“My pleasure.” Jack looked at Bowie as the deputy circled the kitchen and scanned the countertops, no doubt looking for medications or drug paraphernalia. Jack didn’t see a trace of anything in the room other than utter and complete organization. Not even a stray toast crumb to be found.
Greta hopped off the island and poured herself a cup of dark, aromatic tea. Nope, Jack told himself as he finished his coffee, kooky definitely wasn’t a bad thing. But he was here for a reason; a reason he was going to have to report back on soon. Which meant he didn’t have time to be entertained. “Greta, I don’t mean to be rude, but why did you call the police?”
“The police?” Her face clouded, her smile dipped.
“You called 9-1-1 at just after eleven.” Bowie clarified as he glanced at his notebook.
“Oh, right.” Her eyes flashed and cleared. “The murder.”
“The murder.” Whatever he’d been expecting to hear, that wasn’t it. Jack leaned an arm on the counter and kept his tone even as he saw Bowie roll his eyes so hard they should have fallen back into his skull. “You witnessed a murder?”
“Mmm-hmm.” When she nodded, a strand of long, silver-blond hair fell over one eye. “I was afraid when you didn’t arrive, I might have...” She trailed off again, pushed the unspoken thought along with her hair away. “Never mind.”
“Where was this murder exactly?”
Jack straightened at the strained patience in his deputy’s voice.
“Across the street. In that new building.” She sipped her tea. “I can show you.” She set her cup down and floated out of the kitchen before either of them could respond.
She reminded him of a sprite, Jack thought. Or perhaps a siren. He had the sneaking suspicion she could lure him into the afterlife and he’d gladly follow. And that, he told himself, would be a very bad idea.
“Don’t mind Cerberus.” Greta flicked dismissive fingers toward the sleek gray cat perched sphinx-like on the top of one of the bookcases. “He’s harmless. Mostly,” she added when Cerberus batted a paw at Bowie’s head and hissed as they passed.
Jack tried to focus on his surroundings as he followed her down the wide hall. The loft in its entirety was enormous, with a maze of copper pipes twisting against the ceiling. Expansive skylights allowed for a starry night view as the sun had begun its rise. Her furnishings for the living room, besides the array of neatly arranged bookshelves, seemed both comfortable and practical. The medium-sized flat-screen was off. An orderly stack of DVDs sat on a short sleek table below. To his right, floor-to-ceiling windows encompassed the entire north wall and were draped with a shimmery gray fabric with gauzy white overlay that pooled on the floor. The hardwood floors had been refurbished with just enough give he could hear her bare feet slap as she led him deeper into the unknown, to the narrow door at the end of the hall.
The smell of paint and turpentine grabbed him around the throat as he stepped inside an artist’s studio that would have brought the old masters to tears.
Thick, paint-spattered beige tarps had been spread across the floor. Built-in cabinetry with glass doors allowed a person to see the arranged brushes and paints and other supplies inside. A small speaker system was situated on the counter by the door along with a pod coffee machine and a collection of pristine white mugs. Jack couldn’t recall ever seeing anyone’s house look so tidy and efficient. Sparse even.
Greta stood in front of a half-finished canvas that was almost twice her height. The explosions of colors—blacks, purples, blues, with splashes and dots of pinks and red made him feel as if he’d stepped out of the earth’s gravitational force and into the spinning universe. She’d only covered half the canvas in paint, however, as if it had been cut off, waiting for whatever its creator deemed necessary.
Jack was about to clear his throat when he caught sight of a painting across the room. A seascape seen from atop cliffs. Pastels and primary colors intermingling in unnatural yet symbiotic waves. And there, standing at the very edge of the most delicate rock, a solitary female figure stood, arms outstretched as if embracing the coming storm.
A woman with shimmering silver hair.
“Crashing Waves.”
“Excuse me?” Bowie’s question broke through Jack’s trance.
“You know it?” Greta’s voice just over his shoulder should have surprised him, but it didn’t. He’d known she was there before she spoke.
