“And then?”
“I texted him that the information he’d been waiting for had arrived. He arranged for me to meet him right away.”
“Tell us about that,” Zach said.
“Mr. King texted that I should go to the elevator. He would text when he was getting on and I was to hit the call button. His car would stop at my floor, I’d get on and hand him the name as he got off. I did that.”
“But that’s not the end of the story, is it?” She went white and Micki pushed harder. “You went back, didn’t you? Instead of returning to the tenth floor, you rode up to thirty-two, then back down to twenty-one. Why?”
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.
“You got off on twenty-one and went to King’s apartment. The door was open and you went inside. What did you do in there, Cherie? What did you see?”
“He was on the porch. The sliding doors were open and the cold wind was blowing the drapes. And he was . . . flailing his arms. Around his head. Like he was, I don’t know, batting at something.”
She paused, visibly struggling to collect herself enough to continue. “I called his name and rushed forward to help, but he told me to get out. That he didn’t want me there. His face was . . . twisted. With rage or . . . I don’t know. I was afraid, so I left.”
She brought her hands to her face and began to sob. “I’m sorry. I never thought he was going to kill himself! I wouldn’t have left. I promise I wouldn’t have!”
Micki looked at Zach. He inclined his head slightly, indicating that her words matched what he’d picked up from her when he held her hand.
“I have to ask you one more question, Ms. Smith. Why didn’t you go home and to bed? Why go back to his apartment?”
“I wanted to tell him something.”
“What?” Zach asked.
“That I quit. That I wouldn’t be his spy anymore.”
Chapter Ten
8:55 A.M.
Zach watched Cherie Smith walk away. “By the way, Smith was telling the truth about all of it. Everything she said jibed with what I picked up.”
Micki nodded. “Nichols is waiting for our update. No time like the present.” They started toward the major’s office. “Are we in agreement on our assessment of what happened?”
“That King killed himself?” He frowned. “We don’t have anything else. Even if I hadn’t screwed up by not handling the watch, Smith was there, she saw him and saw that he was alone.”
“Behaving bizarrely, according to Smith’s description.” Micki paused in thought. “What’s still bugging me is the why. Why then? That moment? He was the superstar that night. It doesn’t make sense.” Micki looked at him, held his gaze. “I have to ask. Could we be dealing with a Dark Bearer?”
Zach had wondered the same thing. But tracking Dark Bearer energy was his most outstanding ability, and he’d picked up none. Nada. “I would have felt its energy. Hell, it probably would have knocked me on my ass.”
His phone went off. He saw it was his mother. He motioned to Mick to hold a second, and answered. “Arianna, hey. What’s up?”
“I was hoping we could get together. There’s something I wanted to discuss with you.”
He frowned slightly and glanced at Mick. “Can I call you back on that? Mick and I are on our way in to see the Major. We’re working the King investigation. I’m not sure when I’ll have a break.”
“Sure,” she said. “No problem. I’ll talk to you then.”
Zach ended the call, and Mick shot him a questioning look. “What?” he asked.
“Still can’t call her mom, huh?”
He couldn’t. He’d tried. He wanted to feel a mother-son connection between them, and he’d always thought he would, should he ever find her. It bothered him that he didn’t. “Nope.”
“You want to talk about it?”
Talk about his mother showing back up in his life after giving him up for adoption almost thirty years ago, and how that did or did not make him feel? Hell, no.
“Nope.” He shrugged. “I already have someone I call mom.”
“Right.”
The single word was her way of calling him on his bullshit. He decided to let her have it, and refocused on the investigation. “King’s daughters are not going to take this well. Especially Mercedes. She comes off as tough as nails, but was a total Daddy’s girl. She’s devastated.”
“What about Porsche?”
“Not nearly as close to Daddy. Not that close to her sister either, finds her too harsh. And she’s worried her husband’s having an affair.”
“With good reason, it turns out.”
“Here’s something both sisters agree on. They believed Natalie killed their father. And not just metaphorically.”
“Both of them?”
“Yeah. One hundred percent.”
“They know that’s impossible, right?” Her brow furrowed. “At the moment King leapt from the rail, his wife was twenty floors below, mingling with a ballroom full of witnesses.”
“They’re convinced she pulled it off somehow.”
“She’d have to have been in two places at the same time. Or be two different people—and invisible to video cameras.”
“And an eye witness.” He thought a moment. “People see what they want to see, don’t they? They believe what they want to believe, no matter the facts. Like what the widow King said, the heart wants what the heart wants.”
“Or in the case of the King sisters, what the heart hates.”
“You got that right.” He fell silent a moment, recalling what he’d picked up from the sisters. “They really despise her. Almost on a cellular level. The way one might respond to a snake or spider.”
“She makes their skin crawl? That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, that’s what I picked up.” He glanced at her, taking in her pensive expression. “You ever had someone affect you that way, Mick?”
For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she inclined her head. “My Uncle Beau. There have been others, including the suspect yesterday, but he springs to my mind first.”
“Why’s that, Mick?”
