“But the religion is practiced by about sixty million people worldwide,” Jake put in, adding soy sauce to his sushi. He looked up. “It came heavily into practice in the 1700s, when the Europeans bought or captured Africans from the kingdom of Dahomey, which is now more or less Nigeria, Togo and Benin. The word voodoo comes from vodu in the Fon language, and means spirit, or God.”

Jake was rewarded with an arched brow and a small smile from Whitney. But then she waved a hand in the air. “Jake grew up here—he should know something about voodoo.”

“Hey,” Jake protested.

“Well?” Whitney asked.

“Well, inquiring minds do want to know,” he said.

“And,” Whitney continued, “there’s a supreme god, or bon dieu, and a host of Ion, other gods, and they relate to the Catholic saints.”

“Movies have made voodoo priests and priestesses into monsters,” Jake said.

“I’d really love to see your great-grandmother’s shop,” Angela said.

Whitney shrugged. “See the good clean living of a voodoo priestess.”

“But you grew up Roman Catholic,” Jackson reminded her.

“Yes, my dad’s parents were both of Irish descent. My mom’s dad was Brazilian, and my mother’s family was originally from Haiti, though they’ve been in New Orleans for countless generations.”

“Cool,” Jake said, staring at her.

“I think we’ve definitely got that going as a plan for you two to go tomorrow to Whitney’s great-grandmother’s place,” Jackson said. “I’m going to have Will and Jenna watching over the house—if they get here by then, and if not, you stay, Jake. Whitney, whether you’re here or not when he comes, Will can find his way around all the equipment that you brought, right?”

“You tell me,” Whitney teased.

“He majored in film at UCLA,” Jackson said.

“He’ll manage,” Whitney said.

“And, Jake, you’re coming with me,” Jackson told the younger man. “I may need someone with local know-how and knowledge of the political ins and outs.”

“Great. Where are we going?” Jake asked him.

“To the senator’s headquarters in the CBD. I want to see the offices. I want to know exactly where the senator was, and where his aide, Martin DuPre, was, when Regina Holloway died,” Jackson said. “We’ve also got to get the chauffeur, the bodyguard and the aide separated so that we can get them talking about each other.”

“A gossip fest?” Jake asked.

“Exactly,” Jackson told.

“I love it,” Jake said.

Whitney looked at Jackson and asked, “You’re certain that someone living had something to do with Regina’s death?” she asked.

“I’d stake my life on it,” he told her.

“So, you don’t believe in ghosts, or anything outside the normal experience of life that can be scientifically explained?” Whitney asked him, perplexed.

“I didn’t say that I didn’t, and I didn’t say that I did. In my mind, the jury is out. I wouldn’t exclude the possibility that things out of what we consider normal might exist. In this case, however—gut hunch, a knowledge of the devious machinations living men can come up with—I believe that there’s a human being involved in what’s going on.” He turned to Jake. “When we’re done at the senator’s offices, we’ll head out to find out more about the Aryans and the Church of Christ Arisen.”

“I have a hard time thinking the Aryans would kill a woman by somehow forcing her over her own balcony,” Angela said. “She wouldn’t have opened the door to them.”

“They’re fond of guns, and they are pretty clear about what they want,” Jake said. “A gun in your face can make you open a door.”

“Well, they didn’t get in here,” Whitney said. “From everything I’ve seen and heard Regina Holloway was a smart woman.”

“That’s why I believe she was killed by someone close. Someone who knew her, knew her habits, someone she trusted,” Jackson said. “Still, political enemies need to be checked out… Hey, I want to see what all those monitors are going to show us.”

“Probably Jake sleepwalking,” Whitney said, grinning.

“What? Are you hoping for something? Do I or do I not sleep in the nude?” Jake teased.

“Please!” Whitney protested.

Angela stood up and started to collect plates. “Regina Holloway wasn’t killed by the ghosts in this house,” she said.

There was silence for a minute.

“Are you saying there are no ghosts in the house?” Whitney asked her.

“No. I didn’t say that. If ghosts are memory—the memory of pain and suffering—then this place is full of ghosts. I just don’t believe that the ‘ghosts’ in the house would have hurt Regina Holloway. I think they would have tried to help her.”

Angela headed back into the house.

