Phantom Evil. Heather Graham

      He started out of the office. Adam called him back.

      “You know, you have a gift for this, Jackson. And you can really take on anything you want.”

      Jackson wasn’t sure what that meant, either. “I’ll do my best,” he promised.

      “I know you will. And I know that we’ll all know what really happened in that house on Dauphine.”

      X–Files. The thought came to Jackson’s mind as he finished with Adam Harrison.

      He went down to his car, still wondering exactly what it was he was getting into.

      Yeah, it was sounding like the X–Files. Or Ghost–files.

      And he was going to have Ghost–file helpers. Great.

      In his car, he glanced through the dossiers, scanning the main, introductory page of each. Angela Hawkins, Whitney Tremont, Jake Mallory, Jenna Duffy and Will Chan. The first woman, at least, was coming from a Virginia police force. Whitney Tremont had started out life in the French Quarter; she had a Creole background and had recently done the camera work for a paranormal cable–television show. Jake Mallory—musician, but a man who had been heavily involved in searches after the summer of storms, and been called in as well during kidnapping cases and disappearances. Then there was Jenna Duffy. A registered nurse from Ireland. Well, they’d be covered in case of any poltergeist attacks. And Will Chan—the man had worked in theater, and as a magician.

      It was one hell of a strange team.

      Whatever, Jackson figured; it was time he went back to work. There was one thing he’d discovered to be correct—the truth was always out there, you just had to find it.

      The house seemed to hold court on the corner. It sat on Dauphine, one block in back of Bourbon and three or four blocks in from Esplanade. The location was prime—just distant enough to keep the noise down in the wee hours of the morning when the music on Bourbon Street pulsed like an earthly drum, and still close enough to the wonders of the city.

      The actual shape was like a horseshoe; a massive wooden gate gave entry to the courtyard, while the main entrance on Dauphine offered a sweeping curve of stairs to the front downstairs porch and a double–door entry that was historic and fantastic in its carvings.

      Jackson turned the key in the lock. As he stepped in, the alarm began to chirp and he quickly keyed in the code he had been given.

      “Straight out of Gone with the Wind,” Jackson murmured aloud as he surveyed the house. “Tara meets city streets.” The front room here served as an elegant reception area, perhaps even a ballroom at one point in time. He could almost see Southern belles in their elegant gowns swirling around, led by handsome men in frock coats. A piano sat to the far end near an enormous hearth with tiled backing and a marble mantel. A second, identical fireplace was at the other end of the wall. Midroom was the grand, curving staircase.

      What furniture remained was covered in dust sheets.

      The hallway on the second floor led to the right and left as he headed up.

      He moved on around an ell and came to a long hallway of bedrooms. Here. At the end.

      This was the room.

      He turned on the light. It seemed to be completely benign, a pretty room, one that had already been prepared for occupancy—or that had been occupied. A beautiful four–poster canopy bed sat on a Persian rug, covered in white. Handsome deco dressing tables sat to either side of the room, and large French doors, draped in white chintz and lace, opened out to the balcony that wrapped around the house as it faced the courtyard. Would he feel anything? He did not.

      He walked over to the French doors and threw them open, stepping out on the balcony.

      The courtyard below explained why a house that came with such a tragic history could still win over buyer after buyer. It was paved with brick, and in the indent, typical of New Orleans, was a fountain and sculpture. A beautiful crane spread its metal wings above the bowl and the water splashed melodically below it into a large basin.

      There was a car park to the side, and elegant little wrought–iron tables, shaded by colorful umbrellas, sat across from them. He realized that the kitchen and dining room were behind the round tables, and that food could easily be passed out from the kitchen through a pass–over counter area. He wasn’t sure that had been part of the original house. He was going to have to study the blueprints again.

      The only thing that marred the beauty stretched before him was the chalk mark down on the bricks where Regina Holloway had lain after she had fallen.

      And died.

      The blood stain had been cleaned, and yet it seemed to remain.

      The courtyard was closed in by the house itself, and by a nine–foot brick wall, and the double wooden gate, large enough to let a car in. But the gate was locked, and it had a key–in pad the same as the main entrances to the house. Senator Holloway had never been a fool; the alarm had gone in the second his signature had been dry on purchase papers. All this Jackson knew because he had read the police reports on the “suicide.”

      He noted, though, that it would be almost impossible to reach the wall from the end of the house. There was a good four feet between the end of the balcony and the wall; a statue of Poseidon with a trident was positioned there, so it would be a pleasant fall if one were to attempt a leap—and not make it. But, again—not impossible.

      Just so damn improbable.

      Maybe it was a good case for his first back in the working world; it was incredibly sad to think about the death of Regina Holloway, but he could hardly begin to imagine the loss she must have felt. He’d seen it before. Parents weren’t supposed to outlive their children. Any loss of a child was unbearable.

      He heard the doorbell ringing and grimaced, thinking that the house had definitely been built at a time when the third floor housed a number of servants; the main entrance was a good distance from this wing. But he was expecting Detective Andy Devereaux, so he left the balcony and the room, pausing one minute in the doorway. Still, he felt nothing. The room was just a room. He hurried on back to the front door.

      Andy Devereaux was a tall man, light mahogany in color, with powder–blue eyes that testified to his mixed heritage, if the attractive shading of his skin did not. He was bald, clean–shaven, fit and trim and tall. He wore a baseball cap to protect his pate, jeans and a tailored shirt beneath a casual, zip–up jacket. He offered Jackson a firm handshake when they met.

      “Detective Andrew Devereaux, Andy, to my friends,” he said briefly.

      “Jackson—first name, not last—and that’s what I am to my friends,” Jackson told him. “Thanks so much for meeting me here.”

      Devereaux nodded grimly. “Hey, I’d do anything I could for the senator and his family. It’s a crying shame about Regina. A sweeter woman never drew breath.”

      “Come on in, and just give me the lay of the land, will you? I got as far as Regina’s master bedroom at the end of the horseshoe,” Jackson told him.

      Devereaux stepped into the house, removing the Saints cap that had shielded his eyes and sticking it into his jacket pocket after unzipping it. When the jacket front moved, Jackson could see that the man was on duty—and armed.

      “You know the history of the house, right?” Andy asked him.

      “Basically, the ‘ghost’ stories began back after the Civil War. And, apparently, there have been a number of suicides, or murders made to look like suicides, since then,” Jackson said.

      “Yep. You’d never know it, though, standing in this parlor,” Andy said. “Rich folks keep buying the place. It’s usually a good deal. One time, it went higher than a kite—folks were trying to buy places like this, chock–full of stories. Though before Senator Holloway bought the house, it had been empty for several years. Before that, it was bought by some hotshot New York