Killer Charms

by Marianne Stillings

  And she sure as hell didn’t want to be caught in the middle of this mess, but dammit, she was.

  A slight shuffling noise behind her made her freeze in place. A moment ticked by, then another. The bag containing the stolen necklace weighed heavily in her hand as she turned to face the bathroom doorway…and the man who stood there.

  “I see you found that clever hidin’ place,” he whispered. In his fist, the .38 he held pointed straight at her heart. Extending his free hand, palm up, he ordered, “Give it over, lass.”

  “Not so clever,” she drawled. “I found it, and I’m not that bright.”

  He smiled, revealing a chipped front tooth. Greed and malice shone in his black eyes as he wiggled his fingers to silently reiterate his request.

  “I’m curious,” she said. “Who exactly are you?”

  “Give me the fockin’ necklace. Who I am is no concern of—”

  “His name is Ollie.”

  Both Andie and the man named Ollie jumped in surprise at the softly spoken words. He whirled around, pressing his back against the open door. With both hands, he raised and aimed the gun at Logan, but before he could squeeze off a round, Logan’s doubled fist shot out, slamming into Ollie’s wrist, nearly knocking the gun from his hand.

  “Ollie,” Logan growled. “Give me the gun…”

  “The bloody necklace is my share!” he yelped. “I’ve earned it, ye damn bastard!”

  Grabbing a struggling Ollie by the collar, Logan dragged him away from the bathroom and tried to strong-arm him to the floor. But Ollie was skinny and tough, and though Logan was bigger and fast, the younger man squirmed out of his grip.

  Logan lunged, wrapping his arms around Ollie’s knees, taking him to the floor where they thrashed around. A table lamp teetered and fell. One of the chairs at the table toppled over backwards. A fist came up, followed by the sound of knuckles meeting flesh. A moan, a groan, gnashing teeth…the fight went on with no man the clear winner.

  Andie hurried past them to her purse sitting on the bar. She popped it open, reaching for her weapon, but before she could grasp it, a muffled shot split the air, and the acrid bite of cordite flared in her nose.

  Except for Logan’s panting, silence filled the room.

  On the floor, Ollie and Logan stared into each other’s eyes. Then Ollie groaned and slumped into Logan’s arms.

  “Stupid son of a bitch,” Logan gasped, his voice low and raspy. “Had to go and get greedy. Greed’ll kill a man, Ollie. Damn you, I liked you, lad, I liked you! Why’d you have to go and pull a stunt like this?” His voice ended on a whisper, and it was so filled with regret, Andie felt a sense of pity wash over her.

  Kneeling beside the wounded man, she went to put her fingers on the side of his neck, but Logan brushed them away, replacing them with his own. He was silent for a moment, then muttered flatly, “He’s gone.”

  Over his heart, Ollie’s white shirt bloomed dark with blood. His young face held a look of surprise, his eyes wide and unblinking, staring up at the ceiling as though something fascinating held his attention. His thin mouth formed a frozen O. His dead hand still clutched the .38.

  “Um, we have to call the police,” she mumbled.

  “No police,” Logan growled, still crouched over the body. “Even if somebody heard the shot, they’ll not come running. One shot only, they’ll think ’twas their imagination or a loud TV show.”

  “A man is dead,” Andie snapped. “We have to call the police—”

  “No!” His blue eyes flared with fury. “Let me handle it. I just need to think about this for a bit.”

  Across the barrier of Ollie’s body, she glared at Logan in shocked wonder. Her first instinct was to pull out her badge—and her weapon.

  Logan’s dark hair was mussed, his forehead beaded with perspiration from the struggle. With the back of his hand, he wiped it away, then reached for her. Wrapping his fingers around her wrist, he rose to his feet, bringing her with him. “Get yer things. We have to leave.”

  She shook him off. “I’m not going any—”

  “Ye’ll do as I say. Now get yer things.”

  “No!”

  “Andie—”

  She stalked toward the bar, opened her purse, and reached for her weapon. Turning, she flashed her badge. “Inspector Andrea Darling, SFPD. Now sit down and shut up while I make a phone call.”

