“It…I mean, the dream you related to me,” Tabby began, her words halting, her tone uncertain, “didn’t mean anything.”
Andie felt her mouth turn down. “So this was a waste of time.” She’d known it would be, but both of her brothers had urged her to give it a try, so she’d only done it just to assuage them.
“That’s not what I mean,” Tabby said, gently rubbing her tummy with her open palms. “What I should have said was, what you related to me wasn’t a dream.”
“Sure it was. Last night—”
“Andie,” Tabitha interrupted. “As I explained, the way this works is, I hold your hand, you tell me your dream, and I can see it as you relate it. Then I can interpret it. At least, that’s how it usually goes.” She shook her head. “But I didn’t see any dream. Instead, I received information psychically, more like a radio transmission than HDTV.”
“I don’t—”
“Bottom line, what you related was not a dream. It was more like somebody telling a story around a midnight campfire. Dreams are representational, this was a page from a psychic diary. It was linear, rational, and it was, well, it was real.”
Andie shot out of her chair, her hands curled into fists at her side. “No! I can’t buy that. Don’t buy it. No. A ghost has not invaded my head.”
Holding her belly, Tabitha rose to her feet like she was trying to balance a melon on her lap without dropping it.
“It’s okay, Andie,” she panted softly. “You are free to believe what you want. I’m just telling you what I got from it, and what I got was that this Emma Harte has chosen to tell you her story. The problem for you is, she’s revealing it to you scene by scene. You can’t ask her questions or fine-tune the transmission…”
Her brows lowered, and she looked thoughtful for a moment. “Or can you?” she said. “There’s a man in your life, right? Um, a tall man with black hair. He speaks with a brogue. He can help you.”
“Logan Sinclair?”
Tabitha’s lips formed a happy smile. “Yes! Is that his name? Yes, Logan can help you. He can talk to Emma, ask questions. He can—”
“How do you know about Logan? Did Nate put you up to this?”
Tabby looked a little bewildered. “Nate? No. I got Logan from you. He’s in your head, and in your…”
Lowering her lashes for a moment, a small smile crept over her lips.
“Um, you’re connected to him, and he to you. You’ve known each other through many lifetimes. You must feel it, Andie. Feel that connection. You and Logan are, well, you’re true soul mates—”
“We are not!”
God, she was shouting. Soul mates. What a ridiculous idea. Here she’d come to see her sister-in-law for some advice—advice she was admittedly prepared to ignore—and her silly crush on Logan was being thrown in her face. When she got her hands on her brothers, she’d ring their necks for suggesting she talk to Tabitha!
In a more measured tone, she said, “We can’t be soul mates. Logan is under investigation for…things. He’s a suspect in…things. He is not my soul mate.”
Tabby slowly eased herself back into the chair. Clasping her hands on top of her stomach, she said, “My job was to interpret your dream. Whether you believe me or not is totally up to you. As for Emma, she’s revealing her story to you, but my feeling is, when she’s done, it won’t be resolved. For that, you’re going to need Logan’s help.”
Andie grabbed her purse from the coffee table and headed for the door. “I doubt it. Logan is a fraud, and maybe worse. I’ve tried to accept him as a good guy, but he has too many secrets. I seriously doubt we’re soul mates, and I’m positive I’ll never ask for his help.”
Tabby smiled but said nothing.
As Andie wrapped her fingers around the doorknob, she stopped. “Look, I appreciate your taking time to help me. I know you believe what you told me, but I don’t.”
“That’s your right. It’s not my place to judge you, Andie. Only you know what’s best for you. Your instincts will guide you, as they always have.”
Andie nibbled on her lower lip for a moment. Then, gesturing to Tabby’s swollen tummy, she said, “You doing okay? My niece or nephew comfy in there?”
“Very comfy, but I’ll be glad when he or she decides to make his or her appearance. My bladder will be grateful, and my ankles will rejoice.”
“So, um, what’s it like to be pregnant? Aren’t you afraid, you know, of childbirth?”
