Before She Dies

by Mary Burton

  The décor of her place had always been simple but elegant. She’d never opted for new and sleek but rather had gravitated toward antiques and older pieces she’d had refurbished. The walls were painted a pale blue, and the couch, one of the few custom pieces, was covered in a toned-down ivory fabric that had cost three hundred dollars a yard. Lovely to look at, but when Charlotte really wanted to relax, she sat on the floor for fear she’d ruin the sofa.

  On the other side of the room was a set of built-in bookcases filled with hundreds of books. The books weren’t just for show. She’d read them all, which had always been a point of honor with her. Her name and persona might have been fake, but her intelligence and knowledge were the real deal.

  So many books read. And so many books to pack. “They’re not going to pack themselves, Grace.”

  Weary muscles and a throbbing headache began to argue that now was not the time to pack. Too tired. Too overstressed. Robert had hired the movers and they would pack most of her belongings, but there were private things she didn’t want them handling.

  Determination had her dragging a moving box down the hallway toward the storage closet. Charlotte had never been a big saver or collector, so the closet was in relatively good shape. There was her bike, which she’d ridden only a few times, tennis rackets, and golf clubs. She’d taken up all sports initially to meet clients, but when the work had rolled in, the sports had fallen to the wayside. Now staying in shape was heading to the building’s gym and riding the elliptical trainer or treadmill five days a week.

  The right side of the closet was filled with out-of-season overflow wardrobe. An admitted clothes hound, she stared at the collection calculating what she’d spent over the years. The tally made her cringe. She lifted the hanging dresses and suits and carefully rehung them in the wardrobe box.

  It took the better part of an hour to carefully reposition each item. As tempting as it was to rush, she knew buying new clothes might not be an option for a good while, and she’d best take care of what she had.

  When the box was full, she dragged it back into the living room and grabbed another box. But as she dragged the box toward the closet, her balance tipped out of whack, and for a moment she thought she’d topple over.

  She sat back on her heels and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. Her body protested the lack of sleep, and she realized she had no choice but to listen. Carefully, she made her way to her room and without turning on the lights went straight to her bed and folded back the silk coverlet. She fell into a deep sleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  Grace woke to hear the baby crying. She quickly got off the sofa and ran to the cradle, where the little girl was chewing on her fist, crying and angrily kicking her legs. She glanced toward Mariah’s bed and discovered it untouched. Mariah had never gone to bed last night.

  “Damn it, where are you?”

  Bleary-eyed, she lifted the baby, shushed her, and laid her on her shoulder. Unsteady, she moved to the kitchen and pulled a bottle from the tiny refrigerator, and then taking the nipple off, put it in the microwave for fifty-two seconds. The baby cried louder, and Grace carried her over to the little changing stand. Awkwardly, she struggled with the soiled diapers as the baby kicked and cried. Her hands began to shake. She shouldn’t be doing this. Finally, she secured the diaper tabs and tossed the soiled diaper away. A quick wash of her hands and the microwave dinged. Pleased, she had to admit that she had this routine down to a science.

  Grace settled at the dinette set and nestled the baby back in the crook of her arm. A quick check of the milk on her forearm and she popped the bottle in the baby’s mouth. Greedily the baby suckled and ate.

  With the baby’s cries silenced, her own adrenaline dropped and her thoughts turned to Mariah. Where was she?

  Grace glanced down at the baby, savoring the cooing sounds and the scent of milk. “God, you deserve so much better than this place.”

  She wasn’t sure if she drifted but Grace startled awake and realized the baby had vanished from her arms. She jumped to her feet and ran to the cradle, but there was no sign of the child. Panicked, she searched every inch of the trailer and then ran outside. The summer evening was warm and the air thick with humidity. The circle of trailers, all homes to the carnival workers, were quiet in the predawn hours. There didn’t seem to be any sign of life.

  Grace’s heart thudded as she thought where to go for help. There was Grady, but he’d be furious if he knew she’d lost the baby. The other carnies wouldn’t care and the cops weren’t welcome here.

