Her gaze lifted to his. “Who filled it?”
“I’m not at liberty—”
“It was Mr. Figueroa, wasn’t it?”
“The important thing to remember is…” That you have the most incredible eyes I’ve ever seen. “Uh, that the charges were unfounded. I’m sorry it was necessary to deceive you, but we had to determine whether the complainant’s, uh, complaint was valid.” Cripes, where in the hell had his brain gone?
She nibbled absently on her full bottom lip. Nate watched for a moment, then forced his eyes away.
“So,” she said, cocking her head and assessing him. “You’re not regular-guy Nathan Damon, you’re a detective named Darling.” He could almost see the wheels turning inside her brain as she made the mental adjustment from the client who’d visited her house to the cop who sat before her now.
“Yes. Inspector Nathan Darling—”
“Inspector? Are you a detective or not?”
“I am. In San Francisco, a detective of my grade is referred to as Inspector, like in England. But senior detectives are called Detective or Detective Lieutenant and so forth. It’s a little confusing.”
Clearing his throat, he took a deep breath and straightened in his chair. “Now, what brings you—”
“Oh, hell,” she growled suddenly, looking away. “Never mind. Just…never mind. This was a stupid idea.”
Clutching her hat in one hand, she grabbed for her purse on the chair next to her. But before she could stand, Nate reached across the table and curled his fingers around her wrist. Her skin was soft, warm. She tugged on her hand. He tugged back.
“You’re restraining me?” She stared at him in obvious amazement.
“No. I’m encouraging you to remain seated and tell me why you’re here. Something important must have happened, for you to come down to the police department. I want to know what it is.”
He let go of her wrist slowly, and she settled back into her chair warily.
“Your powers of deduction are brilliant,” she drawled. “I can see why they made you a detective.”
“Sarcasm won’t get us anywhere.”
“I want a different detective.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. You lied to me.”
“In the line of duty, a police officer lied to a possible felon,” he corrected. “That’s different from me lying to you.”
“So you admit that…Felon?” she choked. “Just what did Mr. Figueroa tell you? What did he accuse me of?”
Nate looked her in the eye. “A charge was made of fraud and solicitation.”
“What!”
He thought she might leap up and run out the door, or smack him with her purse, but she stayed put, her cheeks flushed with rage. Attractively. He’d be willing to bet her cheeks flushed in exactly that same way when she—
“…came in here and accused me of being a…That’s outrageous,” she growled. “Just because I found out—”
She stopped herself, then lowered her lashes.
Aha. So the truth comes out.
“Ms. March,” he said. “If Mr. Figueroa is using the SFPD as a tool for personal vengeance, you can file harassment charges against him. But I have to warn you, it would be hard to prove he simply intended to hassle you. It’s a he-said-she-said kind of deal, and he would swear he thought he was doing his citizen’s duty by reporting a possible crime.”
She seemed to calm down a bit. Shaking her head, she smiled—a little too sweetly, if Nate was any judge.
“No problem,” she said in a light, dismissive tone. “What goes around comes around. He’ll get his in the end.”
Nate blew out a short breath.
“I hope you’re not contemplating retaliation against Mr. Figueroa.”
She smiled again. “Don’t need to. Karma will take care of him.”
“As long as Karma isn’t a hit man from New Delhi, we’re good.”
Again with the Cheshire Cat grin. Wow. She was beautiful.
Clearing his throat, he turned his attention to the form Butkus had handed him.
“Okay. Now that that’s settled, can we continue with the reason you came in today?”
Her eyes grew serious and she shifted in her chair. Reaching into her handbag, she pulled out a newspaper clipping and handed it to him. It was dated two days ago.
BODY OF SLAIN WOMAN
FOUND I GOLDEN GATE PARK
His eyes sought hers. “You have information regarding this homicide?”
She paused, almost as though she were assessing him, judging whether or not to trust him with the information. Finally, her shoulders relaxed a fraction and gave a quick nod.
“I…I think I know who killed her.”
There. She’d said it. No going back now.
Instead of continuing to look at the disturbingly handsome Inspector Darling, Tabitha averted her eyes to the newspaper clipping in his fingers.
At her words, he’d lifted his chin and straightened in his chair. Adjusting his glasses, he leaned forward.
“Are you saying you witnessed this crime?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Did the killer confess to you?”
“No.”
“Did you see who dumped the body in the park?”
“No.”
Pursing his lips, he watched her for a moment. Finally, “Okay, you want to help me out here? The twenty-questions thing is fun, but I’m really lousy at it and—”
“I have a client,” she rushed, before she could change her mind. He wasn’t going to believe her; skeptics never did. It didn’t take a psychic to see Inspector Facts-and-Data was probably going to laugh out loud as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Still, she’d come this far.
“You have a client,” he repeated. “Go on.”
“He came to me several weeks ago. He described a dream where he killed a woman in Golden Gate Park. I think he’s the one who may have killed this woman.” She flicked her finger in the direction of the newspaper clipping. “When he described the dream, I saw…um, I saw…it. The murder.”
Darling set his pen down and closed his notebook.
