Hazzard Avenue: Book 4

By Jan Walters

Jan Walters has a family with five generations of men serving in law enforcement dating back to the late 1800s. Growing up, her grandmother told her stories about the police force, which became the foundation for the 'Ghost and a Cop' series.

A horror film, Voodun, based on Hazzard Avenue, was completed in 2023. Jan has also written and produced a horror film, Lost Lake, in the summer of 2023. The release of these two files is expected to be in 2024.

To learn more about Jan and her books and films, visit her website at https://janwalters.store.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887318653

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

About the Author

cover.jpg

Hazzard Avenue

Book 4

Jan Walters

Copyright © 2023 Jan Walters

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2023

Registration Number: TXu 2-345-995

ISBN 979-8-88731-864-6 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88731-865-3 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Other books by Jan Walters

Believe (time-travel romance)

York Street: A Ghost And A Cop Series Book 1

Red Sunset Drive: A Ghost And A Cop Series Book 2

Tempest Court: A Ghost And A Cop Series Book 3

A gun to your head, head, to your head, oh.

Executioner style, and there won't be no trial.

Don't you know that you're better off dead.

—I See Red by Everybody Loves an Outlaw

CHAPTER 1

Since when is talking to a ghost a normal occurrence? Detective Brett O'Shea rubbed his sleep-crusted eyes. The terrors he had fought the past three years had taken a toll on his body and, more importantly, his soul. He'd witnessed things that no man should ever see. It was unimaginable, facing the realization that paranormal anomalies existed: monsters had tried to kill him and those he loved. How did one come to grips with that?

Those thoughts brought him back to reality, something Brett had denied for far too long. Somehow, all that chaos and mayhem were connected to him. A shadow shimmered in the nearby corner of his kitchen, drawing his ire.

You might as well have a seat. I know you're here. Brett trained his gaze on Michael O'Shea, his murdered great-grandfather and ghostly partner, who held his infamous fedora in front of him as he pulled out a chair.

So how's Donnellson doing?

Brett shrugged as he thought of Kevin Donnellson, his DMPD partner and best friend. As good as can be expected after his girlfriend left him.

Hmph. I say good riddance. After what she did, I'll never trust her again.

Let it go. I don't expect you'll ever see Layla in Des Moines anytime soon.

Michael slapped his weathered fedora on the table before running a hand through his sandy-brown hair. His blue eyes narrowed. Well, Kevin is better off. The girl doesn't understand what loyalty means. Women are supposed to support their men.

Brett rolled his eyes. It's not 1933 anymore. Besides, she went through a traumatic event. Brett stood and walked to the coffeepot, pouring another cup. We need to remember that Layla lost a lot here. Her uncle, a job, and her reputation. I almost feel sorry for her.

I don't know why you're standing up for her after what she did to you.

Me neither. He shrugged. The point is she's gone and not coming back.

Whatever, sonny. Michael put his hat on, adjusting the brim to give him a rakish look. I see you're not in the talking mood, so I'll leave you to your thoughts.

A second later, his ghostly grandfather was gone. "Bzzzz, I'm disappearing, Brett mocked. I wish I could disappear." Footsteps crept up behind him as Brett drained his cup and set it in the sink.

Disappear to where? Lisa's arms grabbed his waist.

He automatically stiffened before he forced his body to relax. Brett turned and pulled his girlfriend against his chest. He pressed a kiss to the top of her blond curls. Anywhere. I'm burned-out.

Well, if you want to disappear, we could take a vacation. It's been a year since the Morocco trip.

Don't remind me. I never want to see a mummy again. He slipped from her embrace as he grabbed his sports jacket. Are you hungry?

Lisa shook her head. Don't have time. I'll grab something when I get to work. What about you?

I need to drop a few pounds. Besides, Chief Anders texted and wanted me to stop in his office first thing.

Tell Terry hello. Lisa rose and ran her hand down the side of Brett's face, kissing his waiting lips. Bye. I should be home at the normal time, but you never know.

Brett waved as Lisa pulled out of the driveway. He was only a short distance from the police station since he lived on the south side of Des Moines. Brett turned off the coffee maker and grabbed his keys.

