Ghost Walk. Heather Graham
hit her entire bloodstream. Her breath caught.
Her sense of foreboding… It was coming true.
She looked up, remnants of her dream flashing through her mind’s eye like a chaotic movie trailer.
She knew, though he was in plainclothes, that the man who approached her was a policeman, and that he was about to tell her something terrible.
She stood up, her mouth working, no words coming.
“You—you’re a cop. Something’s happened,” she finally gasped out.
The officer nodded. He cleared his throat. “I’m Detective Massey, Owen Massey, Miss DuMonde.”
Nikki stared at him, hating the wave of knowledge that filled her, muscles constricting as she denied everything rushing into her mind.
“No, no…there’s a mistake.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Someone is…hurt?”
“I’m here about Miss Ciello, Miss Andrea Ciello.”
He looked helpless—big, kind and helpless. Cops like him must have to give people bad news all the time, but it looked as if it had never gotten easy for this guy. “We were referred to you. A Mrs. Montobello is the one who called us…insisted we go in, swore that Miss Ciello would have come to see her first thing in the morning. She said that you were Miss Ciello’s best friend? I’m sorry, so sorry. I wish there were an easier way to do this. Um…should we go inside?”
“What’s happened? Tell me what’s happened!”
“Perhaps—”
“No! Talk to me, tell me, what’s happened?”
“Overdose, I’m afraid. We believe it was accidental, but you know, we have to go through procedure…. The thing is, we need someone to make a formal identification of the body.”
“Body?” Nikki gasped.
“Yes, I’m afraid—”
“No!” Nikki stared at him in disbelief. No. It had to be an elaborate joke. Andy—vivacious, fun-loving, rowdy Andy—couldn’t be dead.
“I’m truly sorry. It appears that she—”
“Andy was clean.”
“I’m sure she wanted to be clean.”
“No! She was clean.” Nikki realized that she was backing away from the man, denying everything that he was saying. But it couldn’t be true. “She was clean. She knew not to touch the stuff. It’s impossible that she did this to herself. It’s impossible that…”
But from the way he was looking at her, she knew it was true.
Just as the dream had been true. She wanted to black out; she wanted the world to go away. Yes, she had always had a sense of the past, of spirits that remained, but never, never, had she felt…seen…anything like…
Last night. Andy had been dead. Or dying. And she had come to Nikki for help. She had failed her friend somehow.
She shook her head again. Her words were fierce. “Andrea Ciello was off drugs. I know it. If something’s happened to Andy, it was not self-inflicted, and it was not accidental. She was murdered.”
Murdered.
The officer was staring at her, troubled, frowning.
“I’m telling you, she was clean. And if you don’t believe me, I’ll raise a stink in this parish that you won’t believe. She can’t be…oh, God.”
No. This was impossible. She was still dreaming. Imagining this cop just the way she’d imagined Andy last night.
“I’m sorry, Miss DuMonde. Look, is there someone I can call? Are your folks here…a sister, brother, friend?” he asked.
She ignored him, shaking her head, anger keeping her standing. “She did not overdose. If she had drugs in her system, someone else put them there. I am going to demand an investigation. I want to see a homicide officer.”
“I handle homicide cases,” he said gently. “We have to look into any death that’s questionable in any way.”
“Oh?” She stared at him anew, heart racing.
“It wasn’t a natural death,” he said. “So they call us in.”
“What time was she killed?” Nikki managed to ask.
“What time did she die?” he countered gently.
“Please. Yes, whatever. What time—did she die?” Nikki gasped out again.
The detective looked wary, as if he wasn’t sure why that information should be so pertinent.
“The ME only had an estimate, but it would have been right around 4:00 a.m.,” he told her.
She reached out, grasping for a railing…for help…for something that wasn’t there. Too late, the detective realized what was happening.
Nikki crashed down on the porch as the world faded before her, Andy’s words suddenly echoing in her ears.
“Help me!”
“Sorry,” the taxi driver told Brent as they slowed to a near halt on entering the French Quarter.
“No problem,” Brent told him.
It was usually a slow process, maneuvering the tourist-filled streets. Delivery vans could block a narrow byway, and any little snarl could close things off, though in the tight confines of the place—with many streets blocked off for pedestrian traffic only—most people preferred to walk. Still, vehicles were sometimes necessary, and delays were just a fact of life.
Brent breathed a deep sigh as he looked around. Charming. That was definitely a word to describe the architecture, the handsome wrought-iron railings the locals called iron lace. The sound of the music, the colors, the architecture itself. Yes, the place had charm.
And once upon a time he had loved it.
But that was then, and this was now, and if he’d never come back, it would have been just fine.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked as a patrolman in the street brought the traffic to a stop.
“Debate,” the taxi driver said.
“Debate?” Brent said, and frowned.
“Politicians, and I’m not sure what they’re debating. They both claim to have the same platform. Working to keep the history and unique quality of the place while cleaning up crime. I guess the old guy is saying that he knows what he’s doing, that his record is great, and we’re already on the way, while the younger guy is claiming the old guy hasn’t done a thing, hasn’t moved fast enough…well, you know. It’s politics. Everyone swears to move the moon, and everyone out there is a liar, just the same.” He winked at Brent in the rearview mirror.
“The crime rate has come down, though, hasn’t it?”
“Crime rate goes down, crime rate goes up. Hey, no matter who wants to run what, nothing changes. Those that have want to keep what they have. Those that don’t have want to get. We have real poverty in some areas, some pretty rich folk in others. Same old, same old, the human condition. Unless you change the conditions…well, that’s what both our boys say they mean to do, so…you know how you usually vote for the guy you dislike the least? Well, both these guys are likable, so I guess we can’t lose.”
“That’s good.”
“I think so. But then, I love this place. You visit often?”
“No.”
“Where you from?”
Brent started to say, All over.