by Hinze, Vicki
Following the grain in her padded chair with her fingers, Caron looked at Sandy, knowing her regret was shining in her eyes. “This isn’t confusion. I wish it was. I wish the child wasn’t in danger. But she is, Sandy. I swear, she is.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose above his half-moon glasses. A smudge on the lens caught in the light.
When it became clear he wasn’t going to respond, Caron turned the subject. “Why did you bring in Parker Simms?”
Sandy looked away. “I told you. I think he can help.”
“Help?” She guffawed. “He’s the most hostile man I’ve ever met.”
Indecision creased Sandy’s brow, and he stuffed his hand in his pocket. “He’s got his reasons. I agree that these days Parker’s in a black mood most of the time, and he’s really rough around the edges. But he’s the best at what he does.”
Sandy knew more than he was saying, and her expression must have told him that she knew it. He gave her an uneasy smile. “Come on, you can handle Simms. Just don’t take it personally. When the man dies, he’ll probably ask God for his ID.”
“And God’ll give it to him,” she said with a hint of a grin. There was no sense in alienating Sandy. She’d get Parker Simms’s measure...eventually.
“He probably will.” Sandy gave her shoulder a firm pat. “Let’s look at those pictures, hmm? Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Nodding, Caron went into the outer office and got busy.
Parker sat in the Porsche outside Sanders’s office and stared up at the rain-speckled window. She was still in there, filling Sanders’s head with bull.
His hand shook on the wheel. God, if he’d blown this…No, he hadn’t blown it. He’d been rough on her—not that she didn’t deserve worse—but she had no idea who he was, that he’d been tailing her, or that he’d gathered a year’s worth of proof that his ex-partner, Harlan, had been right. Caron Chalmers was no more psychic than he was.
For prosecution purposes, it was circumstantial evidence, true. But it was strong enough to convince Parker. A year of teaching second-graders sixty miles away in Midtown, and the lady couldn’t hack playing it straight. So she’d come back and picked up where she’d left off with Sanders.
Parker had figured that it would take an out-and-out threat to get any information on her from Sanders. All he’d managed for the past year was Sanders’s admission that he and Chalmers were friends. But things had taken an odd turn.
This morning, Sanders had called and seemed almost relieved to spill his guts and tell Parker she was coming down to headquarters. And then Sanders had done something even odder. He’d asked him to help Chalmers.
That request had knocked Parker for a loop. Sanders was genuinely worried about her; there was no doubt about that. Parker had seen Sanders’s look in his own mother’s eyes too often not to recognize it. And that worry made Sanders Chalmers’s victim, too. Not the same kind of victim Harlan had been, but still her victim.
Parker’s stomach lurched, and the lump in his chest turned stone-cold. He grimaced, doubly resolved. Harlan was right. Caron Chalmers was a fraud. And, by God, Parker meant to stop her—before she caused anyone else’s death.
After an hour of staring at photos and coming up as empty as the computer’s data bank, Caron stood up at the long table and stretched, then looked back over her shoulder. Through the half-open glass door, she saw that Sandy was alone, but talking quietly into the telephone.
From the intimate tone of his voice, she knew the call was personal. Caron lifted a brow. It was hard to imagine Sandy loving, or as a lover. What kind of woman would be attracted to him?
Sandy hung up. Caron tossed her foam coffee cup into the overflowing trash can and tapped on his door. When he looked up, she leaned her head against the doorframe. “You guys should use paper cups or real mugs.”
He glanced up from an open file. “What?”
His eyes looked a little glazed. Must have been one hot call. Parker Simms and his broad shoulders flashed through her mind. She blinked the disturbing image away. “Foam doesn’t break down. You know, go green and save the planet.”
“Oh. Right.” Sandy set the file down and, elbow bent, propped his chin with his hand. “I’ll mention it.”
He wouldn’t. Typical Sandy. “There’s nothing in the photos. I’m going to ride over to Gretna and see what happens.”