Tabby rubbed her tummy again while a thoughtful smile played over her lips. “Being pregnant is complicated, emotional, scary, and fabulous. Sometimes my body feels like the enemy, and I can’t get comfortable, but just as often, I feel great, like all is right with the world.”
She raised her brows. “Yeah, I have to admit I’m a little afraid of childbirth, worried from the horror stories I’ve heard about the pain and all.” Her lashes lowered. “I guess my biggest concern is that I’ll disappoint Nate somehow. I love him so much. I want this baby for me, but I also want to give him this gift, for want of a better word. It’s, um, it’s sort of hard to explain.”
Turning the knob, Andie opened the door and stepped into the threshold. She hesitated, then met Tabitha’s calm gaze. “I think I understand. I don’t believe in your psychic dream-interpretation thing, but you’re a very cool sister-in-law. Nate’s a lucky man.”
“Thank you,” Tabby said with a laugh as she pushed herself to her feet. “Look, I have to get out of these damn shoes, find some chocolate somewhere, and go to the bathroom, and not necessarily in that order.” Her expression turned serious. “Andie, it doesn’t matter to me whether you’re a believer. It’s not my call, it’s yours. But I would request one thing of you.”
“Name it.”
“The next time you see Logan, ask him who he really is. Why he really came to San Francisco.”
Andie blinked hard. “Who he…why he what? What are you talking about?”
“Just ask him. Hell, he might even be ready to tell you.”
Chapter 16
The saints are the sinners who keep on trying.
Robert Louis Stevenson
“In other words…” Andie shifted the cell phone from one ear to the other and turned into the parking garage near Logan’s hotel. “Drew Mochrie died of a broken neck.”
“That’s what I said.” Dylan’s deep voice sounded indignant. “Spinal fracture and cervical-cord transaction at C1, yada, yada, and just for good measure, yada.”
“I want to see a copy of the coroner’s report myself.”
“Granted. But it’s gonna say the same thing when you read it, except for the yada stuff.”
Andie’s tires squeaked, the sound echoing through the cement cavern as she rounded the first turn and began the approach to the next parking level. Even through her closed windows, the scent of spent exhaust with nowhere to go irritated her nose.
“Anything else?” she asked as she began looking in earnest for a parking spot.
“There’s a very nice paragraph here devoted to external signs of trauma, which basically translates to the fact that somebody put his hands around her throat, snapped her neck like a dry twig after a long hot summer, then tossed her down the cellar stairs.”
“A dry twig, Dylan?” she drawled.
“Yeah, well, I’m taking this creative-writing class at night. So many similes, so little time.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Andie shifted the cell phone again, then spotted a vacant space and slowed. “So Drew Mochrie was murdered.” She slid neatly into the parking space between a red PT Cruiser and a silver SUV. “Coroner’s report say anything else we can use?”
“Nah, that’s pretty much it, but I think it’s obvious that whoever has the necklace is our perp. So, as the French say, Cherchez les rocks.”
“Are you taking a French class at night, too?”
“Hey, you got it, didn’t you, so stop criticizing.”
Andie turned off the ignition, then checked her ref
lection in the rearview mirror. Absently finger-combing her hair, she said, “Okay, Dylan. Let’s put aside for a moment the fact that your French totally stinks, I disagree that whoever has the necklace is the killer. Even if it’s recovered, I don’t think the DA’s office will accept possession as evidence enough to prosecute a homicide, do you? I mean, whoever has it could say they found it in an alley or bought it on eBay or something, not realizing it was stolen. We need to deliver motive, opportunity, and means.”
“Seems to me your Mr. Sinclair had all three.”
“Sure, but maybe he wasn’t the only one. It wouldn’t be good detective work to focus in on one suspect who may be innocent, while the trail to the real perp grows cold.”
Why was she defending Logan? And why did she have to explain “good detective work” to her partner?
Bostwick’s instructions oozed into her brain. No evidence? No problem. Create evidence. I want Sinclair’s ass…
“Um, Dylan?”
“Yeah?”
