Hallow Be the Haunt (Krewe of Hunters #22.5)(27)

“Was there a man who might have done this?”

“There was someone she was seeing. And then not seeing. She was disturbed because he kept coming into the studio.”

“Did you ever meet him? Do you have a name for me?”

“Yes, I do.” She stilled and her tone dropped. “Jonathan. Jonathan Starling.”





Chapter 8



Ashley didn’t tell anyone but Beth that she was leaving. The players were all assembling, costuming and preparing for the evening, and she would be back soon.

When she returned, she’d change into costume. Something that she had worn during the re-enactment days, or maybe… Maybe she’d wear the outfit that had so upset the clowns. She couldn’t imagine that her killing trio would be headed this far into the country, away from the prime pickings of the city. But if they did, the plantation had security working and a county police officer on duty every night.

She’d worry about that later. Right now she had to get into NOLA.

She called an Uber again. It wasn’t until she was nearly in the city that she called Jake.

He answered, sounding surprised to hear from her.

“What’s up?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“I’m trying to pin down the location of a man. The boyfriend. And I’m waiting for Jackson.”

“Jackson is on his way?”

“Yep. With Jude McCoy.”

“Nice.” Jude McCoy was a more recent addition to the Krewe, but he hailed from New Orleans and was great. He had first worked with Jackson on a serial killer case when the killer found refuge on a cruise ship out of New Orleans. He was intuitive—fast as an arrow—and a great friend and agent.

“You know how we like to do things. One will watch over Richard Showalter and one will work with me.”

“What about the cops?”

“They’re short officers in the city right now and they also have to deal with Halloween. Jackson calls the shots and this is how he’s called it. Jude is friends with a lot of the local agents who will be prowling the city, so it’s a good call. But how are you? How’s it going at the property?”

She looked ahead. The Uber driver was ever-so-slightly dancing to a number by Queen that was playing on his radio.

“I’m on my way in,” Ashley told him.

“What?” Snapping anger and disbelief were clear in his voice.

“I need to see Shelley Broussard’s corpse,” Ashley said.

“No, you don’t,” Jake responded instantly.

“Listen to me. She’s the ghost I’m seeing in my dreams, Jake. This is important.”

“What makes you think it’s her?”

“My eyesight. I look like her—especially when I’m dressed up in that costume that resembles the one worn in the painting she did. Jake, come on. She may really know something. She could help us.”

“Don’t come in, Ashley.”

“I’m almost there.”

He was silent for so long, Ashley thought he’d hung up on her. Then she heard a long sigh.

“Have the driver take you straight to the morgue,” he said, obviously still irritated. But he would meet her. And she knew that meant he believed her.

She agreed and they ended the call.

She hadn’t told the driver that she was headed to the morgue—she’d just given him the address.

But apparently he’d found the connection.

“You’re going to the morgue?” he asked, his eyes catching hers in the mirror.

“Yes,” she said.

“I’ve never taken anyone to the morgue before.”

“I guess that’s good.”

She didn’t tell him more. He was probably wondering if she’d been called in to identify a body, but she couldn’t very well tell him the truth.

So she sat in silence for the next twenty minutes of the ride.

They arrived and he let her out on the curb. She studied the building and felt a moment of sadness at its function. New Orleans had excellent pathologists and medical examiners by necessity. The city—and the entire parish—had been through a lot.

She headed up the path. Before she reached the front door, Jake stepped out. And he wasn’t alone. Jackson Crow walked at his side.

Their tall, seemingly impregnable leader had been an agent before the birth of the Krewe. He was imposing in his stature and appearance, with features that spoke to his Native American and Northern European heritage. He could be stoic—his position often demanded it—but it was his gentle streak that Ashley admired.

He must have just arrived.

She was glad. Jackson would make this easier.

Jake was visibly angry. He didn’t speak. Jackson greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and a worried smile. “You know what you’re doing, right, Ashley? I hate to remind you, but you’re a civilian.”

“You use other civilians when the need calls for it,” she reminded him.

Jake was standing tall and straight by Jackson’s side. They were both rather towering.

At least Jackson seemed to be on her side.

“Let’s go in,” he said.

They met up with Detective Parks, who had apparently made arrangements, and they were immediately ushered down a long hall and into one of the holding chambers. The autopsy had been completed, but Shelley Broussard had been brought out on a rolling gurney for them to see. She waited in the center of one of the examination rooms.