by P. A. Lupton
“Oh?” He glanced at me briefly before turning his complete attention to Morrison. “I am very sorry to hear that. What was the victim’s name, Agent Morrison? If there is any way I can help with your investigation, I would be happy to do so.”
“Morganna Tate”
He sighed wearily and I could see sadness fill his eyes. “Yes, I met Morganna. I made her acquaintance just recently. She believed someone was stalking her, and she was frightened. Unfortunately, the lack of corroboration prevented police involvement. Her only proof was that she had a bad feeling.” He shook his head with a faraway look. “Regrettably, it would seem her instincts proved spot-on.”
“What exactly did she want from you?” Morrison asked.
“She wanted to hire one of my bodyguards for protection.”
“Your bodyguards are expensive, or so I’ve heard,” Morrison commented.
“Ms. Tate was a successful psychologist, from what I understand. She could afford our services.”
Slowly, I regained some rational thought, and asked a question, hoping it would come out somewhat articulate. “Who did you assign as her bodyguard?” I managed to keep my voice steady.
He looked at me, tentatively, as if deciding how to answer. “I had not yet assigned her a body guard.”
I had the distinct impression he was lying, but the electricity coming from him was muting his emotions.
Time to do my thing.
I prodded deeper to gauge his real reaction, not the one he voiced. I established a profound connection and was momentarily able to read two very distinct emotions. The first was incredible sadness. The news of Morganna’s death had hit him hard. The second was deception. He was hiding something from us.
Unfortunately, I only had time for a brief glimpse—as soon as I formed the link between us, it unexpectedly slammed shut.
His expression suddenly filled with suspicion as he narrowed his eyes and stared intently into mine. For the first time ever, I had the distinct impression he knew precisely what I was doing.
That’s not possible.
Before I could try again, his lips quirked into a smirk I could only describe as challenging, and then he had the nerve to wink at me.
Could he have known what I was doing? If he was somehow involved in her death, why was he grieving over it? I didn’t get the feeling that he killed anyone, but I knew he was concealing something, and I wanted to know what.
“What about Leslie Harper, Mr. Donovan?” Morrison continued, oblivious to the unspoken exchange occurring between us.
He stared at me for another minute before answering. As he spoke, I felt the power slowly shift in the room. The electrical charge I was sensing gradually receded, as though it was being drawn into Nathan Donovan, until it completely dissipated.
I felt…nothing.
“Ah, Ms. Harper...” he said thoughtfully. “That was also a tragedy. Ms. Harper employed one of our bodyguards about a month ago to protect her from a stalker. I received word she was murdered, and the bodyguard I had assigned to her case had disappeared. No one has heard from him since.”
“The bodyguard’s name was Colin Lafferty, is that correct?” Morrison asked.
Unnerved as I was, I couldn’t really focus on his answers. Instead, I attempted once more to penetrate the barrier blocking Nathan Donovan’s emotions. There was no outward indication he knew what I was doing, although each time I attempted a connection there was an imperceptible stiffening in his shoulders. Still...no luck. I was baffled. This had never happened before.
“Where were you Monday night from eleven PM to one AM, Mr. Donovan?” I cut in abruptly, disconcerted by the fact that my gift was rendered impotent. I felt unbalanced. Not only by the sudden emotional blindness, but also by how captivated I was by him. He was a suspect for God’s sake!
He answered calmly, his eyes never losing contact with mine. “I attended a business meeting at Sambuca Restaurant Monday night. The evening came to an end just past midnight, and my driver took me straight home.”
“Is it usual for you to conduct business meetings so late?”
“It depends on the client, but yes.”
“And where were you on the night of April 28th?” I continued.
“The evening Ms. Harper was murdered, I presume?” He seemed amused by the question. “I really cannot recall. However, you are welcome to check with my assistant before you leave. She will be more than willing to confirm if I had an engagement that evening.”
“And if you didn’t have an ‘engagement that evening’, what would you have been doing?” I suppressed a grin at Morrison’s not–so-subtle mockery of Nathan Donovan’s faultless grammar.
“I would have spent the evening at home,” he responded, oblivious to the ridicule.
“Do you have someone at home who can substantiate that?” Morrison asked the question, but I found myself eagerly anticipating his answer. I tried not to think about why I was so eager.
He looked directly at me, his mouth twisting with a suggestive and sultry grin. “Unfortunately, no. I am single and live alone.” I thought that was it when he added with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, “Although...I am open to the possibility.”
Wow! Between his voice and carnal look, my pulse started a violent race, and I felt a blush creeping back into my cheeks—again.
“Okaaay,” I mumbled, breathlessly.
“Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Donovan,” Morrison said curtly, shaking his hand again. “If we have any more questions for you, we’ll be in touch.”
Nervously reaching for his hand, I expected to feel the same jolt as before. I was disappointed when I felt nothing. “Thank you, Mr. Donovan.”
We were standing in the reception area when Morrison turned to me. “What the hell was that?”
“What was what?” I said, feigning ignorance.
“Was there something going on in there between the two of you?”
“No. But something’s up with him.”
“Besides an erection?” He arched a brow.
