“Have you attempted to trace these e-mails?”
He heard the soft whoosh of her silk pants hitting the floor, the sound as enticing as her shadow on the wall. “Yes—at least, the computer people at the studio did for me. They said all the messages came through free servers, and that whoever sent them was probably using an Internet café or something.”
A bullshit answer from someone who didn’t feel like doing a little work. Every e-mail could be traced. “My firm can get something more definite,” he said. “How many times have you changed your e-mail address?”
“Three. But then a day later, he sends me another message.”
That took a certain amount of expertise. Or access.
She stepped back into the open area, holding her hair up with both hands, a silver clip in her mouth. The cami-sole was pulled high enough to reveal the dip of low-rise jeans. Very low. A lavender and violet tattoo—something with wings—floated in the concave between her navel and her pelvic bone.
Yeah. This was Hollywood.
“Vadyousinkof…” She popped the clip out of her mouth and stuck it into her hair. “Catburd? That’s what he uses on every e-mail.”
“Could be a power play. Could be a reference to something else. Could be nothing.”
“A power play, huh?” She plopped onto a love seat and propped bare feet onto the two inches of coffee table space that didn’t have a magazine, earring, or Styrofoam cup. “Like somebody who sits in the catbird seat. Hadn’t thought about that.”
“Or he’s a geek.”
She looked up at him, from under lashes that were thick even without the mascara. “How’s that?”
“A reference to General Catburd, a character from the Bonzai Buckaroo film. Real popular with science geeks. You know any?”
She snorted softly. “Not really.” Then she shot forward like a little bird in a cuckoo clock, pointing her finger at him. “You know, there was this guy, this graduate student at Cal Tech, and he was just weird enough to do something like this. He said he’d prove to the world I’m a fake. That’s the last thing he said to me. I totally forgot about him.”
“When did you talk to him?”
“About three months ago. He was doing his doctoral thesis, trying to ‘disprove the paranormal.’ ” She finger-quoted the phrase. “I did a phone interview—just to be nice, mind you—and he was so obnoxious. He wouldn’t listen to me, he was closed-minded, and his whole attitude really torqued me. Then, the best thing happened.” She grinned at the memory, leaning back and crossing her arms with a cocky smile. “Right in the middle of his ranting that paranormal doesn’t exist and psychics are really psychopaths, his dead sister shows up.”
“His dead sister.” Chase took a seat across from her, using everything in his training not to react. “Showed up.”
“You know—she started talking in my head. And I told him he had a sister who passed away of leukemia and that she was describing their house—it was yellow with a green tin roof, I remember distinctly—and he went absolutely postal and hung up. I never heard from him again.” She pointed to the e-mails. “But those started around the same time. One every couple of weeks at first, then weekly.”
Chase just lifted one brow. “And his sister? Has she popped in for any more visits from beyond?”
She grabbed a purple velvet throw pillow and hugged it to her chest, her eyes lit and her color high. “Let me make something clear. I do not talk to the dead.”
“No kidding.”
“You do.”
He just stared at her.
“I wasn’t the medium in there, when we talked to your friend Michael,” she said, dropping the pillow to point at him again. “You were. I was hearing what he was saying through you. See the difference?”
“No, but I’m not here to buy what you’re selling. I’m here to protect you and help you find and eliminate the threat. That’s my job.”
She shot to her feet. “I’m not selling anything. And what do you think happened in there? You think someone told me there’d be a tall, hot guy in the third row who has a dead friend named Michael?”
“I think,” he said calmly, “that Lucy Sharpe mentioned my NASA background in your discussions about a bodyguard. I think you made a brilliant guess that I would know another astronaut killed in one of the very few high-profile incidents involving the space shuttle. Maybe you remembered one of their names. And then you took a very lucky guess. I think that’s what you do, and, frankly, you do it quite well.”
She half choked and stuttered over a few words, as if she didn’t know where to begin her argument, there were so many possibilities. “Listen to me,” she finally said. “I didn’t know you were an astronaut. And I don’t have time to run Internet searches on bodyguards I hire; that’s why I went to a reputable company.” Her eyes shone as she looked at him. “I heard Michael. Well, you did. And I heard him from you. It was not a lucky guess.”
“It’s a common name.”
She threw her hands on her slim hips, adding a theatrical sigh of exasperation. “We have a big, fat problem, because if you don’t believe me, then you can’t protect me.”
“Of course I can.” He indicated the love seat. “Calm down. We need to focus on the tangible problem. These e-mails.”
She shook her head slowly, dropping back to the sofa to get eye level with him. “No, you can’t. Because those notes may be tangible, but the real threat to my safety isn’t coming from the person who sent e-mails.”
He frowned, waiting for an explanation.
“You were there. You saw what happened to me in the studio. I told you, I witnessed a murder.”
