Nate raised an eyebrow.
“We don’t have a personal affiliation,” Tabitha said, frowning at Nate. “That dream you asked me about. What happened? Did you find…” She let her voice trail off, hoping one of the men would say it had all been a mistake, that no old man had been killed in an alley.
Stocker leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, tenting his fingers. “We’ve just come from the scene of a homicide which closely resembles in detail the, uh, dream you told Inspector Darling about.”
“Oh, God, no. W-who?” she stammered. “Who was it?”
“A John Doe,” Nate said. “An old guy, in an alley.”
Their eyes remained locked for a moment until finally she couldn’t handle the intensity of his gaze and she lowered her lashes. “Like in the dream. Griffin’s dream.”
She stood and walked to the fireplace, focusing on a small photograph her grandmother had taken of her family as it had been nearly three decades ago. A much younger Victoria March stood behind Tabitha, pushing her on the backyard swing, while her father smiled and looked on, a soft bundle held tightly in his arms. They had been innocent times, for Tabitha hadn’t yet suffered the trauma that had opened the door to her psychic gift.
Gift. Sometimes. Sometimes not.
Nate came up to stand behind her. When he spoke, she felt the waft of his warm breath on the back of her neck. Stupidly, she wanted to sink back into him, feel his arms come around her, hear him telling her everything would be all right. But she knew it wouldn’t happen.
“An old man in an alley, Tabby. A broken wine bottle was used to slice the artery in his neck.”
She turned to face him. He looked down at her, his brown eyes clouded with bewilderment.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, but before she could say anything else, she felt his strong fingers on her shoulders.
“How did you know?” he ground out between clenched teeth. “How in the hell did you know, and don’t give me any more of that dream bullshit. I want to know who Griffin is and I want to know where he is, and if you don’t tell me, I’m taking you in as an accessory.”
Tabitha felt her mouth flatten as she blinked up at him. “Arrest me, if that will make you feel any better, but I’ve told you everything I know.”
He stood only inches from her, close enough for her to curl her arms around his neck and pull him down for a kiss. Close enough to lay her head on his shoulder. Close enough to feel the heat pulsing from his body, smell the spicy scent of him, hear the breath leave his body as he spoke.
Close enough to knee him in the groin, the idiot.
“You can’t think I had anything to do with that man’s death.” Her voice was soft, but she stared hard and deep into his eyes. “If I knew who Jack Griffin was, do you think I’d keep it from you? Two people have died. What can you possibly think of me, if you think I would do such a thing?”
He looked at her for a long time, just looked. His expression never changed, but before he could speak, Stocker said, “Sit the hell down, Nate. You’re not part of this now, remember?”
Nate’s gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered there, then slowly lifted to her eyes. Without another word, he let go of her shoulders and stepped away.
“I’ll wait for you in the car,” he mumbled as he passed the other detective.
After he’d gone, Stocker offered her his card.
“If you can think of anything else, would you please give me a call?”
As she took the card, she heard her mother’s voice coming from the open doorway behind the detective.
“Tabitha? Is everything all right?”
Stocker turned to face Victoria, and Tabitha watched her mother’s eyes light up. “Oh.”
Inwardly, Tabitha scoffed. Sure, the man was nice-enough-looking, but he had to be pushing sixty…
Oh!
“Um. Inspector Stocker, this is my mother, Victoria Jones.”
The detective walked toward the doorway in which Victoria stood. As he neared, her cheeks flushed, her eyes widened, and she reached up and fiddled with a lock of her hair.
Uh-oh.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” he said with a cordial smile. “Sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll see myself out.”
Victoria grinned and turned another shade or two brighter. Tabitha watched in amused silence as Stocker brushed past her mom, who lowered her lashes and looked away as females do when trying to hide their attraction to a male.
After he’d gone, Victoria sighed and let her body slump against the doorjamb. “I don’t know what crime you committed, honey, but would you mind doing it again?”
