MIND READER

by Hinze, Vicki

  Caron tipped her head and kicked off a sandal. “Women have been known to kill for a man.” She wiggled her toes, then slid them between Parker’s legs and rubbed her arch with his calf. “I guess it’s possible.”

  “What we need is a better fix on her.” Under the table, he lifted Caron’s foot to his thigh and began rubbing her instep. “Mary Beth didn’t know anything?”

  The firm sweep of his fingers over her foot was a slice of heaven. Caron shook her head. “Not even her name. Our only clue is that she has red hair.”

  Parker’s hand slid to her ankle, and the strangest expression lit his face. “No, that’s not our only clue. Forrester identified the body, Caron. The woman I met with, who I believed was Linda Forrester, was a redhead.”

  Her mug in midair, Caron pursed her lips. “What color is Linda Forrester’s hair?”

  “I don’t know.” Without rising, Parker stretched and grabbed the phone, then passed it to Caron. “But Ina does.”

  Her heart sped up a notch. Caron called, spoke with Ina, then hung up and looked at Parker. “Ina says thanks for the irises. They’re beautiful.”

  “Linda Forrester’s not a redhead.”

  “Blonde.” Caron squinted. “What about a wig?”

  “No way.”

  “They make very good wigs, Parker. Are you sure?”

  “I grew up with two women, Caron. Trust me, I know about these things.”

  She wanted to laugh, but Parker chose just that moment to let his fingers dance across the back of her knee. “Okay,” she said, working to keep her voice steady. “I know a woman is behind the entire abduction. She bound Misty’s hands at the park and took her to the shopping center, to Decker. And I’m positive that she’s someone Misty and her father know and trust. But, really, that’s all I know.”

  “We know. Not I, Caron. We.”

  “The way I see it, we’ve got a choice to make.”

  He rubbed his lip with his thumb. “You’re sure Misty’s all right for now?”

  Caron focused. Finally, Misty’s image formed. She was lying on the floor in the wooden shed, sleeping peacefully. There was a red plastic glass near her left hand, and the remnants of a hot dog on a plate beside it. Caron concentrated harder, pulling herself deeper into the image, but couldn’t see anything else. Misty’s breathing was steady, at least, settled. And the pain in her leg was better.

  Caron opened her eyes and looked at Parker. “She’s okay. Actually, she’s better. But don’t make too much of that. I’ve seen this happen before, and then suddenly things take a downturn.”

  “She’s okay right now. We have to go with that.”

  Caron could have kissed him. “What’s our choice?”

  “We’ll need to do two things. It’s just a question of the order we do them in. We can pay Hunt’s a visit and try to get a fix on the Vanessa who called—maybe she’s a client—and then go to the morgue and see if the victim is a redhead or a blonde, or flip around and visit the morgue first.”

  “Jillian isn’t going to be overjoyed to see me, or to answer any questions. She caught me listening in on Forrester’s conversation. But the morgue doesn’t appeal, either.” Caron drank the last of her coffee. “You choose.”

  “The morgue,” he said. “I want to know who died.”

  Startled, Caron snapped her gaze to Parker. “Sandy said it was Linda Forrester.”

  Parker slid Caron a level look that rocked her to the core. “And who identified her?”

  “Forrester.”

  “So does he tag his wife, or his lover, as the murder victim?”

  A cold chill crept up Caron’s spine. “It could be either one.”

  Parker couldn’t forget.

  The last time he’d walked through these corridors he’d been with Harlan. They had taken these same steps down these same stairs to the basement. They’d gone through these same heavy swinging doors and walked into the same cold room.

  “You okay?”

  He looked at Caron. “What?”

  “You’re shaking. Does being here bother you?”

  He considered lying to her; it would be so easy. But he couldn’t do it. His days of lying to Caron were over. “Yeah, it does.”

  She rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb. “It bothers everyone with an ounce of compassion and half an ounce of sense.”

  “We should’ve waited until morning.”

  “We couldn’t wait, Parker. We’ve discussed this. They’re not about to let two people off the street come in and view a corpse. You’ve got to pretend to be Sandy.”

