She shook her head again. “Nothing out of the ordinary.” Except a ghost. And Maggie was pretty sure Hurst wasn’t carrying a gun. She frowned. But it was odd Hurst had been around tonight. Oh god. Had he tried to warn her? Was the intruder already inside her apartment…waiting? She shivered and rubbed her arms. She hadn’t checked. She’d assumed her apartment was safe.

  “Did you think of something?” Brandt asked.

  Maggie met his gaze. Did he have to notice everything? “No, I’m just getting a headache.” She rubbed her temples.

  One of the patrol cops came in the front door. “We found a gun outside. A SIG Sauer. Smells like it’s been fired, but we didn’t touch it in case of prints. My partner stayed with it.”

  Coridan turned to look at Maggie. “Don’t you carry a SIG?”

  “I have two. But my primary is behind me on the counter,” she said, waving a hand toward the pistol. “My backup is in the nightstand.”

  “I’ll check to see if it’s still there.” Coridan disappeared behind the dividing wall.

  Brandt placed a call to the crime scene techs before turning back to Maggie. “Any idea how he got in?”

  “None. I hadn’t been home long. Maybe twenty minutes. But I’m sure the door was locked when I got here, and I locked it again behind me. It’s automatic. Do you think he was already inside?” She cringed at the uncertainty in her voice.

  “We’ll have a better answer after the scene is processed. Do you have someplace to stay tonight where you’ll feel safe?”

  Was he kidding? Maggie straightened. Maybe she deserved that question. Hadn’t she been playing the what-if game with her head a few minutes ago like some rookie? “I’m not leaving. Nobody’s chasing me out of my apartment.”

  The corner of Brandt’s mouth twitched, and he turned away. “Suit yourself.”

  Had he deliberately goaded her?

  “No gun in the nightstand,” Coridan announced as he returned.

  Maggie sighed. “Then I’d bet my prints are the only ones you’ll find on the gun outside.”

  Brandt didn’t stay long, and Coridan left as soon as Maggie assured him again she was all right. The techs arrived, dug the bullet from the fridge door, checked the locks on her apartment, and left, presumably taking her spare SIG back to the lab. It was nearly two o’clock when her apartment was finally empty and quiet again. Surprisingly, she fell asleep immediately and slept without interruption.

  By eight she was contemplating the cost of a new refrigerator and drinking coffee at the kitchen counter when Coridan called.

  “The lab put a rush on the evidence from last night,
and you were right. The gun is registered to you. The bullet from the fridge is a match, and the only prints on the SIG are yours.”

  “So he wore gloves. Not a surprise.” She took a sip of coffee.

  “That’s one interpretation.” His uneasy hesitation was obvious.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t get upset, Maggie, but they’re questioning whether there was an intruder.”

  She straightened. “I don’t understand. Someone thinks I imagined it? Or made it up? What about the bullet? Am I supposed to have shot up my fridge too?” When he didn’t respond, she demanded, “Who’s they?”

  “Not me.” His mild tone, clearly intended to be soothing, grated on her nerves. “I believe your version, others don’t.”

  “Who?” she repeated. “Brandt? The captain?”

  “They don’t know you as well as I do.”

  She dropped into a kitchen chair. Could things get any crazier? “Did they actually say that?”

  Coridan snorted. “Does it matter? If they haven’t yet, they will. It’s what the evidence says.” He ticked off the damning points. “Your gun, your fingerprints, no forced entry, not finishing the job even though you were unarmed. The story’s all over District 13.”

  Oh god. Her face burned. Could she ever set foot in the precinct again? She couldn’t even talk about it right now. “Thanks for telling me, Coridan, but I’ve got to go.”

  “Are you OK? Maggie, I’m sorry I upset you, but I thought you’d want to know. Shall I come over?”

  She bit back an angry response. It wasn’t his fault. “I’m fine, but I have things to do. I’ll call you later.”

  Maggie disconnected before he could pour on more sympathy. She was sick of being treated like a helpless or unstable victim. So she’d better quit acting like one and start thinking like a cop again. Which she hadn’t been doing, especially the last few days. How could she leave her firearm in the laundry room? She’d never done that before. Or leave the chains off the front door? She’d lost her edge. If she didn’t get it back, she’d not only be unemployed, she’d be dead.