He reached out and put his hand on her knee. “I don’t believe in visions, Arianna.” Her mouth opened and he quieted the protest with a squeeze. “But I do believe in instinct. Maybe what you think you saw, was a manifestation of something else that’s making you feel insecure. These e-mails could have that effect on you.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She threw herself back on the love seat with another drama queen exhale. “I am not manifesting anything and this isn’t something I think I see. Images are sent from someone who has crossed over to the other side: sent directly to a person in the room where I am. I pick it up from them, and only them.” Her voice rose in frustration. “You have to believe me.”
No, he didn’t. But he did have to listen. “Okay. Why don’t you tell me what you saw and why this is making you so scared.”
“It’s making me scared because I can’t pick up something like that, unless it is coming from someone very close. Usually in the room.”
Usually. There was always a caveat with her.
“So whoever is acting as the medium, whoever is sending the message—and this one is quite vivid and always, always in black-and-white, which means it is evil through and through—is going to figure out very soon that I know they committed murder.”
“And you think that person is worried that you will expose them. Even though there isn’t a body. Or a crime. Or any evidence of anything but your…vision.”
“Yes,” she said, shooting him a look that said he failed in hiding his sarcasm. “And it will become clearer. It already has. It’s just a matter of time before I see their face.”
“But not the body of the victim? Which, you have to admit, would be helpful.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever see the body. Right now, my perspective is from inside a car that’s being forced over a cliff. I’m inside the head of whoever died. But every time, I see more details. And once I know who’s in the other car, who the killer is…” Her voice quavered. “They might do anything to keep from getting caught.”
“But there is no crime. Just your…” Imagination. “Visions.”
She stood, pushing back a strand of hair that had escaped the clip. “That can be enough to scare a killer.”
“I appreciate your concern, but these e-mails—”
“No, you don’t.” She widened her legs and stared
down at him, as threatening as a hundred-pound woman in a flimsy tank top could be. “You don’t appreciate my concern. You want to take those e-mails and figure out who sent them and stop that guy. Fine. So do I. But I mostly want to figure out who’s sending me the visions in the studio, and expose them before they kill me. They might even be related. Have you thought about that?”
Actually, he had. He stood to take away the slight advantage she had by looming down at him, with her nipples six inches from his face. “I promise you that we’ll investigate every possibility, and use the very best resources to get information. We will be vigilant and careful, but you need to live your life as you normally do, with the added assurance that you have protection.”
“I intend to. But you need to know this: I’m seeing a murder. And I know, firsthand, that seeing it is enough to scare the hell and sense out of the person who committed it.” She reached over and touched his hand, her fingers warm on his skin. “Didn’t you run an Internet search on me? Because if you did, you’ll see my mother was shot when I was seventeen.”
“Yes, I saw that in your file. I’m sorry. There were no details.”
“Then let me tell them to you. My mother was shot on the freeway, on her way to a crime scene where she was about to identify the killer. Murderers are scared of psychics. We know their secrets. That’s why I called Lucy Sharpe for a bodyguard.” She gave him one last finger-point to the face. “Not because some whacko student wants his graduate thesis to be accurate.”
She strode toward the other side of the trailer for the perfect exit. A second later, he heard the powder room door latch. He sat back, staring at nothing, his brain cataloguing the facts.
Now he knew why she’d called the Bullet Catchers, and not one of the dozens of ordinary security firms that provide protection to the stars. Because this was not an ordinary case of celebrity stalking. But why had Lucy yanked him from the job at Stanford to handle this? Why did she think a rocket scientist was equipped to handle the woo-woo girl who had visions of murders dancing in her head? Had she sent him because she knew he’d be the skeptical voice of reason and logic, or just because his boss loved nothing more than finding the chink in the armor of every Bullet Catcher?
Lucy may have been in a bind to staff this assignment, but she never did anything arbitrarily.
He pulled out his cell phone. It was after midnight on the East Coast, but of course Lucy answered on the first ring. “Chase? Are you in L.A.?”
“I am,” he confirmed. “And with the principal.”
“How is she?”
Theatrical. Beautiful. Nuts. “Interesting.”
“I’ve known Ari for a few years,” Lucy said with a soft laugh. “It’s impossible not to like her, isn’t it?”
Oh, he liked her. From the tangle of copper curls right down to her pink-tipped toes and every curve in between, she was imminently likable. “She’s certainly…lively,” he said vaguely, glancing over his shoulder to make sure she was still in the bathroom.
Did Lucy, a former CIA agent who ran one of the best security and protection firms in the world, buy into clairvoyants? “Luce, did she tell you that she’s worried about more than just threatening e-mails?”
Lucy was quiet before she answered. “Yes, she did.”
But, being Lucy, she had let her Bullet Catcher get the pertinent information on his own. That was a hallmark of her style and they all knew it. “I’m interested in what you think about it,” he said. “And how her…concerns impact what we’re doing here.” If they impacted what he was doing here.
“I think she has powerful intuition and I suggest we listen to it.”
He raked his hands through his hair. Intuition wasn’t clairvoyance, that was just a hunch. A guess—exactly as he had suspected. “How much did you tell her about me?”
“You? Nothing. I wasn’t even sure you were going on this job until late last night, when I talked to Max. I’ve been in meetings all day.”
