by Debra Dixon
As she undid the ribbon and fished a deck of tarot cards from the silk, she asked, “I hope you don’t mind if I shuffle while we talk? The cards help me concentrate.”
He shrugged. Anything was better than another incense assault.
“Good,” she said. “Now, ask me your questions about this psychic. What has she done to draw the hunter?”
“Excuse me?”
“You pursue her.” Lillian casually flipped a couple of cards onto the table in an east-west arrangement, and shuffled again. “Doesn’t that make you a hunter?”
Sully glanced at the cards, noticing the gilded edges and rich detail. These weren’t mass-produced like the others he’d seen today. No, like the woman who handled them, they looked old and felt real. That bothered him. She was too good at probing weak spots.
Ignoring her question, Sully verified her personal information and background before he finally asked, “Do you practice your … art under any other pseudonyms?”
“Like Madame Evangeline?” She smiled. “Georgia told me. No, I don’t.”
“Have you ever used the name?”
“No.”
She added two more cards to complete the compass points. This time raising her eyebrow in concern as the cards fell. Sully didn’t take the bait, although she wiggled the hook better than most of the psychics he’d visited that day. Instead he asked, “Do you know anyone in the business who goes by that name?”
“No.”
“Maybe someone retired or even an amateur who dabbles in the occult?”
“No.” She placed one card in the center of the others and set the deck aside. Looking him in the eye, she asked, “Have you considered the possibility that Madame Evangeline doesn’t exist on the physical plane?”
Sully’s lips twitched, and he had to contemplate the toe of his cowboy boots. “Can’t say that I have. She did use the telephone to contact us.”
“Perhaps she called from the spirit world. I could try and reach her.”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary just yet, but I appreciate the offer and your time.”
Sully got up to leave. He’d had all the New Age babble he could take for one day. Even when they looked normal, they were living in an alternate universe. At least this one hadn’t warned him in hushed, dramatic tones about his dark “aura.” Now that was a psychic news flash.
“You never did say what this psychic wanted, Detective.”
Since his chief wanted Phillip Munro’s name kept out of the interviews, Sully said, “She thinks someone might be in danger. We’re just trying to check it out, but she didn’t leave her phone number last night.” He pulled a business card out of his wallet. “If you remember anything, give me a call.”
Lillian took the card. As he turned away she whispered, “It won’t help.”
“Excuse me?” Sully wheeled back around.
“Running from the past that consumes you.”
Raising a skeptical brow, he asked, “Is this the part where you talk about my dark aura?”
Lillian shook her head with a tolerant smile. “Georgia sees auras, not me.”
“Oh? And what do you see?”
“The occasional angel.” She paused a half beat as if debating with herself. Then she added, “Yours is weeping.”
Jessica’s doubts about coming to Jericho Island multiplied the moment she pulled the rental car into the cul-de-sac. Who called the police? She told Iris to sit tight, say nothing, and wait for her arrival. So what the hell had gone wrong?
“Everything obviously.”
She sighed as she looked at the bubble light on the dash of the unmarked police car parked in front of the high-security wall around Munro’s beach house. Slowing, she turned into an adjacent driveway and reversed directions. The next block over, she pulled to the side. Now what? If Phil Munro was truly missing as Iris claimed, the last thing she needed was the involvement of bumbling backwater cops.
Jessica swore softly. Leaning back against the headrest, she considered going home to Utopia. She would have except for three things: The little black book, the damned file, and a scared little girl who needed her. No one had needed Jessica in a long time. No one had believed in Jessica for a long time. She couldn’t walk away.
Resigned, Jessica picked up the mobile phone she’d gotten when she rented the sedan. The piece of paper with Iris’s phone number and address was on the passenger seat, sandwiched between her purse and the map. She checked the number and dialed.
Before the phone could ring a second time, it was snatched up. “The Munro residence!”
“Iris?”
“Aunt Jessica! A policeman just got here. He wants to talk to Daddy. Are you lost again?”
