She sat back and rubbed her eyes, but that only crystallized his image in her mind. Despite her ambivalence—correction, antipathy—toward him, she had to admit that he had a remarkable face. Like the rest of him, it was big, with a broad forehead, a solid chin, and an almost too perfect Roman nose. He had dark, overgrown hair that tended to spill onto his forehead, and one of those mouths that always looked as if it were about to break into a boyish grin.
That navy blue suit of his was nothing special, at least as compared to the ones her ex-husband had had custom-made in Milan. Perry had always taken great pains to have the tailor pad the shoulders and taper the seams just so, in order to achieve the commanding, athletic look he admired, but which nature had denied him.
Nature had not been so stingy with James Keegan. His very ordinary suit jacket hung flawlessly from massive shoulders, emphasizing his tall, powerful build. All the thousand-dollar suits in the world couldn’t have achieved the same effect with Perry.
But there was something more, something beyond his height and brawn, that invested him with a sense of authority and control. He had a way about him, a way of carrying himself that implied—no, proclaimed—that he was ready for anything.
He was the kind of man other men didn’t mess with.
Women, on the other hand, were undoubtedly more than eager to tangle with James Keegan. Those beefy good looks, that deep, rough-around-the-edges voice with the slight Gaelic lilt, those midnight blue eyes with a hint of Irish devilment... He emitted an unmistakable buzz of sexuality that only made it harder to be around him—especially considering how exasperating he was.
Oh well. She rubbed the back of her neck and turned another page, thinking, Just look through these books and then you can go home.
Home, where she’d be completely, blessedly alone. No Henry Cooks or Perry Milbanks or James Keegans to deal with. No one to doubt her or ridicule her or lecture her.
Or, worst of all, touch her.
Chapter Two
* * *
AS SOON AS Jamie stepped onto the ground floor he saw her again, complete with gloves, sitting at a table outside the captain’s office, going through mug books. She looked up at him as he approached, then retrieved her sunglasses from her bag and put them back on.
“You just don’t give up, do you?” he asked.
“Lieutenant.” Captain Garrett gestured to Jamie from the doorway of his office. “Would you mind coming in here for a minute?” Garrett turned, and Jamie followed him into the glass-walled room. “Close the door,” he said, leaning on his cluttered desk and crossing his arms.
Jamie shut the door. “She’s quite an operator, Sam. I made a tape, and I wrote a transcript from it of the really off-the-wall part, which you may find kind of amusing—” he handed Sam the blue notebook”—but there’s nothing we can actually use.” He turned and stared through the glass at India Cook’s elegant profile as she flipped pages in the mug book.
“I want you to work with her,” Sam said.
Jamie wheeled around. “What?”
Sam grinned and tossed the notebook onto his desk. “Lighten up, son.”
“Lighten up? We’re being had. Correction, you’re being had. I want it in the written record for this case that I am unequivocally opposed to any assistance from that woman.”
“What harm can it do?”
“What good can it do? For God’s sake, Sam, we’re not that desperate.”
Sam dragged a hand through his hair and began to pace. “Yes, we are. Look, Jamie, this pyro nut job is gonna incinerate something else this week—and odds are, something bigger and flashier than last time—unless we can find him and stop him first. We haven’t got a single clue to go on. All we’ve got—” he pointed through the glass “—is India Cook.”
“When all else fails, call in the witch doctor, huh? I just can’t believe you’re falling for this malarkey.”
Sam lifted his fishing pole from its resting place in the corner and hefted it in his hands. ‘“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”
Jamie sneered. “Oh, yeah. Quote Hamlet at me. That’ll convince me.”
Sam smiled as he fiddled with the reel. “I don’t have to convince you. I only have to order you, remember? I’m still the captain... till April, anyway. Then it’ll be your turn at the helm. But until then—”
“What makes you so sure they’re going to offer me the job?”