“I—yes.” He nodded. Now wasn’t the time to admit he had a signed print of the painting over his sofa. It had been one of the few items he’d brought with him from Chicago. He could still remember the moment he’d first seen it in the gallery a little more than four years ago; the first showing for the artist responsible. His date for the evening hadn’t appreciated his shift of obsessive attention. His bank account hadn’t appreciated the purchase price. But something about the piece, about the woman facing the forces of the darkness closing in on her, had spoken to him.
Now, standing in Greta Renault’s studio, Jack glanced at the signature. “G. Renault. I should have realized.” Bowie had told him their supposed witness was an artist. “Your work is spellbinding.”
“Thank you.” The smile she gave him illuminated the dark spaces inside of him. “There’s little an artist enjoys more than the expression you’re wearing on your face at this moment, Detective McTavish.”
“Jack,” he corrected automatically.
“Miss Renault.” Bowie cleared his throat. “About this murder?”
Jack turned in time to see the light fade in Greta’s eyes.
“Yes, about that.” She managed a strained smile, crossed her arms over her chest and walked over to where she perched on a high stool by the long, narrow window. “I was just finishing for the night, so it must have been around eleven. I like to work late. Fewer distractions. Not as much noise out there.” She tapped the side of her head. “Or in here. You know?”
Jack nodded. He did know.
“I had just turned out the light to go fix some tea when one came on across the street. There.” She pointed to the steel-and-glass building. “Third floor, corner office. It stopped me cold.”
“Is that unusual?” Jack pulled his attention away from her paintings and refocused on his purpose for being here. Aside from the dim glowing lights in the building she indicated, no doubt for the janitorial staff, the entire space looked bare-bones empty. The stark steel and chrome seemed jagged and cold next to the warmth of the building he was currently in. “To see lights at night over there?”
“Other than the security ones, yes. That’s why I kept watching. I do that. Watch people. They’re fascinating.” Her voice sounded almost wistful. “From a distance, obviously. I’ve been keeping tabs on the construction, of course, but this was different.”
“Could you see who came into the office?” Bowie asked.
“Not at first.” Greta shook her head, squinted as if trying to remember. “There were two men. Both wore suits. One was a bit more tailored than the other. Polished, even. The other was older, heavier, especially around the middle. Rumpled. He wore glasses, round, with thin frames.”
“That’s pretty good eyesight,” Bowie said in a way that had Jack gnashing his teeth.
“The heavier man had a mark, here.” Greta touched her hand to the side of her neck, trailed it up her left cheek. “I wondered if it might be a wine mark? One of those birthmarks people are born with.” She shivered. “He was so angry.”
“The man with the birthmark?” Jack asked.
“No. The other one.”
“Angry.” Bowie continued to scribble. “And you know this because—”
Jack shot a look at Bowie who, near as Jack could tell, wasn’t even trying to hide his disbelief. If Greta noticed, she didn’t let on.
“People change demeanor when they’re angry.” Greta’s eyes remained pinned to the now dark office. “Th
e body, it tenses, tightens, like a spring. It’s like it’s ready to strike. But he didn’t. The older man, I mean. But the younger one did. Fast. Next thing I saw, the first man was lying on the floor, not moving. Then the younger one was standing over him.” She turned glassy, shocked eyes to Jack. “That’s when he turned and looked out the window. I think.” She visibly swallowed. “It felt as if he looked right at me.”
“Looked at you?” Jack moved in to block her view, as if he could pull her out of the memory. “This man saw you?”
“I know how that sounds.” Her fingers brushed against the hollow of her throat. “My lights were off so I can’t be sure. I couldn’t, didn’t move. All I could do was stare back.”
“What did he do then?” Jack asked before Bowie could.
“He walked over to the window, put his hands in his pockets and smiled.”
“He smiled,” Bowie said.
“Yes.” Greta nodded.
“So you got a good look at his face,” Bowie pushed and moved in. “You could give a description to a sketch artist?”
