Heather Graham - Phantom Evil

The night, however, was uneventful.

Angela Hawkins was still asleep when he came down to the kitchen. There was little there, but someone had seen to it that some basics had been stocked, so he was able to brew coffee and munch on one of the English muffins that had been left in a package in the refrigerator.

He called to set up an interview with the senator. First, he reached a secretary, and then was put through to the senator’s aide, Martin DuPre, and while he was asking DuPre if the senator would be available for an appointment, DuPre’s protective hedging came to a quick halt when the senator himself came on the line. He assured Jackson that he’d be there that evening around five or five–thirty, and that their investigation was the most important issue in his life at the moment. He was glad to be in New Orleans at the moment, since the state legislature wasn’t in session. He hadn’t lived at the house since his wife had died; he had taken an apartment in the city.

Jackson was in the kitchen, working on notes for the investigation, when the doorbell rang.

Answering it, he discovered a young man with a guitar case strung over his shoulder and an overnight bag in his hand.

“Hi,” the visitor said.

“Can I help you?” Jackson asked.

The young man extended a hand. “You have to be Jackson Crow. I’m Jake Mallory. I know it’s kind of early, but I grew up in the Garden District, and I was awake—and here I am.”

“Jake. Good to meet you. Come on in.”

Jackson kept his tone level, his greeting polite.

But he wondered what the hell Adam Harrison had been thinking.

Jake Mallory was tall, probably half an inch short of his own height. He had auburn, slightly long hair, an angular, well–defined face and light green eyes. His build was more lanky than bulky, but he looked as if he was about to play guitar on the streets for money. It wasn’t that he looked unkempt; he was fastidious and probably extremely attractive to young women. He just didn’t have the look of someone about to become part of an elite investigation unit.

If this was, in truth, an elite investigation unit.

Then, again, maybe he looked exactly the part, just because he didn’t offer the customary appearance.

Jake walked in and whistled at the great entry slash ballroom. “Wow. I’ve heard about this place all my life. I’ve never been in it.” He set down his bag and let the guitar case slide slowly to the parquet.

“It’s quite a house,” Jackson said.

Jake met his gaze. “Amazing. Huge, so it seems. How was your night?”

“Uneventful,” Jackson assured him. “Want the grand tour? Or did you want to take it alone?”

“Either way,” Jake said, shrugging and shoving his hands in his back pockets. He laughed. “We used to come and stare at the place when we were kids. Dare each other to go up close and all that. There were great ghost stories about it.”

“I know what the ghost stories say, and I’ve got blueprints, but you might know a lot that I don’t,” Jackson said.

Jake laughed ruefully. “Yep. Forgot that you probably know just about everything about me, too. I have to admit, it’s amazing to be here. To actually sleep here.”

“So, you’re not afraid of ghosts,” Jackson said.

“I’m fascinated by the possibilities!” Jake said.

Jackson had read that Jake was a local boy by birth; he’d also gone to school here, and gotten a music degree from Yale. He’d returned to New Orleans and worked with a musicians’ coalition in the city.

Adam had apparently found him fascinating because of his ability to find people. He’d been responsible for finding both survivors and those who had not survived after the summer of storms wrought their havoc on the city and its residents. Jackson wasn’t sure just what his specialty was, beyond an uncanny ability to find the dead. There didn’t seem to be a real investigator in his group, Angela’s police training notwithstanding.

Jake looked at Jackson with a sharp and steely look in his eyes. “We’re all being tested, though, I assume.”

“Tested?”

“Look, I’m called frequently to find the lost. So, I have to admit, I’m curious about exactly why I’m here. Regina Holloway isn’t lost, she’s dead. Everyone knows where she is. But then, you found a body last night, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t find it. Angela Hawkins found it. And how do you know about that already?” Jackson asked.

“I don’t believe you’ve turned on a television or read the local paper today,” Jake said.

Jackson frowned. “Reporters got in on it?”

“Don’t kid yourself. This is the Deep South, and it’s Louisiana. Though we have a history of corrupt politicians, sweet tea and a slow, steady lifestyle, our reporters are sharks—just like everywhere else in the country. You had police and forensics experts in here last night. That kind of thing doesn’t go unnoticed, especially when it’s the second time it’s happened. Detective Devereaux had the police spokesperson give an official statement. But…well, the speculation on what happened is far more intriguing.”

“I’m going to need a newspaper.”

“Don’t worry…there’s one in my bag,” Jake said. “I’ll call and get a paper delivered here every morning. That way, you’ll know what we’re up against as far as gossip goes.”

“What’s been written about us being in the house?” Jackson asked.

“Oh, just that the senator has brought in a team of investigators. People believe that he’s so heartbroken, he had to do something to try to prove that his wife didn’t commit suicide.”

“Did you know her?” Jackson asked.

“No. But, I’ve seen her. She was really loved here—just like the senator. Hey, he’s like a breath of fresh air. Especially in Louisiana.” Jake’s wry grin deepened. “The people loved Huey Long because he shook things up and worked for every one despite his carousing. Senator Holloway, he’s loved the same way. He wants big money to take care of big–money problems, and he wants to create work for everyone. And he was an honest–to–God family man.”

There was a sharp intelligence beneath the laid–back exterior of the man, Jackson thought. He might prove to be a far greater asset than Jackson had imagined at first sight.

“Politicians, in one way, seem perfectly understandable, but then it’s always hard to tell what is lurking in their minds, they’re so accustomed to wearing masks,” Jackson said.

“True, but I do know New Orleans, and a lot of the players here,” Jake offered.

Conversation paused. Jackson had the curious feeling that they were being watched, and he turned to see why.

Angela Hawkins looked down at them from the second–floor landing. It struck him again that she was an exceptionally beautiful woman, far too angelic looking, really, to have been a cop. Despite last night, she retained a reserve that was no less daunting than a suit of armor. Though beneath it all, he sensed her capable of a smile that would light the world. Studying her personality was an intriguing and appealing concept.

“Hi, there!” Jake called to her.

“Angela, Jake, Jake, Angela.”

“So, how did you sleep? Any ghosts prowling the halls?” Jake asked. He might have been asking her if a shopping mall had been busy.

“I was out like a light last night,” she told him. “Welcome to the crew!”

Jake smiled at her. And Angela returned it. They seemed to have an instant, easy rapport. He was surprised to find himself envious.

“Thanks. It’s good to be here.”

“I can get Jake up to speed on what I know about the house,” Angela offered.

“Sure.” Hmm. He heard the tension in his voice. What he was feeling was ridiculous; they were peers. He knew better than to feel a macho, ego–driven need to be the divine leader, most respected and most admired—and liked. He found himself thinking about his last team; they had worked so well together for so long. Each member with his or her own specialty and all of them learning to work like a well–oiled machine. But, he had to remember, they’d been together five years. This was a new team; despite his lingering feelings of pain for his last coworkers, he had to make himself start fresh, and give each member of this new team a chance to fall in—just as he had to learn to lead again, as smoothly as he had in the past.