“Greta!”
The image disappeared. Greta blinked, looked around. “Jack? What’s going on?” Her voice left her as she looked at the dark lobby. “Oh, no. What did I do?” She struggled against his hold even as she wanted to cling to him. She shivered so hard her teeth hurt.
“Sleepwalked would be my guess.” He bent down, reached for and held her hands. “You okay now?”
“I think so.” She couldn’t quite focus. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.” He moved in, drew her to him and just held her. She squeezed her eyes shut, relaxing into him, resisting the urge to burrow into him. He was so safe. So perfect. So...
He picked her up and turned toward the steps.
“Your chest. Your breathing. You shouldn’t—” She pressed her fingers against his heart.
“Don’t ruin my Prince Charming moment.” Joke aside, he seemed to be focusing intently on taking each step carefully.
The next thing she knew, she was back in the loft. While he went to fix her some tea, she went into the bathroom to rinse her face, gripping the sink as she stared dazedly into eyes that didn’t seem quite her own. She was back in bed when he appeared in her doorway, white tray in hand. She watched him while he poured her a cup of anemic tea, wondered what he was thinking, then told herself she didn’t want to know. Instead, when he handed her a cup, she murmured, “Thank you.”
“I’m glad I caught you before you called an Uber.”
She couldn’t help it. She laughed, then bit her lip as a wave of emotion crashed over her. The sight of this strong, determined, kind man pouring her a cup of tea had the tears burning her throat again. It would be so easy, she realized, so easy to fall in love with him.
She was already halfway there, she admitted, remembering how her heart had tumbled in her chest when she’d found him on the other side of the door hours before. But nothing could come of it, she told herself. She knew better than to let it, especially after what had just happened. Besides, love not only made people vulnerable, it was the sharpest and deadliest weapon anyone could ever use. And the bleeding never stopped.
Jack sat beside her, faced her, but didn’t touch her. It was for the best, as all she wanted was for him to touch her, kiss her and make her forget...everything. She almost asked him to, the request rested on the tip of her tongue, but she held back. Being with him, making love with him would only make walking away worse. And she would walk away. She didn’t have a choice.
“Has this happened before?”
“The sleepwalking?” She stared into the teacup. “Not for a while. It used to happen all the time, when I was little.” She swiped at a tear that escaped. She sipped, had to force herself to swallow the barely brewed tea. He’d tried so hard and looked so expectant, she couldn’t tell him the truth. About that, at least. “Then, when I was not so little. My doctors said it was my coping mechanism after my parents...died.” How did she even begin? She didn’t want to talk about it, but she had to tell him something. His sister, Ashley, had been right about that much. “Talking about...things earlier tonight...must have brought it all back.” She took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention.”
“I know.” And she did.
“Tell me something, anything, Greta.” He did touch her now. Just a brush of fingers, but enough to soothe her. Part of her hated that it did. “Who did you think you were following?”
“My mother.” The answer came so easily, she never thought twice. “It looked like her from the back.” She shook her head. “Everything’s all mixed up. Probably not the best thing for your case, huh?”
“I don’t care about the case right now. I care about you.” He curled his finger around a strand of her hair, the understanding smile on his face almost felt like a knife to the heart. She didn’t want anyone—especially Jack—feeling sorry for her. Not for any reason. Nor did she want him to go.
“But I am still a detective,” he reminded her. “I don’t see any memories in your home, Greta. No photographs of family, no old books or mementos. You don’t like to be reminded of anything that came before. Not even yesterday.”
“No, I don’t.” He was the first person who had ever picked up on that. Her first six years had been a festival of memories, a celebration of life and love. All of which had been shattered one balmy summer night. “The past should stay where it belongs. Behind us. And buried.”
“It’s an easy thing to say. Not always an easy thing to do.” There it was again, that ghost that flitted across his face. “And given what happened tonight, I think we can agree you haven’t buried anything. When was the last time you did something like this?”
“Sleepwalked?” She had to stop and think, confused by his statement. “About a year ago. Right before I moved here. I woke up in the backyard next door. Good thing I don’t have neighbors anymore.” She forced a laugh even as she swallowed the jarring terror at having been woken by a frantically barking dog. She twisted the leather band on her wrist until she felt it burn. To remind herself that she could always move beyond the past. She might not be able to outrun it completely, but she could stay a few steps ahead. “After that, I decided no more houses with pools. I guess I should be lucky I went downstairs to the lobby and didn’t walk up to the roof.”
He gave her a weak smile and slipped his hand around hers. She clung to him because she could. Because she needed to.
A headache crept up behind her eyes. “It started when I was in boarding school. My roommate Yvette saw me leaving the main house when she was sneaking in after curfew. I was already waist deep in lake water before she could dive in after me.” She took a shuddering breath. She could still feel that frigid water coating her skin. “The school therapist said stress was a trigger, that I should learn to meditate. And lock my door when I went to bed. Helpful, huh?”
“Did it work?”