Her expression didn’t change. He longed to know the rest of the story. He could cheat, position himself to read her mind. Duck in, duck out, she wouldn’t even know. But he’d know. And he’d promised he’d never cross that line again.
“He was a creepy son-of-a-bitch,” she said finally. “That’s why.”
“He’s dead?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“You referred to him in past tense, that’s all.”
“That’s what he is to me, past tense.”
“You want to talk about it?” he asked, turning her question from a moment ago back on her.
She grinned. “Nope.”
Zach wanted to push. He knew to leave it alone. “Dropping it for now, partner.”
Chapter Eleven
10:30 P.M.
Micki arrived home. Twenty-four hours without a break; she was toast. She’d had little to eat, no sleep, and way too much caffeine. She’d spent the drive home fantasizing about the moment her head hit the pillow.
Major Nichols had wanted them to follow up on every aspect of the nanny’s story. And rightly so—crossing every “t” and dotting every “i” equaled good police work. They’d checked in with the criminologists; they had, indeed, collected a slip of paper with the name Brianna Heron written on it. From there they’d interviewed all parties involved.
Smith’s story checked out.
Micki flipped off the porch light, dead-bolted the door, and made her way through the darkened living room, heading toward the kitchen and a peanut butter sandwich.
Angel had left the light above the sink burning. That was the habit they had fallen into—first to bed left the porch light and sink light on, last one turned them off.
Micki thought of the nineteen-year-old and felt a pinch of sympathy. Angel had been through so much in the past year, it was a wonde
r she was doing as well as she was.
If being the walking wounded could be categorized as doing well.
Micki reached the kitchen, shrugged out of her jacket and hung it over a chair. She longed to remove her shoulder holster, but thought better of it. As tired as she was, she couldn’t trust herself not to forget and leave it behind, the kind of mistake a cop could die regretting.
She assembled the sandwich using whole wheat bread—Zach’s influence, she acknowledged, making a face—and super-chunky peanut butter, then poured herself a glass of milk. Whole milk, thank you very much.
A hot shower, she thought, taking a bite of the sandwich. Followed by bed. And sleep, beautiful, beautiful sleep.
Micki carried the plate and glass to the table, another of Hank’s hand-me-downs. She set them both on the scarred top, gaze going to the sketchbook at its center. Angel had left it behind, a highly unusual action for her young friend. Angel rarely let it out of her sight; she was intensely private about her drawings. To Angel, the sketches were like diary entries, she commemorated her days with images instead of words, recording her thoughts, feelings, and dreams.
And sometimes those dreams were precognitive.
“You can look if you like.”
Micki glanced over her shoulder. Angel stood in the doorway, wearing over-sized dorm pants and a T-shirt, eyes red and puffy.
She’d been crying. Again.
“I wasn’t going to without your permission.”
“You have it.” She crossed to the refrigerator and poured herself a glass of milk. “I’m not going to keep any secrets from you, not anymore.”
“I appreciate that a lot.” Micki motioned to the chair across the table from her. “Come and keep me company.”
Angel shuffled over and sat, gaze going to Micki’s plate and the half sandwich on it.
Micki nudged the plate in Angel’s direction. “Go ahead.”
“But you need to eat, too.”
“Let’s eat together.”
Angel dug in, and without asking her if she’d want more, Micki stood and made another sandwich for them both. They devoured them quickly and in silence.
When Micki had drained the last of her milk, she broke the silence. “No secrets, right?” When Angel nodded, Micki went on, “Why were you crying?”
“You know why.”
Seth. He’d both betrayed her and broken her heart. “I know it hurts.”
“Do you?” Angel looked away, then back, expression remorseful. “Sorry. I know you do.” She fell silent, then gestured to the sketchbook. “Please, I want you to.”
Micki slid the spiral book over, flipped it open. As always, her breath caught at Angel’s talent. At the raw power in her drawing hand—even in an unfinished sketch like this one.
It was of Seth, incomplete except for his mesmerizing gaze. The gaze, his beautiful eyes, were rendered with so much detail it felt as if he was peering into her soul.
She could only imagine how Angel had felt when she’d drawn them.
Micki flipped a page. Another drawing of Seth. This one dreamy. Another page, another drawing of him. Then another.
And another.
A knot of tears gathered in her throat. “Aww, hell, Angel. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”
It wasn’t, obviously. “You want to talk about it?”
“I thought he loved me,” she said it softly, not meeting Micki’s eyes. “I thought he’d be back for me.”
Three months. That’s how long it had been since that horrific day and the last time she’d seen him.
Micki searched for the right words. When they wouldn’t come, she settled for her own—clumsy but honest. “Maybe his not coming back is his way of loving you? Maybe he knows you’re better off without him, so he’s staying away?”
“But I’m not better off without him.”
In that, she and Angel disagreed. She reached out her hand to Angel’s. “You’re safer without him. You know that’s true.”
Angel was a powerful mixed being, part Lightkeeper and part Dark Bearer, with abilities useful to both sides battling for dominance over life on earth.
“They wanted to use you for their purposes, Angel. They wanted to turn you into something you’re not.”
“Not Seth,” she said fiercely. “He saved me. He laid his life on the line to protect me.”
