Guarding His Midnight Witness

by Anna J. Stewart

  It had been clear in his eyes, eyes that from the moment she looked into the rich blue depths had transported her out of her controlled, solitary world into one of exploding colors and echoes of laughter on the wind.

  “Okay, you have got to get some sleep.” Greta groaned. She didn’t need her erratic imagination taking her to places she dare not go.

  Not for the first time tonight, her fingers itched to reach for her cell and call Yvette. Yvette, who knew more about Greta that just about anyone else. Yvette, who had been her only friend for what they’d laughingly called banishment education, shipped off to boarding school overseas. In Yvette’s case because of obscenely rich parents who were completely uninterested in overseeing even the tiniest detail of their child’s life. And in Greta’s case because her parents were dead.

  Surrendering to Yvette’s push for Greta to step into the real world had brought her to Sacramento, where her recently married friend worked as the mayor’s deputy PR person. Which made what happened tonight Yvette’s fault, Greta thought with a smile. Oh, how she’d love to throw that at her friend the next time she saw her. But she wouldn’t. The last thing she needed was for Yvette to worry about her. A worry she’d set aside ever since Greta had taken up residence in her new home.

  The swirling in her head returned, tempting her to surrender to the welcome, infrequent undertow. The promise of elusive sleep both energized and exhausted her.

  “I know what I saw,” she murmured again. The privacy and solitude she’d eked out over the past few years fractured, cracking beneath the weight of her determination to cling to the truth as she saw it. The promise she’d made to Detective Jack McTavish floated back.

  The police didn’t believe her, but she couldn’t, she wouldn’t let that stand.

  Doyle Fremont was a killer.

  She just had to prove it.

  * * *

  “Bowie says your midnight witness was hot.”

  The cacophonous birthday-induced celebratory atmosphere of the Major Crimes squad at the Sacramento Police Department roared in Jack’s ears as he leaned back in his office chair. He’d survived his and Bowie’s visit to Greta Renault’s home three days ago, but he wasn’t so sure about his welcome back party. He did appreciate the mock chalk outline on the floor in front of his desk—cop mentality and humor at its finest. It was just about the only thing to have brought a smile to his face since he’d interviewed their enigmatic witness.

  Something about Greta Renault continued to cling to him, call to him. So much so he’d made a few cursory passes at a background check. Maybe it was the haunted look in those starry blue eyes of hers. Maybe it was the way she’d looked at him at the end, as if she’d been expecting exactly the reaction she’d gotten. Normally Jack liked living up to people’s expectations.

  But not in this case.

  “My what?” The scent of burned coffee and sickly sweet cake permeated the air and coated the cops with a thick layer of powdered sugar. He looked up at Tammy, the evidence tech who had come up from the depths of the basement to help the squad rejoice in Jack’s triumphant return to the department. “Sorry, Tammy. What did you say?”

  Tammy sighed in that overacting, community-theater way she had and hopped onto the corner of his desk. She kicked her feet against the drawers as she dug a fork into a fist-sized slice of chocolate marble cake. “I said Bowie said your witness from the other night was hot.” She took a bite and waggled her eyebrows at him. “He also said she’s—”

  “Let me guess. Kooky.” The more Jack heard the word, the less he liked it. Especially in relation to Greta Renault. Eccentric, yes. Distracted? Sure. But she was also beautiful, intriguing and talented. Not to mention scared. He’d seen it. He’d felt it. “She’s different.”

  “Uh-huh.” Tammy licked the frosting off her fork and snorted. “I’m sure that’s what he meant.”

  Jack frowned. “What else did Bowie say?”

  Something in his voice must have snagged Tammy’s sensor because she sat up straighter and ducked her head. “Not much.”

  “Did he happen to mention she’s a world-renowned artist whose paintings have been commissioned for some of the most important buildings in the world, including the United Nations?”

  “He did not.” Tammy arched a brow and took another bite. “He did say her cat might have come directly from the underworld. And you know what they say about cats and their owners.”

  “What do they say?”

  “Um...” Tammy pressed her lips against the fork and winced. “That they’re—”

  Jack’s cell phone rang.

  “Saved by the out-of-date ringtone.” Tammy jumped off his desk. “Gotta go.”

  “Uh-huh.” Irritation he hadn’t been able to shake since leaving Greta’s loft surged afresh. He knew cops in general had their own way of dealing with the odd people involved in cases, but he did not like the way Bowie—and now others in the squad—were focusing on Greta’s unconventional behavior. Unfortunately, his caseload at the moment was practically nonexistent, which gave him far too much time to think.

  He was beginning to wish Cole was here to help him out with this one after all. He needed a bit of camaraderie right now. But his sister would do in a pinch. So, rather than letting the call go to voice mail, he answered his cell. “Hey, Ashley. What’s up?”

  “Just checking to see if you’ve popped any stitches yet.” His sister’s teasing voice did what it always did and soothed the rough edges.

  “Ha, ha. They dissolved months ago, and you know it. Or didn’t they teach you anything in medical school.” Grateful for the diversion, he got up and headed to the stairs. Nothing better to clear his head than some fresh air and open space. “How was your trip? All nice and relaxed from the spa?”

