True Vision

by Joyce Lamb

  “Do you know how hard that’s going to be for her?” he asked. “She’s a senior in high school. At least when we moved here she was a freshman. She was the new kid, but everyone in her class was new to high school. If we have to move, she’ll have to leave her friends behind all over again. Be the new kid all over again, only this time it’ll be worse, because she’ll be arriving where everyone else has already formed their bonds.”

  “I’m sorry, Mac,” Charlie said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—”

  “I know you didn’t. It doesn’t change the complete shittiness of the situation, though, does it?”

  She didn’t know what to say as she slowed for a stoplight. She’d screwed up on so many levels that she might have set a record.

  Mac’s cell phone started to ring, and he pulled it out and checked the caller ID screen. Flipping it open, he didn’t bother with a greeting. “I’m on my way, all right? Keep your damn pants on. I don’t know what—” He broke off and listened. “Shit, are you kidding? Where?” Another pause, this one almost a minute long. The more seconds that ticked by, the straighter he sat in his seat, then, “We need to get someone over there right now. Who’ve we got? . . . Jesus, that’s it? . . . Fine, send her. She wanted a shot, so this is it.”

  He snapped the phone closed and dropped his head back against the headrest. “Fuck.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Scanner traffic’s been going nuts this morning. First, some guy got shot at a gas station, and now we’ve got a body at a house on Tarpon Bay Street. A woman bludgeoned to death with a hammer.”

  A white light burst inside Charlie’s head, followed by the scent of wet paint and the memory of the blunt end of a hammer smashing into skull.

  “Christ,” Mac mumbled. “It’s going to be a long fucking day.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Charlie turned onto Tarpon Bay Street, in a middle-class area of Lake Avalon, and followed its palm-tree-lined curves until she found the house with all the cop cars out front. Neighbors and other gawkers milled around across the street from the small, yellow stucco house that had had no reason to stand out before it became the site of murder. She parked the Sebring up the block and walked back to the growing crowd.

  “What’s going on?” she asked the first person she encountered, an elderly man wearing a white-and-green-striped golf shirt, matching shorts and black socks with sandals. His gleaming bald head seemed to redden in the sun as Charlie watched. Must be new to the area, she thought, if he didn’t know to sunscreen the top of his head.

  “Just moved here from Detroit and already got a dead neighbor. Property values are dropping as we speak.”

  She bit back the urge to get sarcastic. Yeah, dead people really suck for the rest of us. “What happened?”

  He looked her up and down, his faded blue eyes suspicious behind black-rimmed glasses. “Who the hell are you?”

  She gave him a polite smile and moved on. She knew a man who couldn’t be charmed when she saw one. She was about to strike up a conversation with a young woman who had a baby on her hip when she spotted Sara Jansen, the obits writer from the LAG, wandering around like a kid who’d lost her mother in the grocery store.

  Charlie strode over to her. “Sara?”

  Sara turned toward her, long, red hair flying as relief flooded her freckled face. “Charlie, hey. Thank God you’re here. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  Charlie took in the reporter’s notebook clutched in the girl’s hand and felt a moment of shock. This inexperienced girl was so young that she still had baby fat rounding out her face, yet Mac had sent her to cover a murder scene. What the hell?

  “Have you talked to any of the cops yet?” Charlie asked.

  “I tried, but they keep blowing me off.”

  Of course they did. They had no idea who she was. “Follow me,” Charlie said, and headed for the front door of the house. Over her shoulder, she said, “You have to act like you belong here. You’d be surprised what they’ll let you get away with if they think you know where you’re going.”

  Sara nodded and made a note in her notebook, pen grasped by fingers tipped with stubby, orange-painted fingernails. Under normal circumstances, Charlie would have laughed, but her heart was knocking against her ribs as she walked through the open front door and inside. The first thing that hit her was the smell. Not wet paint as she expected. Death.

  And then she saw the body. Or, rather, the top of the body’s head. Curly black hair matted with blood and bits of something white. Oh, God, bone?