  His lids lowered a bit, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. “So, you’re a cop.”

  “Aye,” she snapped. “But you already knew that, didn’t you.”

  He shrugged. “Remember, I am a clairvoyant.”

  “Bullshit.”

  A smile slowly spread across his face. “All right. I’ll come along quietly. Make your phone call and haul me in, then.” He raised his arms and pressed his wrists together as though waiting to be cuffed.

  Flicking a glance between Logan and the dead Ollie on the floor, Andie narrowed her gaze and let the wheels roll around inside her head.

  She motioned to the bed behind Logan. “Sit.”

  Logan lowered himself to the edge of the bed, his face unreadable. As she held her weapon on him, she sidled closer to Ollie’s body. Watching carefully, she waited.

  Finally, her patience paid off, and she pressed her lips together in a satisfied smile. Cocking a brow, she looked meaningfully over at Logan…who was scowling.

  “All right, Ollie,” she said. “You can get up now.”

  Logan crossed his arms over his chest. “Andie—”

  “Ollie,” she interrupted. “This game is over.”

  The “dead man’s” eyes slowly shifted, and when they met hers, he grinned.

  “An Oscar-winning performance,” she said dryly. “Funny thing, though, about fake dead people. They have to breathe eventually.” She wiggled her weapon in the direction of the bed. “Go sit next to your partner.”

  Ollie pursed his lips, then rose and did as instructed.

  Andie eyed the two of them. “Logan Sinclair and Ollie…what’s your whole name?”

  “Oliver Kerr, ma’am.”

  She cleared her throat. “Logan Sinclair and Oliver Kerr, you’re under arrest for maybe murder, definitely being in possession of stolen property, unlawfully discharging a weapon, and pretending to be dead—”

  “Since when is that against the law?” Ollie said, his tone one of outrage.

  “Since right now,” she snapped. “You have the right to remain silent—”

  “Before you get all wrapped around the axle with your arrest, Inspector,” Logan interrupted. “I have something to show you.”

  She arched a brow. “I’ll just bet.”

  “I’m going to stand up, and I want you to reach into my back pocket.”

  “Bribery won’t work,” she growled. “I don’t know what the two of you were doing with your little murder scene here, but…hey!” As Logan defied her order, she yelped, “Sit! Stay!”

  He raised his arms above his head. “Back pocket, left side.” He turned to give her access.

  She eased forward and dipped her hand into his pocket, then immediately stepped back out of range. Without her telling him to, he sat back down.

  She flipped open the leather folder and stared down at the crown-and-crest badge. Around the perimeter, it read—

  “Scotland Yard!” Her eyes wide, she choked, “Scotland Frickin’ Yard?”

  He smiled shyly. “Aye. Seems we have something in common, Inspector. Now if you wouldn’t mind holstering yer weapon, I believe the question-and-answer portion of our program is about to begin.”

  Chapter 17

  The cruelest lies are often told in silence.

  Robert Louis Stevenson

  Forty-eight hours were up; time for him to put his money where his mouth was. Failure to follow through created doubt, and he couldn’t have that. He’d promised dire consequences for not complying with his wishes, and now it was time to deliver. Empty threats would gain him no rewards, but fortunately, he had never ha
d a problem with talking the talk, then walking the walk.

  Brad Bostwick pulled his car to a stop, flipped down the driver’s side visor, and checked himself in the mirror. Straightening his tie, he spotted a bit of lint on the lapel of his navy wool suit. Irritated, he plucked it off with forefinger and thumb, then flicked the offending particle away like a dead bug. He lifted his clean-shaven chin and admired how professional he looked. Excellent. Ten minutes ago, he’d been at one of his wife’s notoriously boring charity fund-raisers. He’d excused himself to make an important phone call—de rigueur for such an important man. But instead, he left the restaurant and drove to the park. If things went as planned—and they always did—he’d be back before anyone was the wiser.