“She’s an artist, Bowie,” Jack reminded the deputy with a bit of bite in his voice. “She could draw him herself.”
“I could,” Greta said without hesitation. “But I don’t have to. I know who it was.”
“You do?” Jack wondered if he’d ever stop being surprised.
“It was Doyle Fremont.”
The energy coursing through him drained in an instant. Jack sat on the edge of the table behind him. “Doyle Fremont as in the tech tycoon and real estate developer?”
“Yes.” Greta’s eyes went wide. “I know it sounds strange, and believe me, I debated calling, but with that man just lying there, how could I not?”
“You said the heavier man was just on the ground. Did he fall over or was he struck?”
It was a moment before she shook her head. “Not that I remember.”
“Is it possible he had a heart attack and collapsed?”
“I...maybe?” But she didn’t seem convinced. “If he did, why didn’t Doyle Fremont call someone? Why focus on me?”
Why indeed? Jack was both shocked and grateful Bowie refrained from responding, but he knew what the deputy was bound to ask. The same question Jack was obligated to. “Is there anyone staying here with you, Greta? Anyone who might be able to corroborate—”
“No. I live alone.” The way she folded in on herself, curled her arms tight around her waist, flinched into the darkness, Jack could all but feel the regret and uncertainty in her. She wasn’t happy about any of this.
“Just to clarify.” Bowie cut in before Jack could push further. “You’re saying you saw Doyle Fremont arguing with an older, heavier man with a birthmark and that when that argument got heated, Fremont killed him. How?”
“How?” Greta’s brow furrowed as she slumped a bit on the stool.
“Yes, how. Did he shoot him?”
“Ease up, Bowie,” Jack murmured. It was clear Greta believed something had happened. Jack looked back at the empty office building. But if he believed his eyes...
“No, he didn’t shoot him.” Greta shook her head as her cheeks began to flush. “No, I didn’t hear a shot. I didn’t see a gun.”
“Then did he stab him?” Bowie’s voice rose ever so slightly. “Was there a knife?”
“I...maybe?” She frowned. “I don’t know.” She seemed to be talking to herself now. Questioning herself.
Bowie sighed. “Ms. Renault—”
“You said you thought Mr. Fremont saw you. Looked at you and smiled.” Jack stood back up, stepped slightly in front of Bowie to take charge once more. “What did Mr. Fremont do then?”
“He turned and walked away. The next thing I knew, he turned off the lights. I couldn’t see anything after that. That’s when I called 9-1-1.”
“So the body should be there.” Bowie turned irritated eyes on Jack and mouthed the word kooky. “If there is a body.”
Jack’s normally expansive temper strained.
“You don’t believe me.” Greta’s voice went cold, as if Bowie’s accusation had doused a fire inside of her. “You think I’m seeing things. Making things up.” Her eyes sharpened with a glint of steel.
“We didn’t say that,” Jack answered before Bowie could. He would have thought the deputy would use a bit more diplomacy than was currently on display. Even if she was disturbed, even if what she’d seen wasn’t real, she didn’t deserve to be treated with anything other than respect. “Greta—”
“This was a mistake.” Greta jumped off her stool and, head held high, walked out of the studio. “I want you to leave.”
“What on earth is wrong with you?” Bowie whispered as he shoved his notepad into his pocket. “I expected you to be a little off after all these months, Jack, but don’t tell me you believe this ridiculous story. Doyle Fremont, one of the biggest money men in the country, murdered someone? Please.”
“I don’t know what I believe.” Other than Greta Renault was convinced of what she’d seen.
“So, you’re what? Going to humor her? Why? Because she’s a knockout?”
Jack didn’t appreciate the sarcasm or the accusation. “Because whether what she saw actually happened or not, she believes it did. Either way, she needs help, Bowie.”
“And you think you’re the one to give it to her?”
