Heather Graham - Phantom Evil

“Unless he had help from the outside,” Jackson said.

“I don’t say that something of the kind is impossible, but I can tell you that we searched this place up and down and inside out. There was just no evidence, no evidence whatsoever that anyone else was ever in the house.”

“I believe you,” Jackson said.

“But you’re still here.”

Jackson shrugged and grimaced. “I work for the man. I go where I’m told,” he said. And it was pretty much so the truth. The last thing he wanted to do was offend a good officer who had probably made all the right moves. Hell, he wanted the police on his side—and because they wanted to be, not because they had been told they had to be.

“Thing is,” Andy told him, “we all wish to hell there was something that we could tell him. Senator Holloway is a fellow who isn’t all talk, air out the backside, you know what I mean? Not many can keep their souls once they get into politics. He’s rare. He’s one of the few representatives the people have faith in these days.”

“But he must have enemies,” Jackson said. “What about the people around him? Anybody have arguments with his wife? Someone who wanted something from him, and she might have been the naysayer?”

“Not that I know about. David Holloway insisted it wasn’t anybody close to him,” Andy said.

“What about household staff?” Jackson asked.

“There were two maids. They were employed full time, nine to five, but they’re not working anymore. I’ll get you the files on them,” Andy told him. “And those closest to the family. That would include the chauffeur, a fellow named Grable Haines, and…” He was thoughtful for a minute, scratching his chin. “Well, most importantly, the senator’s aide, Martin DuPre. He can help you with other things you might want to know. He’s with the senator all the time. Then there’s Blake Conroy. He’s Senator Holloway’s bodyguard. I’ve got those files all set for you.” He studied Jackson for a minute. “I’ve got two shootings and an apparent drug overdose right now, but I’m here to help you anytime you want. You get top priority. I can even drop the files by.”

Andy Devereaux was telling the truth when he said that he liked the senator; Jackson wasn’t sure that investigating what had already been investigated and ruled a suicide was more important than the other cases in his workload.

“I’ll bother you as little as possible,” he promised.

“You bother me when you need to. I understand there are others coming?” Andy asked.

“Five,” Jackson said. “They’re here to inspect the house, more than anything else. A woman named Angela Hawkins is due tonight. She’s good at talking to people, so she’ll probably have a few conversations with the senator and those around him. I—”

“What’s inspecting the house going to do?” Andy asked. “I’m telling you that our forensics people are damn good.”

“And I don’t have a problem in the world believing that,” Jackson assured him. “And that means you know this house.”

“Yes, I do,” Andy told him. Hands on his hips, he looked around. “It sure is a beautiful place. No one mucked it up too much, modernizing it. Back before the 1880s, the kitchen was on the outside. They attached the place after that point, according to the plans. Added the second two stories over there, and added it all on together. It became an academy for young ladies in the 1890s, but…”

“But there was a suicide. One of the girls went out a third–story window,” Jackson said.

“You’ve done your reading,” Andy said approvingly. “Some say there was just an evil presence in the house, and it caused people to do bad things. The local rags picked it up at the time. There’s rumor the girl was pregnant, but there wasn’t an autopsy on her. The parents wanted her interred right off, and they were rich and they got their way. The records still exist, they just don’t say much,” Andy told him. “I’ve got copies of all the old stuff at the station—the house has become a bit of an obsession for me.” He paused for a minute, and then said, “I guess that history is why you ghost people are here, right?”

“We’re not ghost people,” Jackson said.

Andy shrugged. “Sure. But it’s odd, I’ll say that. It all goes back to Madden C. Newton. He was pure evil, and evil doesn’t just go away.”

No one answered Angela Hawkins’s knock on the door. She’d arrived at twilight. For a moment, she appreciated the fine lines of the house, and the size of it. She’d been in New Orleans plenty of times before, and she had always loved the city and the architecture.

But Jackson Crow was supposed to have been there.

She had a key, but she didn’t want to take him by surprise. He had been an ace agent who had brought down one of the country’s most heinous serial killers of recent times.

He might be quick on the draw.

Hopefully, a member of the Behavioral Science Unit of the bureau would have the sense not to shoot her, but she did know that he’d been out on leave, and she really didn’t want to die that way.

She knocked again, saw the bell and rang it, and waited, and no one came. He was in the city, she knew, because she’d received a terse text from him. At the house. She hadn’t even known how to reply. Good? Good for you, hope you’re comfortable?

About to board the plane, seemed the simplest response.

She checked her phone. She had received another text from him. At the station.

What station? She had to assume he meant the police station. Wherever, he wasn’t here. She used her key and entered the house.

She paused in the entry, the door still open, hoping that the atmosphere inside wasn’t overwhelming. It wasn’t. It wasn’t depressing. The room was simply beautiful, huge, and when she flicked the switch by the door, a glittering chandelier dead indent came to life, casting glorious prisms of light about the room. Amazing that something so beautiful could have remained so for almost two hundred years. People had a tendency to destroy the old to make way for the new, something that was sometimes necessary. But that progress had kept the house so pristine and so unchanged it was just short of miraculous.

She left her luggage and carry–on at the door, pausing to delve into her bag for the book she read on the plane. It was a little out–of–print bargain she had managed to acquire from a show with which she traded frequently. One nice thing about her side job was that her antiques business created a network of friends with strange and awesome things—including books. Might as well find a place to wait until Jackson chose to show himself.

Departing the entrance hall was like entering a different home; the foyer might have remained in limbo for centuries, while here the modern world had burst in hard. An entertainment room caught her eye. She didn’t have a good sense of dimension, and could only think that the TV screen was huge; it was surrounded by cabinets that offered all manner of audiovisual equipment. Here, too, there was plenty of space for visitors; there was a wet bar—just in case the kitchen, right around the corner, she believed, was too far—a refrigerator, microwave station and a half–dozen plush chairs, recliners and sofas. Entertainment had definitely been done right.

Moving into the kitchen, she was met with a pleasant surprise. The room was absolutely beautiful, remodeled and state–of–the–art with an enormous butcher–block workstation in the indent with rows of pots and pans and cooking utensils above it on wire stainless–steel hangers. The sink and counter area had a large window that was a bypass to a counter outside on the courtyard. There was a massive refrigerator–freezer combination, dishwasher, trash compactor, microwave, all manner of mixers, and all was shining and immaculate.