Ghost Seer

by Robin D. Owens

  The sheriff grunted. “After I spoke with you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “They were both off duty then and yesterday.” Zach’s former boss cleared his throat. “Exactly when and where did you last see them?”

  “On the twenty-third, approximately thirteen hundred hours at the Daisy Diner near the southern border of the county. Lauren wanted to say she was sorry for my trouble. They left first.”

  After the damn crows had cawed. Four crows. Death. Dread tightened the back of Zach’s neck. A high-pitched whine came to his ears and he jerked his head to get rid of it.

  Sighing heavily, the sheriff let silence hang. Didn’t bother Zach. Finally his ex-boss said, “Looks like they had a single-car accident on the way back to Plainsview City. Ran off the road and down a bank. Rolled the vehicle. We had some nasty weather that afternoon.”

  Zach’s gut tightened. “How bad is it?”

  “The worst. They’re dead.”

  “Christ. You don’t need me to come back?” He shouldn’t have to, but you never knew. So far the sheriff had treated him better than anyone else in the department.

  “No. Just wanted to clear the timeline up. You spoke with Tony Rickman?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So did I. He was impressed.”

  Zach snorted.

  “Take the job, Zach,” the sheriff said.

  “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, and good luck.”

  Zach pushed away his half-empty glass of beer. The light clouds had drifted away and the day had begun to heat up in earnest. A trickle of sweat ran down his spine, sticking one of his good white shirts to his back and making him wish he’d taken off his jacket. He hated when he saw the crows. Hated even more when the stupid rhyme seemed to be right.

  Otherwise, just emptiness at the thought of those deaths filtered through him. Not even anger, his usual response to senseless loss of life. Should he feel anything for them? The woman who’d made a mistake just as he had, one that screwed up his life? The man who’d liked to make jokes at his expense? He didn’t know.

  But they were colleagues, people he’d worked with, and now they were dead. An area of emptiness, of emotions more layered than the single, primal ones he still experienced, grew. He’d think about that later.

  No one would expect him to come back for the funerals, and that was damn good. He didn’t want to see anyone from that particular job again. The job he’d thought had been a career.

  “Problems?” a soft voice across from him asked.

  He blinked Clare Cermak’s pretty face into focus. Not model-perfect, and with a gold-dust tan that seemed to be natural.

  Clare’s lips pursed, something he didn’t care to see, and she leaned a bit toward her bag as if she were ready to pick it up and go . . . and Zach realized he didn’t want her to leave. “Yeah, a couple of problems,” he said.

  Her brows lowered, then she said, “But not your problems, because you aren’t at that job anymore?”

  “You’re right.” He studied her, made a good guess. “You were an accountant.”

  Now her brown-red eyebrows lifted. “How did you know?”

  He found a smile curving his own lips. She was easy to be around. “Your phone has a tax app and fancy calculator on the home screen.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re very neat and tidy,” he said.

  Her tongue came out and moistened her lips, and a flicker of lust flared in his groin. Very welcome, since nothing much had stirred down there for a while. He’d been told his wound had been severe enough, and he’d lost enough blood, that it might take him a while before his dick functioned. Now it seemed it was functioning just fine.

  The truth was, no woman had attracted him in a while.

  He stared at Clare Cermak and her steady hazel eyes, and couldn’t help comparing her to Lauren. Yeah, he’d have bet his Corvette that Clare would always do her job. There’d be no slipups. Another fine trait.

  She still frowned at him, vertical lines over her nose, bit her full lower lip. “You’re a police officer?”

  His smile faded. “How’d you guess?”

  “You said ‘perpetrator.’ And your reaction to the idea of post-traumatic stress syndrome.” Her eyes flickered at his cane, at him. “You seem in good shape.”

  He ignored the implied question about how he might have come to be crippled, leaned back, and crossed his good ankle over his knee. “Checking out my build, Clare?”

  She laughed and her serious-mode expression faded, making her appear younger and more carefree. Pity she had those shadows in her eyes; she was beautiful when she laughed. Her long lashes swept down and up, flirting with him, and he relaxed even more. Maybe being here in Denver might turn out to be a good move.

  “Absolutely I checked you out, Zach.”

  “Good to know.” Zach smiled, then continued the conversation. “So you’re an ex-accountant?”

  She tilted up her chin. “There’s no such thing as an ex-accountant. I am a CPA.” She paused and the shadows darkened her eyes to brown. She sighed. “I just don’t have a job anymore.”

  “Why’d you quit?”

  That got her staring back into his eyes instead of looking at the suited men and women passing by.

  “You think I quit?”

  “Yep.”

  “You’re good.”

  “I know, and more than just my observational skills.”

  Now her gaze was penetrating, intense. He knew that look, too. The lady was deciding whether to trust him. He didn’t bother giving her a sincere smile; he wanted no prompts from him on her decision.

  Because it mattered that she’d trust him and he didn’t know why. Maybe just because he really liked the looks of her. He thought he heard a dog yip but didn’t break the gaze.

  Clare leaned forward, and his stare did slip a little to her newly revealed cleavage. The collar of her white blouse wasn’t open that far, just enough to see the rise of nice breasts.

