The pale reflection of myself with limp brown hair, sad blue eyes and haggard complexion didn’t look like anyone I’d ever known. Or particularly wanted to be. Who had I become?
I had to do something.
I whipped the chair around and snagged open the bottom drawer of the desk. I snatched a foam basketball and, with an overhead throw, launched it in the direction of the garbage can strategically placed on top of the cherrywood credenza for just that purpose. Missed.
I’d woken up with a sense of restless urgency burrowing under my skin like some sort of parasite that no amount of scratching could release. Who was the woman who haunted me every night?
“Help me,” the apparition had pleaded. “It’s started. People are dying.”
Had there really been a murder or was it all simply a paranormal delusion due to lack of sleep and the drugs I had to take on a daily basis as Dr. Katz insisted?
I lobbed a second foam basketball. The ball rolled around the rim and dropped to the carpet.
It’s started. People are dying.
I had no choice. Not really. Not if I wanted this to end.
I used up my third ball. It rebounded off the back of the garbage can and joined its sisters on the floor.
One way or another, I had to get answers.
It’s started. People are dying.
Chapter 3
“Noelle,” I called to my assistant. I grasped the edge of my chair with both hands, half expecting a bolt from above to strike me dead on the spot for breaking the solemn promise I’d made after I’d woken up from the transplant operation to never risk this precious new heart.
Noelle popped her red head with its tightly wound chignon through the door. “Yes?”
“Find me The Telegraph’s Police Log for the week of March 9 of last year and any article of a car crash on the Everett Turnpike around that date.”
“March 9? Are you sure that’s wise?”
I shrugged and stooped to pick up one of the foam basketballs that littered the carpet. I raised my hands above my head and released a ball. It flowed in a perfect arc and swooshed into the garbage can on top of the credenza. “No, I’m sure that isn’t wise, but that’s exactly why I have to do it.”
I’d once gambled every weekend by taking part in death-defying sports. I’d gambled every time I’d played a role or hidden a camera to prove a fraud. But as risky as my various activities had seemed on the surface, the risks were calculated and I’d prepared for them well.
I’d forgotten that in the past year. Hadn’t Leo left me because I’d proved better than he was at tracking down information? The number of cases I’d closed got to him. Instead of praising me for how well I’d learned, he’d taken off with the contents of our joint account and our client list. His betrayal should have hurt more than it did. In truth, the skills he’d taught me were worth more than what he’d taken.
And if I wanted to own my new heart once and for all, I’d have to prove my right to it. I’d have to risk this investigation.
So why did it feel as if I was caught in a free fall from a cliff with my parachute still stowed on the ground? Of course, if the adrenaline was still flowing, it meant I was still alive.
Noelle brought the files and hesitated before placing them on my desk. Her wide green eyes said, “Are you sure?”
“Thanks, Noelle.”
“Let me know if you need anything else.” She left the door open when she returned to her desk, and her worried glance flicked back to me. Did everyone think I was on the edge of breaking apart?
Hands sweaty, I combed through the Police Log and newspaper articles and learned that my possible donor’s name was Sofia James. Armed with that knowledge, I searched the Fort Worth Star-Telegram’s online morgue for her obituary.
The file was taking its sweet time to download, which wasn’t helping the twitch of my nerves. If Van expected a higher output from me, I needed better equipment. This dial-up Internet connection was for dinosaurs. As the page formed on the screen, I worried about my heart’s rapid race, about the feverlike heat that warmed my skin and dried my mouth. One shaking finger poised over the mouse, I talked myself out of closing the file half a dozen times.
But I had to know. Knowing was a matter of survival.
Still, knowledge would bring obligation. And obligation would demand action.
Later. I’d think about that later. First, get the facts.
Swallowing hard, I read the words as they appeared.
SOFIA MARGARITA CASTILLE JAMES
Sofia James, 27, of the Quarter Past Ten Ranch in Ten Oaks, died last Friday night in a traffic accident in Nashua, NH, while traveling on business.
Mrs. James had worked at Allied Defense for the past five years. She was a member of the Open Hand and Heart Literacy Program at St. Alban’s Catholic Church in Fort Worth.
She received her engineering degree at the University of Texas at Arlington.
Her husband, Wyatt James, of Ten Oaks, and her parents, Antonio and Inez Castille, of Fort Worth, survive Mrs. James.
The Carlyle Funeral Home in Fort Worth is in charge of the arrangements.
Wyatt. The name the ghost had asked for guidance. I swallowed hard. Just a coincidence, right? Wyatt was a common name in the South.
The picture above the obituary started to appear, ripping my attention back to it. My damp palm strangled the mouse. My breath ceased to flow, caging fire in my chest. Then came the shocking moment when the lines finally filled in the blur of the picture.
No mistake.
No bad dream.
The possibility I’d put off for a year mutated into a living nightmare, bulging a goose-egg lump in my throat. The picture staring back at me on the computer screen was that of the ghost who came to me each night with a tale of murder.
If the ghost had been a real person, if she’d died on the night I’d gotten my second chance at life, then how could the rest of the horror not also be true?
It’s started. People are dying.
What people? Dying from what?
