by Kylie Brant
He told her none of this, however. Instead he inquired, “Your statement said you believed they were being held in a building? What kind, exactly?”
“I’m not really sure. It doesn’t appear to be a house, though. It’s very unkempt, dilapidated. I assume that it’s abandoned.”
Connor nodded, as if considering that. After several moments he asked smoothly, “And the sweater you mentioned to Officer Riley? Can you tell me anything more about that?”
Michele felt a semblance of the sick feeling she experienced every time she dreamed of the item. Valiantly she attempted to force the feeling down, to respond normally. “It’s not a sweater, it’s a jacket. Pink, hooded. It has a broken zipper on the front, and a white lining.” She raised anguished eyes to the detective. “The right sleeve is soaked with blood. It belongs to the little girl with the dark hair and eyes.”
Despite himself, Connor felt goose bumps rise on his flesh at her words, and he was annoyed at his involuntary physical reaction. The jacket did indeed belong to the little girl she described. But she was hiding more than she was telling. Of that he was sure. He was silent for a moment, mentally weighing his words. He locked both hands in front of him and leaned his chin against them. Finally he remarked, “That’s a pretty detailed description. Where, exactly, was this jacket when you ‘saw’ it?”
“The girl was wearing it when she was taken,” Michele responded. “But she isn’t wearing it anymore.”
“Then where is it?”
Michele eyed him steadily. “I have no idea, Lieutenant. But I’m sure that you do.” Feeling at the end of her emotional tether, she rose from her chair on shaky legs. “I’m afraid I have nothing else to add to the information in the statement. I really have to go now.”
Connor didn’t object this time, only rose and followed her to the door.
Her hand on the knob, Michele was struck with a thought. She turned back quickly, unable to believe that she had almost forgotten to ask. “Lieutenant McLain? My name won’t be made public, will it? Or the fact that I’ve talked to you about the case?”
“I can assure you, Miss Easton, we’re even less willing than you are to have it become common knowledge that we’ve consulted with a psychic. Excuse me,” he apologized at her frigid look, “with a person who’s not exactly clairvoyant. You have my assurance that none of this will be made public.”
Michele’s gaze locked with his. Whatever else this man might be, he didn’t appear to be a liar. She nodded at his assurance and left the room.
Connor sighed heavily as he leaned against his doorjamb and watched her wend her way gracefully through the maze of desks and people and out of sight. Just what he needed on top of a high-profile investigation, frantic parents, a rabid press and the brass breathing down his neck. A woman who was probably wacko, who could damn well have something to do with those missing kids herself, for all he knew.
“What I want to know,” said a wounded voice next to him, “is why you always get to talk to the gorgeous women with legs a mile long, while I get to chat with old ladies wearing rollers in their hair and reporting UFOs in their backyards.”
Connor slid his gaze sideways to meet Cruz’s. “Those old ladies are the only females we can trust you not to hit on,” he gibed. He pushed himself away from the door. “Come on in. I need to talk to you about this one.” Cruz preceded him back into his office and slouched into the chair Michele had just vacated. Connor sat on the edge of his desk, facing his friend.
He needed to run this bizarre conversation by someone, and he trusted no one in the world as he did the man before him. He and Cruz had been rookies together, partners when they had first joined the force. They had been in some tight situations and had saved each other’s hides too many times to count. Somewhere along the line they had also become friends. When Connor had been asked to supervise this investigation, he had immediately suggested that Martinez be added to the team of detectives working on the case. Despite his usual carefree demeanor, Cruz had the well-honed instincts of a street fighter, and he was a meticulous investigator.
“Well? Did the mind reader tell you how she knew about the jacket?”
Connor made an exasperated face. “She didn’t tell me anything that’s not in this statement.” He handed the sheet of paper to his partner and waited silently while Cruz perused it.
When he finished, Cruz raised quizzical eyes to Connor. “A psychic and a psychologist?” At Connor’s pained look he chuckled. “Must be your lucky day. I know what high esteem you hold mind pickers in.”
Connor snorted derisively. His low opinion of the counseling profession as a whole was not a well-kept secret in the district. It stemmed from a deep-rooted privacy about himself and his life that was as much a part of him as his hair and eye color. He had detested the times he had been forced to follow district regulations and talk to the police psychologist after an arrest that involved a shooting. The psychologist hadn’t enjoyed the experience much more.
“Maybe it’s time to put aside your aversion to using psychics in investigations,” suggested Cruz. “I know you’ve never put any stock in them, but Delmer and Clive swear that the man they used busted their homicide case wide open.”
Connor looked impatient. “And did you and I ever have any luck the few times we followed up leads from so-called psychics?” he demanded.
Cruz looked uncomfortable. “Not exactly.”
“Damn right we didn’t. We spent extra energy and man-hours following one wild-goose chase after another.” He shook his head firmly. “The only information you’re likely to get from those circus-tent scam artists is so cryptic and open to interpretation that no one could know what to look for.” His mouth twisted. “Not to mention the mayor’s reaction if the press ever got wind that we were consulting psychics to solve the case. His opponent would have a field day with it, and my butt would be out the door.”