As he made his way inside the station and bounded up the flight of stairs, he nodded to several officers. Brett paused near the secretary's desk. Hey, Marge. Anything going on?

The silver-haired bureau secretary peered over her lime-green colored glasses, casting Brett an annoyed look. What do you think? It's Monday and a full moon. Anders is waiting for you.

Brett knocked on the open door before walking in. Morning, Chief. What's going on?

Have a seat. How was your weekend? Anders grabbed a large mug and took a sip.

Heaven help anyone who got between the chief, who was pushing sixty, and his coffee. Anders's stocky frame leaned back in the leather chair, the corners of his eyes crinkling when he smiled, which wasn't often.

Anders had believed in Brett when the first paranormal killer found its way to the city four years ago. Anders had been the chief of detectives at the time and promoted Brett to detective. Something that Brett would never forget.

Relaxing. Lisa and I went out to dinner and caught a movie. It made me think about taking another vacation.

Vacation? You just took one a year ago. Anders's eyes narrowed. You remember what happened on that trip, don't you?

Brett rolled his eyes. As if I could forget.

See, you don't really want a vacation. Now back to business. We have a bunch of complaints about a fortune teller. Neighbors are complaining about drum music in the middle of the night. I wouldn't normally ask you to do this, but we're short-staffed, and one of the council members lives in the area. I'd like for you to go talk to the owner.

Brett ran his hand through his hair. Fortune tellers still exist? I figured that everyone went online for stuff like that.

It would make my life easier if they did.

How about Randall? He could handle it. I've got a case going to court next week.

Anders sipped his cup while sliding a piece of paper across the desk. This isn't a suggestion, O'Shea. Here's the name of the business and address. Besides, you can wrap this one up quickly.

Maybe I'll get lucky, and she'll pack up her bag of tricks and leave. I'm sure people like that don't stay in one place very long.

And that is what you're going to find out, Detective. Anders pointed toward his doorway.

Brett started to argue, but Anders was already reaching for his phone. Brett rose to his feet and left the office. Marge's soft chuckle drew his attention.

He gave you a doozy this time.

Brett smirked down at the secretary. Maybe I need a crystal ball. What do you think?

Marge chortled. With your history of weird cases, I think it's better not to know what's going to happen.

Thanks for your support, Marge.

As Brett walked toward the stairs, Marge's laughter echoed throughout the office. He shook his head, smiling to himself. He wanted to get this case done so he could concentrate on bigger cases, not these petty ones that never amounted to anything.

*****

Brett glanced at the address and tossed the paper in the car's back seat. He headed south toward the airport to Hazzard Avenue, a south-side residential area with small homes built in the 1960s when the city expanded southward. He slowed the car as he approached the house, parked it, then studied the residence.

At first glance, the nondescript house looked like any other house on the street. Faded-yellow paint and dark-green shutters graced the home. He choked back a bark of laughter as he caught sight of a large rectangle sign with images of the moon and stars resting on an open palm of a hand leaning against the house that lacked originality. Brett didn't consider himself, by any means, an expert, but the sign looked cheap and amateurish.

An overgrown flower bed bordered the front porch, and a no-trespassing sign hung near the steps. A tall privacy fence lined the driveway, offering a sense of privacy from any prying neighbor.

He got out of the car and removed his sunglasses, running a quick hand through the hair that fell across his brow. Blinds obscured the windows facing the street. If the report of the nighttime activities were accurate, the people inside were probably still sleeping. He smiled. They were in for a wake-up call. He had a job to do, and the sooner it was over, the better.

He ran up the porch steps and pressed the doorbell. The house was quiet. He pushed the bell a second time, holding it in for several seconds, which should rouse anyone sleeping. He waited and waited.

C'mon, people, he muttered softly.

He whipped around, thinking that this was such a frickin' waste of his time. Before he hit the last step, a door opened behind him. Brett swung back to the doorway when a bald man stared down at him, thin lips stretched over yellow teeth.

What do you want? Ms. Simone doesn't open until nine tonight.

Brett marched back up the steps. I'd like to speak to the owner of the home.

As I said, Ms. Simone isn't available. The man's beefy fists hung by his side.

