Out of Body

by Stella Cameron

  “You’d better record everything, hadn’t you?” Fisher said, unflinching.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything—yet. Just having that chat you wanted. Who did you meet first?”

  “Liza Soaper. Maybe I need a lawyer.”

  “There’s the phone,” Archer said, nodding at his desk. “How long ago did you hook up with her?”

  “Around six weeks, give or take.”

  Archer wasn’t taking notes—or recording anything. “How did you find her?”

  “I asked around. Who was an up-and-comer? Did anyone know someone who was making it, but had a rough story to tell about getting there? Most of them do, but you’ve got to think through how you approach them.”

  Archer kept his mouth shut and waited.

  “Then they sleep most of the day and they work nights. A lot of the singers do, anyway. Makes it difficult to interview them. Takes time to get a story together. Mostly we talked between her sets. I like Liza.”

  “That’s nice,” Archer said. He did pick up a pen to jot down a few words on a yellow pad. He drew box after box around what he’d written.

  Fisher smiled, and enjoyed the irritation Archer showed. “Yeah, it is nice,” Fisher said. “There’s only one body, and neither of us knows if the owner was a singer. These people come and go. They get an offer or a hint of an offer that appeals to them, and they’re gone. That’s probably what’s happened to Liza—and Amber.” Fisher didn’t think so, but he wasn’t going to tell Archer that, not unless he had to.

  Archer could be more right than he knew about Fisher needing a new story.

  “And Pipes—and her kid?” Archer said.

  Shit.

  “Okay.” Archer scooted his chair away, crossed his heels on the desk and tipped back. “Shirley Cooper is the only one I’m working on for real until I find out if she was a singer or knew any of the other three.”

  “You could have four for one,” Fisher said. He wouldn’t let himself think about the possible fifth victim, the child.

  Archer laced his fingers on his flat belly. “You’re tryin’ to goad me into something. Damned if I know why.”

  “I’m not. Just stating the obvious. Amber Lee sings with a woman who calls herself Sidney. She showed up for work one night, but Amber didn’t. I was there that night. Sidney told me she’d be in touch, but I haven’t heard from her and neither of them has been at work since. Are you working on any theories about what could have happened?”

  “This Sidney’s probably scared out of her mind,” Archer said, ignoring Fisher’s invitation to share the information he had originally come looking for.

  “Or dead. That could make five for—”

  “Don’t go there,” Archer snapped.

  “If the vic can be connected, to even one of the others, people will fill in the dots and unless human nature has changed, the phones will ring. There’ll be dozens who heard them sing and can’t wait to spew anything they know—or think they do.”

  “They’ll call anyway, you know that.”

  Fisher moved his shoulders around. Prickling showered the middle of his back. He looked at his damp, empty cup. His fingers felt cold.

  “Someone walking on your grave?” Archer said. “You shivered.”

  And Fisher shivered again. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said and grinned.

  He didn’t feel like smiling. His gut was hot and jumpy. It had happened before, many times, starting when he’d been a kid. In the past year the episodes had come more frequently and with increasing discomfort. He might as well face it and hope whatever it was this time would move on quickly. He got these feelings before something happened, something unpleasant.

  “Tell me something about Liza Soaper?” Archer said.

  It wasn’t a pretty story—although it got better recently—and he didn’t feel like sharing much of it. “She’s a loner. No friends she mentioned or that I saw. Country girl with guts and drive. Her family never wants to hear from her again. They’re convinced she’s a prostitute or a stripper, and New Orleans is sin city.”

  “Sounds like they know our little burg.”

  “Yeah.” Fisher snorted. “She lived on just about nothing for the first months, until someone noticed she’s got a big, rich voice.”

  “That matches what we know,” Archer said. “There isn’t even a record of her having a car.”

  “I don’t think she did—or Amber.”

  Archer rocked a little, then jotted a note. “Probably doesn’t matter, but we’ll find out how these women got to work.”

