“I’m not convinced that’s true. There has to be a motive. Either someone wants what you have, is looking for revenge, or wants to stop you from obtaining more. Which is it?” When his smile broadened, she followed suit, “Are you doing anything illegal?”
Darren’s eyes became two flints. Grace didn’t mean to stare, but she couldn’t look away. His eyes pinned her. Helpless? No. She cleared her throat and turned the page on her notepad. She felt her power surge. Her eyes returned to his, this time equipped with electrified, barbed wire. “I can’t help anyone who is not truthful with me.”
“No, nothing illegal. And you’re right. The police should be notified. There. I feel better all ready. You’re good, Miss Simms. May I set up another session? I have to run. Business meeting in twenty minutes. I never leave a client hanging.”
“Let’s make it two weeks, same time. I am available by phone providing there’s a crisis or if you need to change your appointment.” Grace led him toward the door. “I’m glad you agreed to share your story with the police, Mr. Sheppard. I’m sure they can handle the crux of your problem.”
Darren had not cleared the door when he stopped short. “My phone,” he said, his breath brushing her forehead.
She wanted to step away, but there was no place to go. She was trapped in the doorway. His vanilla-spice scent assaulted her nostrils. Heat from his body penetrated her thin sweater. She held still until he passed. She watched him snatch his phone from the sofa and stepped clear of his return. “Don’t want to forget that,” she said, her voice shaky. Stepping into the hall, away from the door, she let him pass. When he left the office, her breathing returned to normal.
Rather than let her suspicions nag her the rest of the day, she went to her computer and typed the name Darren Sheppard in the search toolbar. She scrolled through the list of choices, reading carefully. Darren Sheppard, Sacramento. She clicked on the link. Darren Sheppard, screenwriter, “Wyatt Earp’s Revenge.” She scoured the site hoping to get more information. No luck. She retraced her steps and searched again until she found another site. This one contained a photo of a Darren Sheppard. Again, it identified him as a screenwriter. Right age, but not my guy. She scrolled down the list again, looking for anyone with that name who won a prize or dealt in commodities. Who are you? She came up blank.
* * *
Grace placed Darren’s folder in the drawer and returned to her computer. Ten minutes until Misha’s arrival gave Grace enough time to glance at the news on her homepage. While skimming over the stories, one headline caught her eye.
Mystery Writer Missing
San Francisco police have asked for help in the disappearance of mystery novelist and non-fiction author Fancy Pickett, who was last seen Christmas morning leaving her downtown apartment building.
“She was coughing and said she had a cold. She didn’t want to get too close,” said Jivan Adare, the longtime doorman for her apartment building.
Pickett was spotted publicly attending the performance of Lion King at the Orpheum Theater, Christmas Eve with an unidentified couple. Anyone with information as to Miss Pickett’s whereabouts should contact…
Grace swallowed hard. No, it couldn’t be, she convinced herself. He wouldn’t, couldn’t. He’s— Goosebumps invaded her flesh. She rubbed her arms for warmth. Don’t do this to yourself; you’re safe.
She picked up the phone and called Paul. “Hey, it’s not even 11 o’clock, and already I miss you.”
“I’m glad you said it first. I was thinking the very same thing.”
“Paul, you haven’t heard any more about Jess, have you?”
His voice stiffened. “No, why?”
“I’m a scardy-cat. Just read something on the Internet that disturbed me, that’s all.”
“What happened?”
“A mystery writer is missing…from the Bay Area.”
He chuckled, and she knew he was trying to ease her fear. She smiled, loving him more.
“Honey, you know if there were any threat to your safety, I would be on it like white on rice.”
“I know. I guess I’m being overly sensitive with Sal gone and all.”
“Want me to stop by at lunch? I have to pick up some supplies for Sneaky. I’m sure she’d love to see you too.”
“You’re on. I have a client in a few minutes. I should be finished at noon.”
Grace hung up the phone feeling a sense of relief. When the door opened, she didn’t flinch. “Hi, Misha. Have a seat. I’ll be right with you.”