  “Funny enough, the trauma surgery convention didn’t leave much time for a massage or a mani-pedi.”

  Neither had taking care of Jack for the past few months, but if there was one thing he knew about his sister, it was that she rarely took time for herself. “When did you get back?”

  “About an hour ago.” He could hear her opening and closing the bare cabinets in his kitchen. “Thought I’d check in, see how it’s going. They have you shackled to the desk?”

  How was it going? He hadn’t slept more than a few hours the last couple of nights. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was that determined expression on Greta Renault’s face. How was it going? What a loaded question. “For the most part. Had a case the other night, though. Weird. Strange witness.” Great. Now Bowie had him doing it.

  “Strange how?”

  Grateful she didn’t make a joke about it, he let out a pent-up breath. “Strange as in I think I believe her even though her story sounds, well, unbelievable.” He winced at his own words. Why was he even still thinking about this? He’d been keeping an eye on the morgue roster. Checked in unofficially with contacts at local hospitals and clinics. No one had reported anyone fitting the victim’s general description. When his sister didn’t respond, he checked his cell, worried he’d dropped the call. “Ash?”

  “I’m here. It’s only natural, after a traumatic injury like you had, to question your actions and thought processes, Jack. To wonder whether you’re thinking clearly. It also makes sense you’d question every decision you make.”

  “You told me all this during my recovery.” A recovery she’d overseen personally after leaving her job in Chicago. The silver lining to his being shot: he’d given his sister the excuse she’d been looking for to start over somewhere else after her divorce.

  “Nice to know you listened,” Ash joked. “You say you think you believe her.”

  “I believe she believes it.” Was that the same thing? Or was he so bored he was looking for anything to latch on to? Or...was it something else?

  “Sounds like you don’t want to believe her.”

&nbs
p; “I don’t.” That niggling feeling, that gut-deep instinct he’d honed in the last dozen or so years, was speaking to him again, the same way it had back in Chicago. The fallout from that case had kicked a big hole in his career and driven him all the way to the West Coast. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe he just wanted to prove to Bowie and everyone else that he was still a good cop. Or maybe he just wanted an excuse to see Greta Renault again. “It would make life a lot easier for everyone if she’s wrong.” Poking at Doyle Fremont with a stick was like tempting a political grenade to go off. The smart play was to just move on and forget about everything.

  Including Greta Renault. Especially Greta Renault.

  “Not like you to take the easy way,” Ashley said as more cabinet doors were slammed shut. “Seriously, Jack. Do I have to do all the grocery shopping? How hard is it to click a few buttons?”

  “I keep forgetting.” When had online grocery shopping become an afterthought? Since Ashley had arrived the week after his shooting, she’d been taking care of all that stuff. Guess it was time to get back to his usual routine. He glanced at his watch. “I’m off in an hour. I’ll take care of it when I get home.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m moving out soon, so you need to get used to living alone again.”

  “You got a job?” Relief came first, followed by the knowledge that the friendship he’d strengthened with his little sister might be short-lived. They might have driven each other to distraction growing up, but she’d been his lifeline these last few months. That she’d dropped her entire life to help him get better had meant more than he could ever convey. Or repay. “Where?”

  “Well, that’s the bad news.” Ashley sighed. “And so is this granola bar.” She coughed and choked. “I think it might actually be sawdust now.”

  “I think the last owner left that there.” Jack lifted his face to the afternoon sun. A perfect day in Northern California really couldn’t be beat, not with the gentle breeze whistling through the trees and fallen leaves rustling along the sidewalk.

  “Not funny,” Ashley grumbled. “Just for that, I’m not going very far. Folsom General was looking for an ER doctor, and they’ve offered me the position. I start in a month. So lucky you, you get to help me start house hunting.”

  “Folsom, huh?” Jack couldn’t stop the smile from forming. With their parents and other brother still back East, it would be nice to have some family around, and the Sacramento suburb was a great area. “I guess that’s far enough away for me to miss you.”

  “Just for that, I’m not cooking dinner.”

  “And the good news keeps coming.”

  “Ha, ha. Glad to hear you sounding back to normal. Hey, Jack.”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you even believe this woman for a second, see it through. You’ve never been one to let the politics of a case get in the way. Don’t start now.”

  “Thanks, Ash.” Jack didn’t know why the advice helped, but it did. Like his own personal Jiminy Cricket perched on his shoulder, his sister’s words pushed him in the direction he was already headed. “I’ll pick up takeout for dinner on the way home.”

  “Sushi, if you’re taking suggestions. From Mana.”

  Of course she’d pick the restaurant completely in the opposite direction. But she was right. Best sushi in town as far as he was concerned. “You’ve got it. Thanks for calling, Ash.”

  “Anytime. Don’t forget the sake.”

  * * *

  Greta had known for years she should expand her interaction with others, but stalking her millionaire businessman neighbor probably wouldn’t get her the results she wanted.

