Divine Trilogy

by Cheryl Kaye Tardif

  She recalled seeing the vague shape of a boat.

  "That's how Winkler ended up in the river. That's why there was no evidence on the shore. The killer lured him on board a boat and then dumped him."

  The next thing she'd said on the 'com made her blood run cold.

  "No hard feelings, mate."

  And there it was. The thing that had bugged her. She knew exactly who had murdered the two politicians. She just wasn't sure she could say it out loud.

  Oh God…

  The air in the room suddenly seemed devoid of oxygen and she couldn't breathe. She rushed to the bathroom, splashed cool water on her face.

  "You know who it is," she said, staring at her reflection.

  With a deep breath, she returned to the table and plopped down in front of her laptop. For a moment she did nothing but think.

  She'd have to tell Ben and Natassia.

  "Shit."

  Logging into her laptop, she brought up a medical paper on Rohypnol. It confirmed what she'd been told, that the drug was a muscle relaxant, sedative and paralytic. Plus it wiped the memory clean during the time it was in a person's system.

  So why couldn't Porter Sampson recall the phone call? Was Rohypnol somehow administered while he was still at home?

  The report on her laptop stated that Rohypnol was illegal in North America.

  "It might be illegal, but it's all over our streets," she muttered. "You just have to know where to look."

  Or buy it overseas.

  She knew one person who'd been overseas recently. He could get the drug easily, and he knew how to administer it.

  Zane Underhill.

  In her vision the perp had said 'mate,' a common expression in Australia. Zane was the only Australian with even a remote connection to the case.

  She jumped to her feet and paced the room.

  Why would Zane do this?

  She called him, but there was no answer.

  Frustrated, she called Matthew at Divine Ops.

  "I need the file on Zane Underhill," she told him.

  "Your psychologist friend? Is this for business reasons or personal?"

  "A bit of both. Will you send me his file?"

  There was a lengthy pause.

  "You're not involved with him again, are you?"

  Matthew's concern left her feeling a bit peeved.

  "My personal life is my own," she said firmly. "But thanks for thinking of me."

  "I'll have the file uploaded to your data-com right away. Just…be careful. Zane Underhill is not receptive to PSIs. He―"

  She cut him off. "Any word on the carpet sample from the yacht club? Is Paul Cahill our guy?"

  "No. The cue impressions don't match the wounds."

  "I had a feeling that would be the case."

  Because Zane's the guy we're after.

  "Sorry, Jasmine."

  "Thanks, Matthew," she said, quickly disconnecting.

  She called Zane again. He didn't pick up. That made her nervous. She chewed her bottom lip and stared out the window. "He can't possibly know I'm onto him."

  Maybe he's closing in on his next target.

  "Maybe I'm wrong," she murmured.

  But logic suggested she wasn't. Zane had to be brought in. Immediately.

  She groaned. "Why, Zane?"

  As if in answer, her data-com beeped. It was Ben.

  "We've got another victim," he said.

  Jasi's heart sank to her toes as she moved toward the nearest bed. "Shit! I was hoping we'd get to him first."

  "Jasi…"

  She took a breath. "I should've told―"

  "Jasi, I need to tell you something."

  "What?"

  "First, you should know he's alive," he said, his voice calm and soothing. "Ottawa General is running some tests, but his prognosis is good."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "It's a good thing they found him when they did," he said, as if he hadn't heard her.

  "Found who?"

  "It's Zane."

  She sank into a chair. "What?"

  "OPS discovered him an hour ago on a bench in Britannia Park. Someone drugged and assaulted him."

  "This doesn't make any sense."

  "We think he was targeted because of his involvement in the case. Someone must have leaked that Sampson was going to see him."

  "Jesus." She massaged her forehead. "I was so wrong about him."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I thought he…" She sighed. "Never mind."

  "Are you all right, Jasi?"

  "No. It's my fault. I dragged him into this."

