by Hinze, Vicki
Caron slid down onto the green plastic seat and waited for the waitress to come to her table. If her hunch was anywhere near the target, when she left here, she’d know a lot more about Keith Forrester than she’d learned reading his trumped-up dossier, which, in addition to not mentioning he had a wife, she felt sure glamorized his brokering accomplishments during the past five years. That she’d have to adopt Parker’s methods to learn the needed information still grated on her, but it was urgent. Misty was sleeping more and more—just as Sarah had the day before she’d died.
There wasn’t much time.
The waitress’s sensible shoes squeaked on the tile floor. “Yes, ma’am,” she said to Caron, though her weathered face suggested she was Caron’s senior by thirty years.
“Mary Beth?” The woman nodded.
“I’m Caron. Ina’s friend.”
“Oh, yes, she called just a few minutes ago.” Mary Beth looked around. “What can I get you? They’re sticky about visiting while on the job around here.”
“Coffee and apple pie?” Caron asked.
“Peg baked today. Hers ain’t bad.” The woman smoothed her pink uniform skirt. “If you like tart apples.”
Caron concentrated, focused on the woman. Her air conditioner at home was out of commission. She was looking forward to finishing her shift in ten minutes; her feet hurt. But she wasn’t looking forward to sweltering in her sultry apartment. She needed money.
“Mary Beth,” Caron said, “do you know Keith Forrester?”
“Ina says you’re okay, but—” She dropped her lids to half-mast. “Why are you asking? Friend or foe?”
“Neither. Objective third party.” Caron fished a fifty out of her purse. Using her hands had sharp pains bolting up her arms and through her shoulders. The money was supposed to go toward next month’s rent, but desperate situations called for desperate measures. Misty was desperate. Mary Beth, who was susceptible to heat exhaustion, was desperate. And Caron, who had made a fatal mistake last Christmas, was desperate not to repeat that mistake this Christmas.
“I need to know about him.” Caron laid the fifty on the table. “When you get off, can we talk?”
“Sure.” Mary Beth watched the money. “Sure, we can talk. But I don’t want your money.”
Passing down the cramped aisle between the tables, a man brushed against Mary Beth’s shoulder. She bumped the edge of the table. “Coffee and apple pie,” she said, steadying herself. “Be right back.”
Caron waited, watching the comings and goings-on in the cafe. A young boy clearing tables carried a brown plastic bucket from one table to the next, methodically dumping soiled dishes and linens. He should be in school. Someone dropped a glass. It shattered on the tile.
“Here you are.” Mary Beth set Caron’s cup and pie in front of her, then sat down on the other seat. “What do you want to know?”
“First, how well do you know Keith Forrester?”
Mary Beth smiled. “Everybody in the place knows more than they want to about him and his wife.”
A funny feeling inched up Caron’s spine. “Why?”
Mary Beth leaned forward across the table and dropped her voice. “Let’s see, today’s Tuesday, so it must have been Sunday that this happened. Keith was here for lunch. He comes in a couple of times a week.”
“Alone?”
“Most of the time. But once in a while his rich redhead comes in, too. They don’t come together, though.”
“Do you know her name?”
“No, I never heard him call her anything but ‘Sugar.’”
In his office, Forrester had called Vanessa ‘Sugar.’ Was it a generic term with him?
“Did she ever have a little girl with her?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Okay, what happened on Sunday?”
“Well, we thought it was odd, Keith coming in on a weekend and all. He looked upset when he got here. Kind of mopey and scared at the same time. Then his wife, Linda, comes in.” Mary Beth’s eyes widened. “She was madder than a virgin bride hitched to a drunk groom. She sure didn’t talk like a virgin, though. Before we knew what was happening, she was screaming and throwing dishes at Keith. Ranting on like a lunatic. Crazy things about him getting her brother mixed up in some scheme.”
Caron’s whole body tensed. “Could you make out what it was all about?”
“No, it didn’t make a nickel’s worth of sense to any of us. But Linda told him that if he didn’t stop it, she would. That he could rot in jail for his five million.” Mary Beth guffawed. “Can you imagine? Keith Forrester ain’t got no five million.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he ain’t paid Chuck in over two months.”
