Always Look Twice

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  He didn’t weave on the way to the door, but he fumbled for his key, cursing when he couldn’t find it in his pocket.

  “I still have mine.” She opened her purse. “Good thing I kept it.”

  “Oh, yeah. Good thing.” He leaned against the stucco wall and watched her. “I should have made them change the lock.”

  She opened the door. “But you didn’t.”

  “No, I didn’t.” He reached across and flipped the switch, where the lamp flickered, illuminating the room like a strobe light.

  She placed her purse on the dinette table in the corner and draped her jacket over a chair. Her silver-studded accessories looked sorely out of place in the simple surroundings.

  Following her lead, he removed his sport coat. But he hung it in the closet. Neat and tidy, she thought. Even when he was drunk.

  She glanced at the bed, then sat in one of the straight-back chairs. “Feel free to apologize anytime.”

  West grabbed the chair with her jacket, turned it around and straddled it. His face was shadowed in harsh lines and angles, making him look sensually surreal. “How’d you get that scar?”

  “That’s my apology?”

  “I’m sorry for being an ass. Now, how’d you get that scar?”

  She touched her own throat, using the tip of her finger like a blade. “None of your business, and your apology sucked.”

  He shrugged. “I think I already know. I just haven’t figured out the details yet.”

  “So what?” She met his gaze, looking into those unnerving eyes.

  “I’ll bet you got that raspy voice from whatever caused your scar. Women with husky voices fascinate me.”

  “Too bad I prefer men who can hold their liquor.”

  “But I can.” He laughed a little. “Most of the time.”

  She laughed, too. He had an odd brand of charm.

  A moment later they both turned solemn. The misbehaving lamp flickered once again, making her wonder about the Slasher, about how strong his powers were.

  “My ability isn’t error proof,” she said. “Sometimes I make mistakes.”

  “I didn’t think you were perfect. But you were right about my ex-wife. She couldn’t handle my job.”

  Olivia wondered if he would be telling her this if he was sober. “Did she cheat? Did she leave you for someone else?”

  He nodded. “It was the worst experience of my life. The most hurtful, I guess. I liked being married. I liked having a woman to come home to.” He studied her scar again. “We were together for six years.”

  “But did you love her, Agent West? Was she as important as your career?”

  He pondered the question. He was still straddling the jacket-draped chair, still looking surreal. “I loved her, but my job is my life. It’s who I am.” He pushed his hair away from his forehead. “Does that make me a bastard?”

  No, she thought. It just made him that much more appealing. Olivia’s work was her priority, too. “How old are you?” she asked, realizing the simple things about him eluded her.

  “Guess,” he said. “Figure it out.”

  “Thirty-six.”

  “Nope. I’m thirty-five, and you’re a lousy psychic.”

  That made her laugh. In spite of her imperfections, she knew she was good. He knew it, too. “Where are you from?”

  He removed his wallet and tossed his ID on the table. “I live in Virginia.”

  “Of course you do. The National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime is located there.” She took a good look at his license, wondering if he’d meant to reveal his home address, to let it sink into her memory. “That’s where you work, where criminal profiling is done. I was asking where you were from. Originally.”

  “I was born and raised in Oklahoma.” He tapped the rail of her chair with his boot. “And for the record, we call it criminal investigative analysis now. Profiling is an outdated term for what we do.”

  “Fine. Have you analyzed the Slasher?” she asked, knowing the LAPD was trying to get a handle on the killer, too.

  “Yes. But I’m going to return to the NCAVC on Monday to consult with my colleagues about it.”

  “You’re a team player.”

  “We all are. We’re supposed to be.”

  She glanced at his boots. They were the only scuffed part of him. “Do you trust me, West?” Or was he fooling her with his ID?

  He blew out a rough breath, wafting the smell of alcohol in her direction. “I don’t trust very many people. Seeing the cruelty humans are capable of makes me distance myself from them. But even so, I wouldn’t want to do this alone. Looking at grisly pictures day in and day out gets to a man. Or a woman,” he added.