The captain chuckled. “You’re the golden boy of law enforcement in these parts, haven’t you heard? Not only do you always catch your man, your man almost always ends up behind bars. You’ve got the highest conviction rate I’ve seen in my entire career, ‘cause you never overlook the legalities. That proves you’re smart and can think on your feet. Trust me, of all the candidates, you’ve got the best shot at the job.” He took out his handkerchief, rubbed the pole where he’d handled it, and replaced it in the corner. “You want it, don’t you?”
Words were inadequate to describe how badly he wanted it. Jamie tried to be cool, but in the end he just nodded and grinned.
Garrett punched his shoulder. “Then crack this arson case. That’ll cinch it.”
“I’ve cracked hundreds of cases. Why is this one so special?”
“Because Mayor Weems is coughing up a very major hair ball over this one. She doesn’t much like the idea of Mansfield burning to the ground building by building. Not during her term, anyway. Keep that from happening and you’ll make captain before your thirty-fifth birthday, I guarantee it.”
“And if I don’t crack it?”
The captain shrugged. “As you go through life, you’ll notice folks tend to pay more attention to your big failures than your big achievements. Especially when they’ve got an important decision to make about you.”
Jamie groaned. “I hear you. I know there’s a lot riding on this case, and, believe me, I want to solve it. But that’s exactly why I don’t want to work with the gypsy fortune-teller out there. I don’t need a lot of voodoo hoo-doo gumming up the—”
“Lots of police departments work with psychics, Jamie. You know that. Even the FBI and the CIA use them.”
“Come to think of it, I did hear something about there being a sucker born every minute.”
“Well, then, you’re looking at one of them,” Sam said. “And as your captain, I order you to employ the services of India Cook in solving this case. Unless you’ve got some hot new lead you’re working on.”
Jamie sighed and shook his head.
“That’s what I thought.” He peered through the glass. “Looks like she’s through with those mug books. Wait here, if you would. I’m gonna ask her to look at the third arson note, and I’d like you to be here for that.”
“The third one? Does she know about the fourth one? The one that came today?”
“Not if you didn’t tell her. And I’d rather you didn’t mention it. I told her I want her to look at the most recent note. That’s how I put it.”
After a moment of puzzlement, Jamie grinned. “You’re testing her, you sly dog. You want to see if her powers tell her there was another note this morning. You’re not so gullible after all, are you?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “What is it about the Irish that they can make sly dog sound like a compliment? And no, I’m not gullible, just open-minded. To a point. I watched India Cook grow up, and I like her and trust her, but even so, a little proof wouldn’t hurt. Consider this... an experiment.”
Jamie couldn’t repress the mean-spirited chuckle that rose from him.
“A friendly experiment,” Sam added. “Meaning I’d like you to be civil. She’s a nice girl, regardless of what you think. Try to get her to trust you. Use that famous Irish charm of yours.”
“It’s a known fact that seven percent of all Irishmen lack the gene for charm, and I’m one of them.”
“You can’t fool me, son. After ten years of working with you, I happen to know you can put on a pre
tty passable display of it when you want.”
Jamie shook his head, wondering why Sam always got his way. ‘Cause he’s the captain, you moron. Laying on his best Pat O’Brien brogue, he said, “I’ll do me best, that I will, but I wouldn’t be bettin’ any money on it workin’ with the good Dr. Cook.”
“Attaboy.” Sam left and joined India Cook at her table. Jamie watched through the glass as she shook her head and held her hands up, apparently not having recognized any of the faces. Turning to look up at Sam, she removed her sunglasses and shoved them on top of her head. Nice touch, allowing him a glimpse of those devastating eyes. They were the kind of eyes that could muddy a man’s thinking, turn his knees to Jell-O.
She was good. Compared to her, Aunt Bridey was a rank amateur in the world of phony psychics. Bridey was always a bit too obvious, too greedy for publicity. Her flashiness tended to make people suspicious, especially the naturally doubtful policemen she tried to “help” in order to establish her reputation. India Cook, on the other hand, was smoothly, uncannily believable. Her feigned reluctance, her “I just want to be left alone” routine, was as slick a performance as he’d ever seen. Add to that her professional status—everyone trusted doctors—and he could understand, almost, why someone as normally astute as Sam Garrett might be taken in.