Tabitha went to the window and pulled aside the curtain in time to see Stocker slide into the car where Nate sat waiting. When the door closed, the interior light dimmed to nothing, making it too dark to see the men any longer, but as the sedan rolled away, she had the distinct impression Nate’s accusing eyes were on her.
In one of the little chambers of her heart, the tiny door she’d only recently had the courage to open quietly swung closed.
Getting to sleep was a bitch. Nothing Tabitha did to get comfortable worked. Her head hurt from lack of sleep, and her eyes felt like they each had at least a tablespoon of sand in them. Oh, how she wanted them to stay closed, and oh, how they refused. She was about to head downstairs to warm some milk when she remembered the taste of warm milk was disgusting. It formed that skin on the top as it cooled. Warm milk always seemed to work in the movies, but in real life, it was just gross.
Giving her innocent pillow a hearty punch, she tried to maneuver it into the size and shape that would allow her weary head to rest. But as soon as she did and her eyes fluttered closed, the images that popped up behind her lids kept her tossing and churning and kicking and cussing.
A good cry, that’s what she needed. Let those emotions spill out, let those tears go, turn on the waterworks and sob like a banshee until she was empty. Then, when she was exhausted, her muscles spent, she might be able to sleep.
Sex would work, too, if she only had a partner…extra points if he was Darling.
Frustrated, Tabitha bolted upright and switched on her light. Where in the hell had she put that, eh-hem, catalog?
As she opened the top drawer of her nightstand, her phone rang, the line she used for business. Picking it up, she glanced at the clock. Eleven forty-nine. She checked the phone’s display: unknown caller. “Hello?”
“Miss March?”
Eerie music slithered into Tabitha’s head, like a violin bow gliding across an endless sour chord. She forced air into her lungs.
“Mr. Griffin?”
“Uh, yes. I’m sorry to call so late,” he rushed, “but I need to talk to you. I’m…I’m so sorry about the other day. It’s trite to say it, but I don’t know what came over me. Are you all right? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No,” she said carefully. “But you could have hurt me, and you risk hurting others in the future if you don’t get help.” He seemed to still be listening, so she pressed onward. “I can give you some referrals, Mr. Griffin.”
“I don’t want referrals,” he protested. “I only want you. You seem to understand. No one knows about…I mean, I can’t talk to anybody about the dreams. Just you. You’re kind and sweet, and you don’t judge me.”
What to do? She didn’t want to say anything that would make him hang up, maybe forever, not when the police wanted to talk to him.
“Mr. Griffin, it would help a lot if you would share your name with me. Jack Griffin isn’t your real name, is it?”
When he started to balk, she hurried, “Okay, maybe just your first name. That’s all. I—I could help you better if I knew your first name.”
There was silence for a moment. She knew he was still on the line because she could hear the rumble of passing cars, the blare of a horn, distant conversation.
“You’re right,” he said, and Tabitha’s heart gave a mini-leap. “Jack Griffin isn’t my real name. I�
��m a big H. G. Wells fan. Did you ever read The Invisible Man? Jack Griffin is the character’s name.”
“And sometimes you feel invisible?” she whispered.
“Yeah. Sometimes I do.”
“Thank you for trusting me enough to share that with me. So, um, what is your real name?”
“I’ll tell you, but in return, you have to do something for me.”
The possibilities tumbled through Tabitha’s head. What would he want her to do? She wasn’t getting a thing from him psychically. He was all shut down and the only way she could get him to open up was to assure him he had her trust.
“All right,” she said. “You tell me your first name, and I’ll do something for you in return. In all fairness, though, I need to know what I’m agreeing to before I decide.”
“No. If I’m going to trust you enough to tell you my name, you’re going to have to trust me, too.”
Tabitha let all the breath out of her lungs and closed her eyes. Envisioning a protective pink light shimmering around her body, she opened herself up to whatever thoughts or feelings she could get from him. She simply breathed…in and out, in and out…until she felt her muscles relax. A sense of quiet came over her, a sense of peace. It would be okay. Whatever he wanted, it would be okay.