Aunt Jessica? Are you lost again? Iris had struck her as many things during the phone call last night, but stupid was not one of them.
“Yes, honey. I’m on—” Jessica grabbed for the map, which was neatly folded to this section of the island, and said the first street name she could make out. “I’m on Chandler. How far away is that?”
“Five minutes.” Iris gave her directions, which Jessica pretended to be writing down, and the code to the gate. Then the girl whispered a quick good-bye and broke the connection.
Jessica pulled the phone away from her ear and whispered, “Congratulations, Jessie … you’re an aunt.”
It was supposed to be a joke, but it didn’t come out that way. Her voice caught in the middle. Those were words she had never expected to hear. Or deserved to hear.
As Iris Munro hung up the phone, Sully decided the setting around her—pastel colors and expensive bleached wood—was the perfect complement for a drop-dead blonde. Little Iris was definitely going to be one of those. Right now she was Goldilocks with Elizabeth Taylor eyes that were much too serious. She wore short faded overalls and a green T-shirt. Only one of the straps was fastened. He wasn’t sure if it was a statement or an omission.
“Well, that was my aunt,” Iris explained unnecessarily as she fell gracefully back into the profusion of cushions on the white sofa. Her feet, encased in clunky combat boots, looked too big for the rest of her. “I told you she was coming. She’ll be here soon. You can wait if you want.”
“Thanks.”
Iris brightened suddenly. “Unless you want to leave your card? I can have her call you tomorrow.”
“That’s okay. I think I’ll wait.”
Iris shrugged. “Whatever.”
Sully fought laughter. The kid already had the I’m-a-teenager-I-could-care-less look nailed.
Taking a seat in one of the pale-blue-and-white-striped chairs across from the couch, Sully loosened his tie. Thank God the aunt was on her way. His questions would only have alarmed Phil Munro’s daughter. She might talk tough, but she was still a little girl. The aunt would be better. It had been one helluva day, and he was ready for it to be over.
More than ready.
If Munro had returned any of his calls, Sully would have closed the case, cursed his new chief for sending him on a wild-goose chase, and happily gone home to his wood shop. Turning a few more spindles for his chair backs was preferable to sitting here with the sick feeling he’d stumbled into bad news. Yessiree, buddy. One brief phone conversation with Munro, and he could have been knee-deep in sawdust right now instead of knee-deep in suspicion.
Sully tugged his fingers through his hair, smiled at the kid and hoped his instincts were wrong for once. The odds were against it. Munro couldn’t be reached, and no one knew where he was—not his secretary, his vice president, his pilot, or his daughter. Wherever the man was, he wasn’t on a scheduled business trip or a family vacation. The man’s associates agreed it wasn’t unusual for Munro to disappear for a few days, but Sully didn’t like coincidences. Not even ones as farfetched as a psychic warning about an incommunicado executive.
Iris heard the gate buzzer before he did and bounced off the couch. “She’s here!”
Although Sully had a good view of the foyer, he stood
up and moved closer. The butler, who had been hovering in the hallway, halted Iris with a hand on her arm and went to let in the aunt. He checked the peephole first and then cracked the door. Sully figured he was more bodyguard than butler.
“Aunt Jessica!” Iris went flying toward her, barreling into her and sending the woman back a step. “I’m so glad you’re going to stay while Daddy’s gone!”
Sully didn’t move. Other than to close his mouth.
He had imagined a blonde. He had expected pretty. Rich women could usually manage pretty, and he could usually manage them. He’d had plenty of practice; Houston had more than its share of rich, attractive women who liked to flirt with danger.
So much for expectations.
Aunt Jessica was a sensual brunette whose genetic makeup could just as easily have been Italian as Spanish. The woman wore simple and very short khaki shorts, a red silk T-shirt, and running shoes. Her legs were a shade longer than the Texas legal limit and had probably caused more than one bar brawl—assuming she frequented bars.