Misha clutched her head in both hands. The room swam in her vision. She collapsed into the chair. Voices flooded her mind— cackling, screaming images of fire flashed across her brain. Then, as quickly as it all began, the feelings vanished.
“Miss Simms?” Misha gasped for air.
Grace rushed to her side. “What is it? You’re as pale as a ghost!”
“You must protect yourself. He’s coming for you.” Her ragged voice eeked out a final warning, “Beware, Miss Simms. He is not who you know him to be. He is a shape-shifter.”
“Misha, you must stop this. No one is going to hurt me. I’m fine. There is no need for you to trouble yourself with my safety. You’re here to seek my help, not the other way around.” Grace placed her hand firmly on the young woman’s shoulder. “Now, come into my office so that I can hear about your holiday.”
Misha pulled away. “You don’t believe me, just like the others.”
“Those weren’t my words. I just don’t think it’s appropriate for you to read me when you come to my office for a session. This is your time to receive help, not mine.”
“I cannot control the messages, Miss Simms. They come to me when a person is in danger. You are in danger. My problems are small compared to the destruction coming your way. Please, heed my warning.” Misha rose, placed her purse under her arm, and pushed past Grace. “He’ll kill you.”
Stunned, Grace watched the young woman race for the door. “Misha, wait. When the door slammed, she crumpled into the closest chair. Damn you, Jess. What are you up to now? As if her words were transmitted through the cosmos, the phone rang. Tiny hairs bristled at her neck. She went to check the call. The number came up “private.” Breathe. It’s not unusual for a client to block their number.
She picked up the receiver before the fourth ring and answered, “Grace Simms.”
“Hey, how’s my Grace?”
Her stomach clenched. Tiny spots floated past her vision. Her head began to throb, and her knees buckled. She leaned against the desk, finding her balance. “What do you want, Jess? I asked you to stop calling me.”
“Oh, Grace. My beautiful Grace. Is that any way to greet the love of your life?”
“I’m not interested in your games, Jess. Leave me alone.” She dropped the phone in the cradle. Twenty seconds later the phone rang again. The private caller would have to talk to voice mail; the therapist was too busy quaking in her shoes.
She dug her cell phone from her purse, scrolled down to Frank Spiderelli’s number, and pushed send. Within seconds, Spider answered the call.
“Spiderelli.”
“Spider, I’m at my office. I need your help. It’s Jess. He’s calling me again. “
“Be there in twenty.”
Grace’s heart slowed to a normal rate. She thumbed through the phone book for security companies. Lindsey Security was down the street. Walk-ins were welcome. She chose to call instead.
“Yes, I would like someone to install additional security in my office. We’re neighbors actually. I’m a few buildings down the street. I’m at 702 in suite 211.”
The woman at Lindsey’s rattled off available appointment times.
“Do you have anything sooner? Like today?”
Pleased with the security company’s diligence, Grace hung up the phone, locked the doors, and moved to her office. She stared out the window. The bleak day made her mood all the more pensive. It would be forty minutes until Paul arrived for lunch. She picked u
p the phone, ignoring the blinking light.
“Hi, Mom. It’s Grace. Wanted to make sure you’re all settled after our visit. It was great seeing you. We’ll have to get together soon to plan the wedding. Okay, well, call me. Let me know everything’s okay on your end. Love you. Bye.” Unease overpowered her as she remembered her mother’s last encounter with Jess. The jingle coming from her cell interrupted her thoughts. Spider. Thank God.
“Grace? I’m here.”
Grace’s eyes filled with tears, grateful for Spider’s presence.
Her nerves peaked. She shook. She rushed into his arms.
“Whoa, Grace, come on! No worries, kid. I’m here. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“I’m sorry,” she bawled, releasing her hold on him. “I can’t take his taunting anymore, Spider. I’m losing my mind.”
Spider handed her a tissue. “Tell me what he said.”
“He keeps telling me that I’m his and that no one will ever have me but him. Today he referred to himself as the love of my life. He’s sick!”
“Any idea where he’s calling from? Does he say?”