  Desperate, she shoved trembling fingers through her hair and ran toward Grady’s black trailer. She was climbing the steps, fists clenched to knock, when she heard the first screams. Grace turned and scanned the darkness but could see no one.

  “Mariah,” she called.

  At first the screams seemed distant and far away but they quickly grew and grew until they were so loud Grace covered her ears. The screams telegraphed crushing fear and such agonizing panic that Grace could feel the pain herself.

  And then out of the darkness, Mariah stumbled toward her. Her body and face were pale. Her lips were blue. And her clothes nearly torn from her body. Grace stepped back, fearing the sight of her sister.

  Mariah extended a hand and mouthed the words “Help her.”

  “Help who?” Grace said.

  “Help our baby girl!”

  Charlotte jerked awake, her body glistening in a fine sheen of sweat and her heart racing so hard that she felt light-headed. “Damn it.”

  She rose and paced the room, hoping the activity would wrestle the nervous energy from her body. Mariah had died eighteen years ago.

  So why the hell am I dreaming about you now?

  Chapter 10

  Friday, October 22, 7:15 a.m.

  The guy who had appeared with Diane Young in the bank’s video camera was a ghost. No one remembered seeing him, and those who had said they’d seen him could only offer vague and contradictory descriptions. Hood. Glasses. Tall. Short. Fat. Thin.

  Rokov swallowed the dregs of the cold coffee in his mug and blinked hard as he stared at the columns of numbers. With little sleep in the last few days, reviewing the latest set of financials for Young was proving to be a challenge. He could go long stretches without sleep as long as he was moving. Sitting, however, reminded him that he needed sleep and a real meal.

  He was rereading a column when he heard a commotion by the elevators. Standing, he glanced over and saw that his father and grandmother had arrived at the station.

  Garrison and Kier had stopped to greet the pair, and he could see Sinclair’s head moving in that direction. It wasn’t like his father and grandmother just to show up. The haze of fatigue vanished and concern took root.

  He rose. His grandmother surrounded by the cops looked old and frail. Her spine had begun to bend in the last couple of years and her once thick hair was now thinning. Despite time’s effects, her gaze remained sharp and clear.

  Rokov looked like his father, who at sixty-nine remained tall with broad shoulders. Gray had lightened once ink black hair and deep lines etched in his face, but he stayed fit and always donned a suit, tie, and hat when out in public.

  When Rokov approached, his grandmother stared at Kier with a narrowed gaze. “You are smirking at me.”

  Kier raised his hand to his heart. “I promise, Mrs. Rokov, but I am not laughing at you. I just don’t think it’s gonna happen.”

  Rokov paused, nodded to his father and kissed his grandmother on the cheek. “What did you tell him?”

  The old woman stared at her grandson and there was no missing the relief in her gaze. Seeing him seemed to ease the lines in her face. “Only the truth.”

  “Which is?”

  “His wife is expecting a girl.”

  Kier raised an amused brow.

  Rokov glanced at Kier embarrassed. It was no secret that Angie Carlson Kier was a cancer survivor, and though she’d been given a clean bill
of health, she’d never give birth. In Russian, Rokov explained the situation quietly to his grandmother, who seemed unfazed by the entire exchange.

  In English, she replied, “I see what I see.”

  Rokov nodded as he glanced at his father. “So what brings you here?”

  “Your grandmother insisted,” his father said.

  “I was worried,” his grandmother said in a clear voice.

  Irina Rokov wasn’t a worrier by nature and for her to be here now was out of character. And like many older Russians, she did not welcome trips to the police station, which in Russia could also house KGB offices. He’d told her many times that the KGB was not in this country, but she never really accepted his explanation. He kept his voice even. “I’m working. We are all working on the case.”

  “The witch case,” she said in Russian. “I read about it.” Every day since she arrived in this country, she had read the paper from front to back. In the early days when her English was not so good, she just looked at the pictures and used her Russian-English dictionary to translate as many words as she could.