Instinct told Sully she’d seen the inside of one or two. She didn’t have the look of an ivory tower princess. This was a woman who could call a spade a spade and bring a man to his knees. In fact, most men would be perfectly happy to hit their knees in front of that body. Sully wondered how many already had.
Nothing about her dovetailed with his expectations of Phil Munro’s sister. And then there was the startling white streak in her long dark hair, and the way she reacted to her niece. She patted the girl awkwardly on the shoulders as if unsure of how to hug the kid. Finally she set Iris away and turned to the butler. “Would you get my bags out of the car?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Sully’s eyebrow rose at the sarcasm in the man’s tone. He wasn’t certain if the distaste was for the woman or for the task. Iris volunteered to help with the bags, and suddenly they were left alone. When Aunt Jessica looked at him for the first time, Sully added dangerous to the list of things he hadn’t expected.
Trouble had arrived in Jericho.
TWO
What the hell have you gotten yourself into? Jessica asked herself as she stared into the most unforgiving pair of blue eyes she’d ever seen. The man didn’t like her, and he didn’t even know her. Smart man, she decided.
As she returned his gaze her sixth sense about danger prodded insistently. Be very careful with this one, Jessie. This was no ordinary small-town cop. He’d assessed her too quickly, too subtly. Too completely. She hadn’t been taken apart like that in a long time.
Something about him made her feel pressured and on edge—like he had all the answers, and it was time for a pop quiz. Fortunately for Jessica, she’d never met a pop quiz she couldn’t ace. She was very good at deflection.
Forcing herself forward, she extended her hand. “Jessica Daniels. And you are?”
He shook her hand, letting the gesture linger a second too long before he pulled a badge out of the hip pocket of his jeans. “Detective Sullivan Kincaid.”
As he said his name, Kincaid’s deep, confident voice stroked her body as surely as a physical touch. Like the handshake, his words lingered. They were almost a challenge, tossed out in the same effortless motion that he used to flip open his identification. After a cursory glance at the badge, she took her time inventorying the rest of him—from the askew tie and rolled-up shirtsleeves, all the way down to the well-worn jeans and expensive cowboy boots. She hated to admit it, but the man wore an “attitude” well. And he knew it. He probably counted on it.
Irrationally she felt the need to prick his ego. Or maybe it was the need to establish ground rules and put a little distance between them before Mother Nature’s pheromone war got out of hand. The only smart decision was to send the man merrily on his way as quickly as possible.
“Detective Kincaid, it’s a good thing you carry that badge.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because otherwise I might have written you off as a down-on-his-luck cowboy who’d stolen himself a fancy pair of boots.”
“Well, Miss—” He paused, questioning her marital status.
When she nodded, he gave her a smile of approval, obviously satisfied with her answer. Different circumstances, a different time … and that smile might have been the one to turn her inside out. But, as usual, the circumstances were bad and the timing rotten. Not to mention the fact that the man’s smile didn’t quite make it to his eyes.
“Well, Miss Daniels,” he continued, “you should never believe what you see. For instance, Iris doesn’t look a thing like you, but you’re still related.”
“Well, there you go,” she confessed. “I’m not really her aunt. Just a close friend of the family. Phil’s not in any trouble is he? Nothing’s happened?”
“He hasn’t done anything illegal, but I would like to talk to him all the same.”
Behind them Iris and the butler struggled in with the bags and deposited them in the foyer with relieved sighs. Iris was the most vocal, collapsing on a specially designed metal sample case. “Jeez, Aunt Jessica, you sure don’t travel light. How long are you planning on staying?”
Jessica wanted to strangle Iris for bringing up a time frame. Instead she shot the girl a warning look and said, “Only until your dad gets back, sweetie.”
“When will that be?” the detective asked.
Just as soon as I find him.
Since Kincaid wouldn’t appreciate the truth, she hedged, “He didn’t say when he’d be back, but I’m sure he’ll be checking in. Now that I’m here, if you’d like to leave a message, I could give it to him.”