Maybe Max Roper, the head of the West Coast operations, divulged the background info. “Did he talk to her?”
“No, I’ve handled this one directly. Why?”
“You knew I’d be skeptical of what she says she does, so I’m curious why you sent a scientist for a job that requires someone willing to suspend disbelief in order to help the principal.”
He could have sworn Lucy chuckled. “Don’t suspend anything, Chase. I’m sure a little skepticism is as healthy as a clear head on the job. Just do what you are supposed to do.”
He got the message. “All right, Luce. Can you trace some e-mails for me?”
“Of course. Forward the e-mails to me and I’ll get an investigator on it first thing tomorrow morning. Anything else?”
“That’s it for now. But you’re sure no one gave her my name or background before I arrived?”
She laughed a little. “Absolutely. Just go with the flow, Chase. You might be pleasantly surprised.”
In his experience, surprises were rarely pleasant. Chase clicked off the call, staring at the phone until a soft scent told him she’d made a soundless entrance back into the sitting area.
“What is it going to take for you to believe I’m for real?” she asked.
“What I believe isn’t important,” he said, standing to look at her.
She grabbed a white hooded sweatshirt from the back of a chair and put it on. “Yes, it is. If you don’t believe me, you can’t help me figure out who in that studio is a killer.”
He folded the e-mails into a crisp, clean square and tucked them in his jacket pocket. “I can help you figure out who sent the threats. And we’ll start by investigating the source.”
She scooped up a backpack and then flung it, unzipped over her shoulder. “I know how to make you believe.”
Ignoring the comment, he opened the trailer door to the lot that had grown deserted, holding a hand behind him to keep her back as he scanned the area.
“I’ll just have to figure out your weak spots,” she said, so quietly he almost didn’t hear her.
He stepped down to the asphalt and peered into the shadows between the buildings around them. “I don’t have any.”
Her laugh was light, but her touch was a sudden jolt of warmth as she slid her arms around his waist from the back, her fingers brushing the bump of his holster. He reacted instantly, whipping around and grabbing her under her arms, raising her a foot off the ground before she could so much as make a sound. “Don’t do that unless you want to get shot.”
“I was just looking for your weak spot,” she said, catching the breath he’d stolen.
“And you found my weapon instead.” He held her aloft, his gaze holding a serious warning. “This isn’t a game.” Slowly, he eased her back to the ground.
She tried to laugh it off, but the sound caught in her throat. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to…I just thought I could sort of break the ice.”
The little force field of energy and spunk suddenly looked very small, very vulnerable, and very scared, and the impact was as strong as if she had managed to get her hands all the way around him and squeeze her body against his.
“There are much less risky ways,” he said, his voice sounding gruff, wanting to let her off the hook for the minor infraction, but not wanting to let go of the warmth of her.
“Sorry,” she repeated, a tiny shudder making her quiver.
“You know…” He reached down to the zipper tab of her jacket. “For a girl who promotes ‘closure,’ you don’t really ever finish anything, do you?” He slid the zipper up, the teeth grinding slowly as his hand followed the feminine line of her body. When he reached the hollow of her throat, he let his fingers brush her skin.
He could feel her struggle to swallow.
“Then I guess I should be careful what I start,” she said.
“That’s the first completely sensible thing you’ve said.”
She closed her hand over his. “Sensible is boring.”
“Sensible
is safe.”
The instant he spoke, a gunshot cracked the night and the trailer rocked with the impact of a bullet.
Chapter Three
A RIANNA LET OUT A SHRIEK , and Chase shoved her down. Her pack went sailing, the contents spilling to the ground as he pushed her, low and fast, around the back of the trailer.
Her heart clobbered her ribs, the sound of her pulse so deafening she could barely hear his orders.
“Stay down. Move. Now!”
In seconds, he had them hidden deep in the darkness between her trailer and another, then flattened her face forward against the cool metal using his entire body to shield her.
“Someone shot—”
“Shhh!” His demand was harsh, and indisputable. In the distance, she heard running footsteps, then the sound of a golf cart engine revving and fading across the deserted lot.
“They’re gone,” she whispered, her chest heaving against the ridges of the trailer with every tight, terrified breath.
He didn’t move, one hand locking her against the trailer, the other holding a gun. “Maybe.”
“What do we do?”
“Leave. Fast.”
“But…” Her stuff. “My bag. The keys to my house. My wallet, my phone.” The ring. “My whole life is in that backpack.” That wasn’t even an exaggeration. Without the ring—
“Then you should close it.”
She swallowed a retort, but only because he’d just saved her ass, and was on her like a human bulletproof vest. “I can’t leave without…my things.”
“Yes, you can. We’ll break into your house and we’ll cancel your credit cards and you can get another phone.”
“Someone will have my keys and my ID.” And her gift.
“But you’ll be alive,” he growled into her ear, his insistent breath tickling the hairs on the back of her neck.
“Please.” She tried to catch his gaze over her shoulder, but he held her immobile against the trailer. “I can’t leave it here.”
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