Heather Graham - The Cursed

There was another table in the kitchen—this one smaller and far more casually set. It sat six, tops. The kitchen itself was large and in keeping with the rest of the house. The sink had reproduction faucets that resembled old pumps, the counters were butcher block, with marble tops by the stove and sink. Copper pots and pans hung from the rafters, and there was a huge fireplace with a large kettle hanging over carefully stacked wood. Dallas was pretty sure it was just for show.

Hannah was seated at the table. She had changed into a sundress and was no longer covered in blood. Her hair was wet; she had apparently washed it. Her cheekbones were high, her eyes were wide. She was, he thought, very much a beauty, like a classical statue in her near perfection.

She was sipping from a mug as she studied a record book in front of her.

“I’m debating whether to call the people I had to turn away,” she told Liam drily. “My bottom line could certainly use the help.”

“Don’t know how to help you there, I’m afraid,” Liam told her as he pulled out the chair to her right and helped himself to coffee.

“There’s quiche and croissants if you’d like,” she said. “Obviously I’m not serving a dozen guests this morning.”

“How sad. Your guests are gone,” Dallas snapped before he could stop himself.

She stared at him, obviously stung by his tone. “I found that poor man. I saw his face. It was...” She shuddered. “Anyway, think whatever you want of me, but we’re still here and so is the food, so help yourself if you’re hungry.”

He was hungry; the call from Liam had dragged him out of bed early in the morning, and he hadn’t had a break since. But he felt like an ass. No way in hell could he accept her food after he’d just been so rude to her.

“I’m pretty sure you both know I didn’t kill that man,” she said quietly. “But the clothes I was wearing are in that paper bag if you need them for anything.”

“The lab might want them,” Liam said.

“Interesting,” Dallas said. “That’s a good call, but it’s interesting that you thought ahead like that.”

She gave him a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. “The techs outside asked me to bag up the clothing I was wearing in case they could find trace evidence from the killer on it.”

Dallas kept his mouth shut and took a drink of the coffee Liam had already poured for him, but inside he was thinking, You ass all over again.

“Hannah, by any chance did your guests tell you what direction the ‘ghost’ came from?” Liam asked her.

She shook her head. “I wish I could tell you more, Liam, but no, they didn’t say anything. I assume you’ll want to talk to them yourself, though. I arranged for them to stay at the Westin. None of the B and Bs would have had room, even if I’d been able to reach someone at that hour of the morning.”

“I’m assuming you have cell numbers for them so we can track them down if they’re out?” Dallas asked.

She nodded and reached for the guest register on the table. “Of course.”

Liam rose, pulling out a small pad and a pen. “What are their names?”

“Stuart Bell and Shelly Nicholson saw him and thought he was a ghost,” Hannah said, and gave him their numbers. “Their friends are Pete and Judy Atkinson, and Mark Riordan and Yerby Catalano. And then there were the Hardwickes. They’re regulars, and much too elderly to be your murderer, if that’s what you’re thinking. They woke up with all the screaming and came rushing down, just like I did. They were just as confused and disoriented as I was. Everyone but the Hardwickes was on my ghost tour earlier. I start off here, and I always end at the Hard Rock—part of their ticket price gets them a drink. I left them there, came home and went to sleep. I didn’t hear them come in. I didn’t hear anything until the screaming started. Just call over to the hotel. I’m sure you’ll reach them there.”

“Thanks,” Liam told her, then got up and walked away from the table as he started making his calls.

“They really thought a dying man was a ghost?” Dallas asked, shaking his head.

“I guess you don’t really understand this island,” Hannah said.

He smiled grimly. “Oh, I think I do.”

“You’re new here, right?”

“I haven’t been assigned here long, no. But I know the island. I was born here, Miss O’Brien.”

“Ah,” she said, studying him. “Really? I’m going to guess that you’ve been away awhile. Because you should know that people like to come here and steep themselves in ghost stories, then party at the bars on Duval Street.”

“They were drunk?” he asked.

That seemed to give her pause. She shook her head. “No, actually, I don’t think they were.”

“There’s a big difference between a supposed ghost and a dying man,” Dallas said. He took another drink of his coffee. It was good. Strong. Exactly what he liked and needed.

“I might remind you, Mr. Samson, that I’m not the one who saw him. My guests told me that they’d seen a ghost, and since they were clearly terrified I did what I thought was the right thing—I gave them their money back and sent them where they’d feel safe.”

He leaned forward, looking at her. “It’s Agent Samson, Ms. O’Brien. And while you were busy doing the right thing, weren’t you afraid yourself?”

“Of a ghost? A supposed ghost? No.”

He leaned closer to her. “What about the knife?”

She shrugged. “They said he had a knife—and no, I don’t know why they thought a ghost was able to carry a real knife—and that he was about to do them in. I never saw the knife.”

Liam returned to the table and told them, “They’re still at the hotel. I spoke to a friend at the desk. She’s slipping a note beneath the door, because they have their phones off—probably trying to get some sleep. We can stop on by when we leave here or wait to speak to them when they wake up. Hannah, the crime scene techs will probably be around for a few more hours. There’s a lot of foliage around the property, and they’re trying to find any clues—blood, broken branches, a scrap of fabric...whatever. Trying to figure out where he came from before he wound up in your yard and where the killer might have hidden.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “We’re just a block off Duval,” she said. “I imagine...well, the backstreets here are pretty quiet once the bars close.”

Liam nodded. “I’m going to take you up on breakfast before we go.”

“Please do,” she said, rising. “Let me nuke it for you.” She turned to look at Dallas. “Agent Samson?”

What the hell. He was hungry.

“Sure,” he said. “Thank you.”

She put the food in the microwave to heat, then set plates before the two of them.

“Did you know who he was?” she asked. “Was he a criminal—or just a good guy who happened to be walking around carrying a bowie knife?”

Dallas looked at her. She could also have an acid tongue when she chose.

Liam said, “It’s a closed investigation, so I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything.”

Hannah turned from Liam to stare at Dallas. “I see. I’m not sure how you’re going to keep a lid on things, but I guess I don’t really need an answer.”

“Yes,” Dallas said quietly, making the decision to let her into the zone of trust. “He was a good guy walking around with a bowie knife. He was one of ours, an agent named Jose Rodriguez. Luckily he doesn’t have a wife or kids, and his parents died a long time ago in a South American coup. When the Bureau spins what happens, they’ll probably let the media think that he was a criminal—and he would have approved of that. It took him forever to get undercover. They won’t want that information getting out.”