  She stopped in midstep, still on the entryway’s square of tile, only vaguely aware of Sara bumping into her from behind. She heard Sara gasp and gag, sensed the girl whirl away and run back outside.

  Charlie stood, riveted, as a police officer draped a white sheet over the body, hiding it from view. She blinked and tore her gaze away to take in the modest living room with its well-used gray carpeting and nondescript furniture. The most striking thing about the room, besides the corpse in the center of it, were the plants. Spider plants, ficus trees, philodendrons, aloe plants, jade plants. They were everywhere, on every available surface, crowding every corner. Verdant life amidst pale death.

  And it seemed wrong, so wrong.

  A hand closed around her arm—

  Bile surges into my throat as I take in the gore. Oh, Christ, that chunky gray shit is brains. And then I see the maggots. I whirl away and slap a hand over my mouth.

  In the next instant, the hand steered her outside into the shocking bright light of the sun. She blinked in surprise, saw Logan glaring down at her.

  “I don’t think anyone gave you permission to be in there,” he growled, drawing her off the walk and into the grass, out of the way of the coroner’s gurney.

  She swallowed against the nausea churning in her gut. She’d seen that woman killed in her head. Lived it. And then it hit her. No fresh paint. No drop cloths. No tools scattered around. The woman wasn’t killed here.

  Logan tightened his hand on her arm and gave her a quick shake. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be lying low.”

  “Uh, I was with Mac . . . he said . . .” She trailed off, glancing back toward the house and thinking of familiar black hair. Was it Lucy Sheridan? “Who is she?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that until we’ve notified next of kin.”

  “How about a hint?” When his lips tightened, she knew she’d pushed him enough. “Can you at least tell me when it happened?”

  “Coroner says she’s been dead since at least Monday.” He tilted his head, considering her. “I had the impression you weren’t working for the LAG anymore.”

  Damn. “Uh, right.” She gestured vaguely over her shoulder. “I told Sara I’d help her out. She’s new at this.”

  “That redhead barfing in the bushes?”

  She turned to see Sara holding her hair back while she spit and flailed her free hand in the universal “ew, gross” gesture. “Yeah, that’s her.”

  “Can’t blame her,” he said grimly. “I tossed my cookies, too.”

  “In your defense, you saw brain matter and bugs.”

  She realized at the same instant that his lips parted in surprise that she’d made a reference to something she shouldn’t have known. “I saw them, too,” she said quickly.

  “I didn’t think you got that close.”

  “Well, I did.”

  He shook his head, disgusted. “You and the new girl need to stay out of there. You’ll contaminate the scene.” He sighed. “Which you already know, Charlie. What’s the deal?”

  “I . . . sorry, I guess I wasn’t thinking. Murder in Lake Avalon . . . that’s new to me.”

  “Yeah, us, too. The chief’ll make a statement later.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  She’d taken a step in Sara’s direction when Logan said, “Oh, hey, Charlie.”

  She turned back to him. “Yes?”

  “Do you suppose you c
ould look in on Noah Lassiter later?”

  A funny feeling slid through her lower belly. Anticipation maybe? But then, at the serious expression on Logan’s face, it morphed into trepidation. “Why? What happened?”

  “I wouldn’t ask except I’m going to be tied up here the rest of the day, and I don’t think the guy has anyone to check on him. And you two seemed . . . friendly earlier.”

  The top of her head grew warm, and she had to resist the urge to grab the detective by the front of his shirt and shake him. Just tell me! “What happened to him?”

  “He was shot this morning.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Noah flipped through the TV channels for the millionth time, hoping for something, anything, to take his mind off the throbbing, itching, burning streak marching across the right side of his skull. But typical of hotel cable, the offerings were limited to sixteen, unless he wanted to pay extra for porn. Which, actually, might not be a bad idea. A little pleasure to deaden the pain. An image of Charlie Trudeau in lacy underwear popped into his head.