  “I received an inheritance,” she murmured.

  His ear caught doubt in her voice. “Strings attached?”

  “You might say that.”

  Something—someone—snuffled near them; Zach didn’t turn to see but met her gaze again. “You don’t have to work anymore?”

  “No.” Her lips flexed down. “And someone else could use my excellent job.”

  He dipped his head. “Good idea.”

  “Thank you.” She slid his beer back toward him. “And I don’t think you’re an ex–police officer, either.”

  “Deputy sheriff,” he said.

  “Law enforcer.” She nodded. “No such thing as an ex-policeman?”

  He thought of the drunk ex-cop who’d shot him, now sitting in prison, convicted of assault with a deadly weapon on an officer of the law. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Hmm,” Clare said, once more considering him. He didn’t mind that. “Maybe there are people . . .” She blinked. “There are people who live their job. I think you were—are—one of them.”

  Drinking to give him time enough to think about her insight, he realized that there were now four ex–law enforcers in his mind—himself, the guy who’d shot him, and Lauren and Larry. All done with such work forever. He clicked the empty glass down on the table, licked the last of the foam from his mouth—and when Clare’s gaze flicked to his lips, his brooding eased.

  Until she gestured to his cane. “Despite your circumstances, I think you’ll always be a lawman here”—she touched fingertips to her breast over her heart.

  A dog barked and Zach scanned the mall for one, didn’t see it.

  Clare said, “Not like the gunman Jack Slade, who was the law of the West at one time, then devolved into an alcoholic and was fired from his job.”

  Zach felt one side of h
is mouth kick up in a half smile. “He had PTSD.” Could have happened that way.

  Nodding soberly, Clare said, “You know, they didn’t get all the lead out of him. That probably bothered him for the remaining four years of his life.”

  Zach lifted his hand. “I concede the point already.” He paused. “I don’t want to think or talk about bullet wounds.” And he didn’t know what possessed him to say that, either.

  Clare’s eyes rounded, pupils black against the hazel. “Is that how . . . ?”

  “Yeah.”

  She swallowed, and her mouth must have been dry because she finished her coffee.

  When she put her cup down, Zach reached out and grasped her fingers. Her hand remained cool, felt nice in the heating- up afternoon. He smiled at her. “I’ve remembered something else about Jack Slade. He had a vibrant, intelligent, loyal, and sexy wife.”

  “Maria Virginia,” Clare said. Her smile turned teasing. “I’m sure that list of qualities isn’t in the order you prefer.”

  Zach grinned, realized his face hadn’t moved like that since he’d been shot. “Nope.” Her hand was warming in his and he rubbed the back of it with his thumb, to keep that pretty smile going.

  “So what would be the order?” she asked.

  SIX

  “I’M THINKIN’ YOU’RE gettin’ a little too personal.” Zach put on a drawl that anyone who’d lived in Colorado for a while would have heard.

  Her brows went up. “Native Coloradan?”

  “Yep.”

  “I came during college. I was born in Chicago, raised here and there and everywhere. I have wandering parents.”

  His turn to blink. The more they talked, the more he understood they had a lot in common. He pointed his thumb at himself. “Military brat.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I was born in Boulder. Have a few generations of Coloradans behind me, I think, on my father’s side, some Native American. Never looked into it.”

  His dad would never admit the Native American blood or discuss it, especially around his mom or her family, but from the slight tawny hue of their skin, they had to have had Native American blood in them not so many generations back. All the Slade men had hair so dark brown it looked black in most light. “My mother’s family is from Massachusetts.”

  “My folks are mostly from Illinois, I think, though I may explore that.”

  Another woof! from the dog he still couldn’t see on the sidewalk outside the window. But Zach followed the thought through. “Tracing your family background because of the inheritance.” Her fingers had trembled in his, but she hadn’t withdrawn them.

  “Yes.” Her eyes went distant, then she tossed her head, focused her attention back on him. Every time she did that, he liked it more.

  “So,” she said. “What would the order of that list be?” She frowned as if trying to recall the qualities he’d listed.

  “Intelligent, loyal, sexy, vibrant,” he replied promptly.

  She chuckled. “Interesting order.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m not sure how vibrant I am.”

  “You’d look better out of that gray suit, that’s for sure,” he said.

  “Ohh.” Her appreciative glance went to his shoulders. He figured they were broad enough for her.

  A melody played and her eyes sharpened.

  “Your cell?” he asked.

  “My real estate agent.”

  His brows rose. “Spending the inheritance?”

  “My house is too small,” she replied stiffly. “I’ve already sold my late aunt’s house. Even as we speak, my brother is arranging for moving trucks to me, his place in Virginia, and a storage unit for the parents in White Plains, New York.”

  Professional interest prickled along Zach’s nerves. “They don’t have a problem with you inheriting a lot of money? Or did they get a big cut, too?” Just how wealthy was this woman? Her clothes and bag were modest, midlevel management.

  “I got all the money and the house, but my brother took money out of a trust some time ago and I didn’t. He and his family are comfortable and my parents live on trust fund money.”

