believe that, frequently, by looking at the past, we can understand what’s happening in the present,” she said evenly.
He made some kind of snorting sound that was almost beneath his breath.
Whitney held her silence.
“Ghosts,” he muttered after a minute.
She turned to stare at him. “Do you have any religious beliefs, Detective? Are you an atheist?”
She thought his jaw hardened, but it was difficult to tell with him. He hid his emotion well—unless he meant for it to show.
“Do I believe in God? Yes, I suppose I believe in a higher power.”
“Hmm.” She allowed herself a small sniff.
“And what does that mean?”
“Crosby—Irish. I’ll bet you grew up Catholic,” she said.
“Tremont—French? Hmm. New Orleans. Catholic—Baptist, voodooist, vampire Buddhist … Wiccan?”
She shook her head, offering him a smile with just a slight edge. He wasn’t happy that he was saddled with a small woman. She was also a woman of mixed heritage who came from a city known for its alternative beliefs—voodoo, mumbo jumbo, as some thought. “Obviously, my background is mixed,” she told him. “But, you see, my point here is that anyone who grew up Catholic, or in many of the Christian religions, already acknowledges a ‘holy’ ghost in the Nicene Creed. Most of us worship a higher, unseen power. Most people worldwide have some kind of faith in an afterlife, and if we can believe this without seeing what lies beyond, why does it seem so ridiculous that the energy that was life can stay behind?”
His eyes were on the road ahead of him. She saw the muscles in his face twitch. He didn’t believe that energy stayed behind.
“Hell,” he said, glancing her way, “if you can solve this case with ghosts, just go right on and be my guest.”
Whitney smiled, not responding. There was something she liked about him, despite his curt manner with her. He had a good strong jawline and steady eyes. She thought he probably hit a gym now and then and she wondered if he spent time with a punching bag—he had callused knuckles.
“Angus Avery … I know the name. He’s not as big as a Spielberg, but he’s not an unknown,” Whitney said.
“That’s right—your expertise is film.”
“Yeah, I’m good with it—you wait and see,” she told him. “I worked with some excellent people—filmmakers from several of the major educational channels. I’d intended to make documentaries. Eventually, I would have found my own projects.”
“But you woke up one morning and decided you wanted to be an FBI agent?” he asked.
She looked over at him. He glanced her way, but his attention was for driving.
“I like where my life has gone,” she said. “And even you will like Jackson Crow and some of the others.”
He laughed. “Even me?”
“You’re not pleased to have me hanging around.”
To her surprise, he was quiet for a minute. “Sorry. It’s just that Monty—my partner—was like another half of me. We had a situation under control, and some idiot vigilante walked in and one man wound up dead and my partner may never walk again. You’re fine. In fact,” he said, and he grinned broadly, glancing her way again, “I think I’m happier to have you than whoever they might have assigned me. You’re a guest of the city police. You won’t be trying to second-guess me.”
“I may be.”
“Still, you’ll have to bow to my decisions—I’m lead.”
“I’m sure the task force will all bow to you,” Whitney said.
He swerved slightly, avoiding a taxi that didn’t seem to realize that there were lanes on Broadway. A few minutes later, in Soho, he pulled into a spot that had looked too small for the car.
“Diner is up there, on the corner,” he said. He took her elbow, directing her toward the end of the street. Keeping up with him meant long strides, and she took them.
They entered the touristy diner, which was decorated in red plastic and chrome with old movie posters on the walls. Looking around, Jude pointed down a row of glitter-red plastic booths.
“Is that him?” he asked Whitney.
She looked. A lone man was sitting in one of the middle booths. He was on his phone, and he’d doodled all over the napkin at his place setting. He had dark hair that was swept over his forehead in a strange way—hair transplant, gotta keep young, Whitney thought—and gold-rimmed glasses and he seemed to be thirty-five or so.
“I think so,” she said. “Directors don’t have their pictures out there all that often, and I don’t think he’s been nominated for an Academy Award yet.”
Jude edged her ahead of him and she walked toward the booth. “Mr. Avery?” she asked.
He looked up and waved a finger at her, pointing at his phone. She held still politely.
Jude did not.
He flipped out his badge, and reached for Angus Avery’s phone, snapping it shut and returning it.
“Sorry, Mr. Avery. I know that time is money in your line of work, but time could mean someone’s life in mine. I’m Detective Crosby, and this is Agent Tremont.”
Avery took the closure of his phone with little more than a frown, but he seemed perplexed by Whitney’s appearance. “Agent?”
“Agent Tremont is with a special unit of the FBI, Mr. Angus,” Jude explained, urging Whitney into the booth and taking the seat beside her. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” he said.
Angus Avery nodded, and then shook his head sadly. “Hey. This is horrible. But, I have to tell you, I think it’s almost my fault.”
“You killed Miss Rockford?” Jude asked.
“No! No, of course not!” Avery protested. “No, no—I should have stayed away from that location. I should have shot anywhere else in Manhattan—or Brooklyn, the Bronx, New Jersey or Hollywood, for that matter. It’s that damn location. It’s haunted—and it’s cursed. And God knows—the creature haunting the place might just be Jack the Ripper—the real Jack the Ripper!”
He leaned forward. “Don’t you understand? Jack the Ripper left London and came to the United States. And when he did, that’s where he lived!”
4
Film people.
Great. He couldn’t help it, he glanced at Whitney.
She smiled. “Surely, Mr. Angus, you don’t believe that Jack the Ripper has lived all these years and that he’s just starting out to