“Well, how do you explain this lady knowing about the jacket? Ever since Torelli discovered it in that Dumpster, we made sure the find wasn’t made public. Only a handful of us know about it. You think there’s a leak?”
“Possibly,” Connor conceded, rubbing the back of his neck reflectively. “Or maybe Miss Easton knows just a little more about this whole thing than she’s telling us.”
Cruz was silent for a moment. “Was she able to tell you where it was found?”
“She either didn’t know or wouldn’t say.”
His friend’s eyebrows shot up. “Something tells me, amigo, that you suspect she may have a hand in this. How?”
“I don’t know,” Connor admitted. “That’s why I want you to run a check on her. Her job, her background, her friends, where she’s from, who she sees. If she has any connection to these kids, I want you to find it.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“She has to,” Connor said flatly. “There’s no other way for her to have that information.” He and his partner exchanged a long look. “Unless she’s involved in some way.”
* * *
Michele gratefully reached the front doors of the station house and pushed them open. She breathed deeply of the fresh air, trying to regain a semblance of calm. Remaining composed during those interviews had taken most of her considerable equanimity. She felt a chill chase down her spine, remembering. Just the verbal recounting of the dreams had been enough to bring all the horror, all the terror, back. Her head was thudding with the aftermath of the event. She wanted nothing more than to get home to bed, where she could burrow under the covers and put this ordeal out of her mind.
She hurried down the front steps of the building, pushing through the throng that had unexpectedly appeared there. She was detained near the bottom, the crowd so thick it was impossible for her to pass through. Impatiently she strained to see what the holdup was.
At first she was unable to see anything, but she heard a vaguely familiar resonant voice boom out, “I can assure the citizens of our city that their lives, those of their children an
d their safety are my utmost concern. I have been in daily contact with the chief of detectives and the commissioner about this case, and I’m assured that the D.A.’s office is ready and eager to see that any suspect they apprehend is prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”
A shift in the crowd brought Michele a glimpse of the speaker, even as she identified him by his voice alone. Lawrence McIntire, Philadelphia’s incumbent mayor, was obviously making a campaign speech, and Michele had unwittingly stepped into the middle of a media frenzy. Microphones were waving in front of him, and reporters shouted questions at him and his opponent. She shrank back self-protectively, even as she acknowledged the improbability of her being caught on camera.
“Reverend Carlson, what do you have to say about the failure of the police to bring the kidnappers into custody?”
A well-modulated voice answered them. “Sadly, I think the tragedies point to the glaring incompetence in our judicial system. If by some stroke of luck the hapless detectives are able to bring in a suspect, we have only a fifty-fifty chance that the current D.A.’s department will get a conviction.” The rest of his statement was lost as his opponent vehemently denounced that claim
Michele used her elbows to move through the edge of the crowd. The last thing she wanted was to appear on the nightly news in front of police headquarters, and she was relieved to note that the cameras and reporters were focused on the two well-dressed men in front of them. She hurried across the street toward the parking ramp where she had left her car.
When she was able to sink gratefully into the plush leather interior, she expelled a tremulous breath. With both hands at the top of the steering wheel, she rested her forehead against them to still their shaking.
Going to the police had been more traumatic than she had feared. She had debated with herself for days before deciding to do so. It had taken even longer to gather her courage to actually make the trip. She hadn’t been anxious to undergo the humiliation of having the police think she was a crazy busybody, a psychic rubbernecker intent on becoming part of the tragedy.
She rubbed her temples, trying to still the pounding there. Her head felt much as it did when she awoke from one of her dreams, full and throbbing. She knew from painful experience that the symptoms pointed to a migraine coming on. Fumbling with her keys, she managed to place the correct one in the ignition.
As Michele backed her car up carefully, she bit her bottom lip to still its trembling. She had done her best. She’d acted on the nightmarish terror of the dreams. Maybe now there would be peace in her sleeping hours. Perhaps she would no longer be revisited by the dark drama unfolding in those children’s lives, an unwilling voyeur of their suffering. And hopefully no one she knew would ever find out about her going to the police.
Because she couldn’t bear it if the ability that had cursed her since childhood was ever made public again.
Chapter 2
Cruz Martinez knocked at the office door and entered at Connor’s brusque command. Closing the door behind him, he sauntered over to his friend’s desk, tossing a paper on it. “Read it and weep,” he intoned theatrically. He dropped carelessly into one of the chairs. “Your mind-reader moll is as clean as my freshly laundered shirts.”
Connor cast a wry look over Cruz’s informal attire. “High praise, indeed,” he said mockingly, before turning his attention to the information before him. His brow furrowed as he perused the background information the other detective had compiled on Michele Easton. As he read, Cruz summarized it, ticking each item off on his fingers.
