Ghost Walk

The door closed behind them with a soft ringing of bells.

Andy burst into laughter. “Well, you and Mrs. Montobello are right. She sounds more like a mother than a psychologist. Go home, lock your doors. Watch out for strangers. Well, she was fun, anyway. Thanks, Nikki.”

Nikki nodded, not knowing why she was feeling disturbed when Andy was amused.

“Strange, though, huh? I’ll bet she could tell I’d been a junkie once upon a time.” Andy sighed. “Hey…you don’t think, if Max knew about my past, that he’d fire me, do you?”

“No. And who knows about Max’s past, anyway?” Nikki joked. Then she turned serious. “Andy, you had a hard life, but you’ve risen above it. Contessa gave you good advice. Watch out for anyone who might want to drag you down again. That’s it.”

“She warned me to watch out for strangers. Let me tell you, there were some damn strange people in my past, that’s for sure.”

“So leave them in the past.”

“Yeah, well…sometimes I wonder if they’ll come back to haunt me, no matter where I leave them.” She hesitated. “Did you ever smoke, Nikki?”

“Smoke…you mean cigarettes?”

Andy laughed. “Yes, I meant cigarettes!”

“In high school and college. Then I quit.”

“Yeah, but were you ever really addicted?”

“You bet. I went to a hypnotist, and I chewed the gum like crazy.”

“They say cigarettes are the hardest addiction to break,” Andy said. “But you know how it is. You quit smoking—you may have given it up for years—but sometimes you’ll see someone with a cigarette, and you just want one so badly you can barely stand it. But you know you can’t have that one cigarette because you’ll wind up with the addiction all over again, no matter what you tell yourself. Do you know what I’m saying?”

“Yes, I know I can’t have one cigarette.”

“It’s like that with other stuff… Every once in a while, you think, man, I’d love to have that high, just one more time. But you know you can’t do it.”

“You’re not afraid you’ll be tempted, are you?” Nikki asked her, worried.

Andy shook her head. “No. Because I know what could happen. And I’ve seen far too many lives destroyed. I’m straight as an arrow now.”

“Good for you,” Nikki said.

“And I love my job.”

“That’s great. Hey!” Nikki said suddenly. She lowered her voice. “Speaking of drugs and addictions…look.”

“What?”

“There’s that guy again.”

“What guy?”

“The one we saw today, at Madame D’Orso’s.”

Andy turned, looking across Conte. There was a crowd around the popular bar on the corner, which was supposedly haunted by a cool jazz guitarist. “Where?” she demanded.

“Right there. Great. I gave him a twenty, and he used it to go drinking,” Nikki said in disgust.

“I don’t see him,” Andy said, craning her neck and frowning.

“There…right there.” Nikki pointed. The man was there, staring straight at her. He still looked as if he longed to reach out, touch her…talk to her.

Then the crowd moved. People laughing, talking. A sad trumpet lament began to play. And he was gone.

“Well, go figure. No more twenties to junkies, huh?” Andy said. She walked on.

And Nikki followed, trying to shake off the sudden chill that seemed to wash over her like ice from a not-so-distant past.

Another day.

Another corpse.

A junkie, lying beneath one of the highway overpasses, nearly covered by newspapers and other debris, needle by his side.

Detective Owen Massey and his partner had been called in after the patrol cops had cordoned off the scene. The ME had arrived, too, and agreed that this was just another life wasted, tragic but simple.

Not dead too long. At least the poor sucker hadn’t rotted and decayed like a misbegotten rat. By the ME’s estimation, this particular John Doe had only been a goner for a matter of hours. Cause of death seemed obvious. Heroin overdose.

Nearly quitting time, and he was tired. He loved the French Quarter like he might his child, if he’d ever had one. But there were days…

A few more lines to fill in, and he could go home, he thought, sitting at his desk.

Massey had nearly finished with the paperwork—not a homicide, death by misadventure—when his partner came striding across the room.

“Hold the presses,” Marc Joulette said.

“You got an ID?” Massey asked. “A match on the prints?”

“Yeah. Tom Garfield. FBI. Under cover for the last three months.”

“What?”

“FBI,” Joulette repeated.

Massey groaned, nearly letting his head fall on the table.

It would be one hell of a long time before he’d be going home that night.

“The feds will be sending someone.”

“Oh, great.”

He let his head crash to the desk.