Nikki nodded uncomfortably, swallowed and looked away. Her arms were crossed over her chest. "When she died… is that when you began to… see ghosts?"
He shook his head. "No. I've seen them from the time I was a child. When my parents died."
Her eyes widened. "When your parents died?" she repeated.
He knew, of course. Nikki hadn't realized all these years that she'd had the same sense. She'd recognized only shadows, only the feel of what had been. But for her, it had been the same. The extra ability had been hers for many years.
It had only been since Andy died that Nikki had come to realize just what she was capable of seeing, hearing, feeling.
He smiled, tilting his head to the side. "Hey, I think we're supposed to be doing a tour."
"Um, yeah. You're all right?" she asked him.
"I am. You can read the stone. Tania died a long time ago. How about you?"
"Of course," she told him.
Still, he thought there was something a little strange about the way she said it. "You saw Andy again?" he asked.
"No."
"Really?"
"I really haven't seen her. But maybe she'll show up again this afternoon." Nikki shrugged. "I guess this is kind of… her place."
But Andy didn't show up that afternoon.
The tour went off like clockwork, which felt strange to Nikki, since she had been so unnerved ever since leaving the voodoo shop.
She had been determined that she wasn't going to say a word to anyone about the strange comments Contessa had made to her. After all, Julian already had her going to a shrink. And there were voodoo queens throughout the city. There was no reason to take Contessa seriously.
Except that Contessa had also seen something strange surrounding Andy. And it had been evident that day.
Still, she had been determined not to say anything to anyone. Including Brent. And she had made that decision before she found him so deep in thought before his wife's tomb that he hadn't even noticed her at first.
As the tour ended uneventfully, they decided that Brent would give the night tour with Mitch as his backup, giving Julian the night off.
"I can do the tour tonight, but I might not always be available," Brent warned them.
Nathan stared at him suspiciously. "Pressing business?" he demanded.
"Sometimes." Brent cast Nathan a cool stare, and Nathan looked uneasily away.
"Fine. Just fill in tonight. Patricia and I need a night off. And Julian does, too."
"Yeah, time for the new love in his life," Patricia teased.
Back in the Vieux Carré, Mitch asked Brent and Nikki if they minded him tagging along for dinner, and Brent assured him that he didn't. Nikki was glad of the company, feeling suddenly shy around Brent, though she wasn't certain why. He hadn't lied to her; he'd never said he hadn't been married. She'd just never thought he might be a widower. And having come upon him at the grave site, she felt slightly like an interloper.
They chose an Italian restaurant. The food was good, the service even better, and it was a pleasant, casual evening.
At one point Brent set a hand on Nikki's knee. She barely managed not to jump. When she looked at him, he smiled, and she realized that he had known she felt awkward and didn't want her to.
She smiled back and curled her fingers around his hand, where it lay on her knee.
As they sipped coffee, a shiver ripped through her;
Contessa's words seemed to come back to haunt her. The same color that had surrounded Andy was now surrounding her. A deep purple. A warning, though Contessa hadn't exactly said so, of death.
She told herself that she didn't believe in omens.
But maybe she did. Andy was certainly dead.
She glanced at Brent. He was watching her strangely, as if he was aware that something was going on in her mind. She forced a brighter smile. She wasn't going to tell him about Contessa's words at the voodoo shop. She wasn't going to be such a mouse.
In fact, she was suddenly determined that she wasn't going to be afraid to see Andy anymore. She wanted to see Andy. She was going to find out what had happened, to make sure it didn't happen to her.
Mitch yawned, stretched and sighed. "I think I should have been rich. I like being a tour guide, but I think I could be happy just being rich. I'd just sit on my porch and sip mint juleps all day."
Nikki laughed. "You told me once that you didn't care for mint juleps."
"I'd get used to them," Mitch assured her.
"But none of us is filthy rich," Nikki said. She frowned, looking at Brent. "You're not filthy rich, are you?"
"Sorry," he told her.
"Well, I'm definitely not, so let's head for Madame's and pick up our tour, huh?" Nikki suggested.
There was a huge crowd around Madame's when they arrived.
"Is this all for us?" Mitch murmured.
"No," Brent said, his gaze directed through the glass panes in the front of the café. "There's a politician inside."