“Be careful.”
Caron nodded. “I’ll give you a call.”
“You want company? I guess Simms skated out on us, but I could tag along.”
Sandy was worried about her, but that wasn’t all of it. She couldn’t blame him. After Sarah’s case, how could he not be worried? Caron herself was worried—and tempted to take him up on his offer.
Before she could give in to the fear, she replied. “No, but thanks. I have to get my feet back.”
She hiked up her shoulder bag to hide her own misgivings. How well would she cope this time? Okay, so she was scared stiff. She had honest concerns about her abilities, and about the empathy pains that always accompanied the images. How much could she physically withstand? She hadn’t been tested since the images had come back, either. How accurate were her perceptions?
As much as she hated to admit it, hostile or not, Parker Simms had made a valid point. For the first time ever in a case, she didn’t have a missing-persons report, or any other hard evidence. But she did have the images. After what had happened to Sarah, trusting them was as hard as trusting outsiders. Yet the stakes were too high for her not to; more than for herself, she was terrified of what was happening to the little girl. Of what could happen to her—if she found her too late.
She squeezed the strap on her purse until it bit into her palm, and pushed away from the door casing. The white paint was chipped and peeling away in splinters. So was she...inside.
She didn’t want to, but she had to warn Sandy. Not that there was anything he could do about it without a report. But maybe it was herself she had to warn—out loud—just in case this little girl ended up like Sarah. “She’s sick, Sandy. She could get sicker.”
“I understand.”
Their gazes linked and held. He did understand. They both did. And whether or not Parker Simms believed her, Caron knew the truth. The little girl had been abducted. She was in serious danger. And unless Caron interpreted her images dead-center accurate, the girl could die.
Chapter 2
The pavement was nearly steaming. It was beyond hot; it was sultry and close and still overcast. Lousy weather for the Christmas shoppers. The shower earlier had the humidity hovering near the hundred-percent mark, which made breathing a major obstacle...especially for a child locked in a leaky shed with a damp, dirt-crusted floor and a bag of insecticide.
Getting into her old Caprice, Caron saw another image. The girl at a park, with a second man. Standing behind her, he pushed her swing. He was tall and lanky, homely, but expensively dressed. And when the girl laughed, the man laughed. The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled, and love shone in them. The warmth in the sound and the sight spread through Caron like syrup over a snow cone, slowly soaking in.
The sharp contrast between the two men she’d seen surprised her. Then, suddenly, it made perfect sense. This man and the little girl’s abductor were adversaries. But in what? How did the little girl connect them?
And why hadn’t Sandy found anything on her in the data bank? It incorporated all the outlying areas and suburbs.
Having no answers, Caron cranked the engine and glimpsed into her rearview mirror. A flashy black car was about three lengths behind her. She twisted to look back.
“Simms,” she muttered. Her courage took a nosedive, and her heart slammed against her ribs. It was him, all right; she’d have recognized those shoulders anywhere. He’d left Sandy’s office eons ago. Why was he just now leaving headquarters?
He couldn’t be following her. The man thought she was a mental patient; he hadn’t believed anything she’d said. So why was he there?<
br />
No sooner had she asked herself the question than Simms peeled off, turning right at the corner. Maybe he’d been working on another case?
A trickle of disappointment that he wasn’t following her seeped through her chest. Peeved at herself, Caron shifted on the seat. She had enough problems without adding Parker Simms to them. The man could make her dizzy with just a look. He could also make her want to strangle him. With the case tapping her emotions—and sure to drain them—she didn’t have any to spare. Especially not for a man who thought she was a flake. The distraction could be lethal.
Traffic on the Greater New Orleans Bridge heading to the west bank was bumper-to-bumper, and moving about as fast as a pregnant snail. She glanced from the Super-dome’s marquee, which was flashing a red Happy Holidays, to her watch, and she groaned. Four-fifteen. Rush hour for downtown commuters. And she had skipped lunch again. Stomach growling, she grabbed a Butterfinger candy bar from her purse and ripped it open.
