* * *
Confused, Brandt frowned at her back, noting the tight shoulders. It wasn’t “nothing.” She was pale…and angry. He could swear she’d been talking to someone, shaking her finger at him…them…similar to that night in the courtyard. Was this evidence of the ghost hallucinations Coridan had mentioned? Was she losing it?
She’d been through a lot recently and been shaken by events, but not once had he considered her unstable. He didn’t know much about PTSD. Could it come on in a flash? Maybe triggered by the tight spot Harry was in or the risk to Annie? He’d find out, ask some quiet questions. He’d like to help her.
Brandt followed her and got into the car. She sat with her head turned away, staring out the window.
“Do you want to talk about this?”
“No.”
He started the car and drove her home. When they arrived at her apartment building, Maggie quickly got out, but he followed her toward the building.
“I got it from here, Brandt. Thanks for the ride, the evening. You don’t need to walk me up.”
“But I want to.”
She let the entrance door swing past her, but he caught it and beat her to the stairway, holding it open while she swept past, still not looking at him. What was she thinking behind that set, expressionless face?
At her apartment door, she once again tried to ditch him, but Brandt ignored her hints and even her curt goodnight. Instead, he followed her inside and leaned against the closed door.
She finally turned and glared at him. “You’re pushing too hard. I’m tired, and I’m going to bed.”
“Fine. We can talk in the bedroom.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Have you forgotten I carry a gun? I also sleep with one.”
“I’m counting on your better sense to prevail before you actually shoot me.”
She gave a mocking bark of laughter. “That’s risky. I’m not sure I have any.” Her slender shoulders slumped, and she put a few more steps between them. Her voice sounded weary now. “Go home, Josh.
“I’m not leaving till you tell me the truth.”
“About what?” Anger sparked again. “Still looking for a murder confession? I’m not a killer. Not Hurst or his girlfriend. Not Pardson. Not anyone.”
Brandt shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out to her. He hated to do this, but it didn’t seem there was any other way. He kept his voice level. “I want you to tell me about the ghosts.”
Silence. Harsh, raw. He waited.
“Damn Coridan.” She said it so softly he barely heard the words. Her back stiffened; she curled her fingers into fists at her side and spun around. Suppressed fury flowed from her in waves. “Want to hear just how crazy I am? Is that it? It’s no business of yours. Get out of here. Get out of my life.”
He shook his head, letting her anger wash over him, and started toward her.
“Oh, no. Don’t you dare feel sorry for me,” she snapped.
“Maggie…” He reached out a hand, and she batted it away.
“I may be crazy or a friggin’ freak, but I don’t need your sympathy. What do you want from me? Do you really want to hear about the ghostly spirits flitting in and out of my life? Or the weird gift I inherited? Oh, yeah, they—my relatives who are even crazier than I am—call it that, not the horrible curse it is.”
She was trembling, and Brandt closed the distance between them, wrapping her in his arms. He held her tightly, ignoring her angry words and the repeated attempts to hit him, until she laid her head against his chest. She didn’t make a sound, but her shoulders moved as if she were crying. He murmured to her softly, not thinking about or caring what he said.
When she finally lifted her head and wiggled to be free, he opened his arms and let her go. “Will you tell me everything?” he asked.
She nodded and scrubbed her face, removing the remnants of her tears. “Why not?”
He suffered a flash of guilt at her defeated tone and wondered if he’d made a mistake. “Why don’t you sit down. I’m sure I can find everything to fix coffee.”
She rallied enough to flash a weak smile. “I’ll do it. I’m crazy, not helpless.”
He sighed but let the sarcasm pass. “We’ll do it together.”
They let conversation hang while they measured the coffee, filled the machine, and waited for it to brew. With steaming mugs finally in hand, they moved into the living room. She sat on one end of the couch; he chose a chair across from her, giving her space to tell her story. She delivered it in a matter-of-fact tone, from the first voices in the recovery room to Hurst, Dalia, and Selena. She related each of Hurst’s appearances, including what seemed to be his unheeded warning the night of the intrusion.