  “That’s right.”

  In Russian she said, “I have something to tell you about that case.”

  “What is that?”

  “The killer is not finished. He will do these terrible things again.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Like I know your friend Kier will have a daughter by the end of the year. And like I know your friend Sinclair must be very careful over the next few weeks.”

  “What does Sinclair have to worry about?”

  She gripped his wrist with bent fingers that possessed an intensity he could not ignore. “She is going to be shot.”

  Sinclair did not speak Russian but recognized her name. “What did she say about me?”

  “Nothing,” Rokov said.

  Sinclair glanced at the old woman. “What did you say about me?”

  The old woman met her gaze. “I said that you must be careful.”

  Sinclair stiffened a fraction. Cops as a lot could be superstitious. “Why?”

  “Because you just must.”

  Sinclair drew in a deep breath. “I’m always careful.”

  “Be more careful,” Grandmother said. “You are too young to die.”

  Sinclair’s face paled. “Damn.”

  Kier nudged Sinclair. “Lighten up.”

  “Hey, man, she was talking about you, too. Don’t you want to know about the kid coming into your life?”

  Kier shook his head. “Hell, no. Hearing fortunes is like reading the last page of a book. It’s cheating.”

  “If I know I’m getting a happy ending, I don’t read ahead,” Sinclair said. “If I know it’s going to end badly, hell yeah, I’ll read ahead.”

  Rokov glanced at his father. “Grandmother has seen that I am fine. Now it is time to take her home.”

  Mr. Rokov nodded. “I am sorry for the intrusion. She would have no peace until we stopped by.” He glanced down at his mother. “But now, Mama, you see that he is fine and we must go.”

  She nodded and kissed Rokov on the cheek. “Be careful, Daniel. This man won’t stop for anything.”

  His grandmother’s words echoed in his head as he watched his father lead her back to the elevators. When the doors closed, Rokov released a sigh.

  “So you said she was some kind of seer,” Sinclair said.

  Rokov groaned. “Leave it alone.”

  She smiled. “When in your life have you ever known me to leave anything alone?” She held up her index finger. “One, we know that I have to be careful. Two, little David Kier has got a kid sister headed his way, and three ... we don’t know three because you two were speaking in code.”

  “Russian.”

  Kier smiled, but his gaze had lost the humor and turned serious.

  “Kier, I’m sorry about that,” Rokov said. “I reminded her about Angie.”

  Kier shrugged. “This is not for public knowledge yet, but we filed adoption papers a few weeks ago. We’re expecting a long wait so we thought we’d start early. But if what your grandmother says is true, we’re looking at, what, eight weeks?”

  Rokov would not discount his grandmother to his coworkers. “It’s not an exact science.”

  Kier grinned. “Would be kinda nice, having a daughter.” His expression sobered. “But none of you tell Angie. I don’t want her to get her hopes up.”

  “Sure,” Sinclair said. “Lips are sealed.” She glanced at her partner, eyes narrowed. “What was the third?”

  “Third what?”

  “What was the third prediction she said? We don’t speak Russian, my friend.”

  He sighed. “She said the killer is not finished.”

  When Charlotte glanced at the Entertainment section of the Washington Post, she nearly choked on her coffee. The lead article above the fold was a story on Sooner and the carnival. She was pictured standing in front of her Madame Divine tent, her arms folded and her gaze directly at the camera lens. Her dark hair swept down her shoulders and her olive skin added depth to green eyes that almost seemed to glow off the page. She wore a gold caftan, and dozens of bracelets decorated her arms. She looked mesmerizing.

  Like Mariah.

  Standing behind Sooner in the background stood Grady, the silent sentinel who watched over his prodigy carefully.

  Charlotte read the article and found her blood pressure rising. Grady was quoted several times, referencing Sooner’s psychic talent. He shared several stories about her predictions that had come true. He’d also alluded that the Alexandria Police might gain insights from Sooner on this latest murder.

