Adam Harrison seemed to be different, as had many of the officers she had worked with at the police force in Virginia. She had become known for her use of logic, careful study of a crime scene and the victim, and the possible personality of the perpetrator or perpetrators. Police officers tended to believe in intuition; good detectives always seemed to rely upon gut instinct.
Sometimes, she had almost been frightened of herself. But she had to tamp down the fear; good could come when she allowed the thoughts and instincts to run through her.
Take the Abernathy case. The one in which she had really made a difference. The baby had been kidnapped by kids just wanting to make money. Two teens, seventeen and sixteen. Theyd easily managed to steal the baby from the babysitter. But theyd buried the little boy, and if she hadnt come to the house, if she hadnt added it all upno breakin, no signs of disturbance, no prints or even smudges on the windowsilland felt certain that the child was close, they might never have found the baby, buried in the crate right in the backyard. She would never forget the joy in the mothers face when they had dug up that baby, and she had heard her awaken at last and cry.
She had entered the mind of the Virginia Stalker, and found the remains of Valerie Abreu, allowing the courts the evidence to put the man away.
There were battles, of course, that she couldnt win. Life was full of them.
She had lost her parents. And she had lost Griffin.
Griffin, her fiancé, had died in her arms, with his mother softly sobbing at his side. Cancer was as cruel as any enemy she could ever face and she had been helpless against the disease. Griffin, who had seemed to understand her and love her for all that she was.
But Griffin had found peace, and Griffin had loved her. He told her that she had a special gift, and that she should always use it to the best of her ability.
Yes, she had a gift. And now she had knowledge and experience. The police academy had saved her and shed served with the force as an officer just before the call had come from her superiors, informing her that shed been asked to meet with a Federal man named Adam Harrison.
Thanks to her time with the police, she now dared to take chances she might not have before.
She stood up, determined to know, now, while she was in the house alone, why the area was driving her so crazy, making her feel so uncomfortable. Some of the houses in the French Quarter actually had basements, she remembered. Getting a better sense of the physical place would definitely be the logical move to make now.
The French Quarter was barely above sea level, but it was high ground for the area. The basement was only halfway below the ground, and its roof was the floor where she stood now. She still needed to spend time studying the original blueprints of the house first.
But she felt a draw she couldnt withstand.
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 lowkey, something that probably served him well when interrogating suspects. His voice lulled. He was softspoken. Everything about him seemed easyexcept that he had the sharpest gaze known to man. And like a lazylooking, tailtwitching 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, its had its ups and downs, and we still go through some hell now and thenGod knows, things that test a mans patience to the core. Katrina, the oil spillwe just get on our feet again and get knocked down, so youve 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 reorganizedthe French Quarter, Vieux Carré, thats the original citybut 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 Districtor 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 isnt 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, equalitykill the upstart Africansequality, no not really, just dont own the man. He glanced sideways at Jackson. I dont 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 knotemotionally, socially and governmentallywhen 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 porchAngela 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 sheetdraped furniture.
Hello? he called out.
The woman was here; a big shoulder bag and a carryon 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 wasnt upstairs, so he came down to the kitchen. Miss Hawkins? he said again. She wasnt there either, but shed left a book on the table; an old one. He looked at the title. Madden C. Newton: The True Story of New Orleanss 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 outsideno bodies lay on the bricks.
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 outsideno bodies lay on the bricks.
Miss Hawkins?
As he spoke, he heard a whack. The sound was hard. Like an ax hitting wood, ora 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 hershe 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 nutjob 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.
Umhi! Im 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 wasnt swinging the ax at him.
He hoped he betrayed nothing in his expression. Did she know about him? That he had taken down the PickMan?
Was this a test?
He tried not to sound as hard and angry as he felt when he spoke.
Im Jackson Crow. Andsorry, excuse me, but what are you doing?
She shrugged ruefully. Her softknit, capsleeved dress completed the perfect picture of sensuous femininity, which seemed so opposed to the strength of her handshakeand her prowess with a pickax. But then, shed recently gone through the rigors of a Virginia police academy, so she must be in excellent physical shape. Shed been through a lot, the death of her parents, and the death of her fiancé. Maybe she had been through too much.
There didnt seem to be a crazed light in her eyes. Which was a positive sign.
Im looking for a body, she said.
DeadIm assuming.
She nodded. Yes, or bones, I guess. Im not sure what would happen to a body buried down here for over a hundred years.
And theres a reason you think youre 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. Im looking for the body of a man named Nathaniel Petti.
Pettithe fellow Newton bought the house from?
Yes.
No one knows what really happened to him, Jackson reminded her.
Yes, thats why Im looking for him, she said. With a mighty swing, she hit the ground again.
Whack!
Were not here to tear the place down, he said. What makes you think that hes under the ground there?
She hesitated. Just a split second. Well, Ive been reading, of course.
Whack.
Youve been reading, and that led you to a space beneath the stairs? Jackson asked, trying to remain courteous while he cursed Adam Harrison.
Theyd sent him a maniac.
Please, Im honestly not sure how to explain this, but Im almost positive that Im doing the right thing, she told him.
She was destroying the floor of the basement.
You do know that were supposed to investigate the housenot tear it down? he asked.
Once more, she shrugged.
Well, Ive gone this far
That was true.
Whack.
He was about to stop her. He was going to step in and tell her that hed 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 sawa 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.
Its Petti, she said. Its 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 skeletonalmost complete, he was certain.
Im going to call Devereauxthe local detective in charge of the case, he said. Well 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 himdamn 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, its surely been repaired many times over the years, Jackson said.
But not moved, because theres 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 coroners 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 crystalblue eyes, lithe figure and easy poise.
That didnt make it any better. She was calm now, but shed 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.