“Chuck?”
“The owner here.”
“I see.” Caron tapped the fifty. “Have you seen Forrester or Linda since Sunday?”
“No. And he ain’t been in at the office, either.”
“Oh?” How would Mary Beth know that?
“Chuck told me—Charles Nivens, my boss.”
Genuine surprise had Caron cocking her head. “Charles Nivens owns this restaurant?”
Mary Beth nodded. “Do you know him?”
“No, but I’ve heard he’s a very nice man.”
“He is.” Mary Beth’s cheeks turned pink. “His wife is in De Paul’s, you know.”
The mental institution. Caron didn’t miss Mary Beth’s familiarity, or her pet name for Charles Nivens. Here, she thought, was the other half of Chuck’s affair. “Has she been there very long?”
“Twelve years.” Mary Beth propped her chin on her folded hand. “She’ll be there forever, but Chuck won’t divorce her. He’s Catholic, you know.”
Mafia-connected, she knew. Catholic, she didn’t. “I’m sorry.” Caron pushed the fifty toward Mary Beth. Why didn’t Chuck buy her an air conditioner? “Thanks for your help.”
“I wouldn’t take this, but my air conditioner’s on the
blink.” She scrunched up the money and shoved it into her
pocket. “I’d just as soon nobody knew we’d talked.”
Ah, pride. Mary Beth wouldn’t let Charles Nivens help her financially. “I understand.”
Caron watched Mary Beth leave through the front door, then sat watching the window, her pie and coffee untouched. Her hands hurt too much for her to try lifting the fork or the cup. Remembering how Parker had fed her, she eyed the pie longingly. He’d be here in a few minutes. That thought made her feel much better than it should have. Accept it, she told herself. There’s something very special about Parker Simms.
And something very weird going on with Keith Forrester.
He had a scheme. He’d gotten Decker involved. And learning about it had made Linda Forrester, Decker’s sister, a very unhappy camper. Vanessa, whoever she was, hadn’t been happy, either. She’d had cold feet.
Caron rubbed her wrists, then stilled. If she had one, she’d bet another fifty that Vanessa was Forrester’s redhead. That she was involved, and the scheme was Misty’s abduction.
Unfortunately, Caron would also bet that she wouldn’t get far talking to Linda. The woman wasn’t apt to point a finger that would land her husband and brother in prison. What could Caron do? She could, via Mary Beth, ask Nivens about Vanessa. But he was a stickler about confidential matters, and getting the mob interested in what was going on was a very bad idea, especially when five million dollars was the sum being thrown around. No, that was too dangerous; Misty would surely be killed. To confirm her suspicions, Caron had to get Linda to talk. The question was—how?
Parker swaggered in through the front door. Spotting her, he smiled and started over to her.
Female heads turned to watch his progress. Caron’s spirits lifted, and she smiled. Of course. Parker.
Parker got into Caron’s car. “Okay, Snow White. Forrester just called me back on my mobile. I told him we wanted to meet his and Cheramie’s wives before deciding which man we’ll hire to broker our investments.�
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“Didn’t he wonder how you knew he had a wife? It wasn’t in his dossier, Parker.”
“Sure he did.”
“Well, how did you explain knowing?”
“I didn’t explain anything. I reamed him a new rear end for not telling us about her.” Parker slid her a wicked grin. “When in doubt, attack.”
“Your mother’s washboard philosophy.”
“Right.” He checked his watch. “Cheramie isn’t married. But I’m meeting Linda at the caf6 in fifteen minutes. I want you to go stay with Fred until I get back.”
“I’m going to stay here.” She looked through the Chevy’s window, past Parker’s shoulder to Decker’s door. Killer was running along the fence, deepening the ruts.
“Caron, don’t be stubborn, okay? You can’t even use your hands without hurting, and you know Decker isn’t going anywhere. He never goes anywhere except to the corner store for more beer and chips.”
Misty wasn’t in the house. That much she knew. But the house was a link to her. “I’m staying, Parker.” Caron propped her wrist on the steering wheel.
