Читать книгу Always Look Twice - Sheri WhiteFeather - Страница 9

Chapter 3

Olivia followed Kyle outside, where they took his Jeep to the aircraft hangar, a ten-thousand-square-foot structure designed to his specification.

They reached the metal building, and once they were inside, he smiled at her, looking a tad wicked in the compound he’d created.

Kyle claimed it was nothing more than a sophisticated, indoor, laser-tag course, equipped with a montage of movie props and set changes, including lifelike audio tracks and things that varied the weather, creating heat, rain, ice or wind.

But to Olivia it was more than that. The other people who came here—mercenaries and militants—played war games. But she was a psychic honing her skills, using her mind, instead of her eyes, to locate a target.

Kyle, of course, was the great and powerful Oz. He controlled the environment, modifying the course when necessary, putting new obstacles in each participant’s path.

“Ready?” he asked.

She nodded, handing him her pistol. He placed the Glock in a gun case and fitted her with a laser pack, then a laser gun. Next, he readied himself, using the same type of gear.

At the moment, the course was prepared for low-light combat. The hangar was dark, not pitch-black, but dim and shadowy. Only that wasn’t Olivia’s agenda.

Kyle came up behind her, placing a blindfold around her eyes.

“How long will I have this time?” she asked.

“Thirty minutes.”

She nodded. Soon Kyle would become her target. The man she had to locate, the human predator she had to kill. They’d been working on this exercise for months, but she’d yet to catch him.

“On the thirty-first minute, you’re fair game,” he said.

“I know.” He would be able to see her, she thought. He would have the advantage. But that was her choice, her challenge, the reason this drill mattered so much.

He leaned into her again, adjusting the blindfold, making sure it was secure. “Is that good?”

“Yes.”

“How good?” he asked.

Confused, she frowned. “What?”

“Is it as good as when he touches you?”

She shook her head. She didn’t need this testosterone crap. She knew Kyle was talking about West. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“I’ll bet you can see him in your mind right now, Liv. I’ll bet you can feel him rubbing against you.”

“Not a chance,” she said, but her denial came too soon.

There was no time to think, to stop it from happening. Within a heartbeat, within one breathless moment, an erotic image flowed through her blood, sending chills along her spine.

The vision seemed so real, so lifelike, forcing her to react. She moistened her lips. Warm, wet, much too eager.

West was going to kiss her.

She could see him, tall and tan, his obscure eyes a silvery shade of gray. She reached out to touch him, to feel the texture of his clothes. He moved closer, and her knees went weak. She could smell his cologne.

Beneath the blindfold, she rebelled, battling her desire, trying to will it away. But she couldn’t. The enchantment was there, deep inside her, like a—

“Now!” A pair of strong hands shoved her, and she went sprawling, falling to the ground, losing her weapon in the process.

She snapped out of the vision, cursing herself for falling for Kyle’s scheme, for letting him trick her. She could hear him running through the building, his footsteps echoing, then disappearing into a maze of silence.

Her thirty minutes had begun.

She took a deep breath and focused on her missing gun, on the laser pistol that had skidded across the concrete floor.

There, she thought, using her ability to retrieve lost objects. To the right.

Olivia stretched her arm, found it, smiled like a siren. She was going to blow Kyle Prescott to smithereens.

She moved forward, zeroing in on the energy around her. Pickle barrels, shelves with canned goods, a pallet of paper products.

Confident, she continued on the same path, then nearly lost her footing on a rock that got caught under her shoe. The terrain had changed.

Dirt, boulders, instant sounds from the night. Crickets chirping, owls hooting. Her nostrils flared. Trees. Tall, realistic props, scented with evergreen.

Olivia put her hand out, making sure there was nothing in front of her, nothing blocking her way.

Then something growled, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She turned, took aim, fired the laser gun.

An alarm sounded her victory. She’d hit one of the booby traps.

Elation streamed through her body like mist from a waterfall. She felt giddy, warm.

