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Angela walked toward the door and turned the handle.
The door opened, and darkness stretched before her. The basement.
Andy Devereaux appeared to be easy and low–key, something that probably served him well when interrogating suspects. His voice lulled. He was soft–spoken. Everything about him seemed easy—except that he had the sharpest gaze known to man. And like a lazy–looking, tail–twitching great cat, he could move in the blink of an eye. The uniformed officers at the station seemed to like and respect him.
Jackson stayed at the station long enough to meet some of the district personnel with whom he might come in contact when exploring all angles of the Holloway case, and then Andy drove him back to the house on Dauphine. Jackson realized that he was lucky; Devereaux seemed to like him.
Andy loved the city of New Orleans, and he loved being a cop. He wanted Jackson to understand the city, and the police force. “This department is a damn good one, and believe me, it’s had its ups and downs, and we still go through some hell now and then—God knows, things that test a man’s patience to the core. Katrina, the oil spill—we just get on our feet again and get knocked down, so you’ve got destruction, desperation and poverty, and all of them clashing together. Some folks love the city, some folks just sweep down to make a living on the misfortunes of others. We had a force down here early on, early 1800s, and then just like now, some years were good, the city was organized and reorganized—the French Quarter, Vieux Carré, that’s the original city—but the Marigny came in on it early, just like the area we call the CBD now, Central Business District. And the Americans came in to form the Garden District—or the ‘English’ area. Anyway, they get a police force going, but along came the Civil War. By 1862, the Union had taken over and you have military rule. Then, the war ends, and carpetbaggers sweep down. Lincoln is dead, and Johnson isn’t really sure he wants black men to be equal with white men, but the ball is rolling. For years, that ball bounces up and down, equality—kill the upstart Africans—equality, no not really, just don’t own the man.” He glanced sideways at Jackson. “I don’t have any chips on my shoulder. History is history,” he said.
“Amen,” Jackson told him. “Remember when we were talking earlier and you asked me if I believed that a ghost had pushed Regina Holloway over the balcony? Well, I said no, and I meant it. But I think that people can play on the emotions of others with the power of suggestion, and the history of the house is tremendously important in that respect. And the history of the New Orleans police force fits right in there, because everything written about Madden C. Newton suggests that he managed to get away with all those murders because the city was in such a knot—emotionally, socially and governmentally—when he was committing the killings.”
Andy nodded and pulled the car to a stop on the side of Dauphine in front of the house. “Best hamburgers in the world about three blocks from here on Esplanade,” he said. “A place called Port of Call. Seriously, best burgers anywhere, and best potatoes, go figure.”
“Thanks again,” Jackson said, exiting the unmarked police car.
Andy drove off.
Shadows had settled around the house. Though it was in excellent shape, it carried a poignant hint of the decaying elegance that made up so much of the city.
He walked up the steps to the porch—Angela Hawkins should have arrived by now. He unlocked the front door, calling out, “Hello,” as he did so, not wanting to startle anyone with his presence. He stepped into the grand ballroom or parlor. The great chandelier was lit, casting a haunting glow over the sheet–draped furniture.
“Hello?” he called out.
The woman was here; a big shoulder bag and a carry–on suitcase sat by the door. She traveled like a cop, he noted. Light.
“Miss Hawkins?” he said, his voice loud and strong.
Still, there was no answer. Of course, the place was huge.
He went up the stairs first, following the horseshoe, thinking she might be choosing a bedroom for the stay. But she wasn’t upstairs, so he came down to the kitchen. “Miss Hawkins?” he said again. She wasn’t there either, but she’d left a book on the table; an old one. He looked at the title. Madden C. Newton: The True Story of New Orleans’s Own Jekyll and Hyde.
He leafed through it. Interesting, and surely, almost impossible to acquire.
Where the hell was she?
The courtyard caught his eye, and he looked out, for a moment dreading the possibility that he might see a body smashed and broken on the ground. But there was no one outside—no bodies lay on the bricks.
“Miss Hawkins?”
As he spoke, he heard a whack. The sound was hard. Like an ax hitting wood, or…a pickax slamming into hard ground.