  A knock at the door brought his head around too fast, and he swore under his breath when the scalp wound gave a painful tug. Fuck!

  Snatching his Glock out of the holster dangling from the desk chair, he eased up to the side of the door. “Who is it?”

  “Charlie.”

  His breath caught. Logan had let him know she was okay, but that hadn’t stopped him from worrying. Or wanting her. Glancing down at the twitch of longing in his gray gym shorts, he murmured, “Down, boy.” Louder, he called, “Give me a sex—sec.” He shook his head hard. Damn it. “I need a second,” he ground out.

  “All right.”

  He thought he heard a soft laugh as he walked in bare feet over to the desk chair, where he holstered his weapon then grabbed his shirt and drew it on. Leaving it hanging open because he lacked the dexterity at the moment to shove small buttons through smaller holes, he went to the door and pulled it open.

  Charlie’s gaze landed squarely on his bare chest, and she stared for a full three seconds before she raised her exotic, gold-flecked eyes to his and smiled. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” He grinned, stupidly happy to see her.

  “Logan told me what happened. Are you okay?”

  He gave a macho shrug. “Oh, that. Sure, I’m fine. I was just grazed.”

  “Do you need anything?” she asked. “I could pick up something for you to eat, if you . . .”

  She trailed off, and he realized he was staring at her too intently. But he couldn’t stop himself. In a yellow sundress that made her smooth, pale legs look long and supple, she looked good enough to back against the wall. He liked that she had some meat on her. Slim with curves. Sinking into her would be absolute fucking heaven.

  He cleared his throat. He should have been surprised at the need burning inside him. It was unlike him to feel so edgy, so desperate, but he couldn’t help it. The past several years had been dark and scary, and the sun hadn’t truly come out again until he’d arrived in Lake Avalon and looked at Charlie Trudeau for the first time. Yet that seemed so simplistic, not to mention unfair to Laurette. How sick was it that he would see light at the end of the tunnel so soon after she’d lost her life?

  “Such dark thoughts.”

  He raised his gaze to Charlie’s, surprised at how much like Laurette she’d sounded. That was the crux of it right there, he realized. She looked and sounded like Laurette, so he felt as though he knew her. Yet he hadn’t wanted to back Laurette against the wall and dive in. He’d thought about it, sure, but that was about it. When he thought about it with Charlie, heat shot into all the right places and it seemed the only place to find relief was in her eyes.

  Okay, he told himself, swallowing hard, just get her the fuck in the room and go from there. “I could use some company,” he said, stepping back and gesturing for her to come in.

  She hesitated. “Are you sure? You’re probably not feeling that—”

  “It’s okay,” he cut in. “Please, come in.” Please, please, please.

  As she passed by him, he breathed in her coconut scent. He wanted to drown in that wake. “Can I get you anything?” he asked as he shut the door and flipped the dead bolt.

  Charlie faced him. “The idea was for me to get you something.”

  He indicated the ice bucket on the desk, filled to the brim with cubes and a bottle of cheap vodka, his own personal pain killer. “Think I’m covered. Drink?”

  She grimaced before she shook her head. “No, thanks. I don’t take my Vladdy straight.”

  Grinning, he whipped open the mini fridge under the desk and produced a small carton of OJ. “Me neither.”

  As he poured orange juice and vodka into two glasses, heavy on the Vladdy for himself, he watched Charlie out of the corner of his eye. She seemed on edge as she glanced around the hotel room. Crap, she’d probably noticed the way he’d been looking at her, like she held the map to paradise for a man who’d lost his way.

  After swirling the contents of their glasses to mix them, he handed the juicier one to her and clinked his glass against hers. “Here’s to a Chicago cop getting sniped in Florida.”

  Her response was more of a wince than a smile as she gingerly took a sip.

  He gestured at the bed that was still made. “Want to have a seat?”

  While he settled on the bed he’d been lounging on, she perched on the edge of its twin so tensely that he doubted the mattress held her full weight. She had something on her mind, but instead of telling him about it, she drank again, swallowed, then ran the pink tip of her tongue along the inner edge of her top lip.