  “What if the attendant knows Sanders? The guy’s been around since God was a baby.”

  “I’ll sense it,” she said calmly. “You’re going to have to trust me on this.”

  Parker wasn’t a man given to trusting easily. But he intended to try. Caron wrung feelings out of him that he didn’t know he had. After all he’d done against her, the least he could do for her was to try to trust her. “Okay.”

  “Really?” She gave him a smile that wrenched his heart. He’d given other women diamonds and not seen as much pleasure in their eyes.

  “Really.” He squeezed her hand.

  The guy on duty was named John Davis. He was about forty, and stoop-shouldered, and he was chewing the fire out of a toothpick, reducing it in spots to splinters. He was pleasant, and hard-nosed, too, Parker imagined, considering his line of work.

  After a brief conversation, Caron gave Parker a go-ahead nod. John Davis didn’t know Sanders. Relieved, Parker cut the chitchat and got down to business. “Detective Sanders,” Parker identified himself to Davis. “Can we have a look at Forrester?”

  “Sure thing. She’s right over here.”

  They walked into a room that was even chillier than the office. White walls, white floor, square silver refrigerated tombs with long shiny handles.

  John stopped at the third one, middle row. “Forrester,” he said, checking the name marked on the orange paper inserted in a slot just above the door. “Move a little to the left, please.”

  Caron urged him, and Parker moved. Sarah had been just two silver doors down.

  John rolled the toothpick to the opposite side of his mouth, then opened the door and pulled out a sliding tray. On it was a woman’s sheet-draped body. Parker read the tag attached to her toe, which was sticking out from under the edge of the white shroud. “Forrester.”

  “Ready?” the attendant asked, looking at Caron.

  Parker heard her swallow, watched her nod. How many times before had she done this alone? He reached over and took her hands.

  The man lifted back the corner of the sheet.

  Parker stiffened, half-afraid that when he looked down it would be Sarah he’d see. He wouldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t. He forced himself to lower his gaze, then frowned.

  A thin line of choke marks dappled her neck. Her face wasn’t damaged. She was blond and beautiful. But she was not the woman he’d met at the café.

  Caron squeezed his hand. “Is it her?”

  “She was a redhead.” Strained, his voice grated.

  “A wig?” Caron suggested again.

  “No. I’m sure. Her face was shaped differently, more square than oval. And her lips were thicker. It’s not her.”

  Parker was in a cold sweat. He nodded, and John Davis pushed the tray back into the wall and closed the door.

  “I thought she’d lost a lot of blood,” Caron said.

  “She did,” Davis said with a nod. “Blunt force trauma. The back of her head was pounded hard with a heavy object.”

  Caron thanked him. Parker couldn’t seem to find his voice. His mind was too full of memories of Harlan, and how he’d reacted on seeing Sarah here. The man had crumpled right before Parker’s eyes. And the moment Harlan had fallen to his knees was the moment Parker had decided to burn down the building where Sarah had died.

  He couldn’t bring her back. And he couldn’t collar the guy who’d murdered her; he’d a
lready been arrested. But there was something Parker could do to comfort her husband and his friend. Parker could see to it that no other woman ever suffered as Sarah had suffered in that hellhole. He could see to it that when Harlan drove by that building—as any husband would countless times—he wouldn’t ever have to look at that building again. Parker could do those things for his friend. And he had.

  Caron frowned. What was Parker thinking? His expression had closed, and his eyes had grown hard; whatever it was, it was wicked, and he’d had to bury his emotions deep. Before they’d arrived, she’d suspected that coming here would be hard for him. Only now did she realize how hard. Parker’s father came to mind. Had Parker had to identify Charley in this room? She hoped he would talk to her about it, but she wouldn’t push. When he was ready, when he trusted her, then he’d talk. And that would be soon enough.

  She led him outside, through the parking lot, and to the car. “Give me your keys, Parker. I’ll drive.”

  He passed them to her without a word.