  “Uh-huh.” Zach didn’t believe for an instant that her relatives wouldn’t resent Clare’s good luck. In his world, big money always caused problems between people.

  Her cell rang again with the same sprightly, tinkly music. “Go ahead and get it,” he said.

  She leaned down and pulled the phone right out of her bag, no fishing around. Efficient. Nice.

  “Hello, Arlene, this is Clare. Four listings already that match my requirements? Oh. Right now? I don’t know . . .”

  Clare’s gaze cut to Zach, and he stopped himself from smirking. She didn’t want to leave him and the conversation they were having to look at pretty houses. She’d rather stay. That boosted his confidence like nothing and nobody since the shooting. He leaned back in his chair, smiling, but waved that she should accept the appointment. He had no doubt they’d meet again.

  Clare pursed her lips, tilted her head, staring at him.

  “Go on,” he said. High-pitched, quick burbling continued to come from the telephone. No doubt the agent knew she had a big fish on the line and wanted to sell to Clare as soon as possible. Still, he’d back Clare and her obviously careful ways against a high-energy and persuasive real estate agent.

  A cool draft washed around his legs. The day remained sunny, with heat rising to sizzling. The restaurant must have turned the air-conditioning up.

  “All right, Arlene.” Clare turned her wrist to look at her watch. A person who still wore a watch so she could see the time faster than reaching for her cell or personal computer or tablet—which Zach also bet she carried.

  Yep, one damn intriguing woman.

  Under her tan skin, her cheeks pinkened as she flushed, her gaze darting to him. “Ah, Arlene, I don’t have a car with me. I took a cab downtown.”

  That was interesting. She didn’t strike him as the type who’d spend an extra penny on herself if there were other options, and it was impossible to get around the Denver metro area in a timely manner without a ride.

  A lot of commonalities between them, and the shadows in her eyes, and something just different combined into a hell of an attraction for him. Intelligent, sexy, vibrant. He didn’t know how loyal she might be. Trustworthy, though, he’d allow her that.

  “I’ll find a cab at one of the big hotels and meet you at the first house. Yes, I’ve memorized the address. I’ll leave shortly.”

  “You haven’t had lunch?” Zach asked. The more he looked at her, the more he thought he saw strain around her eyes, as if those shadows bedeviled her.

  She frowned at him, lifted the cell from her mouth. “I’m not very hungry.”

  Once again the odd chill breezed through. Wonky air-conditioning.

  And though he frowned, he understood when someone wanted to force food on you and you didn’t want to eat.

  “I’ll leave as soon as you hang up, Arlene,” Clare said, and the call ended.

  She slipped the cell back into her bag, rubbed at her temples. “I didn’t expect this to happen so fast.”

  “But you’re ready for it,” he pointed out. “And those moving trucks will be rolling.”

  Her hands lowered and she smiled again. “There is that. But I could find a good storage unit.”

  Zach shook his head. “Not nearly as efficient or tidy.”

  “That’s right.”

  She stood slowly. “I’m sorry our conversation was cut short.”

  “Me, too. Do you have a card?” he asked.

  Her hand went to her purse, then dropped away. “No. I only have business cards. I’ll have to . . . think of something.”

  Woof! barked the dog Zach still couldn’t see.

  He shook his head as he reached for
his cane, positioned it right, and stood. His leg had stiffened and hurt. He wasn’t about to show that. “Another thing we have in common.”

  “Yes?”

  “No jobs and money we’re not sure about and needing new digs.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out one of his old cards, ignored the insignia and writing on the front, flipped it over and wrote his cell number on the back, and held it out.

  She took it and put it carefully in an inner pocket of her purse, zipped that.

  “We’ll meet again, Clare Cermak.”

  “I’m sure we will.” She, too, took a card from her purse, pale gray with black lettering, crossed out the engraved wording below her name, and wrote down two numbers. “That’s my cell and my landline.”

  Of course she’d have backup communication in a landline. He stuck her card in his inner pocket, then took her hand and squeezed. “Good meeting you.”

  “Yes.” She returned the pressure and slipped a ready ten from her purse. He intercepted her hand.

  “I’ll get it.”

  “Thank you, Jackson Zachary Slade.”

  The first time in a long time—maybe ever—that he’d liked hearing his full name. “Call me Zach.”

  She dipped her head. “Zach. Later.”

  “Later.” He took his time pulling out a twenty and tossing it on the table, watching her nicely rounded hips sway in her slim skirt as she strode outside and to the busy sidewalk. He blinked, since there seemed to be a smudge to his sight now and again when he took in the full sight of her.

  Crows cawed.

  No! Zach tensed. Saw five birds rise from the iron railing separating the restaurant tables from the walkway. How had he missed them? But his breath released slowly. Five for silver. That could mean a lot of things, but not sorrow or death or secrets.

  His phone sounded again, the anonymous buzz of an unknown caller. The readout showed Rickman Security and Investigations.

  “Slade,” he said.

  “I’ve got a job for you. Interested?”

  Silver—money, payment. “Yeah.” He guessed so.

  “If you’re still in Denver, come on back to my offices and I’ll brief you and introduce you to our client.”