“That’s your evidence?” he said. “You think your client is possibly guilty of murder because of a dream he had? Do you have any other reason to believe this man committed a homicide?”
“No.”
There was a moment of silence, then, “Thank you for coming in, Ms. March. The city of San Francisco is grateful for your—”
“I knew you wouldn’t believe me,” she groused. Why, oh, why had she put herself in a position, yet again, to be doubted and dismissed?
Over the last few years, Tabitha had tried to use her psychic abilities to help the authorities, but the police rarely let her. Since her particular strength was tactile, if she didn’t have something to touch, she couldn’t get a clear image. As a result, her best efforts often failed and she came off looking like an incompetent, or worse, a fake.
But dream interpretation in conjunction with touching the client was her strength; her success with people who sought her ser vices proved that. The images she saw could be trusted nearly a hundred percent, but trying to convince the police of that was a different matter.
Coming down here had been a huge mistake. Despite his sexy voice and soft brown eyes, Inspector Darling was no better than the rest.
“Fine,” she sighed.
Darling rose, eased back the edges of his jacket, and put his hands on his hips. With a build like his, she’d bet anything he’d played football. Quarterback. Yeah, he was arrogant enough to have been a star quarterback. The sexy jerk.
With a look of profound displeasure on his face, he said, “You’ve just wasted my time and the taxpayers’ money, Ms. March. I hope you’re happy.”
“I’m not happy, you closed-minded ass,” she huffed. “I came down here out of a sense of duty and felt I had knowledge that might help in an investigation.”
“Did y
our client tell you he’d killed this woman?”
“No.”
“Dreaming of committing a murder is not a crime, Ms. March. What evidence can you provide? Evidence,” he added, “that would stand up in a court of law?”
She held her purse to her bosom like a warrior holds a shield. “None,” she said. “But I know what I saw, and judging from that newspaper article, the similarities to the actual murder and my client’s dream are stunning.”
“Stunning, Ms. March?” He grinned. Now he was laughing at her. But that was almost okay, because he had the most incredible smile…
Heat radiated between them as they glowered at each other, then his grin began to slowly fade. She knew the moment he became aware of her, not as a citizen, or even as a crackpot, but as a woman. Something in his eyes changed. His stance shifted. His gaze drifted down her body and back up again. His breathing altered slightly.
“On behalf of the San Francisco Police Department,” he said quietly, “thank you for taking the time to do your civic duty, coming in, and reporting your, uh, suspicions.” As loony as they are, his eyes mocked. “But without solid evidence or an eyewitness account, there’s nothing I can do.”
Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out a business card and handed it to her.
“If anything more solid presents itself, you can reach me here.”
As she took the card, her fingers brushed his, and in that split second she saw them again. Together. Naked. In a passionate embrace. This time she felt him, too. His hands on her bare breasts. She could hear music, a mellow tune sung in a deep and melodic voice. And all around them the scent of pink jasmine…
She must have made some kind of noise, because he frowned.
“You okay?”
Snatching the card from his fingers, she slipped it into her purse and headed toward the door. With her hand on the knob, she bit out, “The article said the woman had been strangled, her body left near the Conservatory of Flowers.”
“Yes.”
“That’s pretty specific.”
“I guess so. Are you saying the dream you’re referring to involved a strangled woman whose body was found near the conservatory?”
Her back still to the detective, she said, “Yes. But the article doesn’t say what color outfit she was wearing.”
There was a momentary pause. “It doesn’t mention type or style of clothing at all.”
She nodded, turned the handle, and opened the door.
“It was a dress. Red. With white polka dots. Good day, Inspector.”
Chapter 3
To rid yourself of bad dreams, place your shoes under the bed with the toes pointing outward.
FOLKLORE
“What red dress, Ms. March?”
Tabitha stood with one hand on the doorknob, the other holding her fully loaded toothbrush. Ignoring the minty freshness beginning to ooze off the bristles and onto her fingers, she assessed her early morning visitor.
“What took you so long, Detective?” The best defense was a good offense, she’d heard it said, especially when one was greeting a fully clothed police detective in your jammies and bare feet.
“It’s Inspector,” he muttered, giving her the once-over.
“I know, but it’s sad.” She puckered her lips in an exaggerated pout. “Detective Darling is so adorably alliterative.”
“I can live with the disappointment.”
She scowled. “It’s seven o’clock on a Monday morning, Inspector. It’s been three days since our rather pithy conversation. This couldn’t wait until after I’d had my coffee?”
“You drink coffee?” He gave her the once-over again, making it a twice-over, she supposed. “Somehow, I’d pegged you as the herbal tea type. Bland, like ground-up redwood bark or dried pomegranate seeds or something.”
She defiantly edged her chin up a notch and snared his gaze. “If you think anything about me is bland, you are mistaken.”
His attitude suddenly all business, he said, “I’d like to ask you some questions. About a red dress with white spots. May I come in?”
“What can I possibly tell you that you don’t already know, besides the fact that the fabric is called dotted swiss?” Toothpaste dribbled into her palm, but she stood her ground.
“I want to know how you know about that dress.”