  Charlotte sat back in her chair. “That son of a bitch.”

  Angie appeared in the door. “Who is a son of a bitch?” On her hip she had her son, David, who had just turned two. He was a solidly built kid with curly white hair and a big toothy grin that had Charlotte forcing back the expletive. David played with the big chunky necklace hanging around Angie’s neck.

  Charlotte rose. Glancing at David, she smiled and tried not to think why Angie had brought him to the office. “It’s an article about the carnival.”

  “Bad news?”

  “Cheap PR.”

  Angie shifted David’s weight and moved into the room. “Why is it cheap?”

  “Because Grady just let the world know that his carnival psychic can not only tell the future, but she can find the killer that murdered that young woman earlier this week.”

  Angie frowned. “That is the Diane Young case.”

  “Yes.”

  She shook her head. “That is a rough one. And the killer has not been caught.”

  “Grady shouldn’t have put Sooner at risk like that.”

  “She is the one you helped out in court?”

  “You heard about that?”

  “The courthouse is a small world.” David tugged Angie’s necklace toward his mouth. Gently, she pried it free and kissed his fingers. “Everyone was buzzing about the bigwig defense attorney Charlotte Wellington breezing into court and taking up this unknown girl’s defense. You made an impression and raised a few eyebrows.”

  “Great. Just what I need.” She smiled at the baby and grabbed his foot. Sooner should have had a mom like Angie.

  The boy kicked and gurgled. “Young son and I are off to the doctor’s for his checkup this morning. He needs his two-year-old shots. I’m dropping him off with the sitter and will be back by ten.”

  “Sure. Take all the time you need.”

  Angie laughed. “Oh, you so do not mean that. Time is money, remember, baby?”

  Charlotte smiled. “Maybe I need to lighten up.”

  Angie raised her hand to Charlotte’s forehead. “Are you feeling okay?”

  She was worried about Sooner. “Fine.”

  She arched a brow. “I don’t know. You’re making crazy talk.”

  “Maybe I’m just a few quarts shy on the coffee. Give me a few hours.”

  “You do look tired
,” Angie said. “Makeup is a wonderful thing, but it doesn’t hide the dark circles under your eyes.”

  “I’ve a new client presentation.” No one knew she was selling her condo or moving, and she intended to keep it that way.

  “How is it going?”

  “Good. We meet for dinner tonight. I’m doing a background check on him.”

  “And?”

  “So far so good. But I keep thinking I’ve missed something.”

  “Knowing you, you haven’t. You’re pretty meticulous.”

  “I’ve made mistakes before. I’ve let money cloud my judgment. I need to make sure big bucks aren’t blinding me to a fatal flaw.”

  Angie frowned. “Can I do anything to help?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “No. Not now at least. Just get little guy here to the doctor.”

  “I will. I’ll be back soon.” David grinned at Charlotte.

  She didn’t remember Sooner grinning like that. “Take your time.”

  Charlotte took her seat back behind the desk and read the article again. Sooner, what has Grady gotten you into?

  She’d read the girl’s lease agreement, and they planned to meet for coffee today. She was going to suggest that Sooner pay no more than a thousand a month and that she reduce the length of the lease to six months. However, she doubted the girl would listen. Sooner wanted out of the carnival so badly that she was ripe to make a poor decision. Case in point: the article. She’d no doubt agreed to the article because of the publicity it would generate for her new business.

  “Can you blame her?” Charlotte whispered.

  Eighteen years ago, she’d felt like an animal caught in a steel trap when Mariah had died. She’d have done anything, anything, to get free. And she had.

  She just prayed Grady had not put the girl in danger or on some killer’s radar.

  “Have you seen the morning paper, Rokov?” Sinclair dropped the Entertainment section onto Rokov’s desk.

  He glanced up at her and then at the article. His attention was drawn immediately to Sooner Tate’s bold, green eyes. “This is the girl that Charlotte Wellington defended in court a few days ago.”