Krewe of Hunters 1 Phantom Evil by Heather Graham Page A

halt when the senator himself came on the line. He assured Jackson that he’d be there that evening around five or five-thirty, and that their investigation was the most important issue in his life at the moment. He was glad to be in New Orleans at the moment, since the state legislature wasn’t in session. He hadn’t lived at the house since his wife had died; he had taken an apartment in the city.
    Jackson was in the kitchen, working on notes for the investigation, when the doorbell rang.
    Answering it, he discovered a young man with a guitar case strung over his shoulder and an overnight bag in his hand.
    â€œHi,” the visitor said.
    â€œCan I help you?” Jackson asked.
    The young man extended a hand. “You have to be Jackson Crow. I’m Jake Mallory. I know it’s kind of early, but I grew up in the Garden District, and I was awake—and here I am.”
    â€œJake. Good to meet you. Come on in.”
    Jackson kept his tone level, his greeting polite.
    But he wondered what the hell Adam Harrison had been thinking.
    Jake Mallory was tall, probably half an inch short of his own height. He had auburn, slightly long hair, an angular, well-defined face and light green eyes. His build was more lanky than bulky, but he looked as if he was about to play guitar on the streets for money. It wasn’t that he looked unkempt; he was fastidious and probably extremely attractive to young women. He just didn’t have the look of someone about to become part of an elite investigation unit. If this was, in truth, an elite investigation unit.
    Then, again, maybe he looked exactly the part, just because he didn’t offer the customary appearance.
    Jake walked in and whistled at the great entry slash ballroom. “Wow. I’ve heard about this place all my life. I’ve never been in it.” He set down his bag and let the guitar case slide slowly to the parquet.
    â€œIt’s quite a house,” Jackson said.
    Jake met his gaze. “Amazing. Huge, so it seems. How was your night?”
    â€œUneventful,” Jackson assured him. “Want the grand tour? Or did you want to take it alone?”
    â€œEither way,” Jake said, shrugging and shoving his hands in his back pockets. He laughed. “We used to come and stare at the place when we were kids. Dare each other to go up close and all that. There were great ghost stories about it.”
    â€œI know what the ghost stories say, and I’ve got blueprints, but you might know a lot that I don’t,” Jackson said.
    Jake laughed ruefully. “Yep. Forgot that you probably know just about everything about me, too. I have to admit, it’s amazing to be here. To actually sleep here.”
    â€œSo, you’re not afraid of ghosts,” Jackson said.
    â€œI’m fascinated by the possibilities!” Jake said.
    Jackson had read that Jake was a local boy by birth; he’d also gone to school here, and gotten a music degree from Yale. He’d returned to New Orleans and worked with a musicians’ coalition in the city.
    Adam had apparently found him fascinating because of his ability to find people. He’d been responsible for finding both survivors and those who had not survived after the summer of storms wrought their havoc on the city and its residents. Jackson wasn’t sure just what his specialty was, beyond an uncanny ability to find the dead. There didn’t seem to be a real investigator in his group, Angela’s police training notwithstanding.
    Jake looked at Jackson with a sharp and steely look in his eyes. “We’re all being tested, though, I assume.”
    â€œTested?”
    â€œLook, I’m called frequently to find the lost. So, I have to admit, I’m curious about exactly why I’m here. Regina Holloway isn’t lost, she’s dead. Everyone knows where she is. But then, you found a body last night, didn’t you?”
    â€œI didn’t find it.