Brandt listened in silence and watched her marshal her thoughts to deliver them in a detailed, cohesive report he could understand. Actually, he didn’t understand anything. Her story was fantastic, unbelievable. But she wasn’t lying…nor had she suffered a psychotic break. Overwhelmed, maybe, but not the least bit crazy. She believed what she was saying.
He sighed, struggling between trusting her and swallowing this story. It would make sense out of certain things. The PTSD diagnosis, her secrecy, the mysterious confidential informant, finding Hurst’s apartment and Pardson’s car.
“Sometimes I don’t know who I am anymore.” Her voice brought his attention back to her. Maggie’s eyes were big and dark and questioning. “Ready to run?”
“Not yet.” He produced a half-smile. Responding to a rush of protectiveness, he moved to the couch and pulled her against his shoulder. “I can’t explain what’s happened to you, Maggie, but we’ll figure it out.”
“Yeah, maybe. I don’t expect you to just accept this. It’s taken me six, seven months now, and I’m still not there. If I hadn’t seen…experienced it for myself…”
He hushed her and rested his chin in her hair. Her stiff shoulders gradually relaxed, and he continued to silently hold her until he realized she’d fallen asleep. When he carried her to bed, he lay down beside her, intending to stay until he was sure she would stay asleep. Instead, he dozed off. At six, he brushed his lips against her temple and left. He had a lot of thinking to do.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Brandt blinked in the morning sunlight as he exited Maggie’s building. What a weird night. He’d never thought much about ghosts. If he had, he’d have laughed. Probably said they didn’t exist. But there were plenty of unanswered mysteries in the world, things that had to be taken on faith. And, dammit, he believed in Maggie.
She’d gotten under his skin. Something about her touched him, beyond the obvious sexual chemistry. He’d watched her face while she’d related her story, seen the pain, the denial, the resignation, and he believed she’d experienced a series of inexplicable events. He couldn’t think of any rational answers, and until he did, he’d keep an open mind. That she still struggled against the paranormal possibilities only made her story more compelling.
After a shower at home and a change of clothes, he considered going in to the precinct. It was Sunday, but it would be quiet enough to get some paperwork down. He called his mother’s room first, discovered she’d had a bad night, and changed his plans. It turned out to be the normal progress of the disease, but he spent the rest of Sunday playing cards with Harry and their mom or watching her sleep. He talked with Maggie only once. She sounded wary at first but relaxed by the end of the conversation. He hadn’t had anything in particular to say, but he was glad he’d called.
On Monday, he made it to the station by seven thirty. Retrieving the Hurst case from Ross’s desk, he searched for clues to a different killer…but his thoughts kept wandering to the incident outside District 13 last night. Had Hurst’s ghost really been there or had her subconscious conjured his presence? Either way, it must mean something.
The answer that popped into mind was the mole in the lab. Would a ghost care about that? Brandt snorted. How would he know? But Maggie would care, if it was her subconscio
us at work. On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t a person but evidence they’d overlooked, something buried in a box in the lab. Wasn’t evidence what Hurst had pointed her to in the past? Brandt shook his head, still amazed he was following up a lead from some spooky presence. This was going to take getting used to.
Even after combing the Hurst file again and examining the case-related evidence box, he found nothing he could put a different spin on. At the morning meeting, he explained his renewed interest in the case by repeating the discrepancies that had been there all along.
“We have zero direct evidence that points to Pardson. No witnesses that place him in the area, no ballistics matches, no fingerprints, no fiber evidence. Besides, he was a sniper. They don’t like up close and personal, not the way Hurst and his girlfriend were executed.”
“Doesn’t that logic mean we have a third killer?” Ross asked. “‘Cause a man who uses a gun wouldn’t stab his target. Not unless something went wrong during the hit, and there wasn’t any sign of a struggle or slip-up in Pardson’s murder.”
