Bodyguards Boxed Set

by Julianne MacLean

  “Don’t you need a search warrant for this kind of thing?”

  Jamie wheeled around, an unopened brass-trimmed case in his hand. India Cook stood in the doorway, the cat cradled in her arms, both of them glaring at him. Her white coat was unbuttoned; beneath it she wore a black silk shirt and black jeans. Even her Keds were black. For the first time, he noticed the bandages on the cat’s paws, and realized that this must be Phoenix.

  He summoned a casual tone. “I’m not searching, per se. Just sort of...”

  “Snooping,” she interjected as the cat leapt from her arms and, thankfully, ran out of the room.

  He adopted his most charming grin. “All part of my job description.” She rolled her eyes. He killed the grin. “And I don’t need a search warrant if I’m legally on the premises. You invited me in. That makes it legal.” More or less, he silently amended.

  “I invited you into my kitchen,” she said coolly. “Not into my bedroom.”

  Jamie followed her glance to the bed. She hadn’t made it up yet. A snowy white comforter spilled onto the Oriental carpet, and something lay carelessly tossed across the rumpled sheets—a scrap of smoke-colored silk, tissue-thin and edged in lace. Her nightgown? Absurdly, his face grew warm. A glance at Dr. Cook revealed hot color rising in her cheeks.

  Jamie raked his mind for a way to change the subject, but he had a hard time banishing the mental image of India Cook in that whispery, translucent gown and nothing else. Finally he remembered the flat box in his hands, and opened it to find a velvet sheath with a horn hilt emerging from it. He concentrated on keeping his tone casual. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a collector of antique weapons.”

  She paused briefly, as if considering whether to pursue the issue of the questionable search. Apparently deciding to drop it, she said, “I’m not. My father was. He left them to me when he died. Alden’s been looking after them. He gave them back to me last week.”

  “Are you going to display them somewhere?”

  She shivered. “God, no. I can’t stand the sight of them. They remind... that is, they’re just so... I don’t know.” She shrugged carelessly as if to brush the whole subject off.

  So they remind her of her father, thought Jamie, and it’s not a pleasant memory. He read the card under the lid. “A Cossack dagger, eh?”

  Something sparked in her eyes, and she almost smiled. “Ah, the Cossack dagger. Alden told me he used it as a letter opener. He didn’t believe me when I told him I used to pick locks with it.”

  He laughed delightedly. “And you think I’m sneaky!” He unsheathed the dagger. The gold-inlayed blade was narrow and sharply pointed, but still... “You picked locks with this?”

  “Actually, there was only one lock it worked on,” she said, taking a couple of tentative steps into the room. “The top drawer of my father’s dresser. It had this enormous keyhole. You could have picked it with a meat cleaver.”

  Jamie carefully resheathed the dagger and returned the case to the mantel. “And what did this drawer contain that had the power to lure you to a life of crime?”

  The pink on her cheeks deepened. “Nothing.” He raised an eyebrow. “Nothing, just... books.”

  “Ah.” He chuckled. “My da kept those books in a hat-box on the top shelf of his bedroom closet. Some magazines, too, as I recall.”

  She surprised him with a smile—a bit self-conscious, but disarmingly sweet. “So. Do you want that coffee or not?”

  * * *

  IN THE KITCHEN, India filled two mugs and placed them across from each other at the big table. “You take it black, too, right?”

  “Uh-huh,” he managed to say through a yawn as he took his seat. India realized how exhausted he must be after his long night at the arson site—probably hungry, too. She sliced off a hefty chunk of the banana bread she’d made last night and set it before him.

  “Bless you.” He ate the bread in about twenty seconds. She cut him another piece and he finished that off a little more slowly. Wiping his hands on his napkin, he said, “Tommy Finn never went home last night.”

  She sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “Is that right?”

  He took a giant breath and let it out slowly. “I had a patrol car watching the house from eleven-thirty on. No Tommy. I don’t know where he went when his shift ended at Lorillard, but it wasn’t the house on West Bonesteel.”

  “Maybe it was McGill’s Hardware and Lumber.”