“Don’t be stubborn about this. I—I need to know you’re safe.”
She looked up into his eyes, smiled and rubbed his jaw with her wrist. Parker was worried about her, and he wasn’t used to being worried. Well, she understood that. She was worried, too. She hadn’t forgotten that someone wanted her dead. But if Decker moved, Caron wanted to know it. He was their direct link to Misty. “You’re going to be late.”
Parker squeezed his eyes shut for a scant second. “All right. But by tomorrow morning, you’re going to have a phone in that car, and if you say one word against it, I’m going to tape your mouth shut.”
He was still upset because she’d been less than enthusiastic about the new dead bolt he’d had installed at her apartment. He cared. He didn’t want her, but he did care. She forced herself to act indifferent. “If you want to waste your money buying me a phone, it’s fine with me.”
“Be careful.”
“All right, Parker.”
She watched him walk back to his Porsche, muttering something god-awful about a woman testing a man’s sanity.
Smiling, Caron leaned her head back against the seat, and watched Killer hike his leg against Decker’s truck tire.
A man down the street was mowing his lawn. The gentle breeze carried the smell of freshly cut grass back to her.
At twenty past one, the growls in her stomach grew to roars. She worked with her forearms to get a Butterfinger out of her purse.
Her hands started tingling, then burning like fire. She gasped and dropped the candy into her lap, started rubbing her hands together. For a moment, she panicked, and then it hit her. Tingling. Burning.
Blood circulation.
The ropes were off. Misty’s hands were free—and she was swallowing some pills!
Horrible visions of Sarah flooded Caron’s mind. She cranked the engine and rushed toward police headquarters. She needed to talk to Sandy.
At midnight, down from Decker’s house, Caron pulled up behind Parker’s car and cut the engine. Her head swam. Her leg throbbed. She was queasy and in a cold sweat.
Parker stormed up to her window, his expression as grim as death. “Where have you been? I’ve been half out of my mind—Caron, what’s wrong?”
Caron tried to talk, but managed only a whisper. “She’s sick. So...sick.”
He opened the driver’s door, slid into the car and scooted Caron over on the seat. “You’re burning up.”
“Misty.” Through glazed eyes, she looked at him. “Misty has a fever.”
Parker cranked the engine. “It might be Misty, but you’re going to the hospital.”
It took a monumental effort, but Caron managed to squeeze his arm. “Institute. Dr. Zilinger.”
“Okay. Okay, I’ll buy that.” He slammed the gearshift into Drive and peeled out, leaving fifty dollars’ worth of her tires on the street.
Parker walked into the institute carrying Caron in his arms. “Dr. Zilinger,” he said to the nurses at the desk.
The heavier of the two stood. “Bring her this way.”
Parker carried Caron through the brown swinging doors and into a room filled with machines and instruments built into the wall. “Where’s Zilinger?”
“We’ll take care of the patient, sir. As soon as we fill out the paperwork.”
Parker gently put Caron onto a gurney. Then he turned on the squat nurse. “You have three minutes to get Zilinger in here, or I’ll buy this hospital and fire you.”
She squared her shoulders and glared. “Who are you?”
“Parker Simms.” He pointed to Caron. “The patient is Caron Chalmers. Now move it.”
Dr. Zilinger barreled into the room. “Ah, Mr. Simms. I thought I recognized your bellow.” She looked up at him through smudged glasses. “What’s wrong with Caron?”
“She’s sick. She says it’s Misty—the girl supposedly abducted. But Caron’s the one with the fever.”
The doctor put the earpieces of her stethoscope in her ears and listened to Caron’s heart. She checked her pulse, then her eyes and ears and her throat.
Parker cringed with every grunt.
Finally the tiny Austrian turned and craned back her neck to look up at him. “Caron’s fine.”
“What? She’s unconscious, for God’s sake. How can you say she’s fine?”
“It’s not Caron who’s ill, Mr. Simms. It’s Misty. To cure Caron, Misty must receive the medication. We can medicate Caron and numb the pain, but we can’t eliminate it.”