  Fisher wanted to rub his back and walk around, but he stayed put, and still. The heat inside him cranked up. This time was different from the others, exciting rather than unpleasant. Muscles in his back bunched so tight he rotated his shoulders.

  The phone rang. Archer swung his feet to the floor, picked up and barked, “Archer.”

  Silence, except for the occasional grunt, went on for a while before he got off and said, “You were more or less onto something. Everyone who ever heard Liza or Amber or Pipes Dupuis sing, or think they did, must have called in. I’m going up to Lemon and take a look.” He stood, but hesitated. “You’ll be here when I get back.”

  The order wasn’t subtle, and Fisher didn’t like it. “Not if you’re up there long. I’ve got to keep on doing what I’m doing. I’ve got a living to make.”

  “I’d like you to wait.”

  “I can give it about ten. After that, you’ve got my cell number. If I intended to make a run for some reason, for any reason at all, I wouldn’t be here now.”

  Hands on hips, Archer studied him.

  Fisher’s teeth locked together. He looked over his shoulder at someone standing outside the windows—looking in. Breath left his lungs as if he’d been winded.

  “Who the hell is that?” Archer said.

  Someone for me. He could feel it. Fisher didn’t answer.

  “Civilians aren’t supposed to wander about down here—on their own,” Archer said.

  A woman, a bit shorter than average, stared at them through spaces in the warped window shades. She had very curly, dark red hair that burst out in ringlets to her shoulders, and eyes green enough for the color to be obvious at fourteen feet. She was suddenly even shorter. Apparently she had been standing on tiptoe to get a better look at the office.

  The door opened slowly and she stepped partway into the room. Fisher heard a whine from the corridor and the woman turned and looked down. “Don’t embarrass me, Winnie,” she said clearly.

  Fisher realized he’d mashed the cup to a pulp. “Dog,” he said, hoping Archer wouldn’t notice the cup.

  “Why not a dog?” Archer said. “Or a damn performing monkey? Fits right in with the way this day’s been going.”

  “Detective?” the redhead said.

  Archer cleared his throat. “What makes you think I am?”

  “One of you probably is. There’s a name on the door.”

  Forest-green. That was the color of her eyes. Fisher couldn’t have met her before or he would have remembered the instant he saw her. A little woman with a big impact—on him. For the first time he understood exactly what was meant by raw nerve endings.

  “Who are you looking for?” Archer said, but Fisher noticed he didn’t sound angry.

  “Detective Archer,” she said with a puzzled frown. “I already said that.”

  “Ma’am, how did you get down here?” Archer asked. “The public isn’t supposed to wander in off the street and poke around.”

  “Why not? The public pays for all of this. We pay your salary, too.”

  While Archer watched, his lower jaw slack, she came in and shut the door.

  Again Fisher felt a slam to his diaphragm, this time even harder. This was it. The closer the redhead got, the more excited and riled up he felt. She was part of something to do with him.

  “I’m Detective Nat Archer. This is Gray Fisher—he’s a journalist friend of mine.”

  After nod
ding at her, Fisher balanced the notebook on a knee and wrote words, just words. Later he’d take a look and see if they said anything. For now he didn’t care as long as she didn’t get a look at the effect she was having on him.

  “I’m Marley Millet,” she said. “I wanted to talk to someone about what was on that press conference earlier. Upstairs they told me to wait and someone would get to me, only they didn’t.”

  “This is a busy place, Miz Millet,” Archer said. “A lot of people wait.”

  “They shouldn’t have to. Not all of them—not if they’ve got important information like I do.”

  “Come and take a seat,” Archer said, dragging another folding chair forward. “How did you know I was on this case?”

  “These questions are all a waste of time.”

  From the corner of an eye, Fisher saw her sit down and cross her legs. Nice legs. Nice body. Little, but definitely worth more than a look. Some sensations began to fade, all but the intense and growing feeling that he should prepare to defend himself. Why did the anticipation stimulate rather than put him on guard?