  He frowned into his coffee. “Maybe. And maybe he went to some after-hours joint.” He shrugged. “Or maybe he got lucky.”

  “Lucky?”

  He met her eyes; a heartbeat’s pause. “Spent the night with a woman.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can’t base an arrest on maybes, though. Takes evidence to make a case.”

  India’s gaze traveled to the can sitting in the middle of the table. “So are you going to open that thing up, or do I have to guess what’s in it?” A galling thought occurred to her. “Is that it? Am I supposed to use my powers to tell you what’s inside that can? Another test?”

  He smiled tiredly and held up his hands. “Whoa. Demonstrations don’t impress me, remember?” He picked up the can, unscrewed the lid, and gently tapped its contents out onto a clean paper napkin. “Don’t touch it,” he cautioned. “I sprayed it with lacquer, but it’s still real fragile.”

  India leaned forward for a better look at what lay atop the napkin. It was about the size and texture of a dried maple leaf, but the color of pewter, and it smelled of ash and kerosene. “Burned paper?”

  He nodded. “Part of the cover of a magazine. I found it near the fire’s point of origin. Our pyro stuffed a whole bunch of magazines and newspapers under a skid of four-by-fours, soaked the lumber with kerosene, and lit it. He probably thought all that paper would just burn down to nothing, and most of it did. But I managed to recover this. Took me about four hours on my hands and knees with tweezers, and I just about went blind.” He pushed the napkin toward her. “Can you read it?”

  Peering closely, she saw that one edge of the scrap was less thoroughly burned than the rest. She could just make out, beneath the bubbled, silvery gray surface, crisp black type. “What does it say?” she asked, squinting at the tiny letters.

  The detective produced a ballpoint pen and used it to point. “This section here, on the corner, is one of those printed-on address labels. This—” the ballpoint hovered near a letter “—is an F. This is an I. That’s an N. The rest is illegible. Below it, we’ve got S-T-E-E-L, and most of the word Avenue.”

  “West Bonesteel Avenue,” India murmured. “And the word above it is Finn.”

  “Bingo.” He cautiously scooped the charred paper up with the napkin and slid it into the can.

  India pointed at the container. “So, is that enough evidence to arrest Tommy Finn for the lumberyard fire?”

  Keegan shook his head. “Just because that magazine came from the Finn house doesn’t mean Tommy started that fire.”

  “But he probably did,” India persisted.

  The detective addressed her with a level stare. “In my opinion, Tommy is the least likely of all the misbegotten Finns to be the Firefly.” India opened her mouth to protest, but he raised a hand and said, in measured tones, “I’m only going to ask you this once, Dr. Cook, and then I’ll let the subject drop.”

  He leaned forward in his chair and drilled his gaze into hers. “Are you in possession of any significant knowledge, any dues or evidence, any information of any kind, linking Tommy Finn to the arson attacks?”

  She held his gaze steadily. “Yes.”

  His eyes widened. “Yes?” He pulled his blue notebook out of a back pocket and flipped it open. “Would you elaborate?”

  “I already have,” she answered quietly. “I told you. I saw his face when I treated Phoenix.”

  “Not that,” he said testily. “Real knowledge, real information.”

  India braced her hands on the table to help keep her voice calm. “It doesn’t get
any more real than that, Lieutenant. I saw what I saw and I know what I know.”

  He snapped the notebook closed and crammed it back in the pocket. “‘I saw what I saw and I know what I know’? Sorry to break it to you, Dr. Cook, but that’s not real likely to convince a judge. Or me, I’m afraid.”

  She nodded slowly. “Is that why you came here today? To ask me if I had some source of real knowledge of Tommy Finn’s guilt? A source I’m presumably concealing by pretending to have had a psychic vision?”

  “That’s right,” he said.

  She rose. “Then I guess your visit here has been a waste of time, Lieutenant.”

  Keegan took the hint and stood as well. “Not entirely.” He grinned engagingly. “That was damned good banana bread.” He picked up the evidence can and pulled the cap out of his pocket. “I’ll let myself out.”

