by Ann Macela
She sighed. “I realize that, but I don’t know you. Honestly, why should I even talk to you?”
Before he could speak, a new voice called from the outer office.
“Irenee, are you here?” Tiffany Blake and her mother, Bitsy, breezed into the room and stopped abruptly inside the doorway. Both women gave Tylan the once-over and smiled appreciatively.
“Oh, are we interrupting something?” Bitsy asked in a tone full of innuendo.
Oh, great, what a time for Chicago’s most notorious celebrity darling—and her mother—to show up. Irenee and Tiffany had known each other since grade school, but had never run in the same social circles, and never would. Wishing she could throw a go-away spell at the intruders, Irenee put a smile on her face. “What can I do for you ladies?”
“We need to see you about organizing an extremely important, wonderful, once-in-a-lifetime event for us,” Bitsy answered, never taking her eyes off Tylan.
“I’m sorry,” Irenee said, “but my calendar is full for the next year, and I don’t have the time to discuss taking on any new work at the present time.”
“Oh, Irenee,” Tiffany said, her little high-pitched voice grating on Irenee’s frazzled nerves, “you must, simply must manage our event. There’s no one else in the world who can.” She sauntered in and took a seat like she owned the place.
Tylan cleared his throat. “Excuse us, ladies. If I could speak to you for a moment, Ms. Sabel ...” He hustled Irenee into the outer office and closed the door behind him. “Look, we do have to talk.”
Irenee grabbed his arm and tugged him toward the door into the hall. She wouldn’t put it past Bitsy to put her ear to the door to eavesdrop. On the other hand, the interruption gave her the chance to get Tylan out of her office and to put the man in Fergus’s clutches.
“I agree,” she whispered. “Look, it’s going to take me a while to get rid of the queen and the princess in there. Why don’t you meet me at the HeatherRidge Center in Barrington at five this afternoon. We won’t have these disruptions. Do you know where that is?”
“Yeah, I’ll find it,” he grumbled. Then he glanced at the door to her office and shuddered. “No tricks? You’ll be there?”
“My word on it.” She held out her hand to shake and raised her eyes to his.
He gave her a distrusting look, but locked gazes and took her hand.
She felt the zing clear to her toes.
He seemed startled, too, as their fingers tightened.
They stood unmoving for a long moment, until they both let go at the same time.
He recovered first, opened the door, and said, “Five o’clock.”
“Ask for me at the reception desk.”
He nodded and left.
Irenee took a long, deep breath while she watched the door close. Wooooeeeee. What was that? She’d never had such a reaction to a man before. Her insides were practically tingling, and a sliver of heat rolled up and down her backbone to settle in her middle.
She probably would have stood there longer, replaying their conversation, remembering his eyes—and the look in them. Unfortunately, the sound of Tiffany’s high-pitched giggle penetrated the walls. She turned around to face her office and squared her shoulders. Now to get rid of the Blakes. No way was she going to get involved in their celebrity shenanigans.
Just before she opened her office door, she paused to rub her slightly aching, slightly itching breastbone. Even her body was repulsed by the idea of dealing with them.
She plastered a professional smile on her face, marched into her office, and sat behind her desk. “What’s going on, Tiffany?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
At five minutes to five, Jim climbed out of his car and looked around at the buildings and grounds of the HeatherRidge Center. In appearance, the center matched corporate establishments for retreats, training, and conferences, and it was nestled in an area of subdivisions with high-dollar homes. In their parklike setting, none of the contemporary-style buildings were higher than five stories, and the landscaping was immaculate, the garden areas filled with colorful flowers, large trees, and nice places to sit.
Except...
He didn’t know exactly what went on at the center. Who was trained? In what? Who met? For what purposes? He couldn’t find a corporate or institutional connection.
