Shades of Passion

by DePaul, Virna

  Once again, the images in his mind morphed. DeMarco, who’d been walking and chatting with those he encountered, froze as he caught sight of Billy.

  The kid had cornered a couple, tourists by the looks of them, and was shouting at them to hand over their money. DeMarco was about twenty feet away when he saw Billy waving the gun.

  Damn it, Billy, he thought.

  He drew his weapon. Shouted at Billy to put down his.

  Billy jerked in surprise, then, to DeMarco’s utter disbelief, grinned.

  “Hey, DeMarco,” he called out, his voice slightly slurred as if he was drunk or high. “You know the kind of guns I carry.”

  He turned back to the frightened woman cowering against her companion, pointed the gun at her and said, “Just give me the purse before I shoot you. I’ll give you until five.”

  He started counting.

  One.

  “Billy, don’t!” DeMarco shouted. “Put down the gun.”

  Two.

  “Put it down now!” DeMarco waited for Billy to comply, but he didn’t. He just kept counting.

  Three.

  Billy turned to DeMarco and winked.

  Oh, shit, DeMarco thought. He’s trying to tell me the gun’s not loaded. But I don’t know that. I don’t know that, Billy!

  Four.

  He had a split second to make a decision.

  To take a chance that he was right about Billy and put an innocent woman’s life in danger.

  Or to take Billy’s threat seriously and shoot.

  He did what he had to.

  What he’d been trained to do.

  He shot.

  Five.

  As it turned out, Billy’s gun really had been empty.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  NINA WOKE TO THE MEMORY of being held in Simon’s arms, but the bed next to her was empty. She rubbed at her eyes, still gritty with tears, and struggled to a sitting position. She didn’t have to struggle to remember what had happened. She knew with utter clarity that a man had been attacked, the initials BD carved into his back just like they’d been carved into Six. She knew that Simon had apologized for having to leave her, but that he’d needed to do his job; even so, she’d barely held on to her sanity in the hours afterward, despite the way Carrie Ward had tried to distract her. She knew that when Simon had finally arrived, she’d been filled with a feeling of relief so intense that she hadn’t been able to stop herself from throwing herself into his arms.

  And she knew that he’d held her as she’d cried for hours. And kissed her lightly before she’d fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  She was so grateful it had been dreamless. She’d feared her mind would bring her one nightmare after another, but Simon’s embrace had kept them away.

  Rising, she shuffled to the bedroom doorway and called out, “Simon?”

  “I’m making breakfast. Come out and join me.”

  Her troubled heart momentarily lightened and she smiled at the invitation to join him in her own kitchen. She was glad he’d made himself at home. The few people she’d had over to the house had been intimidated by its sheer size and grandeur. She’d felt the same way when she’d first moved in. But now it was home to her. Her haven.

  Even so, she’d never felt as safe as she did now, knowing that Simon was just a few rooms away.

  She showered and dressed, then joined him in the kitchen.

  He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn the day before, but he looked fresh and alert. “I used a new toothbrush I found under your sink. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Of course it is.” She watched as he scrambled eggs and poured them into a pan. He’d already browned bacon and within minutes he slid a full plate of food in front of her.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You’re not going to join me?”

  “I ate while you slept. It’s almost noon.”

  “Noon? Oh, no. I didn’t realize...”

  “It’s okay. You needed the rest.”

  She tried to eat, she really did, but she found she had no appetite. Instead, she stared at the breakfast he’d prepared while he sipped a cup of coffee.

  Eventually, he rose. “At least try to eat your toast before we go,” he said gently. “I’ve got everything packed.”

  “Packed? For what? Don’t you—don’t you have to go to work? To, you know, work on the case?”

  “I’ve already been there. Carrie came back over early this morning and I hunted down some leads while you were asleep.”

  “Did—did you find out anything new?”

  “Nothing that we need to talk about now,” he said. “I have several patrol officers, as well as DeMarco, following up on a few things. Until they find something or I’m back on shift tonight, I’m off the clock and all yours. You like the ocean?”

  Even though he’d already been to the office once, she suspected it went against his nature to delegate the smallest of tasks to others. Yet here he was doing it for a major case, and he was doing it in order to spend some downtime with her. For a second, it made her feel guilty. Needy. She should tell him she was fine. That he needn’t put off his work for her, not when someone was out there attacking cats and homeless men with a knife.

  Instead, she nodded. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I love it.”

  * * *

  SIMON DROVE ACROSS THE Golden Gate Bridge and headed up Highway 1, into the Mount Tamalpais State Park, where he pulled off at the secret trailhead leading to a quiet inlet up the coast from San Francisco. The waves lapped gently against the shore. He came here often to get away from life and all its attendant stressors, and he hoped the serenity of the place would soothe Nina, as well.

  Before leading Nina down the rocky hill, he grabbed a blanket, a bottle of Napa Valley wine and a wine opener from the back of his car. When he got to a small spit of sand, he spread out the blanket and motioned for Nina to join him.

