“You’re saying you tuned into a dead person?” Sheila sounds skeptical.
“No. I’m not a medium.” Ruby takes a deep breath. “And in this case, I made the connection through Ellen’s car. China teases me about that—about getting an urgent message through a Honda Civic.” She made a rueful face. “I know it sounds funny—funny ha-ha, I mean. But it wasn’t, really. We were too late. When we found Ellen’s body, she was still warm. If only I had made the connection a few minutes earlier, we might have been able to save her. If only—” She stops. And there was Sarah, of course. Another if-only. Another too-late.
There’s a sharp, quick rap at the door and Sheila looks up as it opens.
“Ah, Connors,” she says. “Come in.”
* * *
* Rosemary Remembered
** Indigo Dying
Chapter Four
In his mid-forties, Connors is slim-hipped and broad-shouldered. His face is craggy, his dark hair regulation short. He is dressed in conservative street clothes—neatly pressed chinos and a navy blazer with a light blue dress shirt and a blue-on-blue checked tie. The blazer is unbuttoned, and Ruby can see that he is wearing a shoulder holster under his left arm and a badge clip and handcuffs on his belt. She has a quick awareness of strong intelligence, controlled energy, and arrogance. When his gaze falls on her, there is an undisguised curiosity in his ice-blue eyes. He is measuring her. She squirms.
He looks from Ruby to Sheila. “You wanted to see me, Chief?”
“Sit down, Connors.” As he moves the other chair so he can see Ruby, Sheila adds, “Ms. Wilcox, this is Detective Ethan Connors. He came to us a few months ago from the Bexar County Criminal Investigations Division. Detective, this is Ruby Wilcox. She has a shop over on Crockett Street. The Crystal Cave.”
“The Crystal Cave.” He narrows his eyes. There is something hard and unyielding in him, Ruby thinks, and wary. Too much experience, maybe. “What do you sell there, Ms. Wilcox?”
“Books,” she says, knowing that whatever she tells him will provoke some inner amusement. “Candles. Jewelry.” Like Sheila’s, his walls are up, but she can almost hear the judgments he is making on the Cave, on the clothes she is wearing, on her.
She gives him a deliberate smile and something more to chew on. “Horoscopes, tarot cards, crystal balls. A little light palm-reading on the side.” The minute the words are out, she knows they are too flip for the occasion and regrets them, for the same reason she regrets her outfit.
He stifles a snort and Sheila hastily interrupts. “Ms. Wilcox has something to tell us, Detective. Ruby, let’s hear it again, just the way you told me. Everything, and from the top, please.”
The detective’s mistrust is a cold December wind, freezing her. But Ruby takes a deep breath, summons as much focus as she can, and tells the story one more time, trying not to be defensive or defiant, just urgent. The dream, the repeated, persistent, inescapable dream. The river trail, the running woman, the watching man, his malevolent intention. The need to do something to keep this from happening. The need to do it now.
The detective is watching her face, his arms folded. As she talks, he sits straighter, and she can see a growing tension in his shoulders. She is sure that he has decided that she is a total dingbat, but he is wearing his cop face and his walls are up, firm and high. She couldn’t hear his thoughts even if she wanted to, which she definitely does not.
There is a silence when she’s finished, as Connors processes what she’s said. He is skeptical and distrustful, with a what-kind-of-freak-show-have-I-wandered-into attitude. But she has the somewhat comforting sense that this is more a habit of mind than his assessment of her as a person. He simply doesn’t want to believe what he is hearing. It will take dramatic evidence—strong, serious evidence—to convince him. And he won’t be pleased if that evidence presents itself. It will knock him off balance. He will be pretty pissed off.
Finally, he breaks the silence. “Pink cancer shirt, pink shorts, white cap. You’re trying to tell me you got all this stuff from a damned dream?”
Evenly, Sheila says, “I think we should treat this the same way we would treat any other tip, Detective. Evaluate it against what we already know.” She pauses. “How much of it squares with the details in the Montgomery case?”
Ruby is jolted. This . . . this situation has actually happened? It’s a case, with somebody’s name on it? But when? Where? Heart thumping, she starts to ask, but Connors is speaking, his voice hard and flat.