  Caron got in and shut the door. Parker was sitting there, looking as wooden as the cigar-store Indian in front Decker’s corner grocery where he went for beer and chips. She considered waiting, then decided against it, and reversed her earlier decision not to push him. The more time that passed between now and whenever he talked to her about this, the deeper he would bury his emotions. And she knew firsthand how important it was to give emotions free rein. Burying them spelled disaster.

  She covered his hand with hers. “Was it Charley?”

  He seemed surprised that she’d noticed, and he tried to pull his hand free. But Caron held on tight. “Don’t run from me, please. We’ve been through too much together for you to run from me.”

  He didn’t answer for a long time. When she figured he wasn’t going to, he did. “She was...more than a friend.”

  “You identified her in that room.”

  He nodded. Caron’s heart ached, and she wrapped him in her arms and held him close.

  She sensed more than felt or saw his tears. Though his eyes were dry, the tears were real, welling up from his heart. “God, I’m so sorry.”

  He needed rest. They both did. They were running on sheer adrenaline, and that, as she’d learned from Sarah’s case, was a breeding ground for mistakes.

  Caron started the engine and headed toward home. Misty was safe for now. They could afford a few hours’ sleep.

  During the ride, Parker didn’t say a word. Not when, unfamiliar with standard transmissions, Caron ground the Porsche’s gears. Not when, testing the handling of the car, she nearly had them airborne. And not when, sidetracked by a kid shooting across the street on his bike, she bumped the curb parking at her apartment. But it wasn’t until he climbed the stairs without griping about the graffiti and the rickety banister as he usually did that she started worrying.

  Inside, she tossed her purse onto a chair in the living room and walked straight into the kitchen. From the fridge, she called out, “Hungry?”

  Parker paused at a mirror in the hallway. On the way back to Caron’s, he’d seen nothing but the flames of the burning building. But he was okay now. Tired-looking around the eyes, and bone-weary, but back on solid ground emotionally. “Yeah, I am,” he said.

  Grabbing a slice of pizza from the fridge, Caron bit off the tip. Parker put water into the kettle and rolled his eyes back in his head. “God, she’s trying to make me sick.”

  “I am not. If you don’t want pizza, help yourself to whatever you do want.” Caron looked at the phone. The red light on the answering machine was blinking.

  “How old is it?”

  A wrinkle furrowed her brow and she shrugged. “Not sure.” She grabbed a can of cola from the fridge and tapped the button on the answering machine.

  A recording of a woman’s voice filled the kitchen. “Caron, ain’t you ever gonna get home, child?”

  “Ina,” Caron told Parker.

  “Call me right away, you hear? No matter what time it is. Right away!”

  “What’s that all about?”

  “Beats me.” Caron set the pizza on the counter and punched in Ina’s number.

  Ina answered the phone on the first ring.

  “Caron?”

  “Yes, Ina, it’s me.” Caron straightened and reached for her cola. “Are you all right? You sounded—”

  “I have something to tell you,” she said, breathless. “Whew! I was in the tub.”

  “Take your time.”

  “I’m fine now.” Ina breathed deeply. The phone crackled. “I called Tuesday. Where’ve you been?”

  “Everywhere.” Caron glossed over the whirlwind she and Parker had been living in. “What’s up?”

  “I said I’d call if anything unusual happened at Decker’s. Well, something did. Just after one—Tuesday, I’m talking about—Linda came over to see Decker, like usual. But she was madder than a horny bull penned up away from the cows. Stomping and spewing curses on Decker’s head—some I never even heard of before.

  “Then this man drives up in a shiny Lincoln. He was dressed to the hilt. Quite a looker. But I didn’t think much of him for long. He gets out of the car yelling. Then they all start arguing. Have themselves a free-for-all right there in the driveway outside the garage.

  “Mr. Klein was outside giving Fluffy a bath with the water hose, and he heard the whole thing. They didn’t see him, of course. Mr. Klein wouldn’t embarrass nobody, letting on he’s hearing family business.”

  “What were they arguing about?” Caron had missed them by minutes. Mere minutes!