  “I heard someone say your name. Several times. And I could figure out they were talking about the women who are missing—” She paused. “I went to the ladies’ room on the main floor and then just started walking along corridors. When I didn’t find you up there, I came downstairs and here you are.”

  “This has been a bitch of a day,” Archer said.

  “I agree,” Marley Millet said. “I’m pooped out.”

  Fisher smiled to himself.

  “I came to talk to you about Liza Soaper and Amber Lee.” She wound her hands tightly together. “I don’t suppose you’ve found them yet, have you?”

  4

  This was the right place and the right man, Marley thought. Archer’s body had tensed, and he leaned toward her. His face was a study in reluctant curiosity. Curiosity, she understood. Why reluctant, she didn’t know.

  “How are you connected to them?” he said of Liza and Amber.

  Archer was the one she’d come looking for, but…she looked sideways at the man seated in a chair…this one had the power, a special power. A gripping, a tightening around her midsection disoriented her. Who was he and why was he here?

  Archer cleared his throat. “I asked how you know Liza Soaper and Amber Lee,” he said, not attempting to hide his irritation.

  “Yes,” she said. There was a pull, an attraction, but not necessarily of the kind she was happy about.

  The other man didn’t even glance at her. But Marley studied him closely. His hair was dark with hints of time in the sun, roughed up and skimming his collar, like her brother Sykes’s had been the last time she saw him. Only Sykes had black hair—an anomaly in the Millet family and cause for grave concern. Quixotic he might be, but she longed for Sykes’s presence, his assurance that anything could be overcome, or “accomplished,” as he would say. She could try asking him to come. They had their way of signaling each other, only Sykes had a rule, they both did: If you call, there had better be blood on the floor.

  There probably was somewhere.

  Marley shuddered.

  “Detective Archer asked you a question,” Gray Fisher said, startling her. Still he didn’t look at her. He had one of those deep male voices that managed to sound as if laughter wasn’t far away.

  “I think you’re rude,” she told him, and immediately felt embarrassed. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you’re not the—”

  “Ignore him,” Detective Archer said. “He used to be on the force. Sometimes he forgets he’s not anymore. Take your time explaining.”

  ““We don’t have time,” she said, her face flushing. “You’ve got at least one dead woman and there are going to be more if we don’t hurry up.”

  The problem was that although she had sped along Royal Street, trying her best to think up a way to tell her story without giving away the things that would get her kicked out of here, she had not come up with a solution.

  “You know two of the missing women?” Detective Archer said, sounding testy now. “What about Shirley Cooper?”

  She shook her head and sighed. “No. I wish I had known her, poor thing, but she didn’t come to me.” Marley put her lips firmly together. Her mind rushed in useless circles. “This is the last place I want to be, but I understand responsibility. I can’t deal with all this on my own. It wouldn’t be right not to talk to you.”

  Gray Fisher shifted beside her. This man’s features were angular, harsh even, his brows dark and winged. He had yet to give her a chance to really see his eyes.

  He hunched his shoulders and rubbed the back of his neck. Then he rounded his back. Then straightened it. A fidget. Being still, listening quietly and without comment were disciplines Marley had been taught very early. Keeping opinions to herself was a skill that still needed work.

  She thought he must be tall, and he looked athletic.

  His thoughts were all about her. And he was trying to figure out if she was…dangerous?

  Shocked by feeling his thoughts touch her mind, she began to cut off the connection.

  Better to know potential enemies, she heard him think. His efforts were undisciplined, perhaps even accidental.

  Marley didn’t allow the probe to deepen.

  Telepathy was something she shared with her siblings, to differing degrees depending on how firmly their guards were up. Outside the family, Marley could choose to read minds. She never did so lightly. This was the first time she had been aware of a stranger making casual contact with her.