“Born twenty-six years ago. She and her mother moved to Philadelphia when Michele was eleven. She graduated high school and went to Penn State, majored in psychology, received her M.A. degree in same. Invited by James H. Ryan, Ph.D., to join Counseling and Psychological Associates two years ago. Pictured in the newspapers occasionally at fundraisers for the homeless. Volunteers at a battered-victims’ shelter weekly. None of the parents of the kids know her, and she’s had no arrests—not even a parking ticket to mar her spotless record. Pure enough for you?”
Connor raised a jaundiced eye. “Nobody’s that pure. So don’t canonize her just yet.” He was less than impressed with her social efforts. He was too familiar with high-society women who enjoyed playing Lady Bountiful. Some of them even dabbled with a career, like Michele Easton. Their highbrow actions couldn’t hide the fact that they had no real feeling for the people they were helping. Their only thrill was the accompanying publicity for their actions.
Connor tapped his index finger against the paper in his hand. There was nothing in it that pointed to a relationship between Miss Easton and any of the missing children, but then, he hadn’t really expected there to be. That would have been too obvious, too easy. Something linked them, though. Of that he was reasonably certain. He could think of no other way to explain her knowledge of the jacket. Unless, of course, he gave credence to her explanation that she had dreamed about it.
His mouth hardened. He didn’t believe in crystal-ball hocus-pocus. There had to be a real explanation for her knowledge. If she wasn’t directly involved in the kidnappings, then she must have learned about the jacket from someone in the department. A leak could be extremely damaging to the case, especially since it had become a political juggernaut for the mayor and his running opponent.
Connor stood up and grabbed his leather jacket, thrusting his arms through the sleeves.
“Was it something I said?” Cruz inquired, watching him with lazy interest.
“I’m going to pay Miss Easton a visit.”
Cruz’s dark eyebrows rose comically. “I thought you said she didn’t want anyone to know she’d been talking to us. I doubt she’s going to be thrilled with you showing up at her place of business.”
“That’s the point,” Connor retorted calmly. “Maybe seeing me there will put enough pressure on her to make her give me more information.”
“You don’t believe her story?”
The look Connor shot his partner would have withered grapes on the vine. “Do you?”
“Well,” explained Cruz loftily, “as you know, I do make it a policy to keep an open mind.” He accompanied his statement with a wicked grin as he added, “Especially with gorgeous blue-eyed brunettes.”
“Gray-eyed,” Connor corrected him unthinkingly.
“So you were paying attention,” Cruz teased as he rose and followed Connor from the small office. “I knew even you couldn’t be completely unmoved by a creature that beautiful.” He clapped Connor on the shoulder. “There’s hope for you yet, m’boy.”
“Unfortunately, there’s none for you,” Connor said dryly. “I assume that report was merely preliminary?”
Cruz nodded. “If you still want me to dig further.”
“I do,” Connor affirmed. “Don’t stop digging until you find something we can use.”
* * *
Michele sat cross-legged on the floor of her office, watching intently. Erica, her four-year-old client, sat next to her in front of a dollhouse, positioning dolls and readjusting them to her satisfaction. When she paused, Michele asked softly, “Can you tell me about the doll family?”
A negative shake of a dark head was her only answer.
Michele waited, but the child remained silent. “The daddy doll is in the car,” Michele observed. “How does the little girl doll feel when daddy leaves?”
A melodious tinkling was her only answer, and Michele sighed frustratedly. The signal to end the session seemed to have come more rapidly than usual, and she had made little headway with the girl.
She lowered her gaze to the dark eyes watching her solemnly. “That’s all for today, Erica. When you come back on Thursday we’ll play with the dolls again. Would you like that?” The small head nodded vigorously.
Michele helped Erica put her coat on, and they opened the door and stepped into the waiting room. The child walked straight to her mother and, after murmuring her goodbye, they left the small room.
Michele watched them go, already busily planning her strategy for the next session. She had turned to return to her office when she noticed Lieutenant Connor McLain leaning against the far wall.
Her breathing stalled inside her chest, and one hand went unconsciously to that area. Surprise kept her momentarily deaf to what her secretary, Julie, was saying to her.
She had hoped that it wouldn’t be necessary to see him again, and he looked totally incongruous in the soft pastel room in his light-colored chinos and brown leather bomber jacket. She noted for the first time that he was barely taller than she was in her high heels. His shoulders were so broad, his persona so intimidating, that he seemed taller.
Her emotional distress the first time they’d met had prevented her from fully registering his fatal impact. He was a compelling man. He wasn’t conventionally handsome; his face was too hard, too unyielding, for that. But he was dangerously attractive, nonetheless. His mouth was chiseled perfection, his full bottom lip unashamedly sensual. The two slashes at the sides of his mouth attested to deep masculine dimples.
Michele studied them bemusedly. She had seen his mouth curve into a derisive curl, but little humor had crossed his face in her presence. His expression was as impassive as granite, and she couldn’t envision this man smiling. She shivered. Detective Lieutenant Connor McLain was dangerously sexy; he would be arrestingly attractive under other circumstances. But with his “cop face” on, he was icily stolid.