  “I think I’d rather show you to the door, if you don’t mind.” She led him down the hall to the waiting room. “I don’t want you ending up in my bedroom again.”

  “Would that be so bad?” Did she just imagine the subtle sexual challenge in his low voice? Was Detective Lieutenant James Keegan coming on to her? Or was he just being a smart-ass?

  She opened the door for him. “Have a nice day, Lieutenant.”

  He settled the cap on his head and adjusted the brim. As he turned to leave, he said, “The nicest part of my day has just ended, Dr. Cook, but thanks for the sentiment.”

  * * *

  JAMIE HAD MOST of a day’s worth of paperwork waiting for him at the station house, but first he needed to wash off till the soot. He drove back to his apartment—the third floor of a renovated town house in a quiet old neighborhood—filled the tub with scalding water, and settled in for a long, therapeutic soak.

  Closing his eyes, he rested his head on the edge of the tub and sighed at the image his tired mind instantly conjured up: India Cook lying on that big white bed, wearing nothing but an ounce of smoky silk and that Mona Lisa smile. With a groan, he slid down until his head was submerged and stayed there until his lungs burned. He surfaced, gulping air and berating himself for his libido.

  She was a con artist. A phony psychic. He wanted nothing to do with her.

  He wanted everything to do with her.

  Grabbing the big bar of Ivory soap and a washcloth, he began scrubbing off the soot.

  He was supposed to work with her on the Firefly case, but that was pointless, of course. Her fingering Tommy Finn meant nothing, despite the evidence from the lumberyard fire. Either the whole thing was a coincidence, or—more likely—she’d deliberately picked as her scapegoat a member of a family known for petty criminal activity. All in all, her “visions” were much more of a nuisance than a help. They merely complicated a case that had already proven to be one of the biggest challenges of his career—a case that, according to Sam, had the power to earn him the captaincy... or snatch it from him. No, he could really do without the help of Ye Olde Gypsy Fortune-Teller on this one. Hers was a breed that brought back ugly memories, memories both of his own dissolute youth, and of the tragedy that officially ended it.

  Yet Sam had ordered him to work with her. And he couldn’t honestly say he relished the idea of cutting her loose. The fact was, he kind of liked having an excuse to spend time with her, fruitless though that time might be. If only she were genuinely useful to the investigation.

  He set the washcloth and soap aside and sank beneath the water once more. By the time he came up for air, an idea was beginning to form...

  He quickly showered and dried off, then went into the bedroom and grabbed his phone off the night table. Perched naked on the edge of his weight bench, he punched out the number of the Mansfield Courier.

  “Sylvie, darlin’! I was wondering... do you still want that interview?”

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, India Cook flung open the door to Jamie’s office, whipped out that morning’s Mansfield Courier, and slapped it down on top of the report he was writing.

  He’d wondered what her reaction would be. Looked as if he was about to find out. “Good morning. Dr. Cook.” His gaze rested on her tortoiseshell sunglasses. “Just how many different pairs of those do you own?”

  A brief pause, and then she rummaged around in that big black bag of hers, pulled out two eyeglass cases, and hurled them onto his desk.

  He picked them up. “Uh...”

  “Wait.” She withdrew another case from her coat pocket and bounced it off his chest.

  “Whoa! Take it easy.”

  “I own—oh, I don’t know—maybe a dozen? Maybe more, I’ve got them all over the place. You know why?”

  He stood. “Dr. Cook—”

  “You know why?” she demanded. She was shaking. Her face was pale, but her cheeks were crimson.

  “Why?” he asked quietly.

  “Because I like my privacy! I don’t like people staring at me! I don’t like people... knowing things about me! I just... I just want to be left alone!”

  He circled the desk. “Look...”

  She backed away from him, grabbing the Courier off the desk and holding it up with a trembling hand. “Why did you do this?”