  This late on a weeknight, Golden Gate Park was nearly empty and generally quiet. He’d hoped a cold fog would roll in, hampering visibility, aiding him in his desire to keep this meeting on the QT. But the evening was shaping up to be clear, with a full moon and even a few stars winking overhead. No problem since he’d been careful to choose an isolated spot near a thick stand of trees, where two men having a rendezvous would not be observed or disturbed.

  Exiting his car, he meandered down the narrow path that led through the trees to Stow Lake and the squat, green tile-roofed Chinese red pagoda. He’d left his car east of the lake and instructed his visitor to park on the west side. In the off chance somebody who recognized both men’s cars should happen by, awkward questions might be raised that Bostwick most definitely wanted to avoid.

  He had no doubt his orders would be followed to the letter. After all, his visitor’s career was at stake, and both men knew it. True, he didn’t really want to ruin the other man—he’d rather have results, but since those hadn’t been forthcoming…

  Conveniently, every man had something in his past that made persuasion so much easier. Years ago, Bostwick had discovered that holding a man’s little peccadilloes over his head guaranteed a positive outcome, and this situation was no different.

  He wanted Drew Mochrie’s necklace; he would get it.

  As the commander walked along the path, he thought about what he would do when he obtained the gems…more to the point, when he had the money selling them would get him.

  Freedom. Ah, sweet freedom.

  He would leave it all behind, all of it.

  No more son-in-law to the former police commissioner.

  No more husband to the socially prominent Gloria Bostwick.

  No more father of two overindulged—by their mother, of course—ungrateful daughters.

  And the pressures his career had placed on his shoulders over the years would be lifted. He’d fly away to Mexico, or maybe the Caribbean. With the millions the sale of that necklace would bring, he could buy a new identity and never look back. Perhaps Italy was a better choice. A villa on the Italian Riviera with hot and cold running maids—wouldn’t that be nice? Warm, sunny Italy…and peace and quiet for the rest of his days.

  From the moment he’d first seen that necklace, he’d known it was his ticket to a new life. Still, it had taken nearly two years and a very circuitous route to obtain it. He was closer now than ever, and nothing…no one…was going to screw this up for him.

  He stopped, smiled to himself, and closed his eyes for a moment.

  Sure, some would say he was a monster, but he wasn’t. He was just a simple man who’d done a good job for a lot of years and deserved to reap the rewards and settle into a comfortable retirement.

  Ten million dollars would certainly do that.

  The sound of footsteps reached him, bringing him out of his woolgathering, and he opened his eyes. Moving quickly off the path, he eased out of sight around the trunk of a large willow tree. From the shadows of the lush, overhanging limbs, he watched as the form of a man emerged from the darkness at the top of the hill and began down the path to the lake.

  Just as the man reached the willow, Bostwick stepped out, startling his visitor.

  “Relax,” Bostwick said with a chuckle. “Did you come alone?”

  “Of course I did,” the man snarled. “You think I want anybody to know about this?”

  Bostwick smiled. “You wearing a wire?”

  Holding open his Western-style denim jacket, the man said, “Hell no. You can check if you want.”

  “Hey, if you can’t trust a cop, who can you trust, right?”

  “Eat me.”

  Bostwick clicked his tongue a couple of times. “Temper, temper.”

  In the deepening shadows, he could see the gleam of fury in his visitor’s eyes. “Let’s get on with this, shall we? You have status for me?”

  The man shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and growled, “Nothing to tell. The necklace hasn’t surfaced yet.”

  “That is ridiculous,” he hissed. “It can’t have disappeared into thin air. I’ll bet she knows where it is. I’ll bet she’s in cahoots with him. That’s the only explanation, unless you’re lying to protect her!”

  The man shrugged. “I’m not lying. I don’t know where in the hell the damn thing is. Can I go now?”

  “Not until I’m satisfied with your answers.”

  “Look, Bostwick. If she has it, she sure hasn’t said anything to me.”

  The commander slowly nodded, then blew out a long sigh. “Well, no matter. What I have planned will encourage her to come forward.” He paused. “But in order to make it work, I need your help.”