  “I couldn’t hear, and Mr. Klein won’t say. ‘A body’s dirty laundry ought be kept behind closed doors,’ Mr. Klein told Mrs. Klein. She says he’s a stubborn cuss. He’ll take it with him to his grave. But Lily Mae was out watering her begonias—not that they need watering, what with all the rain we been having. But she heard the man—that Forrester fellow, she says—tell the others that if they didn’t all keep their mouths shut, he’d kill them.”

  “The others?”

  “Linda and Decker. Ain’t you listening, child?”

  “Her own husband?” Shock streaked up Caron’s back.

  “That’s right,” Ina said with an indignant snort. “Lily Mae knew it was Forrester, because he drove up in that shiny Lincoln. Mary Beth had told her all about it.”

  The first time she’d been to Decker’s, before she’d met Parker, there had been a black Lincoln in the drive. “Have you seen Decker since then?”

  “He’s been home. Killer treed Fluffy on the shed roof, and she got muddier than a slopped pig—that’s why Mr. Klein was giving her a bath on Tuesday. Well, the fool cat still ain’t learned her lesson, ‘cause last night she was right back up there, treed again on Decker’s shed.”

  Caron rubbed her temple. “But have you seen Decker?”

  “Sure did, just last night. You really ought to pay closer attention, child. The fool emptied a double-barrelled shotgun, trying to shoot Fluffy off the roof.”

  “Good God! Did he hit her?”

  “Naw, he missed her by a mile. Put a hole the size of a penny through the side of Lily Mae’s garage, though.” Ina sighed. “Decker never could shoot worth a switch. Mainly ‘cause he’s usually drunk.”

  “Mmm, too much beer, I suppose.”

  “Exactly.” Ina harrumphed. “I called the police. Decker knows it, too. I been keeping watch, but he ain’t stomped my irises again, least not yet.”

  Caron smiled. “Have the new ones taken root?”

  “You know they have. Fred put ‘em in, didn’t he? They sure are pretty. You tell your Parker I said that, you hear? Fred’s a nice man. Likes my lemonade. Most say it’s too tart, but Fred had two glasses. Fine man, yes, indeed.”

  “Good.’’ Caron took a drink of her cola and polished off the last bite of pizza.

  “Have you found the young’un?”

  Caron imaged Ina crossing herself. “Not yet. But we think we’re getting close.”
<
br />   “Fred tells me Parker won’t have family around for Christmas. His mama and sister are still in Europe. I’m figuring you won’t, either.”

  “No, I won’t.” Caron fought the memories of last year. She’d been unconscious all through Christmas, and her mother hadn’t even called.

  “Well,” Ina said, “I’ll expect you both here by noon Christmas Day. Tell your Parker now, you hear?”

  “Thank you. I’ll tell him.”

  “I’ll call if I hear anything more before then. I told that scum I’d called the police. I’m half expecting he’ll stomp my irises again, so I’m keeping a close watch.”

  “Ina, you be careful. Decker could be dangerous. Stay away from him, okay?”

  “I didn’t roll out of the swamp yesterday, child. I know not to kick a mad dog when he’s foaming at the mouth.”

  “All right.” Caron smiled. “See you Christmas.” Caron hung up and turned to Parker. “Ina expects us at noon for Christmas dinner.”

  “Okay with me, if it’s okay with you. I’m due a square meal.” Parker crunched down on a cracker.

  There was no justice. Even pouting, he was gorgeous. “Tacky, honey.”

  “Truth, sweetheart.” He smoothed peanut butter onto another cracker. “What else did Ina have to say?”

  “Around noon Tuesday, Decker and Keith and Linda Forrester had a whopper of an argument in Decker’s driveway. Forrester threatened to kill Linda and Decker.”

  Parker stopped chewing. “And two hours later she turns up dead.”

  Caron brushed a crumb from his lip. “Right.” She grabbed her purse, took out the pills Dr. Z. had given her, then dry-swallowed two. “I know Forrester looks guilty, but...it just doesn’t feel right.”

  Parker shoved back his chair. “I think it’s time we had a chat with Decker.”

  Caron downed a swig of Coke. “So do I. But he won’t talk to us. Why should he?”

  “Because we’re going to put the fear of God into him. Attack, remember?”

  “The sooner the better, Parker. Misty’s awake.”