Opening her eyes, she said, “I agree to your terms. Tell me your name.”
There was the briefest silence on the other end of the line, then he said, “My name is Peter.”
“Peter,” she repeated, and knew he was telling the truth. “It’s a nice name.”
“Thanks,” he said quickly. “Now, Tabitha, here’s what I want you to do.”
Chapter 12
If you have a dream on a Friday night, and dis cuss it with others on Saturday, it will come true.
FOLKLORE
“Okay, you’re not gonna like this, but he wants me to meet him…”
The impact of Tabitha’s words slammed into Nate’s skull like a fist to the temple, and he nearly dropped his cell phone. Cursing under his breath, he punched the voice mail button to start her message again.
“Hi. It’s Tabitha. Um, listen, Jack Griffin called me a few minutes ago. I know you’re probably off somewhere ogling some bimbo’s bosom or practicing your Spanish or something, but just in case you’re not…”
Her voice was the epitome of confident self-assurance, and Nate might have bought it—if not for that subtle quaver he detected in the in case you’re not part.
“I made a deal with him…well, he made a deal with me. Anyway, we made this deal, and I think it’s really okay. I do have a few instincts of my own, Inspector.”
The instinct for survival apparently not being one of them, Nate thought.
“He promised to tell me his first name if I’d do something for him in return. That would help your case, wouldn’t it? To get his name? Okay, you’re not gonna like this, but he wants me to meet him, and I said I would…”
Nate’s heart seized. “Shit,” he hissed. “Wrong answer, cupcake.”
“Don’t think I didn’t hear that, Inspector.”
Yeah? Well, she was going to hear a lot more than that when he got his hands on her.
He checked the time. Twelve-fifteen. She’d left the message at a couple of minutes after twelve, and if he hadn’t been in the goddamn shower, he’d have heard the cell’s ring.
“I’m meeting him at twelve-thirty at the Powell cable car turntable. You know, down by the waterfront. There are always lots of people around, even this late, so, you know, I, uh, I figured it would be safe. There’s no way he can corner me or, you know, um, anything.”
Nate closed his eyes. Not unless he pulls out a gun and shoots you from across the fucking street!
“I know you’re going to think I’m really stupid for doing this—”
Nate clamped his jaw tightly shut. If that son of a bitch touched one hair on her head…
“—but I think this is the only way to draw him out. I don’t have a cell phone…I guess I really should get one…”
Nate jerked the damp towel from around his hips, tossed the phone down on the bed, and yanked on a pair of soft denims and an old sweater—no time to stop for jocks or socks; Tabby could already be in trouble.
As soon as he’d tied the Nikes on his bare wet feet, he grabbed his weapon, picked up the cell, and ran for the door, punching the voice mail button again to get the rest of her message.
“He just wants to talk about his dream log and even said he might bring it. That would be helpful, wouldn’t it?”
Flinging the car door open, he bolted behind the wheel and jammed the key into the ignition.
“…and because I wasn’t born yesterday, I already called Inspector Stocker. We’re rendezvousing on the grassy area just west of the turnaround. I called him because I’m still mad at you, but if you get this message in time, you can come, too. Oh, and, um, Nate? Jack Griffin’s real first name is Peter.”
By the time Nate turned the key and shifted into first, he was on the phone to Stocker.
“She’s the only one who can identify this guy,” Bob said, “and she refused to stay out of it. She said she was confident the San Francisco Police Department would keep her safe.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah. I’ve already requested backup. Once she and Griffin make contact, we’ll move in. I haven’t seen her yet, but it’s foggier than pea soup. Get your ass down here, partner.”
“Copy,” Nate said, rounding a tight corner.
Dropping his cell into his pocket, he roared down Powell, dodging cars and late-night pedestrians. He checked his watch: twelve thirty-seven. Shit. Another red light forced him to slow, but as soon as the intersection cleared, he edged through it hoping to hell he wouldn’t get T-boned. He was still five blocks away and didn’t dare use his siren for fear of scaring Griffin away, or making him hurt Tabby.