Sexual.

No, she told herself, as the forest turned quiet. She needed to stay on guard. No more hot-blooded visions, no more wax-melting moments.

She kept walking, sensing the terrain, the vines clinging to breakaway walls. She needed to zero in on Kyle’s pulse. She needed to find him.

But she didn’t. She tripped, nearly fell, realized she’d almost stumbled into a pond. Frustrated, she cursed beneath her breath. She should have been aware of the water.

Time passed. Too much time. She could feel it ticking, leaving her vulnerable to an attack.

She stopped, knowing she had to take to the shadows, to keep Kyle from seeing her. But where were the shadows, damn it? Where was the darkest point, the area that would shield her?

Something flew over her head. A booby-trapped bird, an electronic device tracking her location. She turned, fired, missed it.

And then she sensed him. Her enemy. The man she was supposed to shoot. He was watching her.

The way the killer had watched Denise Red Bow.

In the next instant an alarm sounded, shrieking in her ears. Too late. He’d shot her instead.

Just like that. Olivia was dead.

The police station was in its usual glory. Or gory, Olivia thought. She’d stayed away for a week. She had another life, after all. A day job, so to speak. She had a list of prominent clients who consulted her for private readings.

She glanced at the desk sergeant. He was ogling her, checking out her leather skirt and thigh-high hose. Her legs were a mile long, a fact that made the micromini look even shorter.

The station was bustling with activity, with sights and sounds and smells that made her wrinkle her nose. A prostitute pushed past her, a big-busted woman drenched in cheap perfume and carting around a rear end the size of Texas.

The desk sergeant had been ogling her, too.

Cops were a strange breed. Almost as strange as FBI, she decided. Special Agent West had requested her presence today. And not only that, but he’d wangled an office, taking over the digs of a vacationing lieutenant.

She proceeded to the designated location and found the door open. West sat behind the pressed-wood desk, poring over a stack of paperwork, the monitor on his laptop casting a bright glow. She suspected he had accommodations available at the FBI field office, too.

He looked up. “Hey, gorgeous.”

Olivia stalled. What had gotten into him?

“Don’t panic. He’s talking to me.” Detective Riggs approached the doorway. “Aren’t you, West?”

“Yep.” He smiled at the blonde, then scratched his head, giving Olivia’s outfit a curious study. Riggs scooted by, carrying another mound of paperwork.

Olivia entered the room, her stiletto heels sounding on the linoleum. “You two got awfully chummy.”

The female detective shrugged. “I’m chummy with everybody.”

“Maybe you ought to try it,” West told Olivia, looking like the lord of the lieutenant’s manor.

And maybe he should go jump in the lake, she thought. “Why did you ask me to come here?”

He ran his gaze up and down, cruising the length of her body, settling on her itty-bitty skirt. “For a ménage,” he said, without the slightest bit of humor.

She raised her eyebrows. She knew he was trying to get her goat. “With who? Me and you and Muncy?”

Riggs laughed at that. She was in her Cagney mode, behaving like the TV character. Tough yet feminine, with chin-length hair and strong-boned features. “Muncy’s wife might have something to say about that.”

Olivia wasn’t in the mood to laugh. She was still smarting over getting annihilated by Kyle last week. She didn’t need to get taken down by West, too.

He came around the front of his borrowed desk and sat on the edge of it. Then he gestured to a chair, indicating for her to sit. She did, but not without crossing her legs and flashing the hooks on her garter belt, giving him a screw-you peep show.

He didn’t miss a beat. He saw it all, even angling his head to get a better look.

Riggs took the other chair. She wore a simple blouse, pleated slacks and sensible shoes. “Just for the record,” she said, scolding West in a malice-free voice, “I’m not the threesome type.”

Olivia’s tone wasn’t nearly as forgiving. “Me, neither.”

“Really?” He gave her a pointed look. “And here I thought you liked all that kinky stuff.”

“Excuse me?”

