“Oh Lord, of course.” Clare’s hands clenched around the steering wheel. “The husband.”
Chapter Forty-two
Moonlight glinted on the tile roof of the large house. Jake studied the Shipley residence from the cover of a shallow arroyo. The bright moon meant that he would have to take extra care approaching the residence, but once inside, it would be an advantage. Together with his jacked-up senses he would not even need the flashlight he had tucked into a pocket.
Clare had spent the evening trying to talk him out of his plan to search the Shipley house but he knew that, underneath the anxiety, she understood as clearly as he did that this was one of the few alternatives they had left.
Tonight was the obvious night to do the job because Owen had been invited out to dinner by Alison Henton, one of the many sympathetic, deeply concerned divorcées in Stone Canyon who were lining up to comfort and console him. Jake had seen enough of Alison in action at the country club during the past two weeks to know that Owen would be lucky to escape before midnight.
He made his way along the dry wash to the point that was closest to the house. There he halted again, pushing his senses to the limit. There was, as always, a lot of activity going on in the desert at that hour, but as far as he could tell nothing human moved in the vicinity of the house.
His preternatural instincts objected to the short dash through the open to the sheltering shadows at the side of the house. He suppressed the atavistic dislike of being exposed in the moonlight long enough to get to his destination.
His night vision was excellent. He could walk through the deepest shadows at the side of the house without fear of bumping into objects or tripping over a hose.
Contrary to the rumors about his kind, it wasn’t quite the equivalent of being able to see in the dark and it wasn’t like using night vision goggles, either. His eyes were human, after all, not those of a cat or an owl. They could only do so much with minimal illumination. But his psychic abilities afforded him a different way of perceiving objects and other living things when there was little light available.
He stopped at the side door. He had a clear idea of the layout of the interior of the residence because he had grilled Myra and Archer earlier that evening. Both had been frequent visitors to the Shipley home over the years.
Best of all, the Glazebrooks had a key to the house and the code to silence the alarm. He could have gotten in without those assets, thanks to the small J&J tool kit he carried, but having them made things easier. Owen had given both the key and the code to the Glazebrooks years ago in the event of an emergency while he was out of town.
He pulled on the plastic medical gloves he had brought with him and took the key out of his pocket. He opened the door and moved quickly into the hall. The alarm pad was right where Archer had said it would be.
He closed the door and punched in the code, disarming the system.
Slowly, he walked through the house, registering impressions on both the normal and paranormal planes.
He was searching for the special emanations of psi energy that clung to scenes where violence had taken place. But that was not all he hoped to find. He was here to do some old-fashioned detective work. In his experience that was usually what it came down to in the end.
People were people, regardless of whether or not they possessed a degree of psychic ability. The same emotions and motivations governed their actions. Once you knew an individual’s agenda and had an idea of how far he or she would go to achieve it, you had all you really needed to know to close a case.
His goal tonight was to nail down Owen Shipley’s agenda.
He replayed the conversation with Clare in his head.
“But why would Owen kill her?” she asked.
“I can think of a couple of reasons, starting with the obvious fact that she had become an embarrassing problem. The woman was a full-blown alcoholic and she was getting worse.”
“If Owen wanted to get rid of her, he could have simply divorced her.”
“Now, why would he do that when she had just inherited the bulk of McAllister’s estate?”
“Oh. Good point.” She paused. “On the other hand, Owen doesn’t need Valerie’s money. He’s rich in his own right.”
“As we have observed on previous occasions, that doesn’t mean he might not want to get richer.”
“I don’t know,” Clare said, dubious now. “Murder is a high-risk enterprise.”
“Sure. So is sex with strangers, but people do it for money all the time.”
“One more small problem,” Clare said. “Owen has an alibi. He was playing golf the afternoon that Valerie died, remember?”
“He was playing alone, in the middle of the afternoon on one of the hottest days of the year. He probably had the course to himself.”
“And the Shipley house is located on the twelfth fairway.”
“All he had to do was drive the cart into the arroyo behind the house, go inside long enough to drown Valerie and then return to the fairway to finish his game.”
“Pretty cold.”
“Yes,” Jake said. “Ice cold.”
Moonlight slanted through the windows of the pale great room. It didn’t seem likely that Owen would conceal his secrets in such an open area where visitors came and went freely. But he decided to give the place a quick going-over before moving into the bedroom wing.
He studied the wet bar and the liquor cabinet. Chances were good that Valerie had made heavy use of those particular items of furniture.
He checked the drawers beneath the small sink first. They were filled with the paraphernalia associated with the preparation of cocktails: bottle openers, corkscrews, napkins and spoons.
He closed the bottom drawer and reached for the handle of the small refrigerator.
The faint but explosive traces of violent psychic energy crackled through him, leaving an invisible energy burn. His already heightened senses flared even higher, sharpening to a feverish intensity. The spoor of violence was not fresh, but it was not very old, either. He concentrated, trying to feel what the killer had experienced at the moment when he opened the refrigerator.