Searching the Internet yielded not even a mention. The place had no Web site. Neither did the HeatherRidge on the fringe of the Loop. He’d called both places—at least they were in the phone book—to see about reserving a room or holding a meeting. The reservations clerk informed him that all of the buildings under the HeatherRidge banner were only open to members, not to the general public, and therefore not available for rental.
Jim actually went over to the nearby one, an old, gracious, hotel-and-condo landmark occupying a complete block and dating back to the nineteenth century, where the concierge at the front desk had likewise turned him away. When Jim inquired how one became a member, the guardian looked down his nose and said, “Only by referral.”
The suburban center also guarded its exclusivity carefully, evidenced by the lack of an identifying sign and the presence of security at the gated entrance. The guard did not simply wave him through, but actually checked by phone to be sure he was legit. For all their fancy filigree ironwork, the gates, which swung open silently, looked like high-end security barriers. Jim had a faint impression they and the serious fence around the property were glowing—surely only the effect of the bright sun.
What was with this “glowing” business, anyway? First in Finster’s study and now here. Did he need to have his eyes checked?
He would have liked to take a stroll to check out the place. Because there was no visible parking lot, however, he had no choice except to follow the tree-lined drive to the front door. A valet appeared immediately to give him a ticket and drive his car away, around a hedge to who knew where—probably underground.
Two men and a woman, dressed in casual business attire, came out of the front door, and another valet materialized to go after their car. The threesome looked at him and smiled vaguely. He nodded back as he walked past to enter the building.
Once inside the thick glass door, Jim stopped again. The three-story open atrium space looked like every other hotel or conference center, with seating areas, trees and flowers in large tubs, and a fountain in the middle. The building’s wings, presumably with living quarters, rose another two stories on each side. A man behind the reception desk to the right was watching him expectantly, so he walked over.
“May I help you, sir?”
“I’m here to see Irenee Sabel,” he answered.
“One moment, please.” The desk clerk picked up a phone, punched some numbers, and said, “Your guest has arrived ... Immediately” He put down the phone and smiled at Jim. “Someone will be right here to escort you.”
Interesting—they wouldn’t let him wander on his own. Jim thanked him and turned away to walk over to the fountain. The gold, white, and black koi that swam in its pool immediately flocked to him with their mouths open. He shook his head at them. “Sorry, fellas, no food.”
When he walked farther into the space, he could see a restaurant entrance on the back right wall and an exit to an outdoor terrace on the left. A couple of small groups were talking at tables strung along the rear wall while a waiter served drinks.
Everything looked excessively normal.
Except ... something was definitely in the air—or more accurately in his hunch mechanism. His antennae definitely shivered or wiggled. These particular feelings usually preceded important discoveries, ended in revelations solving a case, or warned of an imminent threat. He wasn’t so sure what they meant this time, however—discovery or danger.
He still hadn’t told his boss or fellow agents about Irenee Sabel. Back in the office when he’d actually started to, his antennae had shimmied like a hurricane was blowing through them—an alarm that had saved his life too many times to discount.
So he said he was only pursuing a slim lead from the party. It was easy to rationalize his decision—he wanted to find out details, and he considered her nothing more than a possible source of info. He’d play his hunch out first and deal with repercussions later.
Within thirty seconds, a young man in a blue blazer with a gold-and-silver HR embroidered on the chest pocket showed up and led him to an elevator on the left side.
On the way up, Jim wondered if she’d actually be there. He wouldn’t be happy if she wasn’t. She’d given her word. And looked at him with those dark brown eyes promising her agreement. And shook his hand—rattling him to the core with one simple touch.
She was definitely intriguing. No other woman laughed at his intimidation tactics as if she wasn’t afraid of him one little bit. If he hadn’t been in the middle of the biggest case in his life and she wasn’t involved in a yet-to-be-determined fashion, he’d really want to know her better. Much better. See if her redhead complexion was as creamy all over her body.
As the elevator bell dinged and the door opened, he told his body to relax. It didn’t pay much attention. Instead, the place right under his breastbone practically quivered with anticipation. What was the woman doing to him? He hadn’t felt this excited on his first date.