“I found out how you conned your way into my motel room, Ms. Whirlwind.”

She uncrossed her legs, let him take a second look, then recrossed them, thinking how predictable men were. He couldn’t seem to get enough. “I did what I had to do. And cut the Ms. Whirlwind crap.”

Riggs scooted to the end of her chair. Intrigued, it seemed, by their conversation. Then she leaned into Olivia and whispered in her ear. “He’s kind of sexy, don’t you think?”

Olivia almost laughed. West was frowning now. Apparently he didn’t appreciate being the object of feminine scrutiny. “I haven’t decided,” she whispered back.

Riggs cupped her hand like a first-grader, making their secret even more obvious. “You should give him a chance. He’s a pretty good flirt, once he takes that stick out of his ass.”

“Would you sleep with him?” Olivia asked, still whispering.

Riggs turned, looked at West and sized him up. “Probably not,” she said, loud enough for him to hear. “Would you?”

Yes, Olivia thought, as the memory of her vision washed over her. “No.” Her voice was just as loud. “Not a chance.”

“Okay, ladies,” West interrupted with a scowl. He resumed the seat behind his desk, putting a barrier between them. “That’s enough. You got me back.”

“For what?” Olivia asked innocently.

“Yes, for what?” Riggs parroted, mimicking his accent, the Southern drawl that slowed down his words. “That little ol’ ménage thing?”

His face nearly flushed. Olivia wanted to shoot Riggs a high-five. The lady cop certainly knew how to put a man in his place.

“What’d I miss?” Detective Muncy shuffled through the door, with a cup of burnt-smelling coffee and bed-head hair, even in the middle of the afternoon. His clothes, as usual, were wrinkled.

“Nothing,” West said. “You didn’t miss a thing.”

Olivia and Riggs exchanged a glance, then remained, quite demure, in their chairs, waiting for the meeting to begin.

West took charge, removing a small stack of pictures from an envelope on his desk. “These were provided by Denise Red Bow’s husband. I want Ms. Whirlwind—” he paused to correct her name “—Olivia, to look at them and tell me what she sees.”

She accepted the photographs. She wasn’t sure where West was going with this, so she studied them carefully. Denise in a long, silky wedding gown, Denise making a funny face at the camera, Denise at an Indian gathering, eating fry bread. “I see a beautiful young woman who shouldn’t have died.”

“Me, too. But there’s more to it than that. Something I can’t put my finger on.” He reached for the wedding photo. “She looks truly happy here. The others almost seem like a forgery.”

Olivia glanced up at him. “Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s a gut a feeling, I guess. My ESP, if you will.”

She merely nodded. Most investigators had strong instincts. But that didn’t mean he was right. Or that he had powers beyond the norm.

Except for those eyes, she thought, as she searched his gaze. They were almost devoid of color today. Like clear quartz crystals from the earth.

“Does Denise remind you of someone in those pictures?” Muncy asked West.

The special agent shrugged. “Lots of people smile when they’re troubled. Lots of people fake it.”

Olivia glanced at the remaining photographs in her lap. She could feel West’s energy, his displacement, the electrical charge swirling around him. “She reminds you of your ex-wife,” she said. “That’s the forgery you were talking about.”

He gave her an annoyed look. “This isn’t about me.”

Olivia didn’t back down. “Your ex was unhappy. Discontent. You spent more time on the job than you did at home, and she couldn’t handle that.”

West didn’t respond, but he didn’t have to. The scene was already set.

Muncy tapped the fry-bread picture of Denise. “She was married to a surgeon.”

“And she probably felt neglected,” Riggs put in. “Her hubby worked some rigorous hours.”

“She didn’t cheat,” Olivia said, studying the dead woman’s image. “She didn’t have a lover.”

“You sure about that?” West asked.

“Yes. But…” A sudden sadness ripped through her body. Denise’s loneliness. The nights she dreamed about romance and flowers and a man whose touch would make her feel special. “She wanted to. She fantasized about having an affair.”