Thirsty. Heart pounding. Hot, dark excitement pumping through his blood…
Suddenly, he knew what had happened. Shipley had come in off the blistering hot golf course and found Valerie deep into a pitcher of martinis. Maybe she had taken one of her pills to calm down after the failed attempt on Clare at the spa. Shipley told her he stopped to get a bottle of water. The afternoon sun was unrelenting out on the course.
He had also been sweating, not just from the heat of the day but from the anticipation of what he was about to do. So he opened the small refrigerator and took out a bottle of water.
He no doubt overpowered Valerie easily enough. He was a strong, athletic man. Valerie had been scrawny and frail from the months of heavy drinking.
He would have had to take a few minutes to go inside the house and change his clothes. Carefully he’d chosen a second pair of golf slacks and a shirt in the same colors as the pants and shirt he had been wearing when he started the round. Then he went back out onto the course.
He probably planned to finish the game and have a few drinks at the club with friends before inviting an acquaintance home for cocktails. That way he would have a witness with him when he “discovered” the body.
It must have come as a shock to be told that Valerie had been found much sooner than he had intended.
Clare had been right, Jake thought. Valerie was murdered. It also seemed logical that Shipley was the killer, but unfortunately there was no way to prove that yet.
The psychic spoor left by someone who had committed an act of violence was as distinctive as a fingerprint. But unlike a fingerprint, it was given off only when the individual was physically aroused by, and in the grip of, intense, violent emotions. The energy of such emotions was so strong that it resonated on the paranormal plane and clung to surfaces for a long time.
Jones & Jo
nes would take his findings seriously, but psychic traces were not much good in a courtroom. “Well, Your Honor, I was walking through the dead woman’s house and I sensed the psi energy of her killer. Yeah, sure, I could identify him if he leaves any more of the same kind of energy behind. But he’s got to be in a killing mood, if you see what I mean. What’s that, Your Honor? Yes, as a matter of fact, I do think that I’m a psychic detective. Why do you ask?”
There was a reason why members of the Society who wanted to lead normal lives did not go around claiming a connection to a group of people who all believed they had psychic powers. That kind of thing came under the heading of family secrets.
Now that he knew he was looking in the right place, it was time to find some more traditional evidence to turn over to the local police.
There was a large wine vault adjacent to the kitchen. He took the black leather case out of his pocket and used one of the items inside to unlock the door. It took a few minutes to go through the rows of elegantly stored bottles. He also looked inside the white wine chiller.
He found nothing except a lot of very expensive wine.
He let himself out of the vault and went down a wide hall that led to the other wing of the big house. Archer had told him that Shipley’s study was the first door on the left. That seemed like a reasonable place to continue the search.
He paused when he caught sight of a small object sitting on an end table. A cell phone.
He crossed the living room and picked up the device. More of the vicious energy scalded his senses. Shipley had picked up the phone while still in a killing rage. Maybe Valerie, realizing she was in danger, had tried to dial 911. Or maybe Shipley had wanted to erase any record of her incoming and outgoing calls.
He put the phone down on the end table.
The study door was open. From the entrance Jake could see a heavy wooden desk, a couple file cabinets and a bookcase. A computer sat on the desk.
He powered up the computer and slapped the small storage device he had brought along into the USB port. While the files listed on the screen were being copied, he went through the desk drawers. Nothing jumped out and screamed incriminating evidence.
When the copying was complete he removed the storage device, dropped it into a pocket and powered down the computer.
He went back out into the hall and started toward the master bedroom suite.
The faint change in air pressure in the hall ruffled his senses. Someone had entered the house. Whoever he was, he was moving in a stealthy manner.
Another intruder. That was interesting. Who else had a reason to come here tonight?
Hungry, predatory excitement splashed through him. He glided into the deep shadows of a bedroom doorway and waited. The other intruder might or might not be a sensitive but either way, he would be jacked, too. Adrenaline was adrenaline, whether or not you were running hot. People got killed fairly easily, often accidentally, when the stuff was flowing.
If the guy was any good, it wouldn’t be long before the newcomer realized he was not alone in the house.
Let the hunt begin.
He realized his mistake an instant later when the psychic firestorm electrified his senses. The ferocious energy forced him to his knees. Instinctively he gripped his head in both hands, as though he could somehow dampen the blast.
Another scalding flash of energy struck him. This one was followed by a massive wave of night that swamped him in a sea of endless darkness.
Chapter Forty-three
Anxiety sparked through Clare, sharp and jagged as a burst of lightning. The panic attack rolled out of nowhere, trampling her defenses before she even had time to erect them.
She was sitting on the sofa, one leg curled under her, poring over the list of numbers she had copied off Valerie Shipley’s cell phone when the disturbing energy frazzled all her senses.
The clanging of every single one of her private alarm bells brought her to her feet, heart pounding, pulse racing. Her palms went cold. Adrenaline rushed through her bloodstream. Everything inside her was at full throttle. She was ready to flee to safety or fight for her life.