She was two-thirds through with the candy before traffic thinned out. Crossing the Mississippi River, she then exited and hooked a left onto Belle Chase Highway. She spotted the reddish brick buildings several blocks ahead—long before she could read the street sign. Yet she didn’t need the sign. This was definitely the place. Meyer’s Properties, a real estate office, was there on the corner, right next to the grocery store, exactly as she’d imaged it.
The shopping center had been around a while, too; the concrete in the parking lot was cracked, and as full of potholes as the street. She steered around an orange sawhorse straddling a hole big enough to swallow her Chevy, drove on to the back of the building, then stopped. Stuffing the candy wrapper into her purse, she closed her eyes and let the images come.
When they had, she drove the path they’d shown her, certain that she following the same route the little girl had taken. Down two blocks. Then three more. A right turn, and...
At the corner, Caron hit the brakes hard and stared at a sagging green house. Two trucks—both up on blocks— were in the front yard. A shiny new Lincoln, looking totally out of place, was parked beside one of the trucks. The lawn needed mowing; the grass and weeds stood half a foot tall. Two huge evergreens stood sentry over an unwelcoming front door. Long scratches dug deep into the wood on the bottom half of it. A mean-looking Doberman, running ruts into the ground along a length of hurricane fence, explained the scratches and warned Caron that she was far from welcome.
The girl didn’t belong here. Caron knew that as well as she knew her own name. But she had been here, or she was here—Caron couldn’t tell which. And, needing to determine that, she called out from the car. “Hello!”
No answer. Just the Doberman barking, snarling, showing her his vicious teeth, his ears lying back flat. She locked the car door. Totally irrational—the dog could hardly open it—but it made Caron feel better.
Then the front door opened, and the first man she’d imaged walked out, waving a can of Budweiser.
Beer sloshed onto his T-shirt. Once, it might have been white, but that hadn’t been lately. It was stained by perspiration, dirt, and now beer. Only God knew what else.
“Whaddayawant?”
He was drunk, potently reminding Caron of Sarah’s abductor. The dog went wild, as if to prove to his master he was earning his keep. Shaking from head to toe, she cranked down the window all the way, cleared her throat and yelled out, “I’m looking for someone. Maybe you can help—”
“Shut up, Killer!” he shouted at the dog. Then, at her: “I can’t hear ya.”
The dog stopped barking, but didn’t stop growling. “I’m looking for Parker Simms,” she said, tossing out the first name that came to mind. “I thought this was his house.”
“It ain’t.”
“Do you know which house is his?”
“No.” He let out a healthy belch and rubbed his belly.
“Have you ever heard of him?”
The man didn’t answer. He slid her a narrow-eyed glare, walked back inside, then slammed the door. Given no choice but to come back later, Caron pulled away from the curb.
Two blocks down the street, a blinding pain streaked through her stomach. Caron bent double over the steering wheel and groaned. When she could move, she veered to the side of the street and braked to a stop.
The pain was so strong! Appendicitis? What? What illness had struck the little girl?
A long shadow fell across her window and stayed there.
“Caron?”
Parker Simms. Oh, God, not now. He was the last thing she needed right now. Holding her stomach, she again lowered the glass.
“Are you all right?”
Her stomach hurt like hell, and she was in a cold sweat. “I’m fine.” She forced herself to glance over at him. Big, brawny, beautiful—all those words came to mind...again. “What do you want, Mr. Simms?”
“Parker.” He crouched down and looked in through the window. “You sure you’re okay? You look half-dead.”
She felt worse. “I’m fine.” The pain lessened to a dull ache. She grabbed a tissue from the box on the dash and wiped the beads of sweat from above her lip and at her temple. “What are you doing here?”
“I want to help.”