  He needed to get his mind back in the game—to start putting the clues together and figure out why Lester Davenport would target two homeless men to get to Nina. That was especially true given Stevens’s absurd theory that Nina knew something she wasn’t telling them. If Stevens harbored any suspicion about Nina whatsoever, Simon wanted them eradicated.

  First, however, he needed to get Nina settled. Get some pink back in her cheeks.

  “Wine?” he asked, gesturing to the bottle as Nina settled down beside him.

  She gave him a half smile, and then said, “Are you planning to ply me with alcohol to distract me, Detective Granger?”

  That was exactly what he’d been planning on doing. But he simply said, “Maybe. Or maybe I’m planning to seduce you to distract you and the wine is just a part of the whole evil plan.” He jiggered the corkscrew into the bottle, knowing full well he wasn’t trying to get into her pants but hoping she’d pick up on his humor, on his attempts to make her feel better. “Have you thought of that?”

  “Believe me, I have. But we’ve already established you don’t have to seduce me to distract me. Or to have sex with me. A simple invitation will probably do the trick.”

  His hands stilled and he stared at her. When she laughed, he closed his eyes and groaned. “You’re good. Too good.”

  “I know. You should have seen the look on your face. A weaker woman would have been fearing for her virtue.”

  He snorted out a laugh. “One thing you aren’t is weak. But you are sexy as hell and I can only take so much. So please, keep that in mind.”

  “I will,” she said with another smile. In the next moment, however, her smile faded. “Thank you for bringing me here. And for making me laugh. I know—I know we need to talk about things. About that man. About the initials.” Nina pulled the bottle, now unstopped, out of his hands and drank from it long and hard before handing it back to him. A few stray drops of wine clung to her lips.

  His cock jerked to attention. They’d joked about him seducing her, and that had been the furthest thing from h
is mind. But as it was wont to do in her presence, his mind suddenly detoured toward true and urgent desire before he knew what was happening.

  Although he hadn’t been planning on drinking himself, he took a swig of the wine, too, letting the roundness of the cabernet sauvignon melt in his mouth before swallowing. He cast a glance at Nina; her gaze was firmly fastened on his throat. When she saw he’d caught her looking at him, she averted her gaze and swallowed hard. He struggled to keep himself from tossing the bottle aside and grabbing her, kissing the hell out of her, lying her back on the blanket and getting her naked.

  The wind picked up Nina’s long hair and blew a strand in his face.

  He tucked the strand behind her ear, staying too close for too long just to inhale her scent.

  She turned her head slightly, and looked at him out of the corners of her eyes.

  “Sorry,” he said with a grin. “I got a little distracted.”

  Her expression remained serious for a few seconds, but then she finally smiled back at him. “Wasn’t that the point of coming out here?”

  “Yeah. And I’d love to distract both of us in the most pleasurable way possible. But you’re right. We need to talk.”

  Her eyes shuttered, an automatic refusal to deal with reality.

  Message received. She wasn’t quite ready for him to launch straight into the subject of two murdered men, so he said, “Can I ask your professional opinion about something?”

  Her eyes cleared. “Sure.”

  “The police are taught that most homeless people are mentally ill, and I’m not an idiot—I know when someone hears voices in his head, his perception of reality is vastly different than mine. But how can someone who was once a functioning member of society suddenly get there? How does someone start believing everyone is after them? Why does he suddenly start to wear aluminum foil hats to prevent the government from invading his thoughts?”

  Nina smiled sadly. “I can’t teach you everything in one day—I went to school for twelve years to learn the answers to your questions, after all—but I will say that the brain is immensely complex. A lot of mental illnesses are hereditary, but they can also be induced by one’s environment or experiences. A person can be completely fine and then—” she snapped her fingers “—things change. Schizophrenia, for example, usually starts in young men in their late teens or early twenties. A person might have a mild case of bipolar disorder that is suddenly exacerbated by stress. Or sometimes someone who isn’t mentally ill one day undergoes a profound trauma and is thrown into an altered mental state. There are so many ways that a person’s perception of reality becomes completely different from the way the rest of the world sees it.”

  “Can you give me a more concrete example?”

  “Sure. The girl we helped, Anne, could have been experiencing some sort of altered mental state brought on by her father’s controlling behavior. It’s not too different from one’s fight-or-flight response when cornered. Suddenly, everything and everyone is a threat. If you remember, she was calming down as I talked to her. But when her father showed up, when she heard his voice, she snapped again. She didn’t want to hurt me, but she felt, in that moment, that she had no choice. It was either her or me.”

  Simon picked up a handful of sand, allowing the minuscule particles to trickle from his fingers as Nina’s words settled in his mind. “What about the trauma of being homeles? Can that make someone snap?”

  “It’s possible. Given enough time. Or enough bad experiences.”

  “Have you ever worked with the homeless directly? At a pro bono crisis clinic, for example?”

  “No. Never.”

  He nodded. Continued to filter sand through his fingers. “Can someone who is experiencing grief experience a psychotic break?”

  “Someone like Lester Davenport, you mean?”

  “Yeah. Someone like him.”

  “Someone who’s grieving might not experience clinical psychosis or delusions, but his mind might not work the way it did before. Psychologists often talk to grief patients about five stages of grief—”

  “I know—denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.”