I jabbed at the print button and growled.
I’d prayed for a heart. Sofia had died. Because of that, I’d lived.
I owed her.
“Sofia,” I said to the woman staring back at me. “If I fix this mistake, will you leave me alone?”
A chill shivered over my scalp, bristled down my nape and rippled down my spine as if she stood behind me—as if she’d put her cold, dead hand on my shoulder and squeezed it.
I shook my head. Get over yourself, Sierra. You know how to work an investigation. Start with the basics. Start with the facts.
Still riding a wave of frustration, I yanked the phone off the cradle and called Ruth Hanley. She worked in Administrative Services at the Nashua P.D. Though I could be a Grade-A bitch when the occasion called for it, when it came to secretaries and assistants, I poured on the sugar. These people everybody ignored were the gatekeepers to information and access, and I made a point to cultivate their friendship.
“Sierra!” Ruth shouted, her voice sparkling. “How nice to hear from you. How are you feeling?”
“I’m doing great. Back at work as you can see. How are you? What about the twins and Larry?”
Ruth made a shuddering noise. “It’s a soup of hormones at my house right now. Working here seems like a break compared to the refereeing I have to do at home.”
“It’s a phase. Your girls will be your sweet angels again once they leave for college.” My mother and I hadn’t exactly become friends after I’d left home, but the all-out warfare had mellowed to a tolerable truce. As long as we didn’t spend too much time in the same room, we got along fine.
Ruth sighed. “I sure hope you’re right.”
“Hey, do you have time for coffee after your shift?”
“No, I wish I did. We have so much catching up to do. But I have to take Larry to a doctor’s appointment.”
“His back again?”
“Yeah,” Ruth said.
“As a matter of fact, I have to leave in about ten minutes.”
I squeezed a foam basketball. “Do you think you could look up a police report for me?”
Ruth cleared her throat, then lowered her voice. “We’ve got a new chief, and he’s still flexing his power muscles. He’s really cracking down on the ‘information dispersal,’ as he calls it.”
Great, just what I needed—a new chief on an ego trip. “It’s really important, Ruth. You know I wouldn’t ask for a favor if it wasn’t.”
Ruth’s nails clicked on the hard surface of her desk. Knowing her loyalty to the department and her longing for adventure were fighting a battle in her mind, I gave her the space she needed. “I’d like to but I need my job.”
“Okay, I understand. All I needed was a quick peek but I don’t want to put you in an awkward position.”
A phone rang in the background. A bark of laughter faded. A door slammed. “What do you need?” Ruth finally said.
I smiled at the small victory. I hadn’t lost everything. “The details on a police report from a year ago.”
“Do you have a date?”
“March 9. Sofia James. It was a single-car accident on the Everett Turnpike.”
The sound of a file cabinet opening squealed through the line. For all the technological advancements available, police departments, because of tight budgets, still tended to run a decade or two behind. “Ah, here it is. What do you need?”
“No chance you can fax me a copy?”
“Not with the chief watching everybody’s every move. With Larry out of work, I need my benefits, you know.”
“Yeah, I hear you. Can you tell me who investigated?”
“Since it happened practically at our door, Officer Guy Stiver was the first responder. The state police, state Highway Enforcement Agency and the Hillsborough County Attorney’s office assisted in the investigation.”
Interesting. “Why so many eyeballs for a simple car crash? Did they suspect foul play?”
“Looks like they did for a while.”
“But?”
“They finally determined the accident was due to motorist inattention. They think she fell asleep at the wheel and ran off the road.”
“What about the air bag?”
“What about it?”
“Why didn’t it deploy?”
“How did you know that?”
Because I feel her head crack against the windshield every night. “Must’ve read about it in the paper.”
“Malfunction,” Ruth said. “They looked at the rental agency, but the maintenance records were all in order. The poor girl just hit a streak of bad luck.”
With some assistance. “Which rental agency?”
“Rent-a-Ride at the Manchester airport.”
“Is there an insurance company listed?”
“Mutual of New England.”
That was a nice bit of luck. The claims office was in Manchester, and I’d worked enough cases for Mutual to have a good source inside. “Any witnesses?”
“None listed. The accident happened at 1:43 a.m.”
And the sidewalks tended to roll up early in this part of the world. How long had Sofia waited all alone in the dark for someone to notice her mangled car on the side of the road?
The transplant coordinator had woken me up at 4:00 a.m. with the good news of a heart’s availability. I remember the rush of feelings—fear, joy, guilt. Shaking my head, I focused on my list of questions. “Where was she transported?”
“She was med-flighted to Boston.” A beeping noise shrilled over the line. “Listen, Sierra, I’ve got to go.”
“One more quick thing. Do they list a home address and next of kin for her?”
Ruth dashed off the information. “The chief’s in the hall. I have to go.”
“Thanks for all your help,” I said. “Rain check on the coffee?”
“I’m holding you to that. I’ll call you next week.”
Well, there it was, I thought, the knock of my heart thumping in my throat. The first step. No turning back now.
“Noelle?” I called to my assistant, breath trapped high in my chest.
Noelle rolled her chair to the door and leaned back to peer into my office.