  "Zane agreed to help us," Ben said firmly. "You didn't coerce him into it. He knew the risks."

  She knew he was right, but it didn't change the fact that she had been ready to accuse Zane of two murders.

  She restlessly paced the floor and thought of her vision.

  The killer must have meant 'mate' as in shipmate.

  "You said Zane was drugged," she said.

  "Rohypnol. Same as Sampson and Winkler."

  Sampson had been dumped in the park too―alive―but the killer went back for him. That meant one thing. Zane was still in danger.

  "He needs a guard on his room," she said. "Our perp might come back and try to…finish what he started."

  "I already took care of that, Jasi."

  She batted away a tear, thankful her partner couldn't see her. "I'm an idiot, Ben."

  "Why would you say that?"

  "I thought it was Zane," she said in a quiet voice.

  From her data-com came a muffled reply. "What?"

  "In my vision, the killer said 'mate.' Zane says that all the time. You know, it's an Australian thing."

  "He's going to be fine, Jazz. He has a gash on his forehead and doesn't remember anything, but he's stable."

  "I'll head to the hospital." She paused. "And Ben?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Don't tell him I thought it was him."

  She hung up, knowing that the last thing she wanted was for Zane to know she thought he was capable of murder. After all, what kind of future could they hope to have then?

  She hesitated at the door.

  Future? Is that even possible?

  There was only one way to find out.

  By the time she'd navigated her way to the hospital, it was nearly 8:00. She had to take a few deep breaths to calm down, and to keep from speeding. At the hospital, she parked the vehicle in a clearly marked No Parking zone. If she got a ticket, she'd call Constable O'Malley.

  She hurried through the hospital, barely stopping to ask for directions. Her heart raced almost as fast as her feet, and she only slowed when she approached Zane's room.

  She had to. Someone was blocking the door.

  A muscular CFBI agent, armed with a standard issue Glock, 50,000-volt taser and baton, watched her through squinting eyes. In his twenties, he looked appropriately intimidating. His name tag read Agent Michael Greene.

  "I'm with the CFBI," she told him.

  "ID?" His soft voice didn't match his gruff looks.

  She held out her badge and he carefully scrutinized it.

  "You're cleared," Greene said, handing back her badge.

  "CFBI and his doctor only," she reminded him. "You're to keep anyone without clearance out of this room, Agent Greene. That means no family, friends, city police or anyone else. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She turned on her heel and entered Zane's room. When she checked over her shoulder, Greene was watching her through the window.

  She gave a nod of appreciation. No one will get to Zane without going through Greene, even if he does look like he just got out of basic.

  Zane was sleeping when she entered the room. A thick bandage was wrapped around his head, but other than that there was no other sign of injury.

  She sat down in the chair and studied him.

  He looks so helpless.

  He stretched suddenly and his eyes o
pened. He seemed startled to see her. "Jasmine. What are you doing here?"

  "Visiting a sick friend."

  "Aw, is that all I am to you?"

  She blushed. "I don't know what you are to me, Zane."

  He patted the bed. "Come here and give me a kiss."

  She couldn't say no to an injured man.

  His lips were warm and inviting. She'd give anything to curl up beside him.

  She pulled away first. "I'm here as a friend, but also on business."

  "You want to know what happened," he said. "Honestly, love, I haven't got a clue. Like I told your partners, I don't remember anything except waking up in the park."

  "Like Porter Sampson."

  "The first thing I thought of was you."

  This surprised her. "You get clobbered on the head and drugged and all you thought of when you regained consciousness was me?"

  He grinned. "Well, it's not all I thought about."

  She smacked his arm, then moved away from the bed.

  "Last thing I remember, I was in my hotel room waiting for Porter Sampson to show up," he said.

  "He never made it. You called me around four and told me that."

  "Oh, right."

  "What did you do after you called me?"

  "I don't know." A look of bewilderment crossed his face. "The doctor says I have short term memory loss, but it should come back eventually."