“Clearly not. Which is why I spent a few weeks the following summer at a...” She pulled herself back before she said too much. But even without looking at him she knew he’d filled in the blanks. The word institution wasn’t often used these days, but at times it’s what it seemed like to her. No matter how posh it might have been. She cleared her throat, determined to give him at least some of the answers he needed. He deserved that much. “When I eventually left, my guardian decided a clean slate was needed all around. He had my name legally changed. I transferred to another school and tried to start over. And it’s worked. Mostly.” Only now with Doyle Fremont, with the stress of needing to be right about what she’d seen, everything was all flooding back to her.
“And the sleepwalking stopped?”
“Not for a while.” Finally, a bright memory cut through the darkness. “Yvette convinced her parents to transfer her, too, and they made sure we were roommates again. Yvette made sleeping a kind of game with her own winning strategy. Before we went to bed at night, she’d tie yarn or string around my ankle or wrist, attach me to various items in the room that, if I got up to walk, I’d knock over and wake both of us up. Now, that worked.” She actually managed a laugh.
“She sounds like a good friend.”
“She’s the best.” Greta pressed her hands against her face to stem the tears. “I hate the idea of disappointing her. That’s why I don’t want her to know about all this. She did a lot to help me get this place, help me settle down. She doesn’t deserve to have to worry all the time.” The lack of sleep the past few days, the pressure of the show, of watching a man die in front of her eyes only to rise from the dead and haunt her at the gallery, pressed down on her. She set her tea aside and, just as she had in the lobby, clung to him, her fingers gripping the soft fabric of his T-shirt. “You’re sure I didn’t wake you up?”
“I was reading. I called your name when you walked by the sofa, but you didn’t hear me. So I followed you.”
“Sh
e called my name. I heard her call my name.” The dream was coming back now, in fragments, but it was there, hovering. “My real name. I didn’t recognize it at first. It was as if I’d forgotten.”
“What is your real name?” He asked so gently, she only wanted to ease the lines of concern on his face. Whatever he chose to do with the information, she’d deal with that later.
“Genevra,” she whispered. “My real name is Genevra.”
* * *
“We got a hit on the victim’s face.” Even over Jack’s cell, Bowie couldn’t have sounded more excited if he’d just been promoted to captain. “Eamon found him.”
Jack stood up from the sofa he’d spent most of the morning and afternoon on, hunched over his laptop while Greta had locked herself in her studio. Workers were busy installing the carpeting in Doyle Fremont’s office, unwrapping furniture and boxes and consulting what Jack assumed were detailed specs on the room. He’d checked frequently for signs of Fremont himself, but near as Jack could tell, the businessman hadn’t made an appearance since the day Jack had met with him.
“What’s our victim’s name?” Because he needed to move, he headed into the kitchen.
“Paul Calhoun. He’s been on the FBI watch list for a while. Lawyer, age fifty-two from New Jersey. Divorced, no kids. He was reported missing nine months ago by his nephew.”
“What else do we know? Any connection to Fremont?”
“That’s where things get interesting. According to Eamon,” Bowie said, referring to the longtime FBI agent who had helped them last year, “Calhoun’s been a member of the New Jersey Bar Association for twenty years. Bounced around a number of firms but landed his own big-fish client about six years ago and became the lead lawyer for the Mishenka crime family. And here’s the part you’re going to like. Or not like.”
Jack’s interest was piqued. Bowie had definitely investigated to impress.
“A little over three years ago, the Mishenkas were looking to invest in legitimate businesses, probably to get a new laundering scheme going, and they chose a bunch of up-and-coming companies including, but not limited to, a solar research and development company owned by...”
“Doyle Fremont.” Jack did a fist pump and mouthed a Yes! “Finally. A thread to follow. Any details?”
“The deal fell apart about eighteen months ago when word leaked the Mishenkas were being investigated by the feds. Which is true, by the way. And guess who the star witness was going to be?”
“Paul Calhoun. Our missing dead man. Why? What made him turn?”
“Calhoun got a little greedy with the Mishenka finances. He stole about fifteen million from them. The family found out and put a price on his head. A pretty big one. He agreed to testify in exchange for witness protection. But before they could get him relocated—”
“Calhoun disappeared.” Not that uncommon. And with fifteen mil at his disposal, he could have gone anywhere. Instead, he’d shown up here, in Sacramento. With Doyle Fremont. “If the deal fell through, why was Calhoun still in contact with Fremont?”
“That’s what we have yet to figure out, but the simple answer is probably money. Doyle Fremont’s broke, Jack. Property-rich but cash-poor. That failure wasn’t his first, but it was one of the biggest. It got swept under the media rug. Can’t get much more out of the FBI without telling someone other than Eamon why we’re looking.”
“This is enough.” Enough for Jack to pass on to Vince as soon as he got off the phone. “This is great work, Bowie.”
“No idea where any of this will lead, though.”
“We’ll figure it out. Let me know if you come up with anything else.”
“Will do.”