Those incredible eyes of his called her a liar. Then he flicked a pointed glance at the girl. “Could I speak with you privately?”
“Oh, no!” Iris said anxiously as she jumped up and came to Jessica’s side. Somehow the girl’s hand wound up in hers. “Is something really wrong?”
Startled by the unsolicited gesture of trust, Jessica wasn’t certain what to do. Iris’s palm was warm and a little damp. It felt so right and so odd nestled inside her larger hand, like she was the last line of defense between this kid and the big bad world. Right now, the big bad world had narrowed to a tall, suspicious detective with a killer smile and an agenda to go with it.
“No. There isn’t anything wrong,” Jessica said, meeting Kincaid’s gaze and daring him to say differently.
He didn’t. Not with words, but his eyes said plenty before he turned to Iris. “I need to get a few answers from your dad, and I thought he might have mentioned the information to your aunt. So I want to talk to her.”
“Oh.”
“Iris, why don’t you go to your room? I’ll take care of this.” Jessica pushed her back toward the bags, wondering what a real aunt would tell her to do. Didn’t mothers and caretakers constantly remind kids to do things? Finally, she called out, “Finish your homework.”
Three sets of eyes swiveled toward her. The butler was smug, Kincaid curious, and Iris appalled. Not good, thought Jessica as she tried to figure out her mistake.
Iris put her out of her misery. “Homework? I don’t think so. It’s June.”
“Oh. Oh. Summer!” Jessica nodded, the light dawning. “But don’t you have summer reading or something?”
“I’ve done it.” When Jessica opened her mouth to try again, Iris gently shook her head and started for the stairs in the hallway. “Done the reports, and Rosa helped me clean my room this morning before her mother got sick. But I’ll leave anyway so you can talk about stuff you don’t want me to hear.” With that parting shot Iris disappeared upstairs.
Jessica took a second to regroup as Kincaid continued to stare patiently at her. He didn’t undress her with his eyes, which most men seemed to get around to eventually—usually sooner rather than later. No, he did something far worse. Something that set off all her alarms. It was as if he was deciding how to take her apart psychologically. The beginning of a tingle crept up her spine.
Suddenly she didn’t want
to be alone with him or be the recipient of his undivided attention. There were too many questions she couldn’t or didn’t want to answer. There was too much unsettling energy between them. So Jessica snagged the butler’s arm as he turned to leave the room.
“I’m sure you’ll want to ask—” She stumbled as she realized she had no idea what the butler’s name was. “—both of us some questions.”
“Now that’s what I like—a woman who knows what I want.” Kincaid gestured them both toward the sofa and took a chair.
Jessica noticed the way he planted his feet wide and leaned toward them, his elbows resting on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees. The dark, dangerous man was gone, replaced with a good ol’ boy doing his job and taking them into his confidence. Jessica wasn’t fooled. No matter how drastically he altered his expression, his posture, and his voice, he couldn’t mask those eyes, the restlessness that wanted an excuse to strike.
“Miss Daniels, I waited to say anything until you got here because I didn’t want to upset the girl,” Kincaid told them, “but yesterday we got a tip suggesting Munro might be in some danger. It’s very likely a crank call.…”
Like hell, Jessica snapped silently. Her mind raced with possibilities as Kincaid let the silence spin out, subtly encouraging them to fill the quiet with speculation and unguarded words. Neither she nor the butler fell into the trap, and her opinion of Phil’s employee went up a notch. Maybe that sprinkling of gray in his hair had been earned the old-fashioned way—through experience. Or maybe he was more than a butler.
Finally Kincaid continued, “All I want to do is verify Munro’s whereabouts and inform him of our concerns. Standard procedure really.”
Very slick presentation, Jessica thought. Except for the eyes; always the eyes. They cut too sharply into the people around him, soaked in every detail as he looked for anything and everything. Kincaid was beyond suspicious, she realized unhappily; he was working on a hunch. She could feel it.
