Heather Graham - Phantom Evil

Not an emotion in sight. Jackson Crow was an interesting and arresting man. She’d assumed that his surname, Crow, definitely meant something of a Native American background. His eyes, however, were an extremely deep shade of blue—not black at all, as she had first imagined. A strong contrast with his black hair. He seemed excellent at concealing his thoughts and emotions, but she had seen a look in those deep dark eyes a few times that seemed to judge her as being certifiably insane. Then again, of course, given the way he had found her, she supposed it might be quite logical that he’d look at her as if she was a bit askew.

If she quit on the first day, would they let her back on to the force?

She wasn’t going to quit. No matter how he looked at her.

“Did you pick a room?” she asked.

“I thought I’d take one that’s straight up the stairs and to the left. I put my bags there. Some of them need sheets and a dusting, but there are three rooms on the level just above us that have apparently been kept up…I’m assuming the senator and his wife were prepared for company, live–in help, and probably, the senator’s aide, chauffeur and bodyguard.”

“But it’s just us now?” she asked him.

“Just us. And the others will be in tomorrow.”

“Have you met any of them?”

“Nope. We’re all a surprise to one another,” he said.

She was pretty sure that she’d been quite a surprise to him.

“All right, I’ll just run these bags up. You’re in the last bedroom on the left–hand side once I’m up there?” she asked.

He nodded. “I can take your bags up for you,” he offered.

“It’s okay. I never travel with what I can’t carry. I’ll be right down.”

She felt his blue gaze on her as she grabbed her carry–on and her shoulder bag. As she reached the landing, she saw that there were three rooms to her left; the first seemed the easiest place, and so she deposited her luggage on the floor by the foot of the bed. The room was handsomely designed with a black–and–gold motif, almost à la the New Orleans Saints. Angela imagined that Regina had carefully planned it as a guest room, which, definitely, did not sound like the act of a woman contemplating suicide. In fact, from what she had seen, the grieving mother had been dedicated to making the house the perfect home for a man–of–the–people politician.

Angsela wasn’t an expert on the depression that led to suicide, so she couldn’t really be sure how people might behave before taking their own lives. A call to a few forensic psychiatrists was in order.

“Any particular cuisine in mind?” Jackson asked her as she came back down the stairs.

She gazed at him questioningly. “It is New Orleans,” she told him. “Anywhere.”

“Most places are open until at least ten. How about Irene’s?”

“Lovely.”

They locked the house and strolled two silent blocks down to Royal, passing the burst of sound that was Bourbon as they did so. Two mounted–police officers at the corner watched over the night, lest the revelers become a bit too happy. Come–on persons were in the street, hawking the cheapness of an establishment’s drinks, the wonders of the band or the exotic talents of the dancers within a certain club.

Even when Jackson was approached by a slightly long–in–the–tooth woman urging him to an upstairs establishment to see Wicked Wanda on a pole, he seemed amused.

“Sorry, I’m with a friend tonight,” he told the hawker.

“She can come, too!”

“It’s okay—I know that I’d just love Wicked Wanda,” Angela said. “But we’re heading off to dinner.”

“We serve food!” the woman told him. “We have an amazing menu. Two amazing menus, actually. Spankings are five dollars a shot, pants up or down.”

“And then the servers bring you your food,” Jackson said, grinning. “Sorry,” he lied, “we have reservations.”

They managed to elude the persistent woman, and walk quickly on down to Royal where they reached relative quiet. Royal Street was known for its antiques shops and boutiques, and was more serene than the raucous Bourbon by night.

Arriving at Irene’s, they were ushered past the first dining room to wait at the bar, where a pianist played and sang old tunes, nicely performing “At Last.” Jackson asked her if she’d like a drink, and she opted for a cabernet.

“You know, I could get the drinks,” she told him.

He grinned. “We’re on an expense account. Let me use the company’s money.”

“I wonder what the taxpayers would think about that,” she murmured.

“Actually, Adam Harrison funds the special unit. I believe he started off in a nice financial place at birth, and managed to parlay his inheritance into a tidy sum through investments and real estate. The last thing he would begrudge his people, I think, would be drinks and dinner after digging up a corpse.”

“Bones,” she corrected.

“Dead man,” he said with a grin and a shrug.

By the time he acquired the drinks, the hostess returned to lead them to a table. Angela had always liked Irene’s; the food was delicious, there were fine white cloths on the table, and the noise level was at a gentle hum.

Angela couldn’t help but note the way Jackson fascinated their server. She herself had set out to dislike the man, or, if not dislike him, set up a reserve against him. She knew that he knew a great deal about everyone on his team, while the team knew almost nothing about him—or each other. Though tall enough to stand just an inch or so above most men, he had an easy courteous manner and a slow smile that appeared to enchant everyone around him. Perhaps it was natural that he should attract attention.

“So, here we are, one day in. Body—discovered,” he said, taking a swallow of his scotch on the rocks.

“It was only logical,” she said.

He laughed. “Only logical. That man has been buried beneath the stairs since Reconstruction, and you found him in an hour.”

“I’m an extremely logical person,” she said, running her fingers up the stem of her wineglass.

“So, what’s your story?” he asked her.

“You know my story. You have the dossiers. I start the questions.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“What’s your background?” she asked.

He grinned. “Obvious, I’d say.”

“American Indian. What kind?”

“Cheyenne.”

“And what else?”

“English—well, Scottish, originally, but my mom grew up in London.”

“Cool. Are your parents alive?”

“No. My mom died from cancer eight years ago, my father had a heart attack four weeks later.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I. And you?”

“My folks are gone. You know that. They died in a plane crash.”

“And since the plane crash—”

“My turn,” she interrupted. “Do you know your family—or families?”

“Yes, of course, very well. I like family. You? What is your feeling for your brother?”

“I adore him. My turn. Siblings?”

“No.”

“Ah. You’re an only child,” she said gravely.

“Yes. I’m so sorry.”

She shrugged, grinning. “I’ve met a few people who were an only child within their household, and they came out okay.”

“Ouch. Preconceived notions.”

“No, it’s just that, rich or poor, a person who has siblings has had to share upon occasion. There will always be a time when what happens in a sibling’s life is more important. That’s all.”

“Ah, but I’m Cheyenne,” he said, a quirk of amusement on his lips.

“And that means?”

“We’re all about community, and the People.”

“I see. Leaning back on your pedigree,” she said solemnly.