They exited on the third floor and walked along the corridor to the end, where his escort knocked on the last door on the right.
It was opened immediately by a big man with a white beard and mane of hair. He looked like he’d be right at home playing Santa, but his shrewd gray gaze warned Jim to watch his step.
“Welcome, Mr. Tylan,” he boomed. “I’m Fergus Whipple.”
Not at all what Jim had expected. Where was Irenee Sabel?
Whipple held out his hand, and Jim shook it automatically The man had to be at least six-foot-five and didn’t have an ounce of fat on him, just solid muscle. It was anybody’s guess how old he was—fifty, sixty, even seventy? No matter his age, he wouldn’t be easy to take down. His conclusion wasn’t a hunch on Jim’s part, only his usual automatic assessment and police experience talking.
Jim followed his host into a living room with colorful, comfortable furniture and serious artwork on the walls. Filmy drapes were pulled across the big windows to mute the brightness outside.
There she was, sitting in an easy chair, with her hands clasped in front of her and her dark red hair shining like a beacon—danger or something else? She regarded him soberly, seriously. She didn’t smile or seem apprehensive. He nodded, and she returned the greeting.
Jim concentrated so much on the woman he didn’t notice the man on the couch next to her chair until he stood. Damn, what was the matter with him? He quickly glanced around the room to make sure he hadn’t missed someone else before turning his attention to the new guy. This one was about six feet, wiry rather than solid, with iron gray hair and brown eyes like Irenee’s.
“Hugh Sabel,” the man said.
“Jim Tylan.” He recalled the info on her family and shook hands with her father. He hadn’t expected either man, but maybe having more people would elicit more info. He used the idea to squelch the little pang of disappointment hitting his middle.
“Have a seat, Mr. Tylan.” Whipple, waved him to the couch and took the other chair, a tall wingback.
Jim sat on the opposite end from Hugh Sabel. Three pairs of eyes were aimed at him. Whipple’s gray ones almost twinkled, Sabel’s were calculating, and Irenee’s guarded. He’d better take control of the gathering, or he’d never get his questions answered.
Before he could open his mouth, however, Whipple said, “Mr. Tylan, I’m sure you’re curious about what went on in Alton Finster’s house on Saturday night. We’re also curious. If you don’t mind, I’d rather we start with our questions. You have my word we’ll get to yours. That okay with you?”
No, it wasn’t really. Sometimes, however, questions told him more than answers, so Jim mentally told his inner hunch to stay alert, and said, “I’ll go along for the time being.”
“Good man,” Whipple, nodded approvingly. “You’re aware Alton Finster is in the hospital today, correct? He collapsed sometime in the early morning hours Sunday, and his cousin, Bruce Ubell, found him?”
“Yes,” Jim answered. It had been on the morning news, so no surprise the trio knew it also.
“Saturday night, at the gala, you picked the lock and entered Finster’s private study, from what Irenee tells us.”
“Yes.”
“Then you searched the wall safe and didn’t find what you were looking for. When you turned around, you saw her in the corner. Am I correct?”
“Yes.” So far, nothing new.
“When you noticed her, what did she look like? How did she appear? What was the light like around her? Or was there light at all? Be as accurate as you can, please.”
Jim blinked. This he hadn’t expected. However, he couldn’t think of a reason not to tell them what he saw—only he wouldn’t mention his hunch someone was watching him. “I closed the portrait and was wondering what other hiding place Finster might have in the room. I turned around, and there she was, crouching in the corner.”
“How was the light shining on her?”
“The only lamps were dim ones above the portrait and on the desk.” He paused, replaying the moment in his mind. “The light wasn’t exactly shining on her. I don’t remember a reflection like off jewelry or shiny clothing. The corner was almost smoky or foggy. It was weird, though, because the stuff seemed ‘contained’ somehow. You know, like when fog or smoke swirls inside a glass, and you can see through it but still see it at the same time. It gave the impression of a halo around her.”