Yes, she was very good. During their interview upstairs, she’d actually had him feeling protective of her, empathizing with her. That business about not wanting to be touched... had that been a deliberate ploy to enhance her aura of vulnerability? She’d used that vulnerability—not to mention those amazing eyes and that sweet little mouth—to play him like the world’s most gullible patsy.
It probably would have worked, too, had it not been for his own history, a history she couldn’t possibly know anything about, despite her eerily perceptive observation that he had something to hide. She’d better not know anything about it. If the citizens of Mansfield found out about his misspent youth, he’d never in a million years make captain.
And he damn well intended to make captain.
Sergeant Albonetti brought Sam a manila envelope. Before he left, Albonetti frowned in puzzlement at India Cook’s gloves, which was about as much expression as Jamie had ever seen him display. Perhaps, Jamie mused, he’d been too quick to draw conclusions about the shades and gloves and all-black getup. Perhaps they weren’t symbolic shields at all, but indicators of guilt. After all, she was running a scam on the cops.
Sam motioned to her and they both joined Jamie in the captain’s office. Jamie tried to think of something charming to say, but nothing immediately came to mind, and she didn’t seem very receptive. In fact, she studiously avoided eye contact with him.
Of course she can’t look me in the eye. I’m on to her.
Sam opened the manila envelope, withdrew two taped-together sheets of cardboard, and separated them, revealing a plastic sheet protector containing the original of the third arson note. Handing it to Dr. Cook, he said, “This is the note, India. Do you need me to take it out of the protector?”
“No, I can get readings through plastic, if it’s thin enough. This should be fine.” She removed her gloves and laid them on Sam’s desk, then held the plastic-clad note between her palms, her eyes unfocused, her brows drawn together in a show of concentration. She shook her head slightly. “Inanimate objects yield very crude readings,” she said.
How convenient.
“But,” she continued, “I’m getting quite a bit off of this. It’s probably because the person who sent it had to handle it a lot to paste all these letters down. The more an object has been handled by someone, the stronger their lingering vibrations are. I think—” she frowned and scrunched up her face “—I think I’m picking up on this guy’s thought processes as he worked on this note. He was thinking about the fires he’d set so far, about their being... unimportant, incidental. He only set them to serve some... larger purpose, some final goal.” She relaxed her face and looked at Sam. “Does that make any sense?”
Jamie rolled his eyes. Every gypsy fortune-teller worth her bangle bracelets knew that trick. You fed your mark something general and then started asking questions, leading him into revealing more and more—then you turned around and fed his own revelations back to him in the form of a “psychic reading.” If it was done well, nine pigeons out of ten went along with it and never suspected they’d been had.
Sam maintained a studiously blank expression—perhaps, thought Jamie, because he saw through her ruse, or perhaps because the Firefly’s “larger purpose” was just as much a mystery to the police as it was to India Cook. “Go on.”
Dr. Cook closed her eyes. “It won’t end with the road-house. I’m sure of that. This man—it’s a man—intends to repeat this crime, to send more notes and burn down more buildings.”
“Can you tell anything about him?” Sam asked.
“I sense... arrogance. Extreme arrogance. But nothing concrete. No physical description, nothing like that.”
Nothing concrete, thought Jamie. Surprise, surprise.
“What I can tell you,” she continued, “is that each fire will be bigger than the last. It’s all leading up to something. Something big.” Shuddering, she opened her eyes and shook her head. “One final, devastating blaze.”
She let out a quivering breath and handed the note back to Sam. “His plan is to set a fire every week. I’m sure he’s already mailed a fourth note by now.”
Sam nodded. “It arrived this morning.”
Her eyes widened and then narrowed. “I don’t like being tested, Sam. Especially with no warning.”