  No, not stalking. Surveilling. Greta kicked free of the blankets and stared up into the predawn sky. It would have been easier to keep an eye on said neighbor if Doyle Fremont was actually in town. After spending a good portion of a day watching through a pair of her grandmother’s antique opera glasses for Fremont to return to his office, she’d built up the courage to call Fremont Enterprises to inquire about an appointment. She’d been told Mr. Fremont was out of town and not expected back in Sacramento until...

  Greta blew out a long breath. Until today.

  Of course that crumb of knowledge hadn’t stopped her from checking his window from her stakeout stool in the studio. Every time she went to get a cup of tea or go to the bathroom, she scanned the third-floor office for anything amiss. It was getting, Greta had to admit grudgingly, a bit obsessive.

  It added to her list of things to worry about. She had a major showing in two weeks, a show that could catapult her into the big time. So far she’d been a word-of-mouth artist, perched on the edge of stardom, but this show was going to change everything. There were critics and reporters coming from as far away as New York. Now was not the time to fixate on what was not conducive to her productivity.

  Her work was suffering, her creativity stifled even more than it had been before Detective Jack McTavish and his partner had come calling. The block she thought she’d busted through had shown up again thanks to the numerous impressions and images of the handsome detective.

  “The handsome detective.” Greta actually snorted. “Sounds like an eighties cop show.”

  She knew what she should do. She should put this whole thing out of her mind and get back to work. She’d reported what she’d seen. It was up to the police whether they followed through or not. But how could she walk away, never knowing for certain if what she’d seen was real?

  No. She needed answers. She needed proof that what had happened had actually happened. Her peace of mind, her future depended on it.

  She’d scoured the internet for news of any mention of a murder or even a body being recovered or found. There had been nothing—at least, nothing matching her memory—and the more time that passed, the more anxious she became.

  Even now, days later, lying in bed, she couldn’t stop thinking.

  She traced along the pattern of the thin, embossed leather cuff she wore as a reminder that there was always light after the dark. There was always a solution. Even when it seemed there wasn’t.

  Any hope of peace vanished when Cerberus landed solidly on her chest. He poked his cold, demanding Feed Me nose against hers and had her rolling out of bed. While her tea brewed, she tried to shake off the unease yet another sleepless night had brought, the unwavering sensation that she’d opened the door to something that could never be shut again.

  And no, she told herself, she didn’t mean Jack McTavish.

  Restless, she strode out of the kitchen, drawn down the hall to the painting that had been taunting her for weeks. The canvas that she’d dubbed Fortress of Tranquility sat there, in the middle of the room, surrounded by mussed fabric tarps, paint spatter and a slightly askew worktable topped with paints, brushes and jars of mineral spirits and water. She’d given up last night. Walked away when she’d been unable to move beyond the mental block that even now pushed against her mind, but instead of finding peace, she’d turned right into an entirely different kind of nightmare.

  So many emotions circled within her, she could barely identify them: fear, regret, anticipation, relief. They tumbled in and around each other like she’d tipped over one of her brush jars, scattering the stained handles into a mess. Now she knew to avoid looking out the windows; she didn’t want to be reminded of what she’d seen. She shifted her fractured attention to the painting she’d been struggling with for longer than she cared to admit.

  It was humbling to be conquered by a canvas of mostly white. What did it say about her that she couldn’t seem to see beyond the vastness that sat like a beacon in the center of a room that had provided so much inspiration in the past? Had she offended her muse in some way? Done something to close the door to imagination and wonder that had, until recently, rarely failed her?

  Greta sighed. Painting had been her refuge for as long as she could remember; it had never let her down bef
ore.

  And that terrified her more than anything she might have witnessed the other night. Without her work, without her painting, what did she have? Why was she alive?

  She snapped the thought out of her mind before it could fully form. “There’s no going down that path.” Her voice echoed in the studio, a crack of sound that shot her back into the reality of the moment. Whining about the situation wasn’t going to do a darned thing except exacerbate the hopelessness. She’d spent a lifetime learning to balance on the edge of that cliff. She wasn’t going to step off now.

  Time to stop wallowing and get to work. But not, she decided, on the piece that continued to evade her. Nope. She needed something new, something completely different that would open her mind back up to possibilities.

  Not for the first time, she pulled the canvas down, set it against the wall across the room and unearthed a new one, smaller, but not by much. The prep, the sound of the brush bristles scraping against the taut fabric soothed her nerves.

  She never understood why she painted what she did, only that the compulsion needed assuaging. The colors, the form they took, sometimes swirling, sometimes dormant like the ocean after a storm, presented themselves at the end of her brush as if she was possessed. But always, always, amid the forces of nature and darkness, the woman appeared. Tall. Lithe. Silver-haired and faceless, embracing what approached or holding back what attacked. What loomed. What threatened.

  Greta bit her lower lip, refusing to stop as the image formed out of the fog as if an answer to a desperate plea. She dipped her brush into the slick oil paint, a flesh tone she rarely used but for some reason had prepared and surrendered. And there, seconds, minutes, hours later, her mind loosened, and a thin ray of idea-laden light burst through.