“The physical description is a match.”
“How much of it?”
“All of it. Clothes, cap, hair, the cellphone armband. According to Montgomery’s housemate.” Connors is looking at Ruby. “The earbuds. Color?”
“Pink.” Ruby doesn’t hesitate. “The cellphone is pink, too. She’s a survivor. A breast cancer survivor, I mean.”
“Maybe she just likes the color,” Sheila says in an offhand tone. “Or maybe she has a friend with breast cancer and she’s a supporter.”
Ruby closes her eyes and sees the woman again, running, her body graceful, her stride athletic. She opens her eyes. “No,” she says positively. “She’s a survivor.”
“Connors?” Sheila asks.
“Correct,” the detective replies, and now there’s an odd inflection in his voice. “I talked to the housemate on the phone when she made the report. Montgomery is active in one of the local survivors’ groups. She volunteers on the hotline, the housemate said. That’s where she was supposed to go after her run last night. She never showed up.”
She never showed up.
Ruby’s stomach muscles tighten and she sucks in a breath. She’s been describing a dream. Now it is suddenly real.
Shockingly, horrifyingly real.
“This . . . this has already happened?” she blurts out, feeling sick. Too late. She’d been too late with Sarah, too late with Ellen Holt. Now, once again, too late.
“Tell her,” Sheila says.
Connors is curt. “A woman named Allison Montgomery was reported missing by her housemate—Emily—this morning. She left in her car about seven-thirty yesterday evening, to go for a run.” He pins his gaze on Ruby, narrowing his icy blue eyes. “You know this woman, Ms. Wilcox?”
Ruby shakes her head. Allison Montgomery isn’t in her survivors’ group. Still, they are both breast cancer survivors, which is a kind of bond. It makes her wonder about other possible links between them. The volunteer hotline, maybe? Ruby works there several evenings a month, and she doesn’t know all of the other volunteers by name. Is Allison one of them?
“Or maybe you know the housemate and the two of you are collaborating on the description.” Connors is ratcheting up his suspicions. “Or maybe you witnessed the snatch and you figure to get some gold-plated attention. So you show up here with this ludicrous woo-woo and try to sell—”
“That’s enough, Connors,” Sheila says firmly. “You don’t have to believe that Ms. Wilcox is psychic. But her description of Montgomery matches what you heard from the housemate. We have to deal—straight up, this morning—with Ms. Wilcox’s information, just as we would with any other witness. Got that?”
“Got it,” Connors says gruffly, not pleased.
Sheila turns to Ruby. “We’re going to need a statement—the same thing you’ve told us here, but for the record. Connors will take care of that. Then I want the two of you to go over to the park and walk the trail. Keep your eyes open, see if anything catches your attention.” She looks at the detective. “Montgomery’s car?”
“A blue Chevy Trax,” Connors says, and reads the tag number. “She apparently runs in different areas around town, usually late in the evening. She drives, parks, jogs, drives home—or like last night, to her volunteer work. The housemate didn’t know where she might have been running last night, and it’s too early to begin a needle-in-a-haystack search. But I went ahead and put out a BOLO on the Chevy.”
“That means be on the look-out,” Sheila says to
Ruby. “You have any suggestions?”
“Check out the lot at the north end of Pecan Park,” Ruby replies, and then qualifies her suggestion, because this wasn’t a part of her dream. “I’m guessing. That’s where I leave my car when I’m running upriver.”
Sheila glances at Connors. “Check the north lot before you walk the trail.” She looks back at Ruby, hesitating. “I think you’re aware of just how weird this is, Ruby.” The detective’s eyebrows go up when she uses Ruby’s first name. “If it weren’t for the fact that you’ve nailed Montgomery’s description, I’d probably blow you off. Even so, it’s hard for me to accept what you’re saying. Probably even harder for Connors.” Dryly, she adds, “But he’s an experienced detective. I’m confident that he’ll follow this lead as patiently and thoroughly as he’s following all the other leads in this case. Right, Connors?”
“Whatever you say, Chief,” he replies, with an edge of irony.
Sheila purses her lips. “I don’t suppose we have any other leads to check out right now.”