“Well, let’s finish picking up,” Whitney murmured.

“We’ll finish. You can go work with your monitors and cameras. I’d like to see if we catch anything overnight,” Jake said.

Whitney set off to set up more of the equipment while the rest of them cleaned up from the meal, suddenly subdued. Angela wound up sending Jake off to help Whitney while she and Jackson put the last of the food away. When they were done, they went to see where the cameras had been set up.

“We don’t have enough equipment, obviously, to monitor every area at once,” Whitney said. “But we’ve chosen a few for the night, and we’ve decided that we’ll take turns watching what we have here for a while, and when it’s time for us all to crash for the night—which we’ll have to do to be halfway productive tomorrow—we’ll run tape. Right now, we’ve concentrated on this room, the hallways where all the rooms are, so that’s four, and we’ve also done the downstairs hallway through the entertainment area—and we have one camera left that we want to set up in the basement tonight,” Whitney said.

“Sounds good,” Jackson said. As he spoke, there was a knock at the door. The other three froze, startled by the interruption of the sound.

“Another member of our team,” Jackson said, smiling. He walked to the door and looked out the peephole first, not wanting to be the cliché of the agent who opened up to stranger with a sawed-off shotgun.

But he was somewhat surprised to see that Will Chan and Jenna Duffy had arrived together. She had been coming in from Boston, and he from Miami.

“Hey,” Will said, offering his hand. “Will Chan, and—”

“Jenna Duffy,” Jackson said, shaking hands with both, and opening the door to allow them to enter. “You’re just in time. We’re setting up the cameras for the evening.”

“Well, that’s handy,” Jenna said with a mild lilt. She stepped into the room.

The group wasn’t shy, Jackson realized quickly. Will and Jenna had teamed up at the airport when Will had heard Jenna giving a cab at the curb the address for the house on Dauphine. They had introduced themselves, and they were quick and easy to do so with the others. Everyone was ready to help them with their luggage as well, Whitney and Jake quickly seized on the fact that Will had come equipped with some of his own microphones and recording equipment.

“Let’s get these two in rooms, first,” Jackson suggested.

“There are two nice ones left in the middle section,” Whitney said. “Jake and I are just up the stairs—we grabbed a couple of the good rooms Jackson and Angela vacated.”

“We’ll stick together,” Will said. “Won’t we?” he asked Jenna.

“Ah, yes!” she said, smiling pleasantly. “I think I like having someone else close in this house.”

Jenna looked just like the American stereotype of the Irish; she was five foot five, with bright auburn hair, styled in a soft pixie cut that framed her oval face nicely. Her eyes were bright green. Will Chan was tall, and he seemed a perfect mixture of all the races that had gone into his makeup; he had pitch-black, dead-straight hair, cropped short but not too short, almond-shaped dark eyes and a sculpted face that seemed to speak oddly of Greek in his distant heritage. He was of a sturdier build than Jake Mallory. The Indians, Chinese and English had settled Trinidad, and they had all settled in the body that was Will Chan.

“Take ten, and then we’re all back here,” Jackson said.

He waited, watching Angela, who wound up with nothing to carry, as the others all headed up the stairs with the newcomers’ belongings.

She turned to him suddenly. “You’re making me uncomfortable, you know,” she told him.

“I don’t mean to, but…”

“But what?”

“I just keep thinking about Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House,” he said. “The character of Eleanor has led a hard life, and she’s literally sucked into the legends of the house.”

“Oh, low blow!” Angela protested. “Very low blow! I liked being a cop. And, yes, I lost people, but I loved them very much…that you would compare me!”

“I’m sorry. It’s just easy to be swayed by legend.”

She shook a finger beneath his nose. “You are a liar, Mr. Crow.”

He was taken by surprise. “I haven’t lied to any of you,” he protested.

“Omission can be a lie, and you haven’t told any of us anything about your past, and you must think we’re all dense if we believe there isn’t a reason that you were chosen,” she said.

“Maybe I was chosen to be the skeptic,” he said. “You all have leanings toward—well, you all are ready to believe in ghosts. I’m a ‘show me’ type person. Show me the ghosts, and I’ll believe.”

She crooked a brow. “Sometime, you will tell me the truth.”