Brett's eyes narrowed, studying the man's body movements. Hell, he thought to himself. It was too early in the day for an assault charge. Brett smiled and took out his badge. And like I said, I would like to speak to the owner of the house.

The man scowled at Brett. Just a minute. He slammed the door.

I hate dealing with assholes, Brett muttered.

Low, deep voices echoed from inside the house. Brett turned to look down the street and stiffened. Michael leaned against Brett's car, watching him. Why is he here?

The creak of the door hinge caused Brett to jerk. He quickly turned. His mouth opened and closed. A petite young woman, who looked no older than twenty-five, stood smiling up at him. Her coal-black hair and wavy curls falling over her shoulders, rippled with dark-blue highlights.

Brett cleared his throat. You…do you own the house?

Violet-colored eyes crinkled with what looked like amusement. I understand that you are a police officer.

Brett nodded. I am.

Is there a problem, Officer?

The scent of lilac wafted around him. Brett continued to stare at the young woman.

I'm Simone Moreau. You are?

What? Brett blinked several times.

What is your name? She smiled knowingly, running her tongue over the plump lower lip.

He took a deep breath, hoping to regain his composure. His mind was like mush. What the hell is wrong with me? He'd consumed two large cups of coffee this morning and should be pumping on all cylinders.

Detective O'Shea. Ms. Moreau, I'm afraid there have been several complaints filed about your business.

Simone waved a hand. Pfff. People don't get the fortune they want and try to cause trouble. Why don't you come in and sit down?

Sure. He followed her into the dark house, casually scoping out the room. I noticed your accent. It sounds like you're from down South.

We were part of the group that relocated to Iowa after Hurricane Katrina in 2005. My business in New Orleans was destroyed.

Sorry to hear that. I bet you had an adjustment moving to Iowa.

Simone's gaze shuddered. Yes, quite. Come with me.

The house was conspicuously empty, except for a round table with eight chairs in the middle of the living room. No picture, TV, or anything else filled the room. Dark-velvet curtains covered the windows, blocking every ray of light. He knew they were velvet because his great-grandmother had similar curtains when he was a kid. He always liked to hide behind them, but they were dusty, making him sneeze.

Brett tried to be discreet, glancing around the house for the man that greeted him earlier.

Without looking at Brett, Simone stated, No one else is here. Earle left to run errands. It's just you and me. Would you care for coffee? Simone grabbed the coffeepot and poured two cups.

Sure, he mumbled. Maybe another cup would make him more alert.

Bunches of herbs filled the wire baskets hanging near a window. A moss-green candle flickered in the middle of the island, and a strange scent filled the room. Brett fought the urge to rub his nose as he pulled out a stool and sat down. His gaze never left hers.

Simone's gaze locked on his as she handed him a steaming cup of coffee. She sipped the intense-looking brew and watched him over the cup's rim.

A shiver ran down Brett's back. He blinked, forcing himself to break eye contact. Something strange was happening. To keep from looking at Simone, he gazed at the kitchen. It looked like any other kitchen. White quartz countertops and backsplash lightened the room. He narrowed his focus and noticed specks of blood trailing down one cabinet door. What the hell? He'd seen enough blood to know what it looked like.

He jerked back as Simone suddenly appeared next to him, causing half of the liquid to spill across the island.

Crap! Sorry. What is wrong with me? Brett felt like a bumbling idiot. He jumped up, trying to prevent the coffee from spilling to the floor with his hands.

No worries. I startled you. Simone grabbed a towel and quickly wiped up the coffee. She pressed against Brett's shoulder when she passed behind him, her scent overwhelming him as if a field of violets surrounded him. A languid feeling engulfed him. Brett quickly stepped back, putting distance between the two of them. He hadn't been attracted to any woman since he'd met Lisa and wasn't mentally attracted to Simone, but it was as if his body had a mind of its own. It took all he had to keep focused on the purpose of his visit.

You didn't get burnt, did you?

Brett wiped his brow with the back of his hand. I'm fine. If you could sit on the other side of the island for a minute, I'd like to talk to you about the complaints.

Sure. Simone tossed the damp towel in the sink and folded her arms. What seems to be the problem?