“Clearly, you aren’t,” Jack snapped before he followed Greta into the other room. He found her holding the front door open, eyes and jaw set as she intently stared at anything other than him. “Greta, I apologize—”
“Don’t.” She flinched, and try as he might, he couldn’t find a trace of the welcoming, bewitching woman who had let them into her home. “Just don’t. I made a mistake. I knew I shouldn’t have called. I shouldn’t...” She stopped, took a shuddering breath. “I shouldn’t have expected you to listen to me.”
“I did listen,” Jack tried again, but she inched the door closed. “Greta—”
“I did not imagine this.” She looked Jack square in the eyes, and he saw the hurt swirling in the blue depths. Hurt and disbelief and, surprisingly, anger. “I know what I saw, Detective. And if you aren’t going to do anything about it, I will.”
She closed the door in his face.
Chapter 2
“I know what I saw.” She should have those five words included on her next tattoo. Greta snapped the lock on the door and returned to the kitchen to top up her tea. Moments later, she curled up into the corner of one of the two sofas bookending the massive yet dormant gas fireplace, fingers tapping restlessly on her knee.
People. The main reason she preferred keeping to herself, staying in her home for long stretches of time, was people. It wasn’t healthy, as her friend Yvette kept telling her. And she knew the more time she spent alone, the harder it was to interact with anyone out there. But what was she supposed to do when something out of the ordinary happened, besides having to invite the outside in?
Cerberus leaped from his perch atop the bookcase and joined her, twining and weaving his way into her lap and under her arm. Greta hugged the cat close, closed her eyes and focused on the way her heart hammered in her chest. It was better than having the memory of that man lying motionless on the floor.
She’d given in to her first impulse and called 9-1-1. It hadn’t crossed her mind not to until she heard the voice on the other end of the phone. Another night. Another 9-1-1 call. Another murder. One that had hit much closer to home.
“Don’t do that. Don’t go there. That’s not where you exist anymore.” In her haste, she’d shattered her protected, carefully built world and invited a pair of detectives into her home. Detectives who seemed more interested in finding the right punch line than investigating a crime. Or at least one of them had. The other one...
Detective Jack McTavish. She inclined her head, frowned
into the fading darkness even as the cinnamon tea sat spicy on her tongue. He’d been nice. Understanding. To a point. He knew her, knew her work. Maybe that had earned her the benefit of the doubt.
Did they think she didn’t know how far-fetched her story sounded? Even in her self-created bubble, she knew who Doyle Fremont was. And that, more than anything, could be why she’d been so shocked at what she’d seen. Regret pulsed through her. If only she had gone to sleep earlier, instead of extending her session to ten-plus hours. If she’d been asleep, she could have been dreaming about better times. The ones in the past and, hopefully, the better ones to come in the future.
But she hadn’t been sleeping. She hadn’t slept in days as the pressure about her upcoming show had continued to build. Insomnia was nothing new; it was one of the unhealthy ways her body dealt with stress. When she seemed to hover between worlds, where the veil between reality and dreams sometimes tangled. Greta chewed on her thumbnail. She remembered the pulse-pounding electronic club music coursing through the soundproof loft. The smell of fresh paint. She was never more awake—or alive—than when her brush touched the canvas.
She brushed tentatively over the leather bracelet she wore every day as a reminder that nothing was permanent, not even pain. She searched for the solace the Celtic symbols for courage, strength and compassion provided and, finally, edged away from the darkness.
Cerberus began to purr, pulling out of her hold and curling into a tight ball of protection in her lap. Greta continued to stroke his fur, grateful for the accepting company even as the image of a kind, masculine and handsome face drifted through her mind.
Detective Jack McTavish.
The sight of him had erased everything else in her head, just long enough to capture him on paper. It wasn’t often inspiration struck with the force of lightning, and that it still could release a torrent of adrenaline that had sent her buzzing. It hadn’t just been his looks, which were impressive. Something about him felt familiar in the gentle way he’d spoken with—and not to—her. Empathy wasn’t usually so openly transmitted, but beneath his attempt to connect with her, she picked up on the ache, on the sadness. The loneliness.
Guarding His Midnight Witness Page 2