“Do we have any open files for Mutual of New England?” I asked as I formulated my next step.
“Two new cases came over the fax today.”
“I’ll take them.” Needing to review the files would give me a reason to stop by the Mutual office tomorrow. I hated waiting when I was on a roll, but catching Claire Dagenais, my claims rep source, was easier with an offer of lunch.
Noelle frowned, then shrugged. “Okay.”
I reached Claire just as she was leaving for a meeting and made an appointment with her to go over the files and lunch. Which left me with time to background Sofia and her family.
At six, Noelle walked into my office, pushing her arms through a fringed leather jacket. “I’m knocking off for the day. Need anything before I leave?”
I shook my head, then teased her. “Hot date?”
“Poker.” Her sly smile reached all the way to her ears. “I’m on a hot streak. The petite size always fools them. These big boys think I’m helpless, and I clean them out every time. You’d think they’d learn.”
“Does Van know about this?”
She glanced behind her into the hall, then whispered, “I won’t tell him about your gamble if you don’t tell him about mine.”
I laughed. “Deal.”
“See you tomorrow. Don’t stay too late. Only one workaholic Martindale per office allowed.”
I mumbled a good-night and turned my attention to the Internet.
Two hours later Van pushed his way into my office. “What are you still doing here?”
I looked up from the computer and blinked him into focus. “Working. Just like you wanted.”
“What are you working on?”
I slid a file over the paperwork I’d gathered on Sofia. Van, for all his wanting me to get back to work, would not approve of this particular investigation. He’d fire me on the spot and send me packing to Mom’s. Or worse, he’d call Dr. Katz. I didn’t want to end up on some psych ward. I had to get this closed before Van figured out what I was up to. “Catching up on paperwork so you can bill some hours and keep your partners happy.”
“There’s no need to overdo it.”
I snorted. “Like you’re one to talk.” I glanced at the Road Runner clock on the wall. “It’s past your kids’ bedtime. Do they even know what you look like?”
Van shook his head. “Go home, Sierra.”
To what? An empty apartment? A ghost? I don’t think so. “Sure, Van.” Eventually.
Sifting through databases was a much better use of my time. Every piece of data I found put me one step closer to freedom.
Thursday, April 13
Thirteen, I decided, as I turned over the calendar page, was turning out to be a curse.
I’d fallen asleep at my desk, my arms crossed over a photo of Wyatt James I’d printed from an online copy of Cutting Horse Weekly. He rode a horse the color of a new penny. The tan hat, low over his brow, made it hard to see his face, but a quiet intensity exuded from the hard leanness of both man and beast. The accompanying article didn’t say much, except that he’d won that particular competition and the purse that went with it.
How did he feel about his wife’s heart beating in a stranger’s body? Had Sofia talked to him about her suspicions? Had he acted on them?
I didn’t think so. If he’d solved the problem, Sofia wouldn’t be haunting me.
I stretched my arms over my head and yawned, surprisingly refreshed for having slept twisted in a pretzel. Must be the ghost-free nap. I rushed home before Noelle and Van came in. Refreshed or not, I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture from either of them.
I did my duty to my heart by recording my weight and blood pressure, eating breakfast, swallowing my handful of pills and jogging through the morning
news. The data I’d gathered on Sofia James simmered in my brain. I had facts—which needed double-checking—but I was no closer to understanding what had scared Sofia or why anyone would want to kill her.
Notebook and files in hand, I nosed Betsy into morning traffic. Investigating was not a deskbound job, so Van wouldn’t miss me for a while. Since I had an hour to spare before my appointment with Claire, I stopped by the firing range near the airport—just for grins—and emptied a couple of magazines from my Glock into paper targets. I hadn’t fired a weapon in over a year. At first the Glock felt foreign in my hand, but the hours of practice Leo had insisted on—even though I didn’t usually carry a weapon on duty—had paid off, and conditioning took over.
Tap, tap, tap. Two in the heart. One in the head.
The groupings of holes on the targets were almost as tight as they’d been a year ago.
Like riding a bike, I thought, rather proud of myself as I climbed back into my van. Sofia hadn’t taken everything away from me.
Snarled downtown traffic gave me a chance to play the observation games Leo had taught me. We’d be driving along and out of the blue, he’d say, “Close your eyes. Tell me the license plate of the car in front of us.” We’d be in a restaurant and in the middle of a conversation, he’d say, “Describe the people at the table by the kitchen door.” We’d be making love and he’d sometimes ruin the afterglow by saying, “Name three things I changed in the living room.” Yeah, sometimes the constant training had gotten on my nerves, but it had paid off on many cases, because I’d noticed and remembered details. I was hoping all that knowledge was still floating in my brain and not concentrated in my old heart, pickling in a jar of formaldehyde in some hospital basement lab.
I lucked into a parking spot on Elm Street just a few doors down from the Mutual of New England building.
Claire wore the uniform of someone who was going places—black suit, white blouse and black-framed glasses that made her look serious but really didn’t do much to complement her peachy skin and naturally blond hair. Being a claims rep was a temporary step for her, and I had no doubt she’d one day crash through the glass ceiling of this male-dominated industry and run the company.
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