There have been several noise complaints. Your loud music is upsetting the neighbors. It's keeping people awake. You need to tone it down.

Her cat-shaped eyes flashed with what looked like irritation. Noise? I don't have…fine. I will make sure we do not disturb the people nearby. Is there anything else?

Brett cleared his throat, nodding to the cabinet door. Did you cut yourself?

No.

There's that secretive smile again. What is so fucking amusing? Care to explain the blood on the cupboard?

She tossed her hair over her shoulder. Come here and see for yourself. Her eyes glittered with amusement as she pointed toward the sink.

Brett edged closer and looked inside the basin to see a headless chicken. Whoa! Who does stuff like this? Maybe Marge had it right with it being a full moon and all.

You realize that you can go to the store and buy whole chickens, don't you?

Simone shrugged. Of course. We're not bayou heathens, Detective.

I didn't imply that you were. Brett glanced toward the front door. I hope I don't have to come back here again. Please take this request seriously. Brett held out his hand.

Simone studied him for several seconds before taking his hand. A tremor ran up his arm at her touch. She squeezed his hand. What is she doing? He gently tugged his hand from her grip. She stared up at him.

Okay. That's it. Here's my card in case you have any questions. Brett hurried toward the door. He gripped the knob, anxious to leave.

Simone reached out and touched his arm. Detective, I'm curious about something. May I ask you a question?

Brett cracked open the door, nearly gasping as a surge of fresh air filled his lungs. Sure.

Do you believe in spirits or the supernatural?

Why would she ask me that? He forced a smile he was sure didn't reach his eyes. No, afraid not. Why?

I felt something when I touched your hand. Simone tilted her head and met his gaze. I can sense things that most people do not see.

The hair on the back of Brett's neck stood on end. Really. As I said, I don't believe in spirits.

Simone slowly circled him. A single finger traced down his arm. Brett grimaced, fighting the quivers that threatened to take over his body. She pursed her lips and gently blew across Brett's face.

He drew back and stared at the petite woman before him. Brett struggled to remember what he was doing here. He took a deep breath, straightened himself, and opened the door farther. Was there anything else, Ms. Moreau?

No, I must have been mistaken, Detective. Her eyes narrowed as she leaned closer. I would be honored to read your fortune, Detective.

Thanks, I'll pass. Have a great day. He stepped out on the porch and took another deep breath. The air cleared away the mental fog gripping him from the moment he laid eyes on Simone.

What the hell happened? The way she stared at him gave him goose bumps. It made him feel as if she could see his soul. Why did she ask if I could see things? Was she fishing for information? Did she know that I had experienced several supernatural encounters? No, that couldn't be it. There was no way she could know of his past cases involving supernatural creatures, the stuff of nightmares. He laughed to himself. She probably asked everyone that question, trying to get people hooked on her fortune-telling business. It was a way for her to increase her profits. God, I'd feel like an idiot if she ever suspected the truth. But why did she blow on me? That was frickin' freaky.

Brett hurried to his car and jumped in, and the tires squealed as he drove away. He never wanted to see Ms. Moreau again.

*****

Earle stepped from the side of the house and watched Brett drive away, then slipped back into the bushes and hauled back his fist, slamming it into the side of the house. He ignored the blood dripping off his knuckles as he glared after the detective's car. Earle felt in his bones that nothing good was going to happen.

Chapter 2

Michael settled in the back seat of the police car. He remained invisible, content to watch Brett drive. He periodically shook his head at the changes that had taken place on the south side since his murder in 1933.

He didn't dwell on his death. Not that he was glad to be dead, but being a ghost provided him the opportunity to get to know his great-grandson. Brett tended to be too serious and worried about rules while Michael thought differently: Rules are meant to be broken! Well, sometimes.

Brett glanced in the rearview mirror, most likely checking to see if Michael was in the car but didn't notice anything. Michael, in turn, smirked, knowing he'd be able to shadow his great-grandson unsuspectedly throughout his daily business activities.

Michael's thoughts constantly returned to the fortune teller's house. He scratched his chin, thinking about the woman who answered the door. She was a femme fatale. At first, he was afraid Brett was just going to stand in the doorway and make goo-goo eyes at the dark-haired woman.