Nikki craned her neck and saw Billy Banks. Handsome and charming, seated at one of the inside tables, he appeared to be speaking with his public and signing autographs as he greeted voters.
Madame was behind the counter, looking flushed and pleased.
"He's young and passionate and energetic," Nikki mused. "He may just make it."
"What are his issues?" Brent asked her.
"Crime is his main issue. But then, it's Harold Grant's main issue, too. I don't know. I don't think Harold Grant has done such a bad job." She wrinkled her nose. "I just think Billy Banks is kind of a funny name for a politician. Do you think I'm holding that against him?"
"I think you're conservative by nature," Mitch said.
She shook her head. "I don't ever vote by party—I vote by what I believe. And I'm not all that conservative. Madame must be in seventh heaven, though. Harold Grant was in here a while ago, and now Billy Banks. This is really becoming the in place."
"Excuse me," a voice said quietly.
Nikki turned. A pretty woman with three teenage children and a skinny-legged man in shorts were at her side. "This is where the tour meets, right?"
"Absolutely," Nikki said. "We leave in—" she glanced at her watch "—ten minutes." She pointed to Mitch. "There's your moneyman, Mitch. The other gentleman is Brent Blackhawk. He'll be leading the tour. Go ahead and ask him questions now, if you like." She arched a brow and offered a wry grin to the men, indicating that she was only along for the ride. It was their tour.
While the tour-takers began to surround Brent and Mitch, Nikki found herself looking into the coffee shop. Madame had come out from behind the counter. Wiping her hands on her apron, she was standing in front of Billy Banks, flushing, smiling, pleased, as she got him to sign one of her menus.
"Hey!"
Nikki turned. Mitch gave her a "we're going that-away" sign with his forefinger. She nodded and waited for the last of the group—a sizable one that night—as they moved forward.
From a distance, she watched Brent and felt a sweet warmth inside. He was damn good.
He seemed to honestly like people, and he enjoyed answering questions. His voice was deep and rich, his smile quick. She liked everything about him.
Maybe too much.
They stopped on a corner of Royal Street where there was an antique shop. He told a story about a Civil War soldier that she'd never heard before.
She wondered if he'd learned the story from the soldier himself.
A block later she was leaning against the wall, idly listening to a story about Andrew Jackson, when she stiffened.
What had caught her attention earlier was the bum. The bum who was really a government agent. Tom Garfield.
She hadn't recognized him because he was dressed in a handsome suit. Shaven. Hair trimmed. Clean and handsome.
And she was seeing him again.
He wasn't next to her. He wasn't even looking at her. He was in the midst of the crowd, apparently deeply intent on the story as he listened to Brent. Nikki moved away from the wall.
For some reason this man apparently trusted her. And Brent was desperate to get to him.
But they were in the middle of the tour. She could hardly just shout out, "Ghost! Ghost of the FBI guy, right in the crowd."
She had to reach the man herself, actually talk to him.
As she hesitated, still half-frozen, the story ended and the crowd began to move.
Nikki walked as quickly as she could, threading her way toward him.
But just as she neared the ghost, he looked to the right and frowned.
Then, instead of following the crowd, he ducked into a little alleyway in the middle of the block, which was partly residential, filled with courtyard homes, B & Bs and a few businesses.
Nikki almost ran, but by the time she reached the dark walkway, the man had disappeared.
"Damn," she swore.
She jogged about twenty feet down the shadowed trail.
"Sir? Mr. Garfield? Oh, please. Where are you? Help me now, please. I can help you, too. Please, I know you're here, I saw you. Please, don't take off on me."
Where to go?
There was a brick wall to her left, the backside of someone's courtyard. There were garbage cans, a gravel parking area and the sounds of jazz coming from her right. A few steps farther and she reached a low red brick property divider. There was the slight scent of restaurant refuse from the opposite side.
"Mr. Garfield?"
She felt the rush of wind before she heard the footsteps pounding up behind her. She spun around in a split second, in time to see the figure rushing at her, but not much more.
He was wearing a ski mask and gloves. In the heat of New Orleans.
She screamed, loud and shrill. In an instant she realized that he intended to silence her with a black sheet or sack of some kind.
Before he could reach her, she kicked out for all she was worth. Her purse tended to be heavy, and she swung it at the same time.