“No, his number comes up as private. I have no clue where he is. He left a message.”
Grace dialed into her message service, waited for the tone, and put the call on speaker.
“Baby, when are you going to get it through your pretty little head that you’re mine? You don’t belong to lover boy. Understand? What future do you think you’ll have with him?” His laughter chilling and his enunciation deliberate, he continued, “You should know by now I am not messing around.”
“I’ll need a copy of his message. I can put a tracer on your phone, but he probably has a disposable. Makes it harder to track his location.”
“Sure.” Trance-like, she shivered. “Something else you need to know: that missing author, Fancy Pickett in San Francisco—we were at the Orpheum Theater Christmas Eve at the same time. He called me that afternoon.” Her eyes connected with the detective’s. “What if he’s here, Spider?”
“If he’s here, we’ll find him.”
“What if he gets to me first?”
“Sounds more like he’s into playing games.”
“Yes, he enjoys tormenting me.”
“Let’s go back to when you met Jess. What was he like?”
“I never had a clue he was a killer. He was the kindest man I had ever met. I thought I was in love with him.”
“Tell me some of his habits. Does he drink? What kind of restaurants would he frequent? Does he like fast cars?”
“Yes, he drinks. Not a clubber, more of a lounge drinker. He drove a Porsche, and, yes, he loved to eat out. We didn’t— He was married. In college, we lived on pizza and beer. He has posh taste, I think. I’m not sure of anything anymore.”
“If he’s here, he’s arrogant enough to slip into old habits without fear of being caught. If it’s one thing I know, when you’re in another country, you miss the food back home. Any special connections here in Sacramento? Places he might want to revisit?”
“He took me to the Crab Shack for my birthday last year.”
“Good. That’s a start.”
“Spider? Do you believe in psychics?”
“Absolutely! My wife Kathy seems to know everything I’m thinking before I say a word!” He leaned into Grace and lowered his voice, “Sometimes that’s not a good thing. Capiche?” He pretended to slap his face and laughed. “Let’s just say I believe some people know things before they happen. Why?”
“One of my clients claims to be psychic. It’s more than a claim. She’s proved her accuracy. She says my nemesis is a shape-shifter.”
“Shape-shifter? Interesting! Anything else?”
“Yes, she said he’s going to kill me.”
* * *
“Sheppard?” Simone called into the bedroom where Jess lay sprawled across the bed naked.
“Don’t you ever think to knock?” The grey Sacramento sky put Jess in a funk.
“Not when I’m footing the bill,” she said. “Get dressed. I want to shop.”
“How many outfits can one woman wear? How much jewelry does one woman need? And tell me, how the hell are you going to get all this shit back home?”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head, Sheppard. Unlike your American women, I am quite capable of handling myself. Besides, I want to shop for something else.”
Jess knew from the twinkle in her eye and the sway in her body she had something naughty in mind. “In broad daylight?”
“Chicken?”
“No, but I wouldn’t consider myself stupid either.”
“Silly boy. I like to look before making my decision.”
“Killer idea.” Jess rolled on his side exposing his excitement.
Simone stared at his erection with little interest, but her eyes squinted as she delivered her dagger. “Perhaps you should’ve had an enhancement while you were in Chile. They have the finest surgeons there you know.”
“Now who’s being silly? It’s not always about size.” He burned her soul with his eyes. In his mind, he pulled out her heart and fed it to crows. “You go ahead. It’s early. I’d like to catch a few more winks.”
“You just came back! It’s almost one! Since when do you need sleep in the middle of the day?”
“Simone, don’t push your luck. Now run along. Go find a nice, little victim. You can tell me all about it later.”
“Who is she?” Simone sat beside Jess on the bed. Her fingertips inched their way up his back. He tensed beneath her touch, and her nails raked his skin.
“Quit being a bitch and go, will you? I’m in no mood for your fucking games.”
“Grouchy bear.” Simone pulled his hair. “I heard you on the phone. Who is she?”
Jess grabbed her arm and pushed her off the bed. “Unless you want me to fuck you senseless, you better get that sweet little ass out of here.”