Just as he was about to intervene, Brett shook his head and seemed to return to normal. Michael, studying the back of his grandson, felt tempted to reach over the car seat and hug him. The more he thought about the situation this morning, the more he decided that perhaps his imagination was on overload. Maybe Brett's tendencies are wearing off on me. Instead, he quietly chuckled, reached inside his brown tweed sports jacket, and pulled out his pipe.

He didn't dare light the pipe. While there were rules he was supposed to follow, why ghosts needed rules was beyond him. As far as Michael was concerned, the Big Guy had too many darn rules. Rules are for sissies!—at least most of the time.

Caressing the worn pipe brought back memories. At the time of Michael's murder, he had left behind a wife and two young children. It broke his heart to learn his wife had struggled on her own to raise their children. Yet the Big Guy hadn't given him a choice about who to visit in the afterlife. He wouldn't trade his relationship with Brett for anything, but he would have enjoyed time spent watching over his immediate family.

And that thought brought Michael right back to the damn rules. Nowadays, cops had cameras in their cars and wore body cams. Hell, how could a guy have privacy when he takes a leak? He'd seen accidents where people stood around filming the aftermath with their stupid phones rather than helping an injured person. Good Lord! There was little doubt that if he were a cop today, he would either be fired or suspended weekly. Michael knew he couldn't keep his mouth shut because it wasn't his style.

*****

Brett hurried into the restaurant. Lisa and Donnellson waited in a booth in the back of the pizzeria. Brett high-fived the cook. Hey, Sammy! How's it going?

Sam nodded to the back of the dining room. You're late. They've ordered onion rings and told me you were paying.

Great. I just hope they don't order dessert. Brett slid into the booth next to Lisa and pressed a kiss to her lips. He reached down and squeezed her hand, whispering, Missed you today.

Missed you too, baby.

Donnellson groaned. Get a room, you two. You're making me feel like the odd man out.

Shit! You're never alone. I bet you have a date later this evening, Brett razzed.

With a wink, Donnellson nodded. Damn right.

Lisa reached over and ruffled Donnellson's stylish blond hair. You're too good-looking for your own good. You need to find a good woman.

Do you know someone you can fix me up with? Kevin flashed a sexy grin.

Lisa murmured, Sorry. We tried that last year. Remember?

It almost worked out. Donnellson's eyes clouded over. So, O'Shea, anything interesting happen today?

Mostly the same ol' stuff. Brett bit into a hot onion ring.

Well, Lisa coaxed, what happened? You sounded grumpy this morning when I called.

Anders assigned me a case that Randall or one of the new guys should have handled. There's some fortune teller on Hazzard Avenue with noise complaints. I went and talked to Simone—

Simone? Lisa interrupted, frowning. Is she someone you know?

Brett, shaking his head, felt heat spread up his neck. No…absolutely not. Simone Moreau is the fortune teller, but she's really young. I just hope she takes the warning to heart. I saw blood splatter on a cupboard, and you'll never guess what it was from.

Do tell. Donnellson waggled his eyebrows dramatically.

Brett leaned across the table, keeping his voice low. A headless chicken was in the sink, and I think she killed the bird.

Why? Lisa shuddered with disgust.

She's from the Deep South. Who knows? Maybe she wanted fresh meat.

Donnellson choked back laughter. I suppose you thought there was a body somewhere in the house when you saw that blood.

Wouldn't you? Brett groused. I'm telling you, there is a weird vibe at that joint, and I sure don't want to go there again.

Of course, it felt different, O'Shea. The woman is a fortune teller. Were stars and planets painted on the walls? Donnellson's eyes glinted with merriment.

No, but you just described the sign in front of her house.

Lisa and Donnellson broke into laughter.

Brett leaned over the table, glancing over his shoulder. Guys, I'm telling you, I got a weird feeling there.

Okay, sweetie. You can let it go now. Lisa wiped the tears from her eyes.

Brett scowled. You two can quit laughing any time. All I can say is you weren't there, so you don't know what it was like.

Cluck, cluck. Gut-wrenching laughter seized Donnellson.

Brett rose and tossed a napkin on the table. Since you're in such a good mood, you get the bill.

*****

Once they arrived