Whipple nodded, said in a low voice, “Go on.”
Jim looked straight at Irenee and locked gazes. “She stood up, and I walked around the desk to her. When I got about two feet away, the fog vanished. So did the halo. When I looked down, the carpet glowed around the edges, and when she flipped it back, so did the safe in the floor. We both knelt by it, she did something with her hands, and the glow disappeared. She opened the safe.”
It took him a few seconds to break the eye contact with Irenee. For some reason, he didn’t want to look at the men—who could blame him with her in the room? He turned to Whipple. “That what you wanted?”
“Did the glow have colors?” Sabel asked.
He had to think about his answer for a few seconds as he visualized the study. “Yeah, the one around her was sort of dark blue and the one on the safe was reddish. Neither was bright.”
“Only a couple of other questions,” Whipple said. “Did you see this glow elsewhere in the house? In the private areas, for instance?”
“No. I didn’t go into any of those except the study. The wall safe wasn’t shining either.”
Whipple waved a hand toward the rest of the room. “What do you see glowing here?”
Jim frowned. Was the old guy a nutcase? To humor the man, he glanced around, and lo and behold ... He pointed. “Yeah, the little dish on the coffee table, and the painting on the wall, and that tall stick with the glass sphere on top in the umbrella stand by the door.”
Whipple chuckled. “Oh, I had forgotten about my staff. Very interesting. All right, Mr. Tylan, let’s try something else. Look at Irenee. What do you see?”
He looked. “Only her.”
“Irenee?”
Jim almost jumped when a shining bubble appeared around her. How? He could have sworn she didn’t move a muscle. Did one of the men flip a switch? No shadows gave away the position of a light source, however. “She’s glowing, and there’s a yellow shimmer around her.”
“Light yellow or dark yellow?” Whipple asked, his voice soft and low.
“Light.”
“Next, Irenee.”
“Damn. Now it’s blue.” This was getting crazier and crazier.
“The real test, Irenee. Full strength.”
“Whoa.” Jim drew back, then leaned forward. He knew his eyes were bugging ou
t. “The smoke or fog or whatever the hell it is just appeared.”
“You can see her through it.” Sabel made it a statement, not a question.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll try to make it stronger,” Irenee said, a very irritated expression on her face.
“The fog got thicker, and it’s dark blue, and the light seems to ...” Jim’s voice petered out when he realized what he was describing.
“Seems to what, Mr. Tylan?” Fergus said softly.
“It seems to bend around her.” He stood up, took a step closer to her, and studied the phenomenon. Reaching out an arm, he waved his hand through the edge. Nothing. Not cold or warm. The smoke didn’t move with the shifting air currents either, as it would if it was real.
He stepped back and looked around. No fog machine or mechanical contraption or light source accounted for it. Sweeping back his coat to put his hands on his hips, he looked from one to the other of the threesome. “All right, what’s going on here? Cut the crap, and tell me now.”
Whipple looked at the others. Sabel shrugged, and Irenee winced. The fog dissipated.
“Sit down, Mr. Tylan, and we’ll explain,” Whipple said. “Please hear us out before you come to any conclusions. We usually don’t share our secrets with outsiders, and we tell our story with some trepidations. Because you are with a federal law enforcement agency, we can’t ask you to keep the information confidential. We can only hope for your discretion if you choose to share it with your superiors.”
Jim stared at the big man. They knew he was an agent. He’d ask later how they discovered it. As for what they would tell him? His hunch said he absolutely had to know. He sat down and rolled his shoulders to relax them. “I can live with that.”
“Hugh, why don’t you begin?” Whipple said and leaned back in his chair, his elbows on the armrests and his fingers steepled under his chin. Under his bushy eyebrows, his eyes were aimed at Jim, and he seemed incongruously amused.
Cognizant of the big man’s scrutiny and studiously ignoring it, Jim turned to Sabel.