  Aw, man. Was there ever a more sexy thing for a woman to do with her tongue? But then he thought about it and decided, well, fuck, yeah. “So,” he said, startling himself with the abruptness and volume of the word.

  Charlie also started but quickly covered by saying, “Do you have any idea who would shoot at you?”

  “I think you’ve made someone nervous, and I’ve been sticking too close to you.”

  She raised her brows. “You mean you got hurt because of me?”

  He shook his head, frustrated. He didn’t want to talk about this. He wanted to touch her. He couldn’t think for wanting to touch her. Leaning forward, he started to put his hand on her bare knee but froze when she jerked back so violently that orange juice and vodka sloshed out of her glass and spattered the front of her dress.

  “Oh, hey,” he said, raising his hands, palms out. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  She released an embarrassed laugh and brushed at the wet spot. “It’s not your fault I’m a klutz.”

  Rising, he took the glass from her and set it on the desk on his way to the bathroom. “I’ll get you a towel.”

  He returned with a dampened washcloth and held it out to her. She took it carefully with two fingers, deliberately avoiding contact with him. Okay, that’s just weird.

  “I guess I’m kind of jumpy,” she said. “The break-in and getting run off the road . . . everything’s such a . . . mess.”

  Christ, he was a child to think that every little thing she did had to do with him. Sitting across from her, he watched her wipe at the wet stain that covered nearly half of her left breast. Her nipple was poking at the material. If she hadn’t been wearing a bra, he might have been able to see the shadowy outline of something really luscious.

  “You’re not the only one off your game,” he said quickly, to distract himself from lusty thoughts. “I haven’t been on mine since I got here.”

  She lowered the washcloth and met his gaze. Awareness flared in her eyes, and in the next instant, she was on her feet. “I should go. You’re exhausted, and . . . so am I.”

  When she headed for the door, he followed close behind, not wanting her to go. Not wanting her to ever go. He almost reached for her arm but stopped himself. Then he thought, Fuck it, and reached for her anyway.

  The instant his fingers closed around her forearm, she stiffened. H
e heard a sharp gasp as she staggered backward, against his chest. And then she was sliding down his front as though her bones had turned to spaghetti. He caught her under the arms, but the awkwardness of their positions off balanced him, and he ended up landing butt-first on the floor with Charlie sprawled in his lap.

  He sat there, bone-jarring pain zinging into his skull, and stared down at her in shock. Her head lolled back over the crook in his elbow, her eyes open and staring at nothing. Fear seized his gut. Holy mother of God, was she dead?

  Then she blinked and sucked in a ragged breath as though she’d been held underwater for too long and her head had just broken the surface.

  What the hell? What the hell?

  When she raised her head and moved as though to get up, he put his arms around her and gathered her firmly to him. “Wait,” he said, surprised at how gruff he sounded. How scared.

  She stilled and relaxed, closing her eyes.

  He wanted to ask her if she was okay, what the hell just happened, but he couldn’t speak, his heart still thundering at the shock of seeing her blank eyes and thinking she was dead. The thought of losing her when he’d just found her . . .

  “I’m okay,” she said, and awkwardly patted the arm he’d crossed over her chest to hold her in place.

  She might have been okay, but other than that awkward pat, she didn’t move. Her complexion was ashen, her breathing deep and measured, as though she were concentrating. He could feel the fast trot of her heart against his arm. Had she had a seizure?

  After several moments, she looked up at him. She didn’t move for a long time, just stared into him as if she could read exactly who he was in his eyes, as if she somehow understood everything about him. He felt the urge to squirm under that steady gaze, as though his secrets were exposed and he was powerless to hide.

  And then she looked away, and said, “I’m really okay. I can get up now.”

  He didn’t let go, sensing that the minute he did, she’d flee without explanation. Yet she did seem okay. She was still pale, but her eyes were clear, their light brown somehow darker against her pallor. “What just happened?” he asked.