Jack clicked off, tapped his phone against his chin as he shifted the pieces of information around in his head. Fremont’s lifestyle hadn’t changed one iota despite the hit to his profit margin. Not entirely surprising, but maintaining a lifestyle like that didn’t come cheap. And he’d continued expanding his empire, including the new home office right across the street from where Jack stood now. Had he killed Calhoun for the stolen money? Possible, Jack supposed. Either way, with a major organized-crime family potentially involved, that put a whole new twist on things.
A twist his boss needed to know about. But Lt. Santos’s reaction wasn’t exactly the one he’d been hoping for.
“This is getting too big for a handful of us to manage, Jack.” Santos’s clipped tone told Jack he wasn’t happy about any of this. “I need to consider calling in another department to help run it.”
“With all due respect, sir, we both know the more people involved, the more likely it is the investigation is going to leak. If what Bowie just told me gets out, we’re going to be overrun not only by the media but by people connected to the Mishenkas. And while Greta’s happy to help now, I don’t think she’ll be nearly as cooperative with a different group of detectives.”
“Is that your personal or professional opinion, Detective?” Santos asked.
It was a reasonable question, but one he surprisingly had no trouble answering. “Both, sir. Although I’d be happy to find a way to keep her out of it, period. If we can make a case strong enough to not need eyewitness testimony to Paul Calhoun’s murder, I think that would be the best solution for all involved.”
“I’m sure you do. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that becoming personally involved with a witness puts a case like this in serious jeopardy.”
Jack winced. Hadn’t stopped him, though, had it? Nor had he told anyone beyond Cole and Bowie that Calhoun might not be quite as dead as they thought. He was twisting himself up in professional knots to protect someone he cared for personally. It was Chicago all over again. But what was he supposed to do? Just walk away and leave Greta on her own? “No, sir, you don’t have to tell me.”
“I should pull you off this case altogether.”
“Sir—”
“I said should, Jack. I spoke with Cole last night and we decided that while you’re needed on this matter, Cole will be taking over as lead detective.”
“What?” Jack’s stomach dropped. “No, sir. This is my case. I don’t want—”
“You don’t want anyone else taking the fall if this goes belly-up. We’re past that now, Jack. We’re all stuck in the quicksand with you. So, before I make this official, I’m going to ask you one more time. Is Doyle Fremont a killer? Is Greta Renault a reliable witness? Are you willing to stake all of our futures on it?”
Jack looked down the hall, to the locked door where Greta had hidden herself in her studio at some unholy hour of the morning. She’d been so vulnerable last night, so scared, but she hadn’t been fragile. She’d fought through the sleepwalking, pushed past her own reservations and told him something of her past. He’d also seen the desperation on her face when she’d begged him to believe her. She needed someone to, and Jack wanted—no, he needed to be that someone.
Beyond that, he’d looked Fremont in the eye and seen a killer.
“Jack?”
“Yeah.” Jack glanced through the window at Doyle’s office. “I’m still here.”
“Answer my question. Is this case an official go?”
“Yes, sir.” This time Jack didn’t hesitate. “It is.”
Chapter 10
She’d told him her name.
She hadn’t meant to. She wasn’t even sure she’d wanted to, but she’d needed to. Just enough to push him off the questions. Just enough to satisfy. It shouldn’t matter, she told herself as she splashed paint against the canvas. She shouldn’t care. How could she care what one man thought about something she couldn’t change, something that had shaped her into the person she was today?
Normally the solitude worked to calm the rioting questions and doubts spinning in her mind. Normally she could go days, sometimes weeks, without having to admit anything had changed. That was the wonder of her
work: she could hide in it, with it, for as long as she needed. As long as it took to keep the threat of darkness out of her mind.
Except it wasn’t working. She picked up another brush, saturated it with the blue of a midnight sea and stabbed it against the canvas. It didn’t matter how many layers of paint she added, how many slashes and gouges and streaks she made, she couldn’t stop wishing she’d never looked out her window that night.
That damned window!
Another swipe, this one pure white, tinged with the blurred colors of the brush’s previous puddles, cut across the expanse of the canvas, slicing the chaos into fragmented shards of fear.
She stepped back, set the brushes down and stared into the colors swirling and arcing as she wished for, prayed for, clarity. For an answer. What was the truth? What was a lie? She didn’t know what was real anymore.
And that, she realized, was the fear lodged like a stone in the center of her chest, and the only thing that made her feel stable was... Jack.
Her music cut off, plunging the studio into an eerie silence she’d been trying to avoid all morning. She then spotted Jack standing in the open doorway, the emotion on his face unreadable.
“Too loud?” she asked.
One of the reasons she’d had soundproofing installed was that she liked her music indecently loud.
“I’d answer you, but my ears are still ringing.” The slight tease in his voice didn’t do anything to ease the worry coursing through her. She glanced at the door and frowned as Cerberus padded through and hopped onto the ledge by the window she’d kept her back to.
“I thought I locked that.”
“You did.” Jack shrugged. “I’m a man of many talents. You work it out?”
“Work what out?”
He leaned back, crossed his feet at the ankles and his arms over his chest. The arch of his brow had her squirming where she stood. No one, especially someone who had known her for such a short time, should understand her this well.
Guarding His Midnight Witness Page 15