She sat back in her seat and lowered her head, the phone to her ear as she tried to decide how to broach the subject. “Is there, I mean, has anyone…uh, has somebody like, say, Commander Bostwick, tried to influence this investigation? Maybe put some pressure on you to hurry things up or maybe misinterpret evidence…”
The connection was silent for a moment, then Dylan gave a sharp laugh. “Nope. I just figure that the woman was murdered for the necklace, so whoever has it probably killed her. Sinclair was known to have associated with the vic about the time of the homicide and robbery, so I’m just saying we should focus our attention there first. That’s all I’m saying. I’m not saying anything else.” He cleared his throat. “Are we okay on that, Inspector?”
She nodded. “Okay, yeah, sure.” Raising her head, she said, “But you know, if you should encounter any kind of, uh, situation, I hope you’ll talk to me about it, because I—”
“If I do,” he growled, cutting her off, “I will. Until then, we have nothing to discuss. Copy that?”
Did she ever. “Dylan, are you sure, because there’s something—”
“Positive.” Andie heard him take in a deep breath and blow it out. “Okay, so where are you now, and what are you up to?”
She let a moment of silence pass between them. Something was most definitely up, and he most definitely didn’t want to talk about it. She figured she pretty much knew what it was, and she also knew her partner well enough that if he wasn’t ready to talk about it, pressuring him would do no good.
“Let me just say one thing, Dylan.”
“Shoot.”
“If the same thing that’s happening to me is happening to you, we need to do something about it. Bring this to an end. Do you copy that?”
“Copy. Let’s move on now, all right?”
“Uh, yeah, okay. Well,” she stumbled as she closed and locked her car. “At the moment, I’m at Sinclair’s hotel. I’ve never had a chance to do a search of his room, so maybe a look-see will turn something up.”
“Where is he? Is he there?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. I can get the maid to let me in. If the necklace is there, I mean, if there’s any evidence at all linking him to the homicide or how he bilks his clients, I’ll find it.”
There was a momentary pause, then Dylan said, “So…what if there’s nothing to find?”
“Then I won’t find anything.”
More silence.
“Dylan? What are you implying?”
Another pause. Then, “I, uh, nothing. Forget it. Listen, I’ve got to interview a mess of witnesses on the Staunton case. It’s really heating up, and it’s going to need my undivided attention for a while. Can you handle the Sinclair case solo for a few days?”
“Knock yourself out.”
There was silence for a moment, then he said slowly, “Hey, uh, listen. Don’t do anything stupid, like…uh, never mind. Just don’t do anything stupid.”
Andie felt her brows snap together. “What in the hell does that mean—Dylan? Don’t hang up on me, Jericho. Hey! Hello?”
In frustration, she slapped the cell phone closed and dropped it into her purse. Where did Dylan get off admonishing her against doing anything stupid? Stupid how? What on earth was he talking about?
She pressed the redial and instead of Dylan, got his voice mail. Damn the man. He didn’t want to talk to her, so he wouldn’t answer until he was good and ready.
Bostwick’s used-car-salesman grin popped into her brain. Had Dylan been warning her against the commander? Or was it Logan he was talking about?
Just how and when had this all gotten so complicated? She’d been sent undercover to gather evidence in a fraud case. Difficult, but fairly routine.
Yet overnight, the whole thing had blown up in her face and now included homicide, robbery, possible conspiracy, bribery, and harassment. Throw in the fact she was maybe being haunted by the spirit of a woman who’d died a hundred years ago, and that pretty much put the icing on the Weird Cake!
A few minutes later, she exited the elevator on the fourth floor of the St. Francis Hotel and began walking down the thickly carpeted hallway. She’d planned her visit to coincide with the maid service, and was relieved when she spotted a service cart just outside Logan’s open door.
Finally, a lucky break. She’d been prepared to show her badge to gain entry, but this was better.
Peeking inside, she saw the maid just finishing up with the bed. Andie planted a concerned look on her face and entered the suspect’s room. “Excuse me.”
The maid stopped what she was doing and turned in Andie’s direction.