“Fine,” she pouted. “I hate cloudy days.”
“Yeah, well, I plan to sleep until the sun shines. Put the do not-disturb sign outside the door on your way out, will you?” He smiled, wanting to shred her skin with his teeth. “Please.”
“Fine.” Simone stomped out of the room, grabbed her purse, and slammed the door. He heard the sign slap against the knob.
Jess lay back against the pillows. He closed his eyes and pictured Grace back in college young, vulnerable, and sweet. She loved him then. He felt it. His recollection fast-forwarded to the night he met her for a drink when he first moved to Sacramento. It felt like ages ago. So much had happened. He remembered watching her walk up the stairs, admiring her ass, and being called on it. Damn her sixth sense. He would’ve taken her right there in the restaurant.
His mind drifted to Becky, the little girl who had grown up and become Grace’s client. How bazaar. His blood surged through his veins envisioning Garret Weston, his heroics, and his notion to steal what didn’t belong to him. I had to stop him. She belonged to me.
His lids grew heavy. Pictures formed in his mind—his mother reaching down for him and his diaper so soggy it slipped to his knees when she lifted him from his outgrown crib. “Nothing but a piss pants,” Mother grumbled. He flinched as she ripped the plastic off his small frame and tossed it in the corner. “I wish you were dead, little piss pants. You’ve fucked up my life. You and that asshole who can’t even man up and give you his name. I’m gonna be saddled with you now. Shit, can’t believe he did this to me.” In his dream, Jess smells cigarette smoke and sees the red glow before it sizzles on his wet skin. An odor of urine and burnt skin assails his tiny nostrils. He cries out in pain. She slaps him hard. “Shut up, you little prick, before I break your fucking neck.”
Jess twisted to and fro, wrestling with his demons. The man standing above him, grinning with nicotine-stained teeth and beer breath leaned in for a kiss. “Kiss me, little man.” The voice dragged through Jess’s mind like sludge through a drainpipe. The man’s touch was rough. First one finger, then an
other. He laughed as Jess screamed in pain. The man flipped him on his stomach. Jess heard the zipping sound close to his ear. The man held tighter. Something poked between Jess’s thighs, something hard. His mother’s voice echoed across the room. “Fuck ’im, Harry. Fuck ’im hard.”
His brain produced a photo that floated across his mind’s eye: a beautiful brunette, Mommy. Her hazel eyes no longer smiled… burning embers.
Jess jolted awake, his chest heaving. He struggled to pull air from his lungs. “Bitch,” he blurted from dry lips. Sweat poured from his body. Cold like death, he shivered and pulled the blanket to his chin. Rain spattered against the window. Glowing red numerals explained the darkness. After midnight.
“Shit.”
* * *
Grace tossed and turned. She had become accustomed to Paul’s warmth. Without him to share her bed, her sleep was fitful. Her mind wandered aimlessly, searching for a safe place to settle. She revisited the nice lunch she had with Paul and Sneaky. Paul brought steaming cups of clam chowder and hot cocoa. Despite the dreary day, the park was lush and green. When she closed her eyes, Jess’s voice threatened her sanity. Misha’s warning concurred. Is there no way out? Am I doomed to lie here in agony? Just then Sneaky’s bark stole her attention. Hair bristled at the back of her neck. Her stomach clenched. The muscles in her calves knotted and cramped. Her eyes blinked glass, and the room swam into focus. The clock read two-twenty-two.
“Sneaky?” she called softly, creeping toward the door. She felt for the baseball bat she kept hidden beneath the dresser. She gripped the handle and positioned the bat ready to strike. She inched her way into the hallway. “Sneaky?” The dog barked louder.
When Grace’s feet touched the floor at the bottom of the stairs, she took a deep breath. Her heart thumped harder. The veins in her temples kept beat. The glass she felt in her eyes now resided in her throat. She couldn’t swallow. Breathe. She tried again.
This time, her saliva caught half way down and stuck in her windpipe, and she began to choke.
The Black Dress Page 17