  “I should go.” She still hadn’t decided if she trusted him, either. “You need to sleep it off.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” He came to his feet. “Are you going to pour me into bed?”

  She shook her head, gathering her belongings. “I’m sure you can do that by yourself.”

  He made a troubled face. “I’m not staying here when I get back from Virginia. This room gets too cold at night.”

  Her heartbeat pummeled her chest. “You’ve felt the ghost?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Too much death,” she said.

  “Yeah.” He almost touched her scar. Almost, but not quite. His hand lingered, then fell away. “Be careful, Olivia.”

  “You, too.” It seemed like a strange thing to say to a man who’d been analyzing killers for years, who knew what made them tick.

  But as she left him standing at the door, battling a state of inebriation, she got the stomach-clenching sensation that Special Agent West was going to die.

  Not tonight. But sometime during this investigation.

  And she was going to be there when it happened.

  The moment Olivia entered the loft, Samantha hissed at her. The living room was dark, but she could see a vague outline of the cat, a small black shape, a glint of green eyes.

  She moved farther into the room, then stopped dead in her tracks. She could see another shadowy image in the corner.

  Still, lifeless. Slumped over in a chair.

  “Allie!” She screamed her sister’s name and nearly tripped on the hissing cat when she attempted to turn on the light.

  Finally she reached the lamp and illuminated the room. A bundle of blankets lay in the chair.

  No body.

  No blood.

  No Allie.

  Olivia tore through the loft like a maniac, going from room to room. Suddenly the place seemed like a maze, with its high ceilings and eclectic furniture. She brushed by a tall, leafy fern, felt it tickle her skin, felt goose bumps attack her arm.

  Nothing. No one.

  Yet she’d seen Allie’s car in the parking structure.

  “Where the hell is she?” Not knowing what else to do, Olivia went into the kitchen to check out the candy, to look for a message in the conversation hearts.

  Surely, she was losing her mind.

  She scanned the counter, reading each colorful piece. The hearts didn’t say anything they hadn’t said before.

  Just as Olivia left the kitchen, the lock on the front door rattled, making an ominous sound. But Samantha didn’t fret. She knew who it was. The cat sailed across the room to greet her mistress, nearly flying through the air like a feline on a witch’s broom.

  Olivia let out the breath she’d been holding. Allie entered the loft, balancing her keys, a small beaded purse and a plastic cup. A half-eaten muffin was stuffed in her mouth.

  “You were downstairs,” Olivia said.

  Allie nodded, grabbed the muffin before it fell. “You look like you saw a ghost.” She paused, glanced around. “Is Dad here?”

  “No. No one is here.” Samantha was purring, twining around Allie’s legs. “No one at all.”

  “I had a craving for a mocha cappuccino.” Her sister dropped her purse on a nearby table, discarding her keys with it. “It’s decaf
, with a shot of raspberry.” She knelt to pet the cat. “Are you okay?”

  “Who? Me or Samantha?”

  “You.”

  “Not really, no.”

  Olivia sat on the sofa, and Allie took the chair with the blankets, dropping crumbs from the muffin onto her clothes. She’d combined a baggy sweater, tight jeans and slightly scuffed shoes.

  Kind of like West’s boots.

  “I was with the special agent tonight,” Olivia said.

  Allie’s eyes grew wide. “You slept with him?”

  “No. We were just talking. But I’ve had visions about kissing him. And then this evening I had the horrible feeling that he was going to die.”

  “Oh, my God. Why? What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. Earlier I thought the Slasher was watching West and me. Keeping track of us in his mind. But I might be confused.”

  “West. That’s the FBI guy’s name?”

  Olivia nodded. “Ian West. What if he dies? What if I can’t stop it from happening?”

  “Dad is trying to protect us. Maybe he’ll try to protect West, too.” Allie held her coffee, curling her fingers around the cup, clutching it to her chest. “If the killer is watching you, then why haven’t you been able to see him?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe he’s blocking me. Maybe he’s messing with my mind.”