He hurried to the nearest door and threw it open, once again, strange and deadly visions coming to his mind despite his perpetual search for rationality.
She found the ghost of the ultimate evil in man. Madden C. Newton. And the ghost had taken form and shape, and was hacking up the elusive Miss Hawkins…
Whack, whack, whack.
“Miss Hawkins!”
Wooden stairs led down to a shallow basement. Someone indeed had a pickax, and looked as crazy as all hell.
Angela Hawkins was attacking the floor with a pickax and a vengeance. The dry dirt floor just beneath the staircase.
CHAPTER THREE
“What the hell are you doing?” He might have been a fool to race down the stairs to accost her—she knew how to hold an ax. The basement held an incongruous sight. Angela was about five foot eight and slender, though shapely. Despite her height, she was almost fragile in appearance. She paused for a moment, staring at him with enormous, bright blue eyes that belonged on an anime character.
Ah, great! He was being given the nut–job assignment. He should have said no. He should have just resigned, and headed off to work the casinos.
Angela remained frozen for a second longer, obviously a bit disconcerted by being discovered at her task.
“Um—hi! I’m Angela Hawkins. You must be Jackson Crow.” Maintaining a grip on the pickax with her left hand, she offered her right in a strong handshake.
“Yes, hi, nice to meet you.” The words seemed a bit ridiculous. At least she wasn’t swinging the ax at him.
He hoped he betrayed nothing in his expression. Did she know about him? That he had taken down the Pick–Man?
Was this a test?
He tried not to sound as hard and angry as he felt when he spoke.
“I’m Jackson Crow. And—sorry, excuse me, but what are you doing?”
She shrugged ruefully. Her soft–knit, cap–sleeved dress completed the perfect picture of sensuous femininity, which seemed so opposed to the strength of her handshake—and her prowess with a pickax. But then, she’d recently gone through the rigors of a Virginia police academy, so she must be in excellent physical shape. She’d been through a lot, the death of her parents, and the death of her fiancé. Maybe she had been through too much.
There didn’t seem to be a crazed light in her eyes. Which was a positive sign.
“I’m looking for a body,” she said.
“Dead—I’m assuming.”
She nodded. “Yes, or bones, I guess. I’m not sure what would happen to a body buried down here for over a hundred years.”
“And there’s a reason you think you’re going to find a body buried down here? The house has gone through a great deal of construction over the years. The bodies buried here were discovered over a hundred years ago,” he told her.
“Ah, some, but not all,” she said. “I’m looking for the body of a man named Nathaniel Petti.”
“Petti—the fellow Newton bought the house from?”
“Yes.”
“No one knows what really happened to him,” Jackson reminded her.
“Yes, that’s why I’m looking for him,” she said. With a mighty swing, she hit the ground again.
Whack!
“We’re not here to tear the place down,” he said. “What makes you think that he’s under the ground there?”
She hesitated. Just a split second. “Well, I’ve been reading, of course.”
Whack.
“You’ve been reading, and that led you to a space beneath the stairs?” Jackson asked, trying to remain courteous while he cursed Adam Harrison.
They’d sent him a maniac.
“Please, I’m honestly not sure how to explain this, but I’m almost positive that I’m doing the right thing,” she told him.
She was destroying the floor of the basement.
“You do know that we’re supposed to investigate the house—not tear it down?” he asked.
Once more, she shrugged.
“Well, I’ve gone this far…”
That was true.
Whack.
He was about to stop her. He was going to step in and tell her that he’d been charged with being the head of the team.
But the last whack did something.
She had managed to get down about three feet. And that was all it took.
He saw—a bone. A distinctive bone. A jawbone.
“Let me,” he told her, taking the pickax from her.
“Wait! Careful,” she warned.
He knew how to be careful. He used the pickax a bit away from the skull, and he used it with a strength it was simply biologically impossible for her to possess.
In a matter of minutes, he had most of the skeleton showing.
“It’s Petti,” she said. “It’s Petti, and he was the first victim.”
It was impossible to argue. It might have been someone else, but what did it matter? She had managed to discover a skeleton—almost complete, he was certain.