  "What I don't get is why you?"

  "Because I'm charming and good looking?"

  Her eyes narrowed. "But you're not a politician."

  "Lucky me," he said, grinning.

  "This isn't funny, Zane." Her voice wobbled. "You could've been killed."

  He reached for her hand. "But I wasn't, love." His thumb drew distracting circles on her skin.

  "Next time you might be," she said, reluctantly pulling her hand away. "I don't want that on my conscience."

  "You can't control everything, Jasmine." There was a roughness to his voice. "Sampson was coming to see me. Maybe whoever abducted him was worried the man would tell me something incriminating. Who knows? Maybe he will, when he actually shows up for a session."

  "Uh, Zane?"

  "In my professional opinion," he continued, "I think we need to wait until Sampson seeks out counseling on his own, whether with me or another therapist. Perhaps without you pressuring him, he'll remember something on his own."

  "No, he won't."

  He gave her a questioning look.

  "Porter Sampson is dead, Zane."

  "What?" He tried to sit up.

  "Stay still," she warned.

  "How did he die? What happened?"

  "I think the killer wanted to tie up any loose ends. Sampson was burned to death."

  Zane flinched. "Good God, that's atrocious. Were there any witnesses?"

  "No."

  "Did you find anything at the scene?"

  "Not one clue."

  Zane let out a loud sigh and sank back into the bed. "Poor bloke. First he's kidnapped and drugged and left in the park. Then the maniac comes back and finishes him off on the beach."

  "That's the part I don't get. Why let him go only to kill him later?"

  Zane shrugged. "Who knows?"

  She walked to the window and peered out over the streets below. Evening rush hour was in full swing.

  "You were only missing a few hours," she said. "What would someone hope to accomplish in that time?"

  "Your guess is as good mine."

  She turned and studied him. "I wonder why he left you on the bench, right out in the open. Even with Porter Sampson, he chose a secluded spot to dump him."

  "Maybe someone saw him with me. He'd want to get rid of me quickly."

  She shivered at his words.

  "Or maybe he thought he'd killed me." Zane touched the bandage. "He hit me pretty hard."

  "I wonder how he got you out of the hotel. Did he meet you there? Do you somehow know this person?"

  Zane shrugged. "There's nothing in my data-com. No appointments after Sampson's. And we know he never showed. I guess now we know why."

  "I'll check with hotel security. There should be cameras all over the hotel. Maybe we'll get lucky and see you with someone. It could jog your memory."

  "Perhaps."

  Zane studied her for a long moment.

  "What?" she demanded.

  "You are truly lovely, Jasmine McLellan."

  "And you should be Irish, for all your blarney." She shook her head. "You look like hell."

  "Thanks." He flinched.

  "Are you okay, Zane? Should I call someone?"

  "I'm fine, love. Other than some memory loss, I have a bit of a headache."

  "When are you getting out?"

  "Tomorrow afternoon. They want to keep me overnight to make sure I don't have a concussion. Or a reaction to the Rohypnol." He shivered. "At least I wasn't burned alive."

  "Jesus."

  She stood quickly, batting away the mental image of Zane's burning body. Pacing at the foot of the bed, she thought about everything Zane had told her. Someone had gotten to him.

  They could get to him again.

  "Did the CFBI assign you protective detail?"

  "Yeah. Mickey."

  "Who?"

  "Agent Greene." He jerked his head toward the door. "Young Mickey got stuck with the gig. When I'm let out of here, the poor bloke will be parked in a chair outside my hotel room. Lucky him."

  "Good."

  "I can look after myself, Jasmine."

  She rolled her eyes at him. "Yeah, I can see that."

  "So what happens now?"

  She wanted to say, 'Now we get into that thick skull of yours and find out who did this.' Instead she said, "We need to find out who took you, and why."

  Which means Natassia would have to read him.