“Morrison, be serious,” I scolded. “I get the feeling he’s hiding something.
“I agree,” he said “You go talk to his assistant and I’ll talk to the head of security. We’ll meet back here.”
“All right.”
According to Mr. Donovan’s assistant, Stacey, he had nothing scheduled the night of April 28. So, on the night of at least one of the murders, he was at home alone with no one to corroborate the alibi.
Why was I disappointed?
Finally, we had a suspect, but for some reason I wanted him to be innocent. What the hell was I thinking? The man was obviously hiding something.
I sat and waited for Morrison to return. It was about twenty minutes later when I saw him approaching.
“I take it you found something,” I inferred from the boastful smile he was flashing.
“Yeah. I spoke to security. Turns out Nathan Donovan lives in the penthouse on the twentieth floor. To access it, you need a key to the elevator, and there’s a security log to account for all his comings and goings.”
“So, did you get the log?”
“No, the information’s been archived. I asked security to pull the log for Monday night to confirm the time he arrived home. Also, I asked for the log for April 28th and February 28th, the nights Leslie Harper and Sherri Marcone were murdered. They should have it by Friday for us.” He walked to the elevator and pushed the button. “Let’s head to the field office. Monica De Paulo is coming in for an interview.”
“She’s the friend who found Morganna last night? How close were they?”
“They’ve been best friends since college. If anyone would know what was going on with Morganna, it’ll be her.”
***
Driving home that evening, my mind felt like it was on autopilot. I made all the right turns, stopped at all stop signs—I hoped—and made it home in the fifteen minutes the ride should have taken. But I couldn’t remember any of it.
My mind kept returning to the questioning of Monica De Paulo. For the most part, she gave the same answers as the others. No, Morganna wasn’t seeing anyone. No, she hadn’t had any enemies. No, she didn’t have plans to go out Monday night. Apparently, Morganna Tate was a workaholic with almost no social life—another thing the two of us had in common. What I kept replaying in my mind was her answers to the questions about why Morganna was frightened.
“Miss De Paulo, why exactly did Morganna want to hire a body guard?” I remembered asking the question with my pen ready to jot down her answer.
“Someone was stalking her.” Her breath hitched, voice rough from crying.
“How can you be sure? There doesn’t seem to be any evidence to support that assumption.”
“Morganna knew.” She sniffled and dabbed the Kleenex under eyes.
“How did she know? Did she get phone calls...threats?”
“Nothing like that. She just knew.”
I continued to press for an answer. “I don’t understand, Monica. How exactly did Morganna know she was being stalked?”
She remained silent, but I could feel her emotions: A desperate need to keep her friend’s confidence, but also the need to help find her murderer and bring him to justice. She was tormented by the conflicting desires.
“Monica, if you know anything you should tell me—even the smallest, most insignificant details can help.”
“It’s just...you won’t believe me anyway.” She stared at me intently.
“Try me.”
She must have seen something in my expression, because after a minute of silence she finally admitted what she was hiding.
“Morganna was psychic.” She paused, waiting for my reaction. I remained silent, but heard Morrison shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “I know you think it sounds crazy, but it’s true,” she implored me to believe her.
“She told you she was psychic?” The question sounded doubtful, but I had never been willing to share that information about myself with anyone. I had a hard time believing Morganna would have confided in her.
“Sort of. When we were in college something happened to convince me.”
“What was that?”
“I worked as a clerk in a convenience store. One night I was scheduled to work, but Morganna showed up asking me to go out partying with her. I said no, but she kept begging me. She wasn’t a party person and the whole thing was out of character for her. I knew there had to be a reason, so I hounded her until she told me. She finally admitted that she had a nightmare the night before.”
“A nightmare?” I repeated skeptically.
“I know, I brushed it off too. But she insisted she had a bad feeling, and that I couldn’t go to work that night. She was so desperate. I didn’t really believe her, but I agreed to call in sick to placate her. The next morning, I found out the person who covered my shift was robbed at gunpoint and killed.”
I sucked in a surprised breath. That was quite a coincidence.
“I confronted her that day and she admitted she’d been having dreams like that since she was a teenager. So, you see, when Morganna told me she had bad feeling, I knew to listen.”
I couldn’t speak. Blood thundered in my ears and my breathing increased. Was it possible I had even more in common with the victims than I thought? I realized I should have said something, but I just sat there staring at her.
I heard Morrison’s voice break in as he told Monica we had enough information and he had dismissed her. As soon as she left, he turned to me. “Well... she’s nuts.”
After a few more hours of questioning people who knew Morganna, Morrison decided to call it a day. “Listen, Agent Reece, any chance we can pick this up tomorrow? It was a late night last night and a long day today.”
“Sure thing. We can start fresh in the morning,” I said with false cheer.
“Speaking of starting fresh... I want to apologize for last night at the bar. My behavior was inappropriate.” He tucked his head like he was embarrassed. “It’s just I saw you at the bar alone, and you fit the profile of the victims. I didn’t know you were an agent and I was just trying to look out for you.” It was a heartfelt apology and I sensed the sincerity of his words. “We’re going to be partners, so what do you say we start fresh tomorrow?”