  “Then we have to stop him.”

  Olivia rubbed her eyes. Suddenly Allie looked like a moonlit mirage, a nighttime enchantress with her rain-straight hair and glittering jewelry. “We?”

  “I can help you locate him.”

  “How?”

  “In a painting.”

  The idea seemed absurd. Yet it made sense, too. Allie was beginning to believe that she could create magic with her art. And Olivia wasn’t about to scoff at the possibility, especially now, when she needed her sister to be strong. “What are you going to paint?”

  “His calling card. The heart with the arrowhead.”

  A shiver raced up Olivia’s spine. “No one is supposed to know about that. The police are keeping it under wraps.”

  “I’m not going to exhibit the painting. It’s just for us.”

  And for the killer, Olivia thought. For the man they were trying to locate. “It’s an outline. A black drawing.”

  “Then I’ll paint it like that. Is there something I can use as reference?”

  “Yes. But they’re crime-scene photos, Allie. Are you sure you can handle that?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not if you’re determined to go through with this.”

  “I am,” the younger woman said, lifting her chin. Beside her, Samantha meowed, supporting her mistress.

  “Then I’ll call Agent West in the morning. Maybe he’ll agree to bring the pictures here.”

  And maybe, just maybe, Olivia would be able to see the Slasher in her mind.

  As daylight filtered through the sheers in her room, Olivia reached for the portable phone. She sat on the bed, fighting a chill in the air. She sensed it was going to rain. The Chiricahua used to say that rain would come if a horned toad or a snake was killed and placed on its back, but Olivia didn’t want to think about dead animals.

  She grabbed the phonebook and looked up the number of West’s motel, then asked to be connected to his room.

  He answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d be awake,” she said.

  “I just made a pot of coffee. I feel like crap.” He paused. “Why are you calling me?”

  She wasn’t surprised that he recognized her voice. Supposedly he liked the raspy tone. “I need a favor.” She explained the situation, telling him about Allie, about her sister’s idea to track the killer.

  “That’s weird,” he said.

  Olivia rolled her eyes. She could hear him pouring his coffee. “And the evidence in this case is normal? When’s the last time a footprint disappeared from a cast? Or hair samples changed color? Or went from human to animal?”

  “Fine. But you could have asked Muncy or Riggs for this favor.”

  “The killer isn’t watching them. But he might be watching you and me.”

  Something clanked. A plastic spoon. His cup on the counter. A sound she couldn’t quite define.

  “Since when?” he asked.

  “Since last night. But I’m not sure about this.” Nor did she intend to mention that she’d sensed his death. At least not over the phone. She felt responsible for him, and that didn’t sit well. She had enough to worry about. “So are you going to bring over the crime-scene photos or not?”

  “I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be involving your sister.” He blew a frustrated breath into the receiver. “This is a hell of a favor.”

  Which meant he was coming. “Are you going to take a cab to the Mockingbird to get your car?”

  “Yes. Then I’ll pick up the pictures.”

  “Do you need my address?”

  “No. I already know where you live. I’ll be there in about an hour.”

  She hung up, wondering what else he knew about her.

  Deciding it didn’t matter, she got dressed, zipping into a pair of old jeans and a tight black top. She wet her hair and ran a glob of gel through it, giving the layered strands its usual choppy style.

  Because Olivia always wore makeup, she smudged her eyes with a smoky black liner and applied a deep-red lipstick. In the mirror she saw a haunting resemblance to her mother. But that wasn’t something she could change.

  A moment later rain blasted the window, like a sign from her mother’s people. To the Chiricahua, a dark, heavy rain was male. Of course, Yvonne Whirlwind used to love the hard, driving force of a masculine rain.

  By the time a knock sounded on the door, Olivia was more than ready to get this show on the road. Allie wasn’t, though. Her sister was still in the shower.