Smiling, Andie said, “Has my husband been here? I did a little window-shopping this morning, and we were supposed to meet in the lobby downstairs, but I must have missed him.”
“No, ma’am. Haven’t seen anyone.”
“Hmm, well. I wonder where he could be then.” She shook her head as though she felt helpless. “Men, you know?”
The maid rolled her brown eyes and laughed. “Do I ever. After two husbands and four sons, I could write a book.”
Andie set her purse on the bar next to Logan’s laptop and wondered for a second if she had time to access it. “I promise not to get in your way. Hopefully, he’ll come looking for me. We’re going to go to the Wax Museum on Fisherman’s Wharf. Have you been?”
The maid’s face lit up. “Oh, yes, ma’am. My boys just love it. The Chamber of Horrors is the best part. Make sure you and your husband don’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” Andie said. “We won’t.”
After giving the bed pillows an extra plumping, the maid nodded a good-bye and scurried out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Okay, first question: Where was Logan and when would he be back? Technically, that was two questions, but they were equal in importance so she figured the Question Police weren’t going to show up and cite her.
Moving quickly to the nightstand beside the bed, she opened the only drawer. A Bible, a notepad, a phone book. She hurried to the desk and turned on the lamp. Another drawer, another notepad, a room-service menu, and a handful of literature on goods and services the hotel provided.
The TV set stood on a small chest of drawers. In the top drawer she was greeted by the usual men’s things, neatly folded. She felt around, but nothing untoward presented itself. The other two drawers were empty.
The closet. Sliding the mirrored door open, she quickly checked the pockets of the three suits hanging there. Nothing. She inhaled and caught his scent, then decided to ignore her response to it.
His suitcase sat on the floor of the closet. How many minutes had passed? Would she have time to unzip it and put it back in order before he returned?
Two minutes later, she had checked it out and found nothing.
Pressing her luck, she hurried to the bathroom. Men’s toiletries sat on the marble counter, a white bathrobe hung from a peg on the back of the door. The bathroom was small, no place to r
eally hide anything.
Then she thought of the toilet tank. The idea was absurd. He’d be a fool to keep anything of value there. Everybody knew that’s where crooks hid things in hotel rooms, didn’t they?
Even so…
She approached the toilet and stared at it. To check inside the water tank would be a silly and amateurish thing to do—yet now that she’d thought of it, she knew she had to look.
The white porcelain was cool to her touch. Lifting the lid a couple of inches, she peered inside the tank. Nothing but the black ball float met her gaze. As she was about to let the lid settle back into place, something in the bottom corner of the tank caught her attention.
Reaching into the cold water, she slid her hand past the float to grasp the plastic bag. Curling her fingers around it, she pulled it out and simply stared.
No. Her stomach felt queasy, her head light. No. It can’t be. He isn’t a killer, he isn’t. What she knew about him, what she knew about herself, wouldn’t allow it. Logan Sinclair’s being a cold-blooded killer went against every instinct she’d ever had. There was no way she’d ever fall for a murderer the way she had for…
But the truth, she reminded herself, the reality of what she held in her hands could not be denied.
She had to get out of there before he returned. Without probable cause to search his room, the evidence she’d found would not be admissible. It hadn’t been in plain sight, so she couldn’t claim she’d stumbled on it. From this moment on, she had to be very careful…
Bostwick. He’d told her he wanted the necklace, that when she found it, she was to bring it to him, but if it was proof Sinclair has been involved in the Mochrie homicide, she had to leave it in place until she could obtain it legally.
Damn. She didn’t want to give the necklace to Bostwick. Nor did she want to think about the ramifications of defying the commander and not turning it over. She stared down at the wet baggie in her hand.
She didn’t want to find evidence Logan was a killer. She didn’t want to question her feelings or her instincts or her carefully ordered world.
What she wanted was for Logan to be a good guy, for there to be some rational explanation for his having possession of the necklace, for his fake clairvoyance, for his reputation as a con man, for…everything.
Killer Charms Page 17