  “This? The interview? Sylvie Hazelett had been bugging me for days—”

  “You know what I mean.” She unfolded the paper and read, her voice quavering, “‘In an unusual move, the Mansfield Police Department has enlisted the aid of a reputed psychic, veterinarian India Cook, in solving the Firefly case. Says Lieutenant James Keegan, in charge of the case, “Dr. Cook has been enormously helpful in the investigation. She’s given us invaluable information. Her powers amaze me.”’”

  She lowered the newspaper, took off her shades, and cocked an eyebrow. ‘“Her powers amaze me’?”

  “Well...” He groped for the right words. “Perhaps that was overstating it just a bit.”

  “Overstating it? You think I’m a total crackpot!”

  “Not a crackpot,” he corrected.

  “A charlatan, then. A... a...”

  “Con artist,” he said slowly.

  She just stared at him. “If you think that, then why did you say this about how I’m so helpful and amazing? Why, for God’s sake, did you tell all of Mansfield, New Jersey, that I’m a psychic?”

  “Why should that be a problem? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  Her jaw dropped open. “Wanted? If I’d wanted everyone to know, why would I have worn these—” she shook her sunglasses “—when I came to see you that first day? I distinctly remember telling you I didn’t want anyone to know. I told you! I told you I didn’t want to be the town freak, and here you go and publish it in the Mansfield Courier?”

  Jamie studied her—her pinpoint pupils, the set of her jaw, her breathless rage—and felt some of his cocky self-assurance leak away. “Wait a minute. If you weren’t after the publicity, why’d you come to the police in the first place?”

  She threw her hands up. “To help you! All I wanted to do was tell you what I knew and walk away. But now, thanks to you and your smug, arrogant assumptions—” she waved the newspaper in the air “—everyone in Mansfield knows about me.”

  Jamie didn’t know what to think. Could it be that she really did believe in her “powers” and was genuinely upset that he’d exposed her? Either that or her acting skills were even better than he’d thought.

  She met his gaze, and it suddenly struck him that no one could fake the kind of pain he saw in her eyes.

  “I’m such an idiot,” she said tonelessly. “I really thought I could keep people from finding out. I thought... I thought you’d keep my secret. I thought I could have some peace here.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Would you at least tell me why you did it? Why you said those things you don’t even believe?”

  He took a deep breath. “Because I thought perhaps the Firefly would believe them.”

  “I don’t get it. Why do you care what he thinks?”

  Jamie nodded t
oward the newspaper. “Did you read the part where I said you’re going to search the lumberyard tomorrow afternoon for psychic clues to the arsonist’s identity?”

  “Yes. I take it you’ve got some hidden agenda?”

  He nodded. “To smoke out the Firefly. If I can convince him that you really do have these powers, and that you’re going to use them to figure out who he is—” he shrugged “—maybe that’ll make him nervous. Nervous perpetrators do have a habit of returning to the scene of the crime, corny as that may sound. And crowds tend to gather when the police are investigating a site. I’m hoping people will come to watch you snooping around the lumberyard tomorrow afternoon.”

  “And you’re hoping one of those people will be the Firefly.”

  “That’s the idea,” he said. “We’ll take pictures of everyone who comes, and we’ll be on the lookout for anyone who looks excited or... overly interested.”

  “I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that this clever little plan of yours puts me in danger.”

  “You’re in no real danger, Dr. Cook.”

  An exasperated little groan escaped her. “Just telling that nut who I am endangers me, Lieutenant! He may not like the idea that I could help identify him. Didn’t you realize that?”

  “The risks to you are minimal, Dr. Cook,” he said soothingly. “Even if the Firefly buys into the whole psychic bit hook, line and sinker, he won’t do you any harm. Pyromaniacs don’t go in for assault, and certainly not murder, if that’s what you’re thinking. It doesn’t fit their profile.” He hoped. In his zeal to put his plan into action, he’d dismissed the potential dangers from his mind. But was he right to have done so? After all, it was India Cook’s safety that had been compromised, not his own.

  “Seems you’ve got all the bases covered, Lieutenant,” she said frostily as she replaced her sunglasses. “Or most of them. Seems to me there’s one small detail in this whole fabulous plan that you’re taking just a little too much for granted.”