  Olivia answered the summons. As usual, West wore a dark suit. His hair, soaked from the rain, was combed away from his face.

  She gestured for him to come in. He gave her one of those sinful looks and entered the loft. Apparently he noticed that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  Samantha came slinking around the corner, and Olivia waited for her to hiss. Instead she crept up to West and rubbed her face against the top of his boot.

  “Cute cat,” he said, releasing his briefcase and scooping up the finicky stray.

  “She belongs to my sister. And she’s never that friendly.”

  “Really?” He stroked the feline’s slick black fur. “Maybe she’s in heat.”

  “She’s fixed. And is that the only time females like you? When they’re in heat?”

  He released Samantha, then snared Olivia’s gaze. “You ought to know.”

  She contemplated kneeing him in the groin, just to remind him that she’d done it once before. Just to remind him that she was good at it.

  He broke eye contact. “Interesting place.”

  “We like it.” She pointed to the sofa. “Why don’t you have a seat and wait for Allie? She should be ready soon.”

  “Sure.” He grabbed his briefcase and sank onto the couch.

  While he studied the embroidered pillow next to him, giving it a guy-type examination, Olivia sat in a rocking chair she and Allie rarely used.

  “Did you bring all of the pictures?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Just the ones with the symbol. Some of them are graphic, though. Bloody. Your sister won’t get queasy, will she?”

  “I don’t know. Speaking of queasy. How’s your hangover?”

  “I’ll survive.”

  Olivia glanced at his briefcase, where she assumed the photos were. She’d seen them, of course. But knowing Allie was going to view them made her edgy.

  Finally her sister entered the room, wearing a gauze dress and a floral-printed scarf tied around her waist. West came to his feet and introduced himself. Allie shook his hand.

  “You look like an FBI agent,” she s
aid.

  “And you look like an artist.”

  They exchanged respectful smiles, and Olivia marveled at how easily West had morphed into a gentleman.

  Federal Bureau of Ingenuity, she thought.

  He didn’t waste any time. “Ready?” he asked Allie.

  She agreed and sat next to him. Much to her credit, Allie looked at the pictures without blanching. West explained who was who, speaking gently about the victims, pointing out the symbol that had been drawn onto each woman’s abdomen on the right side, like a bikini-line tattoo.

  “He didn’t remove their clothes,” Allie said.

  “No. He just moved them out of his way to draw the symbol.”

  “I should paint those portions of their bodies, just like they are here.”

  Blood splatters and all, Olivia thought, wishing she could protect her sister from this.

  “I can do it on one canvas,” Allie said. “Close up, in three sections. Then I’ll use a marker for the heart and the arrowhead. Like he did.”

  The special agent merely nodded, handing Allie the photos she needed to complete her project, to help Olivia see the killer.

  After Allie disappeared into her studio, Olivia offered to fix West breakfast, to keep busy while they waited.

  He sat at the glass-topped table in the kitchen, and she removed a frying pan from the counter beside the stove.

  “What are you going to fix?” he asked.

  “The Hangover Five-Alarm.” She turned to see him watching her. “It’s on the menu at Mel’s Diner.”

  “That American Graffiti place?”

  “Yep. Be ready for a chili cheese omelet.”

  He gave her a curious study. “Are you sure that’s a hangover cure?”

  “I’m going to add lots of hot sauce. It works like a charm.” And if it didn’t, then she would ply him with antacids and hope for the best.

  Twenty minutes later they ate the spicy concoction with buttered toast and orange juice. Afterward, they lingered at the table, with two cases of dragon breath. His stomach had handled the food just fine.

  They waited for what seemed like forever. Rain pounded on the roof of the building, echoing through the loft.

  And then Allie emerged with her painting. It didn’t look like a murder scene; at least, not to the naked eye. The artwork was divided into three rectangular shapes, the victim’s abdomens blown up to enhance the detail, creating abstract designs. But even so, Olivia recognized their skewed, bloodstained clothes, the arrowheads and hearts drawn onto their skin.