“You both could be right—unless one of these killers deliberately changed his MO to throw us off,” Barclay cautioned.
Bishop nodded. “Yeah, good thought.”
“Which just proves we’re a long way from closing this case.” Brandt stood. “It’s time we were getting back to work, but for now, the Hurst case stays open.”
Brandt dropped into his desk chair, relieved that had gone smoothly. Now came the hard part—proving there was a second, or even third, killer and identifying potential suspects. He sighed, picked up the crime scene photos from the Pardson murder, and took a magnifying glass from his drawer. It was as good a place as any to start.
“Officer down! Active shooter on the scene.”
Brandt whipped his head toward the officer shouting from the squad room doorway. When the officer gave an address only six blocks away, he sprang to his feet, grabbed his service pistol, and ran toward the door. In fact, every detective in the room responded. An officer involved shooting, especially one close by, always sparked an automatic response.
Brandt’s vehicle was parked in front, and Bishop, Ross, and Barclay piled in with him, the last man barely getting the door closed before they sped down the street, whipping around traffic. Brandt slammed on his brakes a half block from the shooting scene, flipped off the engine, and leaped into the street. He ran toward a cluster of officers while other police vehicles pulled up nearby. Newly arrived cops spread out and moved swiftly toward the scene with guns drawn. Their priority was to backup the officers involved and then provide containment, keeping the bad guys in and bystanders out.
Brandt noted the lack of current gunfire. He spotted the vice unit supervisor directing operations—which indicated the officer involved might be under his command. Police converged on a seven-story building on the right. Someone said the word sniper, and Brandt’s gut clenched, knowing the implications. An experienced sniper didn’t often miss with that first shot or two, and the distance from his victim might have let the killer slip away before anyone started looking.
Brandt edged toward the circle of officers, which included Ray Coridan, protecting someone lying on the street. It spoke volumes that they weren’t tending his wounds. Fatality. When someone moved, Brandt glimpsed the body. Long, lanky form with very blond hair. His mouth grew dry, a pit formed in the bottom of his stomach. Aw, hell. It was Wernier.
An instant later, pure fear spiked through him. Was Harry still safe? Brandt snatched his phone and jammed in the number. One ring. Two. Three.
“Hey, bro. What’s up?”
Brandt sucked in a sharp breath as relief washed over him. “Where are you?”
“At home in my apartment. You sound different. Has something happened?”
“Detective Wernier was killed just minutes ago. Sniper. Don’t go anywhere. Stay away from your windows, lock your doors, and don’t answer until you hear from me.”
“Was this because of me?” Harry’s voice was quiet.
“I don’t know for sure. He wasn’t near your apartment. It may be unrelated. But until I have some answers, you need to lay low. Promise me.”
“Yeah, Josh. I’ll be here. God, I’m sorry. He seemed like a nice guy.”
Brandt’s next call went to Maggie. She didn’t need more bad news, but he’d rather she heard it from him than over the TV. He waited impatiently for her to answer.
“Maggie, it’s me.”
“You’re a brave man, Josh. I wasn’t sure I’d hear from you again.”
“I’m not that easy to get rid of. Are you watching TV?”
“No, why?” Her voice sharpened. “What’s going on?” He heard her switch it on in the background.
“Sniper shooting. It’s Weiner. He didn’t make it.”
“Oh my God. He has a wife and two small children. Did they get the sniper?”
“Not yet. They’re searching a building now, but I’m betting he’s gone.”
“What about Harry? Was he there?”
“He’s fine. He was home, not even close to the shooting scene.”
“That’s a relief. I can’t believe Shanks is gone. He’s…” Her voice caught and then firmed, her tone turning sharp. “So what happened? Who’d dare to shoot a cop?”