  “Right. Depending on the severity of the stage a person is experiencing, he can start to think outside the box. He could be so driven by his grief that he does something completely out of character.”

  “Something like...I don’t know...kill someone with mental illness because he ‘blames’ mental illness in general for taking his daughter away from him?”

  Nina frowned. “That’s an interesting question. Do you mean he views mental illness as an actual entity upon which he can seek revenge?”

  “Maybe. Is that possible?”

  “Anything’s possible where the mind is concerned. But—but what are you really talking about? Do you think that’s what Lester Davenport is doing? That he’s acting out two agendas? Targeting me because I didn’t save Beth. And targeting not only homeless people but mentally ill homeless because mental illness drove Beth to kill herself?”

  “It’s a theory. The major one I’ve been able to come up with based on the facts I have.”

  “Including the facts you discovered yesterday and today?”

  He nodded.

  “Tell me.”

  “Louis Cann and the latest victim were both residents of the Welcome Home homeless shelter. That seemed to be their main connection, despite the fact they were both stabbed in Golden Gate Park, because Cann’s killer didn’t leave the same signature. No initials. So today, I decided to double-check some things. Although I’d seen the crime scene photos in Cann’s file, I never actually visited the crime scene myself. This morning, I did. While I was doing that, DeMarco stopped by Welcome Home and canvased nearby walk-in crisis clinics. Anyplace a resident from Welcome Home might go. He found one place advertised in a flyer on the Welcome Home bulletin board. The crisis clinic is located a few blocks from Golden Gate Park. Turns out both murder victims went there at some point.”

  “They told you that?” she asked with surprise.

  “For confidentiality reasons, the counselors wouldn’t disclose what the men had been seen for, but DeMarco got them to admit they recognized both of them. Why they were there doesn’t really matter. Either they were in mental crisis or led someone to believe they were. That fits my theory about why Davenport attacked them.”

  “But again, how do you know it wasn’t simply the location that tied them together? Maybe the killer hangs out near the clinic and was simply looking for easy prey, mentally ill or not.”

  “I can’t dismiss that thought completely. But a crime of opportunity based on shared location doesn’t go deep enough. It doesn’t explain how the men might be linked to you and Davenport’s determination to get revenge for his daughter’s death. The mental illness angle does. Can you think of anything else that makes sense?”

  She shook her head. “No, but none of this makes sense. Still, there’s a flaw in what you just said. You said both men might be linked to me. This latest man who was carved with the initials BD? I understand why you think that. But with Cann, you said the initials weren’t a factor.”

  “They weren’t. That is, I didn’t know they weren’t until I revisited the scene. Before today, I relied on SFPD’s report on the crime scene.”

  “And?”

  “And the responding officers missed something. Something engraved in the tree right next to where Cann was found.”

  “The initials BD.”

  “Right.”

  She sat in stunned silence until he reached out, took her hand and finally said, “This isn’t your fault, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  * * *

  AT SIMON’S INSISTENT question, Nina nodded. “In my head, I do. Even though I don’t always feel it in my heart. You, of all people, can understand that, can’t you?”

  He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “Yeah, I can.”

  She savored the feel o
f her hand in his for several moments before reclaiming it. She told herself that she needed to be strong. Let Simon ask the questions he needed to ask her. And ask him a few questions of her own. “Still no word on Davenport?”

  “No. He’s still MIA. Hasn’t been to work in three days. That tells me right there that he’s on the move. In California. Only I haven’t been able to track down any recent airline tickets he’s purchased or flights he’s taken out of the Charleston Airport. Of course, he might have driven to a more remote airport, and I’m checking on that, but it’s going to be a while before I can track down that kind of information.”

  “What will happen once he’s caught? Assuming these murders are linked to him, of course.”

  “He’ll be tried for his criminal acts. He’ll go to jail. Where he won’t be able to hurt anyone anymore.”

  The notion shouldn’t have bothered her, but it did. Just a little. And maybe it was wrong, but she vocalized that fact. Someone like Lester Davenport belonged in a hospital rather than prison. “So he’ll be locked up the same way anyone would? Someone who killed for pleasure rather than out of grief?”

  She literally felt Simon withdraw from her.

  Stiffly, he said, “It doesn’t matter why someone kills. What matters is making sure they don’t kill again.”

  “Oh, really. So you don’t believe in self-defense?”

  He scowled at her. “That’s different and you know it.”

  “No, I don’t. A person acting in self-defense is acting to protect his body. A person acting out of a psychotic break is acting to protect his mind. To protect the reality as he perceives it. Both are acting out of character. Granted, if a person is dangerous, the public needs to be protected, but jail isn’t always the answer. Sometimes a hospital is the right choice. But to lock someone in jail for—”

  “I can’t believe you’re going here, Nina. People don’t act out of character. Our actions are our character.”

  Nina pulled back from him. “Even someone whose brain is releasing the incorrect chemicals or a disproportionate amount of chemicals, thereby telling them to do something completely out of their own character? If that’s true, then you have a lot more to learn about mental illness than I thought.”