Caron dropped the tissue box. “You walked out on me once. I don’t have time to play revolving-door games. This girl’s in trouble—and I don’t need a keeper.”
“Look, I wasn’t ready to hear what I heard. This psychic stuff is pretty hard to swallow. So cut me a little slack, okay?” He gripped the top of the car door and leaned closer. “And just for the record, I never thought you needed a keeper.”
She didn’t miss the strong insinuation that Sandy did think so. A sharp pain seared her left side, and she winced.
The man’s eyes softened to the gentle gray of a molting mallard. “Are you sick?”
“No.” She shuddered out a steadying breath. “Just empathy pains.” Why had she told him that?
He shifted, and something hard flashed in his eyes. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”
Feeling human again, she gave him a second look. Charming smile. A perplexed black brow and soft gray eyes that were questioning. Nothing threatening there. His hair was a riot of close-cropped curls that teased his ears and the collar of his black leather bomber jacket. His shoulders seemed to spread out forever, and no man that she’d ever seen could better fill out a pair of jeans. Lean hips.
Moneyed, but not flashy—except for the car. Her third impression mimicked her first and second. He was big and brawny...and beautiful.
“I think we should confer on the case.” His eyes twinkled a what-you-see-is-what-you-get promise.
It wasn’t at all convincing. Why the turnaround? He’d been a third-degree pain at Sandy’s office. What had him soft-soaping her now? He smiled, as if knowing she’d been summing him up and still wasn’t sure she was on solid ground. “Why should we confer, Parker?”
He shrugged. “To help the girl.”
Caron didn’t see it, but she sensed he was a man on a mission. And that mission had nothing to do with benevolence.
“Look,” he said, as though sensing her uncertainty. “My father and Sandy were friends for a long time. Occasionally he asks for my help. When he does, I give it.”
“You work on cases you don’t believe exist?”
“When asked to by family friends. Haven’t you ever been put on the spot by family friends wanting favors?”
She had, and some of those favors had cost her dearly. But how did Parker know? He couldn’t know about her father; she’d never breathed a word about him to anyone.
Understanding settled in Parker’s eyes. Was it genuine? She couldn’t tell that, either. In fact, she couldn’t read Parker Simms any better than she could Sandy. And that oddity had a fair shiver racing across her shoulders.
“Hey, I’m not going to stand in the street and beg you to let me help you. If you want me, I’m available, okay?” He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket
and flipped out his card. “Just give me a call.”
She studied him for a long moment. He seemed sincere, and not at all hostile. Maybe he could help, after all. Sandy had said Parker was the best, and she knew from experience that Sandy was hard to please and spare with praise. She’d be a fool not to accept Parker’s offer. She couldn’t let the little girl end up like Sarah. If she worked alone and failed, wondering if Parker could have saved the girl would torment her the rest of her days.
“All right, Parker Simms,” she said, sounding a lot more confident than she felt. “We’ll confer.”
“Great. There’s a Shoney’s up on the corner. Meet you there.” He walked away, toward the shiny black Porsche.
Caron frowned and called out, “Hey! Why are you really doing this?”
“You’re the psychic.” He slid her a wicked smile chock-full of challenge, and waggled his brows. “Figure it out.”
Figure it out?
The tiny hairs on her neck lifted. She’d dragged the man’s name through every muddy pothole between New Orleans and Gretna for being antagonistic, and now he was teasing her?
No, Caron shivered. He wasn’t teasing. He meant exactly what he’d said…and, once again, she inexplicably thought of Sarah James.
Parker whipped into Shoney’s parking lot and killed the engine. Had he lost his mind? He’d practically demanded that Chalmers nose around until she found out why he was going in on this case.
He’d figured that if he pushed, she’d do the opposite.
For as long as he could remember, it had worked with his
mother and his younger sister, Megan. But Caron Chal
mers wasn’t like them. Maybe he’d screwed up. Maybe he