He rolls his eyes with a give-me-a-break look. “This is a missing person report. A missing adult. It’s only a few hours old. All we have so far is the housemate’s story—and this.”
He scowls at Ruby. He doesn’t say this crap, but he wants her to hear him thinking it, so she does.
He adds, “Of course, as soon as the story hits the TV news and the newspaper, the tips will roll in. There’ll be plenty of other weirdos.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Sheila says. “So while we’re waiting, let’s get this tip checked out. Seriously. No matter what you think of it.”
She turns to Ruby, her eyes narrowed. “One other thing, Ruby. Stay away from Jessica Nelson. If Montgomery doesn’t turn up by the time the missing person call appears on our daily crime log, she’ll be on this story like a duck on a June bug. I’m sure she would love to know that you have a theory of the case. But we don’t need to feed the media circus. Let’s keep a lid on it.”
“Of course.” Jessica Nelson is a reporter for the Enterprise and a friend who is always willing to arrange a little free publicity for the Cave. But Ruby knows that Sheila is right. Jessica would pounce on this story. And the last thing in the world Ruby wants—the very last thing—is her name in the paper.
Connors doesn’t buy it. “You’re going to miss out on an opportunity to get your photo on the front page?” His question has a strong hint of snark.
Sheila pushes her chair back and stands. “We’re done here, Detective,” she says firmly.
“Yes, ma’am.” Connors stands, too. “Let’s get your statement, Ms. Wilcox.” With an exaggerated politeness, he ushers her out of the chief’s office.
Chapter Five
Ethan Connors is exasperated.
He is accustomed to having his days interrupted by the strange and unexpected. In fact, that’s one of the things he likes about police work. He has a short attention span. He needs something new and challenging on the radar every so often. But this morning’s woo-woo nonsense is just that. Nonsense. Baloney. Bunkum. Bullpucky.
But Wilcox is obviously a friend of the chief, who (for whatever reason) finds it useful to give her some air time. And an order—even a manifestly ridiculous one—is an order. Doing his job, Connors seats the woman in front of a microphone logged into the computer’s dictation software. Her story is well organized, she tells it competently, and there are only a few corrections to be made when she’s finished. She signs it, he saves it, and they’re done with that.
“Now the park,” Connors growls, making no effort to mask his displeasure. Jeez, it’s almost ninety out there already.
She replies, “Yes, sir,” in a snippy tone. With a scowl, she adds, “A walk in the park isn’t my friggin’ idea. I know you don’t like this psychic stuff, and you don’t like me. And if it’s any consolation, I’m not crazy about you, either. I wouldn’t be doing this if the chief hadn’t told me to.”
Her blue eyes are snapping, her red curls are dancing, and she’s so vehement—and cute—that Connors is tempted to smile. But he doesn’t.
“Come on, then,” he says, moderating his tone. “We’ve both got better things to do. So let’s get it over with before the day gets any hotter.”
Connors’ unmarked Crown Victoria is at the back of the lot behind the police station. As they walk, he can’t help noticing that she is half-a-foot taller than most of the women he knows. At six foot three, he still tops her, but not by much. Plus, she is long-legged and easily matches his stride, so he doesn’t have to slow down. She’s wearing an off-one-shoulder top that is gauzy and floaty and colorful, and her graceful movements give it a fluid motion. With that red hair and ivory skin, she is a very attractive woman. If this were a different situation—
But it isn’t, and Connors breaks off the thought. It is a typical cloudless late-August day, and the temperature is still climbing. The shards of sun are brutally bright, and he puts on his sunglasses. When they get to the car, he opens the doors to let the interior cool off, takes off his blazer, and stashes his shoulder holster and Sig Sauer P226 in the gun safe in the trunk. He loosens his tie and rolls up the sleeves of his light-blue shirt. It’s not going to get any cooler, so he might as well get comfortable.
The Vic is parked under a spindly ash tree that provides almost no shade at all. It is as hot and steamy as a sauna, and he lowers the window while the car’s air conditioner, always cranky, struggles to pick up the load. Wilcox gets in, and as he turns the key in the ignition, he catches a whiff of her subtle summery perfume. It’s the same citrusy scent Carole liked to wear, or close to it, and he feels the jab of an unbidden desire, sharp as a switchblade but swallowed swiftly by the usual unwelcome guilt. He had stayed with Carole, hating it but still loving her, until long after he should have left. If he hadn’t held on, she might have found the strength to pull out of her opioid dependence on her own. He was her crutch, but they were both casualties.