“I don’t know. The scene’s not secure yet. I haven’t heard how it went down. Coridan might know more. He was on the scene before I was. Are you OK? I know you worked with Wernier on a couple of Castile’s cases.”
“Like everyone else, I’m pissed off, Brandt. He was a good cop. Always had a joke, but he was smart, careful. I can’t imagine how— Wait, do you remember what he said last night?”
“About having good news soon? Yeah, I thought of that too. I intend to bring it to his commander’s attention. But I’m not sure how helpful it will be. He clearly had a lead on something, but we don’t know what. He looked at you when he said it. So maybe Castile?”
Maggie swore softly. “You’re right. He said it directly to me.” Her voice steadied as the conversation refocused on the investigative issues. “It’s not proof of anything, but Castile wouldn’t bat an eye at targeting a cop.”
“It’s a lead to follow if we don’t nail this guy. I should go.”
“Josh, will you keep me in the loop?”
His lips parted in a curve. She could call Coridan or anyone else on the squad to get an update. By asking him, she’d indicated she wasn’t backing away from the intimacy created during last night’s confession. “You bet. As soon as I know anything.”
He hung up, and the smile faded as he turned back to the grim scene.
An hour later it became clear the sniper had escaped, and Brandt met with Captain Jenson back at the station. He’d changed his mind about going to Wernier’s supervisor and revealing anything associated with Harry. He didn’t trust anyone with his brother’s life, but Jenson already knew everything about Boston, the Witness Protection Program, and why Harry was in New Orleans. The full story had been a condition of Brandt’s hiring.
As Brandt laid out the details of his discussions with the dead cop and the connection to Harry, Jenson’s face went from grave to forbidding. “It isn’t clear what Wernier meant, and I understand your hesitation to expose Harry, but we can’t suppress a possible motive.”
“I’m not asking that, captain. Just keep Harry’s identity under wraps. He only met Wernier last night. He doesn’t know anything about him, and questioning Harry would only put him at greater risk.”
Jenson leaned back, his hands braced on the chair arms, and frowned. “It sounds like you don’t trust your fellow cops. Is this about the lab leak? You think it’s a dirty cop?”
Brandt shrugged. “I know Castile has a pipeline into this building. That’s reason enough to keep Harry far away from here.”
“You trusted Wernier.”
“A calculated risk that may have gotten him killed.”
Jenson rubbed the back of his neck as he seemed to th
ink it through, and then he leaned forward again. “I might as well admit I have another problem with this situation. Wernier didn’t trust anyone either, and I let him get away with it. In hindsight, that may have been a mistake. At least for me. His commander doesn’t know about the lab investigation. He’ll be pissed—and with some justification—that his officer was involved in two secret cases.” Jenson shook his head slowly, possibly envisioning the unpleasant scene. “So let me meet with him first. I’ll tell him about the lab, and the undercover work protecting an unnamed witness linked to Paul Castile. And I’ll relate what he said to you last night. We’ll leave out that anyone else was present. If he wants to talk with you, I’ll make it clear he can’t ask about the undercover work.”
“I owe you, captain.”
Jenson gave him an unreadable look. “I hope your brother is worth it. You’ve used up a lot of good will on his behalf.”
“Yes, sir. I’m trying to keep him alive, so he has a chance to prove me right.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Maggie stood at the window of her apartment watching nothing, hugging her arms, shocked and saddened by Shanks Wernier’s death. She’d miss his boyish smile and those long legs making District 13’s endless corridors seem short. He’d been a cop’s cop. There wasn’t a better tribute.
Following the bleak news, she’d prowled her apartment for nearly an hour, pacing back and forth, desperate to think of something she could do for Wernier…or his grieving family. What would those kids do without him?
Someone needed to make Castile pay this time, bring him to his knees. She knew with uncanny certainty he’d ordered Shanks’s death. It didn’t matter which case prompted it. Castile was responsible. And dammit, she was hampered in what she could do without her badge.