P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

“I don’t know … Martin, that’s it. Bob Martin.”

He and Tom exchanged a look. “There’s no Bob Martin doing inspection work in this neck of the woods,” Tom told her. “And I would know—my cousin is in the business.”

“But that’s not pos—” She stopped. “Oh … oh!”

Her vision of her dream home disintegrating around her, she took the stairs two at a time down to the first floor, almost colliding with the Goth kid, who was wheeling a hand truck loaded with boxes. She shoved open the library doors, advancing on the ghosts, who were sitting at the desk, arguing about the contemporary clothing styles in Vanity Fair. “You altered my inspection report?”

Tom had followed close on her heels. “Of course not. Why would I have done that?”

Hattie answered Jordan, looking surprised. “We thought it prudent.”

“In what universe?” Jordan shouted, then put up a hand. “Don’t answer that.”

“Okay,” Tom said, looking confused.

The ghosts wore earnest expressions.

She took a deep breath, then another. “I paid good money for this place, and now I have to rebuild it from the foundation up?”

Tom said, “Actually, that’s the worst-case scenario—”

She rounded on him. “But I don’t know that, do I, since I never saw the original report?”

Tom now wore the look of a man who believed he was dealing with an escapee from a mental institution. “I thought you said it’s in your car?”

“You wouldn’t have bought the house if you knew the truth,” Hattie explained. “And then you wouldn’t have moved here, and we never could’ve gotten you to help us.”

Charlotte nodded enthusiastically.

Jordan belatedly realized she had a growing audience. Jase stood next to Tom just inside the doorway, with the Goth mover next to him. It had to look as if she’d been shouting at an empty room. She turned back, noting that the ghosts had taken advantage of her momentary distraction to disappear. Wimps .

“Uh, lady?” The kid ventured forward a step. “If you have, like, Tourette’s syndrome? Well, my aunt has it, you know, and it’s okay, I can explain it to the other guys. You don’t have to feel like you need to come in here to hide your outbursts.”

Jase started coughing.

Her cellphone rang, and she pulled it out of her jeans pocket to check the caller ID. She flipped it open. “What?”

“Hello to you, too,” Carol said. “How are you?”

“Regressing,” Jordan snapped. “You?”

“I’m sitting here with a cup of golden oolong tea, watching the local cable news channel, trying to maintain a Zen-like calm while I wait for my next patient to arrive, who is late, dammit. It’s going to throw off my entire damn day. I hate it when people think they can show up late.”

Jordan rubbed her forehead.

“Right. As I said, I have the news on, and they’ve been showing excerpts of a press conference from earlier this morning conducted by Detective Drake.”

Jordan immediately got a very bad feeling and started a yoga breathing exercise.

“Sweetie, he’s saying that new evidence has come to light in the case. Could he have found out somehow? You didn’t confide in anyone else, did you?”

“No.” Jordan pressed fingers against both eyes. “Maybe a neighbor saw something. I didn’t see anyone around that night, though, and most people were still commuting home at that hour.”

“Well, brace yourself. He’s saying he will be formally interviewing you tomorrow as a person of interest in your husband’s murder.”

Jordan’s eyes locked with Jase’s, her knees threatening to buckle.

“Whoa.” He jogged forward and led her over to the nearest chair. “Deep breaths, okay? Deep and even.”

“Who’s that?” Carol asked.

“A friend,” Jordan said, her voice sounding funny even to her own ears. “Drake hasn’t contacted me yet.” She glanced out the window to see Darcy pull her police cruiser up to the curb behind the moving van. “Never mind—I think I’m about to get the news.”

“You need a lawyer now.”

“I need drugs, but you had your chance.”

Carol continued as if Jordan had never spoken. “Drake is moving fast, so you won’t have time to obtain legal counsel—I’d bet my Gucci sandals on it.”

Jordan’s ears started roaring, and she dropped her head between her knees while Carol jabbered on.

“And do not even think about letting him interview you without a damn good criminal defense lawyer present. Cops are sneaky as shit. He’ll have your words twisted around until he’s got what he needs to swear out an arrest warrant—”

Jase pried the phone out of Jordan’s hands. “Who is this?” Jordan heard him ask. There was a moment of silence, then he introduced himself.

Carol’s voice rose in pitch, sounding excited.

“Yeah,” he replied, “that Cunningham,” making Jordan wonder what he meant, but at the moment, she was more concerned with whether she was passing out. The dog, who had followed her inside the library when the commotion started, licked the side of her face, whining. She put an arm around him.

“No, I don’t think that’s necessarily a good idea.” Jase listened for another moment. “Yeah, I’ll make sure she checks her email.” Then he asked, “So is this cop a head case or what?”

This time, Jordan heard her best friend’s reply, clear as a bell. “Already, I like you.”

He flipped the phone shut just as Darcy reached the library doors.

Jordan angled her head long enough to see the expression on Darcy’s face. “I think I’m about to get arrested,” she said to no one in particular, not really able to take it in. “Will you adopt the dog if I’m convicted?” she asked Jase.

She didn’t bother to wait for his response—she was too busy putting her head back between her legs.

Chapter 11

“I repeat, I’m not here to arrest you. I’m just setting up a time for the meeting tomorrow.”

Jordan nodded but kept her head between her knees, looking no higher than Darcy’s black boots.

The boots turned to point at Jase. “Are you going to represent her?”

At that, Jordan did lift her head. “What?”

Jase sent Darcy a rueful look. “I thought I’d managed to keep my past in the past.”

“Give me a break—I’m a cop.” She looked at Jordan. “Remember I told you last night that Jase used to be an attorney? Well, he was one of the top criminal defense attorneys on the East Coast.”

Jordan stared at him uncomprehendingly, then made the connection. “You’re William J. Cunningham?”

“That’s my father. I went by J. Cunningham. And no, I don’t still practice, but I keep my licenses current.” He frowned at Darcy. “You know I’ve been out of the business for years, which means representing Jordan is not a good idea.”

“But you’re a jazz piano player,” Jordan said, her mental picture of him crumbling as she remembered the newspaper articles about the wealthy clients he’d defended in some of the nation’s most high-profile cases.

“I’ve always played jazz as a way to let off steam,” Jase explained. “The pub gig is more recent, though.” He noted the confusion that had to be showing on her face, insisting, “I’m out of that life. I chose to leave because I wasn’t comfortable with the ethics of the cases I handled.”

Jordan shook her head. “You’re not laid back at all, are you? It’s just an act.” Why hadn’t she seen the dichotomies? His easygoing attitude contrasted with his sharp intellect and the competent way he handled everything he did. She hadn’t seen the real man at all.