Heather Graham - Ghost Shadow

“I don’t think that you killed her, kid,” David said.

Lewis Agaro let out a long breath. “I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. I had a night with her like no other. I woke up and my wallet had been rifled and she was gone. I went back to the club, but she wasn’t there. Then-they found her body.”

“Did you see anyone that night? Did she talk to you about anyone?”

Agaro frowned, shaking his head. He was thoughtful. “She-well, we talked about the fact that I had almost been arrested for a pocket she had picked! She thought it was funny, and she wasn’t afraid-even when I told her the cops thought it was her. She said she knew her way around town, and she knew her away around the law, real well. You-you don’t understand. She wasn’t a bad person. She was cool. She was like one of those folks on that TV show-Survivor! She wasn’t like all-sex. She was affectionate, she had feelings.”

“I’m sure she did.”

“The cops are going to arrest me, aren’t they? They’re going to think that I did it. Billy-my brother-he’s all disgusted with me. He wanted to get the hell off the island. Billy-” He paused, wincing. “Billy didn’t even know that I’d hired her for the night. He wound up hanging out with some of his friends from FSU. He thinks I’ll be called in-along with him-cause we were stopped in the street by that Neanderthal the other night and accused of robbing him.”

“You’re not going to be arrested, Lewis, but they will bring you in for questioning. Just tell them the truth. You’re a kid from out of town, you couldn’t possibly have staged the death scene at the museum. The cops aren’t stupid. They know that.” He pulled a cocktail napkin toward him and reached in his pocket for a pen. He scribbled down a name and handed the paper to the young man. “There’s a name for a good attorney down here-a criminal attorney. If you need help, call him. He’s a good guy.”

“I can’t afford an attorney.”

“Tell him I referred you. He’s older than hell, better than anyone else you’ll ever meet. I know-he stood by me once. He’s an old family friend. You’ll be all right. That’s over with, so… Think. Please, think. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

He perked up suddenly. “There was one thing. There was this guy. He’d been upstairs-during the show. He tried to get Stella to talk to him, but she ripped her arm away from him and hissed something at him. And he told her he was working a whole lot. He was going to get money-she should quit what she was doing. I think that he knew that she had promised to come home with me.”

“What did the guy look like?” David asked, though he was sure he knew the answer.

“Skinny, kind of thin face, about your age. Ah, hell, I’d seen him before around here. My brother’s friends were heckling one of the ghost tours, and he was the guy leading it. He made everybody yell at the hecklers, something like, ‘You’re cursed!’”

David nodded. “Thanks.”

He set a hand on the kid’s shoulder and rose.

Danny Zigler.

But where the hell was he now? David was afraid that he wasn’t going to find Danny. He still didn’t believe that Danny Zigler was capable of murder. But neither was Danny capable of holding down the kind of job that could account for the money he had at his apartment. Danny had known or suspected something-maybe he even knew why and how Stella had died. The police would find the money in Danny’s apartment eventually. Until then, it was something he was going to keep to himself.

He still had to find Danny. He was just afraid that he wasn’t going to find him alive.

Katie’s phone rang in the quiet of the library, making her jump. She answered it quickly, wondering if her heart was thumping because her caller ID read David Beckett, or just because she had been so startled.

“Hey,” she said. “How’s it going?”

“Interesting. Danny Zigler is nowhere to be found.”

“Well, he’ll turn up, I’m certain.”

David didn’t reply to her statement. “Where are you?” he asked instead.

“The library.”

“That’s not on Duval Street.”

“It’s a happening place.”

He laughed softly. “Maybe, but…while you’re there, want to do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“I need these books,” he said, and rattled off three titles. She scrounged in her purse for a pen.

“All right, I’ll get them-if they have them.”

“I have a feeling that they do. Want to meet me at Craig’s place?”

He didn’t call it “my” house. He called it Craig’s place.

He didn’t intend to stay.

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll get the books and be right there.”

She hung up. Bartholomew was watching her. “Well?”

“I’m meeting him at his house. Or-the Beckett house.”

“The museum?” Bartholomew asked, frowning.

“No, no. The old Beckett homestead. Are you-coming with me?”

“Good God, no. The Lord alone knows where the two of you might start madly coupling once you’re there! Far more than I want to know or see or…”

Katie groaned. “That’s not all that…it’s certainly not all that we do.”

“I’m going to hang around the street. Watch the Fantasy Fest preparations. See if I can find the regular habits of my lady in white. But I’ll walk you over, and I’ll not be gone too long. God knows, that fellow is so determined to find the truth, he keeps leaving you alone.”

Katie planted her hands on her hips. “Chill. He’s going to get me some pepper spray. And I’m not the karate kid, but I’m not a ninety-pound weakling, either.”

Bartholomew leaned toward her, his face set seriously. “Katie, this killer is strong. It seems that he snuck up on Stella Martin, surprised her and killed her with his bare hands. You’re not a weakling, but this isn’t someone you want to tackle.”

“Which makes it almost impossible for Danny to be guilty of anything,” Katie said. “He is just about a ninety-pound weakling.”

“Come, my dear, let me escort you,” Bartholomew said.

“I just have to get these books,” she said.

At home, David cleared off the formal dining-room table, removing his grandmother’s silver candlesticks and the lace doilies she had used to protect the beautiful old, carved mahogany.

He laid out the photos from the original crime scene.

He also laid out his photos of the second crime scene.

He set out the files with pertinent crime-scene information and witness reports, but the latter revealed nothing. No one had seen anyone at the museum. No one had seen anyone on the street. No one had seen anything. In Tanya’s case, she had been at O’Hara’s bar. She had left. She had never been seen again by anyone-except the killer-until she had appeared in the tableau.

Stella Martin. The police were still questioning people, but he knew more than the police did. She had slept with Lewis Agaro. She had rifled through his wallet, left his small lodging house through the rear and been killed beneath the branches of a large sea grape tree.

Someone had seen her leave the lodging house. She had been staying off Duval to avoid the cops, probably. She had gone around back. She had argued with Danny Zigler, and he was missing.

The crime-scene pictures were different. Tanya had been laid out like Sleeping Beauty; in death, she had been gorgeous, heart-wrenching.

Stella Martin had been dumped.

Two different killers?

The doorbell rang. He left the table and went to the door, letting Katie in. She seemed to enter hesitantly. He had a feeling that it was the first time she had been in the house since his grandfather had died.

And he hadn’t changed anything within it.

“Come on in,” he told her huskily. He reached out, taking her hand, pulling her in. Then he pulled her against him and she looked up and he stroked her cheek and kissed her. Instant fire. Anticipation increased by the fact that he knew her, and knew what could come.