  “I’ve already helped you all I’m gonna.”

  “It occurred to me you might say that.” Another meaningful pause. “Let me preface this by saying I informed the lady that if she didn’t find—and hand over—the necklace within forty-eight hours, something horrible would happen.”

  He raised his brows and looked into the other man’s eyes. When his visitor began backing away, he knew his meaning was beginning to dawn. Reaching inside his jacket, Bostwick withdrew his weapon.

  The other man froze, his gaze locked on the barrel of the gun in the commander’s hand. “I told you, she doesn’t have it!” he shouted. Taking two steps back, he raised his palms as though begging a favor. “Don’t do this, Bostwick. You don’t have to do this. Give me a little more time to talk to her. Look, I’ve done everything you’ve asked. Sold myself down the river, my career, my fucking honor. I’ll be damned if I let you—”

  The Glock made a pop-popping sound as it discharged three times into his visitor’s chest. Without emotion, he watched as the man fell to his knees, then slowly slumped to the ground.

  Lifting his head, the commander stood still and listened. All around him, there was silence. No shouts, no screams, no whistles or sirens or alarms. Good.

  Taking a clean handkerchief from his pants pocket, he wiped the unregistered gun, then walked to the edge of the path and threw it into the lake. When he heard the deep-sounding plunk a few seconds later, he returned to the body.

  “Sorry to blindside you like that, but if taking you out will buy me a new life…” He paused, grinning to himself. “…I’m willing to make the trade, Jericho.”

  By the time he reached his car, he was feeling damn good. Sliding behind the wheel, he thought, yeah, life was pretty nice, and about to get a whole lot nicer.

  She checked his badge, read his credentials, made him empty his pockets. Even though it was the wee hours of the morning in the UK, she called the London office, then the office in Edinburgh, then Ethan, who knew somebody who knew somebody who knew somebody at the Yard, and had them check. She did everything she could think of to prove Logan was a phony, but she couldn’t because he wasn’t.

  Logan Sinclair really was a police officer—Detective Chief Inspector Logan S. Macmillan of the New Scotland Yard CID.

  “And the clairvoyant thing?” Andie said, tossing his passport and badge onto the bed.

  Picking up the items and returning them to his pocket, Logan smiled. “I told you the truth about that, lass. As much as I could at the time, at any rate. Just after university, for a while, I plie
d my trade and made a name for myself as clairvoyant to the stars. But I didn’t want to sully the family name, so I forwent Macmillan and used my middle name, Sinclair.”

  “What about when you became a police officer?”

  “Well, rather than tossing all that work down the proverbial loo, it was decided that my former glory, such as it was, might work to advantage in certain circumstances.”

  While the decidedly not-dead Oliver Kerr excused himself to go wash the fake blood off his hands and change his shirt, Andie fought to understand and control her emotional mix of outrage, relief, and delight. She paced the hotel room several times, finally stopping in front of Logan.

  Part of her wanted to scream at him for his duplicity.

  Part of her wanted to sink to the floor in thanks.

  Part of her wanted to fling her arms around his neck and kiss him.

  In the end, she went with Option Four—doubling her fists and slamming them into his chest. “Goddammit,” she huffed. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re a good guy?”

  He covered her hands with his own, and bent his head to gaze deeply into her eyes. “Sorry, lass,” he said softly. “There’s nothin’ good about me, and that’s a fact. What I am is on the right side of the law is all.”

  “But you haven’t always been.”

  “True enough.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I used to be a lawless cad.”

  “What turned you around?”

  A sad look came into his eyes. A look of loss and grief and melancholy. “A friend,” he murmured. “A good friend. Saved my life. Kept me going during my darkest days, he did. He was steadfast and true. Rare and elusive qualities in this world. I do what I do now because of him, and in honor of his memory.”

  “His memory? He’s…”

  “That’s all the explaining I mean to do, Andie. The rest is best left for another time.” He kissed the tip of her nose again.

  “All right.” She eased her body up against his, craving the closeness she’d denied herself since she’d met him. “But I’m still furious with you for lying to me.”