  Her own shield was firmly in place. There would be no reciprocal probing. Willing exploration by two telepathists who were strangers risked a dangerous depth of intimacy.

  He was looking sideways at her, watching her watching him. Speculative eyes that reminded her of whiskey. How long had he been aware that she was sizing him up?

  A sharp current traveled from her neck down her spine, startling her to sit very straight. The electric sensation curved forward to her belly and buried itself where she least expected to feel any reaction at all.

  A sexy connection.

  Now warmth shot across her body. Fisher shifted in his chair and the expression in his eyes made her look away.

  “What did you come to tell me?” Detective Archer asked. “Do you know where Liza and Amber are?”

  Marley cleared her throat. Every word had to be weighed. “Not exactly.”

  She felt Gray Fisher continue to watch her quietly.

  “What does that mean?” Archer asked.

  “I saw Liza about ten days ago, and I was with Amber this afternoon.”

  If she had produced an assault rifle, she doubted these two men could be more focused on her.

  “Go on,” Archer said.

  “Well.” Her fluttering hands annoyed Marley and she dropped them to her lap.

  Archer inclined his head in question and jutted his chin.

  “They were both…They couldn’t get away from where they were.”

  She wanted to give in to the lure and look at Gray Fisher again. Instead, she studied the office. This wasn’t a place where she’d like to spend a lot of time. It smelled musty, like wet laundry left to dry in a heap. Mold. And old smoke.

  “Why couldn’t they get away?” This time Archer tried to look relaxed in his chair. You could almost think he was relaxed, as long as you didn’t look at his tight mouth and jaw.

  “Someone didn’t want them to leave,” she told him.

  “Who?”

  She really was overheating, even in her white cotton dress. Long and fairly thin, it began to feel too tight across her chest. “I heard his voice.” Marley didn’t want to recall that dark, smooth, persuasive voice or the power it had over those women.

  “You didn’t see him?”

  “No. He hid himself,” she said with sudden inspiration. Talking about disembodied voices wouldn’t help buy her either respect or action. “They both know him. When he talked, they expected to hea
r him speak and did what he wanted.”

  Skepticism hardened Archer’s eyes. “And he wanted what?” he asked.

  There was a full, blue plastic bowl of Tootsie Rolls on the desk. She was reminded that she still felt drained from the journey.

  “He wanted them to go into a sort of locker place in one corner of the big room and stay there,” she said. “It’s got a big, heavy door with no handle on the inside. Each of them did what he said.”

  “What room would that be?”

  “Like I said, the locker is in a bigger room and I think—” Too many vague references would make them suspicious.

  “No, the bigger room. Where is that?” Archer said.

  Of course this was difficult, and it would only get more so. She couldn’t tell him about a luminous, watery funnel, a portal to another place by way of a peeling red lacquer dollhouse! “What have you found out so far?” she said, buying time.

  “Not enough, but we will,” Archer said.

  Beside her, Gray Fisher’s hands were curved into fists on his thighs. He’d given up on his notes. His presence, her response to him, alerted her to possible risk.

  “Let’s come at this from another direction,” Archer said. “The locker? What kind of locker?”

  “Like a meat locker,” she said, and swallowed hard. “Revolving hooks inside.”

  Silence.

  “It was cold in there. I saw an atmospheric phenomenon.”

  Gray Fisher coughed. “Meaning?”

  “Condensation, I suppose. Cold air meeting warmer air and billowing like fog.” She puffed at a curl beside her eye. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m not scientific—not in the way you think of. Just imagine opening a freezer door and seeing clouds of white vapor rush out.”

  “You sound irritated,” Archer said, too mildly for comfort.

  “That’s because she’s uncomfortable,” Fisher said.

  Marley didn’t want his interpretation of what she might or might not feel, but she kept quiet.

  “Just a minute,” Fisher said.

  Hearing a light scratching at the door, he got up and let Winnie sidle in. She held her bone by one end and dragged it beside her as if it would be less noticeable that way.