“I’m going to call Devereaux—the local detective in charge of the case,” he said. “We’ll let him tend to the remains. Because, after all, actually, they are his.”
Jackson eyed her as he dialed. Her discovery after being in the house a little more than an hour seemed uncanny.
It made him think about his own experience as a boy. Made him think about the men in the Cheyenne Nation, the ones who talked about the things they had seen on their dream quests. Made him…damn uneasy.
“I have a book,” she said, as if reading his mind. “A book on the murders. It was only logical to think that Newton had killed Petti, the man he bought the house from. He would have put him here, under the stairs, where it was unlikely that future digging might be done, just because of the awkwardness of the stairway.”
“The stairway is wood, it’s surely been repaired many times over the years,” Jackson said.
“But not moved, because there’s the doorway,” she pointed out.
Andy Devereaux came on the line. Jackson told him what had happened, staring at Angela Hawkins all the while. She looked back at him, never flinching.
There were no sirens. Devereaux and a team of crime scene specialists and pathologists from the coroner’s office arrived quietly. Jackson watched while Angela gave her flat and logical explanation again, and then, as they stepped away to allow the crime scene unit and then the pathologists take over, she excused herself to wash up.
He stared after her, shaking his head. The woman was a witch. She had been pleasant, serene and completely at ease, certain of herself as she had spoken to the detective. She was certainly beautiful enough with her golden hair and crystal–blue eyes, lithe figure and easy poise.
That didn’t make it any better. She was calm now, but she’d been wielding a pickax with a vengeance.
With an inward groan, he wondered what the hell it was going to be like when he met the rest of the team.
The bones had been taken by a pathology team that had been called in along with the crime scene unit, and after a great deal of discussion on exactly who should be collecting the bones. They were planning on sending the bones on to another team at the Smithsonian, a team that specialized in bones that were over a hundred years old.
Frankly, Angela didn’t need any team to tell her a simple truth; the bones were those of Nathaniel Petti, the man who had owned the house before selling out to Madden C. Newton. But the exact cause of Petti’s death might be determined, and the man with such a sad life and death might be put to rest at last.
Angela wondered if it was wrong to be starving after she had just found the remains of a human being. But she was alive herself, and being alive meant that the machine must be fueled. She couldn’t wait for the last of the police—even though she really liked Andy Devereaux—and the crime scene unit to leave.
Of course, it was a bit uncomfortable, having Jackson Crow watch her throughout the proceedings as if he was studying a strange and foreign object—or meeting an alien.
Her hunger was going to have to wait. When the other officers had left, Jackson asked Andy about the police shooting range. Andy arched a brow. “It’s getting late—”
“Can we still get in?”
“I’d like a little target practice,” Jackson said. Angela felt her cheeks color. He didn’t want target practice; he wanted to see if she was really capable with a weapon.
Andy looked at his watch. “Come on, then, let’s get the house locked up, and I’ll take you.”
Jackson stared at Angela. “Shall we get our weapons?”
Yes, she thought. She was being put on trial. Fine; she’d go to target practice.
It was quiet when they arrived; two men were down the row, earmuffs stifling the constant sound of the explosions.
Andy wasn’t practicing; he set up Jackson and Angela.
Her gun was a Glock and she knew how to use it. Somehow, she’d been blessed with twenty–twenty vision, and the ability to utilize it and her weapon properly to aim. Her stance was steady, and comfortable, and she used both hands in a grip known as the Weaver position, her weaker hand—her left—supporting her grip. She was stronger than she looked, and ready for the powerful recoil on the gun. She didn’t let Jackson’s presence disturb her, and in a matter of seconds, she’d removed the entire heart area from her target.
She turned and looked at Jackson, who hadn’t fired a shot yet. “Satisfied?”
He had the grace to grin. “I just want to make sure you’re ready for whatever comes.”
“My dossier must have told you that I can shoot,” she said.
“Some things are best viewed in the world,” he said with a shrug. He turned away from her. “Andy, this was great. Thanks.”
“Yep. I’ll get you back. It’s getting late.”