No, not her life. Someone else’s. She had never experienced a panic attack quite like this one.
Jake. Yes, she was sure of it now. This involved Jake. He was in terrible danger. But it was impossible for her to know that, she reminded herself. There was no such thing as telepathy or mind reading. The researchers in the Society had investigated the numerous anecdotal stories for decades but had never been able to reproduce the experience in the lab.
Breathe. Calm down. You’re worried about Jake out there at the Shipley house. That’s what triggered this episode.
She started to pace, making herself focus on her breathing while she painstakingly erected the psychic defense mechanisms she had worked so hard to create.
The sensation of intense awareness winked out as swiftly as it had hit. It was as if someone had turned off a switch.
After a couple minutes she felt steadier, more in control.
She glanced at her watch. It was nearly midnight. Jake had been gone for more than two hours. How long did it take to search a whole house?
He ought to be home by now. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and looked at it longingly. But she dared not call him. Surely he had turned his phone off when he entered the Shipley home but what if he had neglected to do so? She didn’t want to risk placing a call that would create a problem for him on his end.
There was always the possibility that a neighbor had noticed something at the Shipley residence and went to investigate. Or called the police.
Please, don’t let it be the police, she thought. The last thing they needed now was for Jake to get hauled in on breaking-and-entering charges.
But something was very wrong. She knew it with a dread certainty that did not diminish even as the initial adrenaline charge of the panic attack faded.
It’s your imagination, she thought. Let it go. Get a grip.
But she couldn’t get past the absolute certainty that Jake was in trouble.
No matter what the Arcane House experts claimed, everyone with half an ounce of sensitivity—members of the Society or not—knew that once in a while two people who had an intimate bond sometimes experienced brief flashes of psychic intimacy. When she and Jake made love they shared some kind of psychic connection. Why would it be strange if she could somehow sense that he was in danger?
Maybe she was coming at this from the wrong angle. It was possible that the panic attack had been triggered by what she had been doing a few minutes ago.
The notebook had fallen to the floor. She scooped it up and looked at the numbers she had written down. When she had found the cell phone on the coffee table in the Shipleys’ house, she was disappointed because there were no incoming or outgoing calls logged on the day of Valerie’s death. In addition, none of the few numbers that Valerie had entered into the device’s phone book seemed unusual.
But tonight when she had gone over the phone book list a second time, one jumped out at her. Valerie had evidently called it with some frequency because she had put it on speed dial.
Take it easy, she thought. It was possible that a lot of women in town had the Stone Canyon Day Spa on speed dial.
Nevertheless, there was one other person in the world who had evidently loved Brad McAllister. And Kimberley Todd was a professional massage therapist who had vanished from her job. Everyone at the Secret Springs Day Spa assumed she had found another position.
What if that was precisely what had happened? What if her new position was right here in Stone Canyon?
What were the odds?
Probably about a million to one, Clare thought. She tossed the notebook on the coffee table and checked her watch again. What was keeping Jake? She was going to go nuts waiting for him.
Lights speared the night outside the window. A car was coming up the road. Relief flooded through her. Jake was home at last.
She rushed dow
n the hall and opened the door just as the vehicle pulled into the driveway.
The car halted but Jake didn’t turn off the engine. The headlights blazed straight into her eyes. Instinctively she put up an arm to cut the glare.
The door on the driver’s side opened. A figure got out. The blinding brilliance of the high-beam lights made it impossible to see anything more than a vague silhouette. Alarm flashed through her.
“Jake? Is everything okay? I was getting worried.”
“I’m afraid Jake has been badly hurt,” Owen Shipley said. “I found him unconscious in my house when I got home tonight. He’s in the emergency room. I’ll take you to him.”
The ultraviolet lie ignited her already sensitized senses. The monster of all panic attacks arced through her.
In the wake of the wave of terror that pounded through her she fought to control her reaction. She could not succumb to the panic. She had to stay in control so she could help Jake.
The searing blast of psychic energy came out of nowhere, frying her fully open senses. She felt herself falling through space, and then darkness descended.
Chapter Forty-four
The faint hissing sound finally became so irritating that Clare opened her eyes. She found herself gazing up into an eerie twilight sky. She could feel hard tiles beneath her back. Artistically arrayed benches designed to resemble rocky outcroppings rose up the walls.
“Oh, damn,” she said.
“I think I said something similar when I came around a few minutes ago,” Jake said. “Maybe a little stronger.”
“Jake?” She sat up suddenly. That proved to be a mistake. The interior of the Stone Canyon Day Spa steam chamber whirled precariously around her.
“Take it easy.” Jake crouched beside her, steadying her with a hand on her shoulder. “The dizziness will pass in a minute. At least it did for me. How do you feel?”
“Weird.” Memory tore through her. She remembered Owen getting out of his car, lying to her about Jake.
White Lies Page 26