Graciously, I nodded, accepting his apology. “Thanks for that, Agent Morrison. I think that’s a great idea.” I smiled. “I’m sorry too—for punching you, I mean. Sometimes my temper gets away from me.”
“Those were some impressive moves last night, Reece. I heard you were into martial arts. Care to spar with me sometime?” he asked, waggling his brows playfully.
“I think I can handle that, as long as you’re sure that when you lose it won’t do too much damage to your ego.”
He laughed.
Although we had a bit of a rocky start, I thought Morrison and I were going to be friends.
Chapter 4
Sambuca was sexy, plain and simple. A live band and a dance floor were the first things I noticed upon entering the restaurant. The sultry, rhythmic beating of the bass guitar filled the air. It was laced with the smooth, lush sounds of the sax. Tonight was R&B night. The room was dimly lit and lent itself perfectly to the sensual ambiance. Candles flickered on every surface, casting shadows that seemed to dance in perfect harmony with the melodic beats. Laughter and conversation floated quietly around the room. The perfect date spot.
If only I wasn’t having dinner with my father.
Rather than the relaxing evening I’d planned, my father had called, springing the news he was in Denver for the night. Then, in an opportune coincidence, he happened to take me to the restaurant that Nathan Donovan had claimed as an alibi. Morrison and I were supposed to confirm his alibi in the morning, but I decided to do it after dinner. Might as well kill two birds with one stone.
In more ways than one, my father’s invitation was well-timed. I had a few questions for him. I’d been thinking a lot about Morganna. Her friend said that she inherited her gifts from her mother, and I wanted to know if the same held true for me. Since my mother died when I was born, my father was the only person who could answer that question, but this wasn’t something to discuss over the phone.
The waiter brought our beverages and took our orders before leaving us to our conversation.
“This place is…different” he commented, taking in the romantic atmosphere with a twinge of discomfort.
An amused snort escaped before I could contain it. “Yeah. Where did you hear about it?”
“The concierge at my hotel recommended the place. He said the food was excellent.”
“Ah,” I muttered, noncommittally, wondering if that was enough small talk.
“Not that I’m complaining, but what are you doing here, Dad? It’s only been a week since I left Chicago.” The accusatory tone was barely discernible.
He shrugged and sipped his water, avoiding my gaze as he fiddled with his napkin. “I just wanted to see your new place, honey. Can’t a father take an interest in his daughter’s new home?”
And I may have believed that if I hadn’t sensed the falsity of the statement. He was worried about me, as usual. I felt the anxiety oozing from every one of his pores. My eyes narrowed. “What are you so afraid of?”
“Don’t be silly. I’m not afraid of anything.” He ran his fingers through his hair, which was longer than usual.
As I watched the nervous gesture, I was reminded again how I must have inherited my features from my mother’s side. I held absolutely no resemblance to my father. He had straight caramel brown hair as opposed to my wavy dark brunette, and his eyes were brown to my blue. He was a good-looking man—his appearance still youthful despite his fifty-six years—but, lately, he was showing his age more with the worry lines creasing around his eyes.
A long stretch of silence passed as we stared at each other with pensive expressions. Finally, I gathered the nerve to ask my questions.
“Actually, I’
m glad you’re here. I’ve been thinking about something I want to talk to you about.” I paused to take a fortifying breath. “For the first time in my life, I’m going to be completely honest with you. And I hope that you’ll give me the same courtesy in return.”
That spiked his interest. “What do you mean ‘for the first time in your life’?” he asked with wariness.
I held his gaze as I spoke. “What I mean is that I’ve been hiding something from you since I was a teenager. But you’ve been hiding something from me for my whole life.” I made the statement as a matter of fact; no question in my tone.
He swallowed convulsively and I felt his anxiety spike. “What—”
“No. Just listen. I know you’ve been hiding something because I can sense it, just like I can feel your nervousness now. And I know you’ve always worried about me. You worry more than what’s considered normal parental concern, which is why I’ve put up with your overprotective behavior for so many years.” I leaned in and whispered, “I’m psychic, Dad. Well, empathic, to be precise. I can feel people’s emotions as if they were my own, and sometimes their physical pain too.” His brows shot into his forehead as his eyes widened. I rambled on before I had the chance to back down. “So, you understand how I know you’re worried. Now, do you want to tell me what’s got you so concerned?”
He looked completely pole axed by my admission. “What do you…” Finally, he released a resigned sigh, almost as though he wasn’t really surprised at all. “When did it start?” The question was posed with a tone of resignation, almost like he’d been expecting something like this.
“When I was sixteen, I realized my senses were way too attuned to other people’s emotions. Then, when I was seventeen, the ability developed further. Do you remember that time you took me to the hospital because I was having bad chest pains?”
“Yes. That was strange. That was the weekend I had my heart attack.”
I arched my brow silently, willing him to make the connection. A surprised gasp escaped his lips when he finally understood.
“That’s right. I realized that night that every time you left the room, the pain would disappear. Then when you had a heart attack, I realized what was happening—I was channeling your pain the same way I did emotions.”