“Yes,” Micki said softly, carefully. “But first he tricked, lied to and used you.”
“He wasn’t all bad.” She balled her hands into fists. “He wasn’t.”
“I know.” Micki covered one of her clenched hands with one of her own. “I know you loved him—”
“Love him,” she corrected. “I still love him.”
“It hurts to hear, but you’re better off without him, Angel.”
“How can you say that?” She yanked her hand away. “How do you know that?”
“Because of what he tried to do. What he tried to turn you into—” What could she say? Into a monster? An agent of evil? She couldn’t say either of those things, so said instead, “He wanted to bring out the worst in you.”
“The worst in me? You mean my dark side.”
Micki heard the bitterness in her voice, saw the tears sparkling in her eyes. How did you reconcile learning that a powerful darkness lived within you? A darkness you didn’t ask for or deserve?
“He had good in him,” she said. “Just like I do.” She looked away, then back, defiantly. “We brought out the good in each other.”
Micki couldn’t agree with her, so she said nothing.
Angel lifted her chin. “I know what I am, Micki.”
“And what’s that, Angel?”
“Broken. Without Seth, I’m only half of what I’m supposed to be.”
Chapter Twelve
Monday, November 13
7:35 A.M.
Micki slapped the alarm clock for the third time and forced herself to roll out of bed. Shrugging into her robe, she shuffled to the bathroom for the necessaries, then headed to the kitchen for the even-more-necessary coffee.
She spooned the grounds into the basket, then filled the carafe with water. Angel’s cereal bowl was in the sink. She’d heard her leave the house a while ago. She must have had to open at the coffeehouse this morning.
For a moment she watched the coffee brew, then turned to the window above the sink, catching a glimpse of her reflection. She looked like hell. She pushed the hair away from her face and leaned closer. Bags and circles under her eyes; skin a rather ghastly shade of beige; cheeks hollow. Morning of the walking dead, for God’s sake.
She felt every bit the way she looked.
And no wonder. Another night with little sleep. Another day ahead with too much coffee, stress, and crappy food on the fly.
When was the last time she’d enjoyed the morning?
She thought of Hank, the way he had gently admonished her. “Girl, you’re gonna blink and be an old-timer like me. Don’t let your days pass you by.”
Micki smiled at the memory and grabbed a banana from the bunch in a bowl atop the microwave. She added a healthy dose of cream to her coffee, and took a sip, remembering. Sitting with him, letting the morning sun spill over her, and listening to the birds sing.
No one to sit with now. No one to enjoy those first few moments of the day with. The ache in the pit of her gut had nothing to do with hunger. She thought of what Angel had said last night, that she was alone without Seth. Was this what she meant? What she felt? A gnawing ache for soul-deep companionship? Was it why she had been dreaming of Hank almost every night?
She wanted to shake the thoughts off, but didn’t have the mental energy. She could call Zach, he could distract her by making her laugh—or driving her crazy—but the blasted man could read her too easily. And the last thing she wanted was for him to know how she really felt.
Zach. He hadn’t been quite the same since his mother’s appearance. She drew her eyebrows together. He’d
seemed preoccupied. Almost . . . aloof.
But she’d blamed that on herself.
There was something about Arianna that rubbed her the wrong way. In a nagging way, like a bug bite she couldn’t reach to scratch.
Zach had picked up on it. He’d asked if she was jealous, because of the time he’d been spending with her. She’d denied it, of course. But maybe she was jealous? At the very least, resentful for Arianna’s arrival screwing up their comfortable pattern of camaraderie.
If there was anything Micki Dee Dare resisted, it was change. She knew it about herself. She had her job, her circle of friends and colleagues, and her routine, and nobody better get in the way of it, thank you very much.
Micki finished the coffee and took the last bite of the banana, chewing thoughtfully. Her gaze landed on her running shoes, sitting by the door out to the back porch. When was the last time she’d gone for a run? Not because she had to keep fit for the job, but just for the pleasure of it. For the pounding of her heart and the rush of air into her lungs?
Another thing she and Hank used to do together. He had been amazingly fit for a man his age.
But he’d died from a massive coronary.
It didn’t make sense. Not then. Not now.
Micki crossed to the trash, discarded the banana peel, and let out a long, even breath. Sense or not, she couldn’t change the facts, as much as she wished she could. Hank was gone, six years now.
He would be disappointed with her. For not taking the time to hear the birds and feel the sun on her face. For not running, just because it made her feel good.
She glanced at her watch. She had the time. And as Hank used to say, “The present is all you’ve got, girl. Tomorrow’s not a guarantee. Not for you or anybody else.”
A quick run, she decided and smiled. She had the time. Besides, she’d probably be sucking wind before her time ran out.
******
Ten minutes later Micki was atop the levee on the Mississippi River Trail, feet pounding the paved path, the brisk morning air stinging her lungs. On one side of her lay the curve of the Mississippi River, on the other side rested her neighborhood, nestled up against River Road like a lover. The trail was a favorite recreational spot for New Orleanians. On a beautiful Saturday she’d be sharing this stretch with everyone from other runners to kids with kites.
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