He was as handsome as before, except today he wore a dark gray pin-striped suit and charcoal tie. Standing on her porch, his legs braced, his hands in his pockets, he looked cool and hot and rough; a little charming, a little dangerous. His wire-rimmed glasses added a dimension to his appearance that just about drove her nuts.
Tabitha was a complete sucker for a good-looking guy with weak eyes. However, she sternly reminded herself, he was a skeptic and a cop, and everybody knew what jerks they were. Their divorce rate was astronomical. They were controlling and pushy and egocentric and…
Darling’s lips curved slowly into a smile, and Tabitha’s thoughts hit the wall like an unrestrained crash test dummy.
“We obviously got off on the wrong foot,” he said. “I apologize. I’m conducting a follow-up on a possible homicide and need some information. Can we start over?” His perfect smile slid from charming to mesmerizing.
Without words—because her brain suddenly couldn’t form any—she swung the door open, and he stepped into the foyer. Shoving the gooey toothbrush into her mouth, she wiped her hand on her JCPenney blue cotton chenille robe, then pointed to the office. She held up her hand, displaying five sticky digits. “Gib me fibe minufes,” she said past the toothbrush in her cheek. Turning, she raced up the stairs to her room.
Fourteen minutes later, hands, face, and teeth clean, hair brushed, and wearing jeans and a rose-colored sweater, she bopped on down the stairs and into her office.
Instead of sitting at the table like when he’d been her “client,” Darling had taken a seat on the burgundy velvet sofa in front of the bay window. To ensure she wouldn’t accidentally touch him, Tabitha took a seat in the matching wing chair on the other side of the coffee table.
When she’d settled herself, he leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and flipped through a notepad.
“FYI, Ms. March,” he began, his attention focused on the notepad, “I work out of Metro Central. The homicide in question occurred in Golden Gate’s jurisdiction.”
She folded her hands neatly in her lap. “So why are you here and not a detective associated with the case?”
He gazed into her eyes. She wanted to look away, but didn’t.
“After you left the station the other day,” he said, “I contacted Lieutenant Yardley, the detective in charge of this homicide. Ran your story by her. She thought it was fascinating, but hardly viable. Still, she asked me to speak with you further.”
“Did she use the word fascinating?”
“Uh, no.”
“What word did she use?”
Before he could reply, the office doors squeaked open a couple of inches, revealing two pairs of curious eyes. As soon as Winkin spotted Darling, he began to bark in sharp staccato notes, while Blinkin yawned. It took a lot more than a strange man in the house to get a rise out of Blinkin.
The detective’s mouth flattened as he sent her a look that said, Lose the fan club.
“Hush, Winks,” she admonished. “Listen, you two. Go on out in the yard and chase your own tails.”
Winkin was still barking as she closed the door. A few more muffled woofs, then a scramble of doggy nails on hardwood as he took off down the hall and out his door into the yard. Presumably, Blinkin went with him.
“I’ll bet you have a really big dog, don’t you, Inspector? A loyal German shepherd or a stately Great Dane. Some kind of proud, heroic, manly canine, right?”
For a moment the detective said nothing, then sent her a grin designed to melt the heart of any female between the ages of birth and death.
“Just to set the record straight,” he said, “I have an aquarium. No macho dogfish,
though. Just cichlids, some tetras, a couple of angelfish, and a plecostomus named Oliver.”
“You name your fish?” Oh, how sweet!
“Just Oliver,” he said, then shrugged. “He’s one of a kind.”
Tabitha sat back in the chair and clamped her mouth shut. Well, he couldn’t be a total loser. After all, a man sensitive enough to name his favorite fish…
Glancing once more at his notes, the detective said, “What’s the name of the client who had the dream?”
Returning to reality, she stumbled, “Oh, um, Jack Griffin.”
“Are you sure that’s his real name?”
“The name he gave me was Jack Griffin.”
The detective’s eyes narrowed as he wrote down the name. “Did this Jack Griffin fill out any kind of paperwork? Show you any ID? Are your sessions covered by medical insurance?”
Tabitha swallowed a laugh. Where did Inspector Darling think he was, the Mayo Clinic?
“No,” she said. “He told me his name was Jack Griffin and I never questioned it.”
More scribbling.
“Address?”
“Don’t know.”
He pursed his lips.
“Phone?”
“He calls me. His number’s blocked.”
Darling tossed his notepad onto the coffee table.
“Okay,” he sighed. “Let’s try something else. How many times have you seen him?”
“Six.”
“A real answer. Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Tabitha set her jaw and crossed her arms under her breasts.
Tapping his pen on his knee, he said, “Six visits. Over what period of time?”
She thought for a moment. “The first session was just after Christmas, so that would be a little over three months. Why are you asking these questions when you obviously think you’re wasting your energy and the taxpayers’ money, and the SFPD’s—”
“Because a woman was strangled in Golden Gate Park near the Conservatory of Flowers. Because she was wearing a red dress with white dots. Because right now a loony dream interpreter with a loony client is as close as we’ve got to any kind of lead.”
Arousing Suspicions Page 3