West sat back in his chair, grabbed his bottled water and took a swig. Apparently Denise’s fantasies had left a bad taste in his mouth. “The killer knew that. The son of a bitch knew.”

Olivia agreed. “I think so, too.” But she wasn’t surprised. The Slasher’s supernatural abilities were part of his MO, part of what drove him.

“I could use a drink,” West said suddenly, discarding his water. “Something stronger than this.”

Because he was still dwelling on his ex, Olivia thought.

“Sounds good to me.” Muncy frowned at his over-brewed coffee. “Why don’t we all meet at the Mockingbird later? After this long-ass day ends.”

“I’m game.” Riggs looked at Olivia. “How about you?”

She knew the Mockingbird was a cop-patronized bar downtown. And she knew Special Agent West was going to get tanked. Damn-the-consequences drunk. “Sure,” she said, glancing in his direction. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

* * *

At 6:00 p. m., Olivia had dinner. Nothing fancy, just a routine meal with her sister and Glenn Sabolich, a family friend who’d been part of their lives since they were children.

The trio met regularly at Mel’s Diner, a legendary restaurant brimming with fifties nostalgia. This evening they ate on the patio, where a view of the Sunset Strip presented the glitz and glamour associated with West Hollywood.

Glenn munched casually on a Famous Melburger, his grayish blond hair blowing lightly in the breeze. He was more than a family friend, Olivia thought. He was also their landlord, the real estate mogul who owned the loft in which she and Allie lived. But Glenn had owned the rental house where they’d grown up, too.

At fifty-four, he was the same age as their dad. Or the same age Joseph would have been if he hadn’t pulled the trigger.

Glenn and their father had been close, and when Joseph committed suicide, he’d helped Olivia and Allie pick up the chipped pieces of their lives. She was never sure what Glenn had thought of their mother, although he’d never said anything unkind about her.

He looked up and caught Olivia watching him. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she responded, wondering why he’d never remarried. Glenn’s socialite wife had filed for a divorce ages ago, about six months before Olivia’s mom had ditched her dad.

Allie finally decided to join the conversation. Until now she’d been people watching, gazing at the trendy pedestrians walking by. “We should tell Glenn about the wanagi.”

“A ghost?” He recognized the Lakota word.

Olivia sighed. Allie was obsessed with the wanagi. “It made contact with me, but Allie thinks it’s Dad.”

Glenn’s voice cracked. “That’s not good. Your father deserves to have some peace. He…”

As his words faded into the atmosphere, his emotions knifed Olivia’s heart. Shame. Remorse. A horrible secret. Stunned, she shifted in her chair, studying the man she’d always trusted.

Glenn was hiding something. Something he’d been hiding for years.

Allie reached for her tea, adding honey to the warm brew. “I’ve been leaving those little candy hearts out for Dad. Just in case he wants to communicate with us.”

Olivia tilted her head. Suddenly everyone seemed mad. Not only did Allie expect the wanagi to eat the candy, she expected it to make sentences out of things like, Hey Babe, Get Real, Go Girl and Don’t Tell.

Don’t tell.

Olivia looked at Glenn, saw him struggle to finish his burger.

Dinner went downhill from there. Glenn remained uncomfortable, barely speaking. Allie resumed people watching, her mind probably drifting on a cloud.

And Olivia? She checked her watch, anxious to leave, to have a drink with the detectives and the FBI agent investigating a trio of grisly murders.

Thirty minutes later she arrived at the Mockingbird, still wearing her minuscule skirt and the lacy garter belt she’d flashed at West. She’d added a biker jacket to the ensemble, warding off a self-induced chill.

What if Glenn had done something to intensify her father’s pain? What if he had been part of her dad’s despair? A link in his suicide?

It was a cruel thought, but it kept running through her brain, slinking and sliding like a poisonous snake.