“It was very ungallant of me,” the captain said. “I apologize. I’m impressed that you knew about the fourth note, though.” He turned to Jamie. “What do you think now, son?”
Jamie snorted derisively. “I think we were due for another note, as everyone in this town—including Dr. Cook here—is very well aware.” He shrugged and added, “Maybe she even overheard the guys at the front desk talking about it when she came in this morning.”
She drew herself up. “No, Lieutenant. I overheard nothing.”
Sam said, “The Lieutenant doth protest too much, methinks.”
“Which means?” Jamie prompted.
“Which means part of the reason you’re such a crackerjack detective is your own blue sense. Cop ESP,” he explained to Dr. Cook.
“I do not have—”
“Then how do you explain the time you were driving by that 7-Eleven store and ‘just got the feeling’ something was going on inside, and went back and stopped a robbery in progress? Or the time that old woman disappeared and you knew to look—”
“Hunches,” Jamie said.
“Another word for the blue sense.”
Jamie waved a hand in dismissal. “It’s deductive reasoning,” he insisted. “On a subconscious level. Without realizing it, you piece together subliminal clues. Everyone who does our kind of work on a daily basis develops that capability.”
“Not everyone,” Sam said, “and not to your degree. I don’t know why you fight this psychic stuff so hard, Jamie, but I don’t want you to let your skepticism interfere with this case.” He turned to India Cook. “For what it’s worth, I’m inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt. And I’d be most obliged if you’d consent to cooperate with Lieutenant Keegan on this case. We can use all the help we can get.”
She lifted one graceful eyebrow. “I’ve gotten the impression Lieutenant Keegan feels he can do very well without my help. Cooperation doesn’t work unless it comes from both sides.”
Jamie cursed under his breath. “Sam, this is—”
“Lieutenant Keegan will cooperate with you, India.” Sam grinned. “He’s a giant, pig-headed pain in the ass, but he’s smart.” He pinned Jamie with his level, blue-eyed gaze. “Way too smart to start getting insubordinate at this... rather delicate point in his career.”
Jamie speared him with a hostile glare, but Sam just laughed.
D
r. Cook lifted her coat from the back of a chair and put it on. “I don’t know, Sam. I don’t think it’s going to work. I regret having come here. I’ve exposed myself to mockery, and the face I saw isn’t even in your mug books.”
How could it be? It doesn’t even exist, thought Jamie. She should get an Oscar for this little display of resistance. It only made her seem more credible in Sam’s eyes. This was one smart cookie.
“I’m not gonna be coy with you, India,” Sam said. “We’ve run out of ideas on this case, otherwise we probably wouldn’t be bothering you. As it is, I’d be most obliged if you’d consent to help us out. I’d consider it a personal favor, and I’d be in your debt.”
She seemed to mull that over. “All right,” she said. “But I reserve the right to quit the investigation at any time.”
“Fair enough.” Addressing both of them, Sam said, “The basement India saw in her reading had iron railings on the stairs with—what was it, birds...?”
India nodded. “Little wrought iron birds perched here and there on the railings, as decoration. That’s probably why Phoenix noticed them. Cats are drawn to birds.”
Jamie tried to exchange a look with Sam, but the captain stubbornly avoided eye contact. “What else, India?” Sam asked her. “What kind of birds were they? Could you tell?”
She shrugged. “Just birds. I don’t know. They had crests.”
“Crests,” Sam said. “Like blue jays?”
“Bigger.” She squinted, as if trying to remember. “Like cardinals. They were cardinals, I think.” Her eyes grew wide and her eyebrows lifted. “Cardinals!” She grinned. “They were cardinals!”
This time Sam did meet Jamie’s gaze, his expression wryly curious, as if to say, “Do you get it?” Jamie shook his head; but then, he didn’t quite get any of this.
“Lorillard Press!” India Cook exclaimed, with more animation than Jamie had seen her express all morning. “Lorillard Press!” she repeated impatiently. Jamie and Sam just stared at her. “You have heard of Lorillard Press,” she added, sarcastically.
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