But he hadn’t known that then—how could he? He barely knows it now, is only guessing, really, after the marriage fell to pieces and the damage was done. Inevitably, Carole got the worst of it. But he wears her scars, and they’re deep ones.
Beside him, Ms. Wilcox repositions the fins of the AC vent to get a little more air, and he sees that she has long, delicate fingers. She turns toward him as he pulls out of the lot.
“You said that Allison lives with a housemate. She’s not a student, is she?”
“Your crystal ball isn’t working?”
“Left it at the shop,” she replies lightly. “It’s kind of a nuisance to carry around. I might drop it and then where would we be?”
“Allison isn’t a student,” he says, checking for traffic before he makes a left turn onto Cedar Avenue. “She worked at the Texas Economic Development Office in Austin. But she quit last week, according to Emily, the housemate. She’s supposedly looking for a new job.”
“Her parents,” Wilcox says. “Do they live in town? Does she have a boyfriend?
“Don’t know. The investigation isn’t officially open yet.”
She frowns. “But I thought—”
“Here’s how this works.” He has been waiting to tell her, so she will understand just how much of a stretch this is—this thing she’s started with her so-called dream. “If a child goes missing, or an adult with dementia, state law says we have to open the investigation immediately. In all other cases, we use due diligence in deciding when to investigate. It depends on the department’s workload and priorities. And resources—of which there’s never enough.”
He makes a right turn at Blanco Street, slowly, to let a gray-haired woman and her leashed Lab puppy clear the crosswalk. “You’ve got to understand that it’s not a crime for an adult to disappear. People do it all the time, for all sorts of reasons. On the surface, they may look like your ordinary Joe or Jolene, but they have hidden lives. Secret debts, money embezzled from an employer, a love affair. In a case I worked a couple of year
s ago, a husband reported his wife missing. He’d convinced himself that she’d committed suicide. But I located her living with her girlfriend in Florida—and not happy about being found. I pissed her husband off, too, because I wouldn’t tell him where she was. Which is the law, by the way. She has a legal right to her privacy.”
Wilcox starts to say something, but Connors is just getting wound up.
“Allison Montgomery hasn’t been gone twenty-four hours yet. She’s a grownup. She’s entitled to do whatever the hell she wants. She didn’t have a job to get up for this morning, so maybe she went out for a night on the town and she’s sleeping it off somewhere. Maybe she ran into an old friend and decided to spend the night with him. Or her.” His voice becomes harder, flatter. “Dead bodies get our attention, Ms. Wilcox. When we have a no-body incident, we tend to take things slower. If the chief hadn’t given me an order, I wouldn’t be opening this investigation until—”
“Until there’s a body,” she says. She turns the words over slowly, as if they are pieces of a jigsaw puzzle she is fitting together. “She’s a no-body until she’s a dead body.”
Well, good. She gets what he’s saying. No-body incidents don’t merit consideration because there’s nothing worth considering. Allison Montgomery is receiving his attention right now because he’s following orders. Because this weirdo friend of the chief has come in with a cockamamie story about seeing a kidnapping-in-progress, in a dream. In a dream, for the love of Mike. He puffs out an irritated breath.
“Or until there’s a ransom demand,” he says. “That gets our attention, if it’s credible. But maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s a phony. Maybe there’s a conspiracy.” He slides her a glance and waits.
“A conspiracy?”
“Here’s an example,” he says, promptly, so she’ll know he’s been waiting to tell her this. “A couple of years ago, there was this porn star out in LA who faked her own kidnapping. She and her accomplice—her lover, who was pretending to be her kidnapper—demanded a twenty-five-thousand-dollar ransom. The husband paid. They grabbed the money and ran. They were caught in Mexico, extradited, and charged with extortion. The ‘kidnap victim’ got fifteen years. Her coconspirator got ten. The husband got some of his money back, and a divorce.”
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