Clearing her mind, she entered the bar. The Mockingbird was a down-to-earth watering hole, with a jukebox in front and a billiard table in back. The owner, a no-nonsense Irishman, didn’t take any guff from his law-enforcement patrons.

Olivia found Muncy and Riggs seated at a scratched and scuffed table, drinking beer and eating peanuts. They looked up, greeting her in unison.

“Where’s West?” she asked.

Muncy gestured with his thumb. “In the head.”

She glanced in the direction of the men’s room and took the chair across from Riggs.

“That’s where West is sitting,” the female detective said. “That’s his drink in front of you.”

“Oh.” Olivia smiled at the other woman, picked up the glass and tasted the contents. “Strong stuff.”

Riggs laughed. “You left a lipstick mark.”

Olivia ran her tongue across her teeth. She wasn’t used to bourbon. “It’ll probably turn him on.”

“Who? West?” Muncy made a curious expression. “I knew something was going on earlier. I knew I missed something.”

Olivia took another sip of the special agent’s drink, and he came out of the bathroom, catching sight of her hording his spot and his alcohol.

He approached the table. “What are you doing? Warming my seat?”

“Nope, it’s my seat now. And your fly is open.”

He bent his head to check his zipper, and Olivia winked at Riggs. His fly wasn’t open, but she’d made him look.

“Funny girl.” He snatched away his drink, studied the lipstick mark, then put his mouth directly over it and downed the rest of his bourbon.

Olivia felt as if she’d just been kissed. Or kicked. Or both. West never failed to leave her sexed up and irritated.

He grabbed an empty chair from a nearby table and placed it next to her, too close for comfort.

Muncy ate another handful of peanuts, but he was watching her and West, analyzing their body language.

“I picked this song,” the special agent said.

Olivia listened to the lyrics playing on the jukebox. “You shot the sheriff?”

“No. The guy singing did.” He rubbed the lipstick mark with his thumb, smearing it. “Eric Clapton. Am I still on your shit list, Ms. Whirlwind? Olivia?”

“Yep.”

“Mine, too,” Riggs put in.

“You hit on both of them?” Muncy shook his head, chuckling beneath his breath. “Federal Bureau of Insanity.”

West defended himself. “It was a joke.” He signaled the cocktail waitress for another drink, and she arrived instantly. “Give us both one of these.” He held up his empty glass and gestured to Olivia. “But make hers a double.”

“I’ll take a cola,” she said, declining the bourbon. Alcohol diminished her ability, and now she wanted to remain on guard. West’s eyes were on the verge of glowing, catching a flicker of candlelight.

Riggs scooted closer to the table. She still wore her sensible outfit, and her hair was still neatly styled. “I lost interest in him.”

“I was never interested,” Olivia said.

The lady cop merely smiled. She knew Olivia was lying. Everyone probably knew. Including West.

“I wanted him right away.” Muncy joined in, making the girls laugh.

West rolled his candlelit eyes, then shot the jovial detective the bird.

Olivia decided they were an interesting group. A foursome. Not a threesome, she thought. No ménage.

Her soda arrived, along with West’s hard liquor. She sipped. He guzzled.

“Still thinking about your ex?” she asked.

“Don’t start. I’m sick of women.”

“He’s drunk.” Riggs clucked her tongue. “Someone is going to have to pour him into bed tonight.”

Olivia turned to look at the intoxicated agent. “I knew he was going to get wasted.”

He made a disgusted sound. “’Cause you know everything.”

She didn’t respond. His psychic envy was showing. But he probably thought she had penis envy. Most macho men did. “I’ll drive him back to his motel.”

“Lucky me. What if I puke all over your Porsche?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

He lowered his gaze to her throat, and she sensed that he wanted to touch her scar.

And then she got another eerie feeling.

Someone was watching them. Not someone in the bar. But someone with powers that rivaled Olivia’s. Someone who could see them in his mind.

The Slasher, she thought, as her veins turned to ice.

The man prowling the city for another victim.