As he approached the intersection of Powell and Bay, the light turned red. Cranking the wheel, he shot the Accord into a loading zone, jumped out, slammed the door, and began running like hell the final two blocks.
His heart thundered in his chest as he approached Beach Street, where the cable car line ended and the gripmen had to manually turn the cable cars around to head back up the hill into the city.
Staying on the far side of Beach, Nate scanned the area—what he could see of it. In typical springtime fashion, San Francisco had shrouded herself with a dense, damp fog that obliterated any objects more than twenty yards off. Despite the weather and the hour, people milled around, tourist types walking through the small park adjacent to the empty cable car platform, reading the engraved brass markers that told about the cable car’s history. Couples strolled along the sidewalk, their arms entwined, enjoying the cold night air and each other. Taxis hugged the curb, claiming the few vacant parking spots on the car-crammed boulevard. But while there were people around, none of them appeared to be a lamebrained strawberry blonde biting off more than she could chew.
This far from the water, the fog thinned somewhat, and he caught sight of two units parked up the street a half a block from the corner, lights off, the uniforms nowhere in sight. Where in the hell was Bob?
He called dispatch, who put him in touch with one of the uniforms.
“We’ve been on scene about ten minutes, Inspector. We’re on the perimeter, just been keeping an eye out, like Inspector Stocker asked. So far, no suspicious-looking men approaching any lone women. The fog’s making it tough, though.”
Just then he spotted Tabitha emerging from the mist, sauntering up the path from Pier 41 to the park. She was wearing jeans and a denim jacket, but it was her hair that snared him. There couldn’t be another woman on the planet who had hair like that.
“I’ve made visual,” he said into his cell. “Stay put for now. I’m going to approach.”
“Copy.”
Dodging cars, he crossed the street against the light and headed in her direction. Still no sign of his partner, but then, in this kin
d of fog that wasn’t a surprise.
Nearer the water now, he felt the bite of salt water in his nose. Every breath he took bathed his lungs in icy dampness. The silent mist created a sphere of gray, like the inside of a snow globe, shutting the bright world out, creating a miniature realm of wet grass, dull lights, and soft edges. Tabitha looked like an angel moving out of a cloud, coming toward him, coming to carry him to heaven. And he’d go.
She hadn’t ID’d him yet. Head up, arms at her sides, she walked along like she owned the place. Her eyes were alert, her demeanor assured. He didn’t know for sure, but it looked like she’d had some training in self-defense, or at the very least, how to march along like you’re not a victim waiting to happen.
He smiled to himself. Damn if she wasn’t something.
When she slowed down for a moment to get her bearings, he moved toward her.
“Miss?” he said loudly in a pseudo-Southern drawl.
She looked at him as recognition dawned. He wasn’t sure, but was that a hint of relief he saw in the deeps of those blue eyes?
“Miss, I’m sort of lost. Maybe you could point me in the right direction?”
She licked her lips as she flicked quick glances around the area.
“Where is it you want to go?” She looked into his eyes, and he could see she was nervous. Not afraid, but maybe getting there.
“I’m lookin’ for Pier 41, ma’am,” he said. “Supposed to meet up with some friends.”
“It’s back that way.” She raised an arm and gestured to her right. “I’m meeting someone myself, but he hasn’t shown up yet.”
A couple holding hands came up behind Tabitha, wove their way around her and past Nate, then kept walking, huddled together, sharing an intimate conversation.
Nate nodded, scanned the area in an interested tourist kind of way. “This fog’s a mite thick. I can stay with you until your friend comes, if you like, ma’am. A pretty woman such as yourself, wandering around alone in the dark, ain’t exactly safe. In fact”—he lowered his voice to a growl—“some would say it was downright asinine.”
Arousing Suspicions Page 12