Caron groaned. Parker stepped closer, took her hand. “It’s okay. We’re at Dr. Zilinger’s.” He hoped Caron took more comfort in that disclosure than he did. Personally, he thought the doctor was a quack. Caron was fine? Right.
“Dr. Z.,” Caron whispered faintly. “Explain. He doesn’t understand.”
“All right, Caron. I’ve ordered something for the pain. Just try to rest now. I’ll talk to your young man.”
The doctor looked up from the chart where she’d been busying herself scratching notes that, to Parker’s way of thinking, only a chicken could read.
“Well, Mr. Simms. It appears that you’ll finally be getting your answers.”
* * *
Half an hour later, Parker frowned. “So what you’re telling me is that she’s worked a lot of these cases, and successfully solved them?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.” The doctor refilled her coffee cup.
Parker felt hollow. Harlan had been so sure. Parker himself had been so sure Caron was a con artist. He dragged his hand through his hair. No, he hadn’t been. From the start, he’d had a hard time reconciling the woman Harlan had thought Caron was with the woman he’d been getting to know.
She was not a fraud.
God help him, he had to tell her the truth.
And the truth was that he was a fraud.
“Parker—” Dr. Zilinger joined him at the window, “— Caron’s resting comfortably. The medication blocks the pain. It’ll make her woozy, so I’m keeping her overnight.”
“Okay.” His heart felt wrung out, and he admitted what his heart had known for some time. Somewhere between coffee at Shoney’s, oatmeal at her apartment, and here, he’d come to care about her. He didn’t love her; he’d never allow himself to love her. “She’ll be all right, won’t she?”
The tiny Austrian met his gaze. “I’m not sure. Honestly, she can’t take much more. Neither, I’m afraid, can Misty. You know that we almost lost Caron when Sarah died?”
He snapped around. “Almost lost her?”
“When Sandy brought her in, Caron was in respiratory distress.” The doctor laced her hands behind her back. “It was close. Too close. Caron’s empathy with the victim is so strong that she suffers their trauma.” The doctor let out a heartfelt sigh. “I was hoping...”
“What?” Parker stuffed his hand in his jacket pocket. God, but he felt helpless.
He was out of his depth here. He understood too little. And he had no one to blame but himself. Caron had tried to explain. But he’d refused to listen.
“I was hoping Caron’s gift wouldn’t return.”
Return.
The word echoed in his mind like a death knell, and the hollow pit in his stomach filled with a leaden knot. Parker swallowed hard. “What do you mean—return?”
Dr. Z. tugged on her stethoscope. “From the night she saw Sarah, until this started with Misty, Caron suffered from traumatic psychic burnout.”
“In English?” Parker prompted her, motioning with his lifted hand.
“Seeing Sarah mutilated shocked Caron. So much so that she subconsciously blocked her ability to receive any psychic images.”
“Oh, God.” Every ounce of strength ebbed right out of his body.
The doctor frowned up at him. “What’s wrong, Mr. Simms? You’ve gone pale.”
“You’re telling me that for a year Caron hasn’t imaged.” Oh, no. It all made sense. She hadn’t been pretending, she hadn’t been imaging!
“That’s correct.” Dr. Zilinger’s frown turned curious. “Where are you going?”
His stomach hanging somewhere around his ankles, Parker cleared his throat. “To see Caron.”
“I’m right here, Parker.”
He turned around. In a white hospital gown, she stood not ten feet from him. He rushed forward, took her by the arm. “Are you all right?”
She gave him a weak smile and rubbed her hand over his jaw. “I’ve had better days.”
He loved the way she touched him. He covered her hand with his and pressed his lips to her palm. “You shouldn’t be up. You look like hell.”
Her smile reached her eyes. “Quite the charmer, isn’t he, Dr. Z?”
“Indeed.” The doctor stepped closer, studying Caron intently. “And he’s also right. You should be resting.”
“I can’t. I have to go.”
“Go?” Parker frowned. “Go where?”
“To Decker’s.” She looked up at him. “I have to touch Misty’s bike.”
Dr. Z explained. “The images are strongest when she’s touching something that belongs to the victim.”