  That bothered her. Zane knew about the PSI Division. He'd testified at cases where PSIs had been part of the investigation. In the past when she'd broached the subject of psychic investigators, he'd always been less than receptive. That was one reason why she'd never told him what she really did. She knew without a doubt that he would flip. He'd see her as a freak.

  "What if I arranged for a PSI to visit you?"

  He scowled. "No, thank you. I don't want some nutcase poking around in my thoughts. Besides, I don't believe in psychic voodoo."

  "You always were close-minded," she grumbled.

  "Thanks for the compliment."

  His stubbornness frustrated her. Although PSIs were authorized to read anyone related to a case without consent or a warrant, she knew that anyone with a strong negative feeling toward psychics could potentially build up a mental wall that could prove nearly impenetrable, not to mention exhausting for any psychic, even for a Level 1. Plus Zane was a psychologist. He'd know how to put up those walls.

  No, Natassia wouldn't have a hope in hell of getting anywhere near Zane. Neither would Ben. Damn!

  "So what do you want to do when I break outta here?"

  She shifted awkwardly. "I'm going to be busy, Zane."

  "Well, I think you owe me a dinner."

  She took in his bandaged head and pale face. "You're right. I do owe you."

  "It's settled then. I'm hungry for something with more flavor than congealed pudding and dry chicken."

  The look in his eyes told her exactly what he was hungry for. It wasn't food.

  "Tomorrow then," she said, backing out of the room.

  "If you have any more questions, feel free to come back," he called after her.

  She battled feelings of guilt as she left the hospital.

  In the SUV, she slapped both hands against the steering wheel. "I was so far off!"

  She slipped the key into the ignition and started the car.

  "Of course Zane's not involved. He's not a killer. I'd know if he was."

  I need a drink.

  What she really needed was to immerse herself in the files from the case. There had to be a clue, something to steer
her in the right direction. But what?

  She gazed up at the handful of stars in the twilight sky.

  If I were a sailor, I'd be charting my course by the stars.

  Too bad it wasn't that easy in real life.

  The security office was on the main level of the hotel, tucked in behind the front desk. Before knocking on the door, Jasi took notice of all the cameras in the ceiling. Anyone who came in or out of the hotel through the main doors would be filmed.

  The door was opened by a young woman in uniform.

  "Are you the CFBI agent?"

  Jasi flashed her badge. "I need to look at your security footage."

  "This way, ma'am."

  Jasi flinched. That was twice today someone had called her that. If there was one thing she loathed, it was being called ma'am, especially by someone who looked only a year or two younger than her.

  At the far end of the room a vid-wall took up most of the wall. Currently it showed twelve separate camera views of the inside of the hotel. A sign on the wall requested that all visitors completely power down all cell phones and data-coms.

  Jasi did so with some reluctance.

  "Thank you, Miss."

  A man with a bad comb-over unfolded his lengthy frame from a chair parked in front of a half dozen monitors. When he stood, he towered over her. He was close to seven feet tall.

  Jasi suddenly felt very small. "Are you Cliff Atkins?"

  "Yup, chief of security. You must be Agent McLellan."

  He motioned her to sit in the chair he'd vacated.

  "So what do you need?" he asked, towering over her.

  "I need this afternoon's video surveillance, from four o'clock on, inside the hotel and out."

  "Computer, rewind to four o'clock," he said loudly.

  "Ah, voice activated," she said, impressed. "My partner's been trying to convince me to get one, but I'm a bit tech-challenged."

  Atkins smiled, his eyes crinkling in the corners. "It sure makes my job easier."

  The screens depicted the interior of the hotel. In the bottom right hand corner, a time stamp rolled silently as time passed by.

  Atkins scratched his nearly bald head and dislodged the long strands of gray hair. "What are we looking for exactly?"

  "A man. One of the hotel's guests."

  "We could find him faster if you have a photograph."

  She thought of the photo she and Zane had taken when they were dating. She'd ripped it to shreds when he'd gone to New York.

  "Sorry. I don't―uh, hold on a sec."