Phantom Evil (Krewe of Hunters #1)

Phantom Evil (Krewe of Hunters #1) Page 7

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.

Angela 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.

“Don’t forget that part of me is clansman,” he said.

“All for the good of the clan?” she asked.

He laughed. “We’re big into standing up for one another in feuds,” he said. “Actually and honestly, I do play well with others.”

Their server arrived with their food orders. She opted for another glass of wine and Jackson decided on a second scotch. He laughed and teased the pretty girl serving them, pleasantly, and not obnoxiously, Angela noted. He was still smiling when she left them at the table with their fresh drinks and plates of food.

“Do you see ghosts?” Jackson asked her.

She froze, startled by the sudden impact of the question. She had to force herself to swallow her bite of food.

“Do you?” she replied.

He took another sip of scotch, and his eyes met hers squarely. “I believe that the world is full of possibilities. Do I believe in ghosts like the ones on TV? No. I’m pretty sure that if ghosts exist they are around both by day and night, and that we don’t need to see a lot of people with their eyes wide open—deer-caught-in-the-headlights—jumping at every sound.”

“Logical,” she told him.

“Pardon?”

“Logical. If they exist, they must exist in daylight as well as in the middle of the night.”

“What about Griffin?” he asked her.

Once again, she froze. He had a knack for throwing in a tough question just when she had relaxed.

“What about him?” she asked dully. “He’s dead.”

“Do you ever ‘see’ him?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“You two were together for years,” he commented.

“Five, to be exact.”

“You didn’t foresee his death?” he asked.

She stared at him, every muscle in her body as tense as piano wire. “When they told us that the cancer had spread into every organ and riddled his bones, yes, I foresaw it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wondered if it made you—susceptible.”

“Susceptible to what?” she demanded.

“Seeing ghosts. I just wanted to make sure that you were over it, and that you were standing on even ground.”

“Am I over it? Do we ever get over the loss of loved ones? No—I have never managed to do so. My parents, and Griffin, are always alive in my heart. Do I accept the reality of it? Yes. And they are all gone. Gone. They don’t come and take my hand and direct me to dead bodies—or to lost children, for that matter.” She paused, needing to wet her lips. She didn’t sip her wine, she chugged it. Most unattractive, she was sure; she didn’t care. He could be so completely courteous. He could make her comfortable, he could make her laugh. And then, he could home right in for the kill.

“What about you?” she demanded more heatedly than she had intended. “Do your lost field agents come and speak to you in the night? Do they ask you how you didn’t happen to get there in time to save them?”

There wasn’t so much as a crack in his expression, not a change whatsoever in the steady dark blue eyes that surveyed her.

“No. They are gone. Like you, I accept that they are gone. Like you, I do remain haunted by the lives they once led.”

She flushed. He should feel badly for badgering her about the losses in her life. She was left feeling similarly—but she had phrased her words in a much meaner manner.