Hot Trick (A Detective Shelley Caldwell Novel)

by Patricia Rosemoor

  “The question is what do you want of me?”

  My pulse rushes and I try to will him away, but my will is obviously not fully engaged, for he draws closer instead. My heart beats a little faster. I fight any response to him, but my body ignores me. Though I want to scream at him to leave me be, a squirrelly sensation twirls my stomach and makes me catch my breath.

  “You know you want me,” he says, reaching out as if to touch me.

  Though I duck back, I feel his knuckles brush my jawline…collarbone…the crevice between my breasts. My nipples harden, and the flesh between my thighs heats and dampens. Guilt sluices through me. I hate that I respond to him at all.

  “I want Jake…”

  “I know you do,” said a familiar female voice laced with irritation. “But I’m assuming he’s not here.”

  I blinked myself awake. A dream. I’d been having a dream. A sexual one, starring Sebastian Cole. A rabid monogamist, I was horrified.

  Flushing, I looked up and groaned. Mom, the last person in the world I wanted around after being aroused in my sleep. Well, it could have been worse. Norelli could have walked in on me.

  Forcing the vestiges of the dream from my mind and body, I tried to act as if nothing were wrong. I pushed myself upright on the cot and took a good look at my mother. As usual, she was dressed in a skirted uniform and pumps—her choice, not a requirement of her job. Her thick chestnut hair so like mine was pulled back in a twist and ruthlessly pinned in place. Other than a swipe of subtle gloss across her lips, her still beautiful face was free of artifice. Her features pulled into a frown.

  “How long have I been out?” I asked.

  “You tell me. It’s seven-ten.”

  “Seven…”

  Not having meant to sleep for four hours, I jumped up from the cot and almost tripped over my own feet.

  “Whoa, there, Detective. Take it easy.”

  So it was Detective today, meaning Mom was here to speak to me in her official capacity. Not that we had many in-person mother-daughter chats. We normally had a face-to-face only at our once-a-month family brunch.

  “So you’re here to see me about…?”

  “Judge Rafferty called me at dawn.”

  “Then you know about his sister. Why did he call you? She wasn’t killed in your district.”

  “Bobby was an assistant state’s attorney when I was a lieutenant. We worked together on several cases. I consider him a good friend. He wants to make sure the proper attention is being paid to his sister’s murder.”

  “The victim’s brother doesn’t have to be a friend of yours for me to pay attention to a case,” I informed her. “Besides, this isn’t actually my case, but I’m sure you know that. Maybe you want to put the fear of God in the first chair,” I said, referring to the state attorney in charge of the case.

  “Norelli is on it.”

  “And you think I’m not? Why?”

  Mom glanced at the cot.

  “I just worked seventy-two straight on the White case and then jumped right into this one.” I couldn’t help sounding defensive. “Norelli forced me to take a breather, by the way.”

  “I don’t like your tone, Detective.”

  We were even, then, because I didn’t like hers. District Commander Rena Caldwell could be one big pain, especially to me. I thought we’d found some common ground on the last case we’d worked together, but apparently not. She expected more from me than she did from anyone.

  So what else was new?

  I put the same steel in my spine that Mom was wearing in hers. “You can reassure Judge Rafferty, Commander. Everyone on the case will do whatever it takes to catch his sister’s murderer.”

  “Good.”

  “Good.”

  We glared at each other for a moment before Mom suddenly relaxed and asked, “Did Silke talk to you?”

  Uh-oh. I knew what was coming, but I tried to play unenlightened.

  “About?”

  “The barbeque I’m planning. We need to set a date. And I want you to bring Jake.”

  “Jake and I aren’t sure where this relationship is headed, Mom.” I assumed it was safe enough to address her as Mom since she’d been the one to shift the conversation from professional to personal.

  “Obviously it’s headed somewhere and I would like to get to know the man you’re seeing.”

  “We had a fight tonight.” Maybe the reason I’d dreamed of another man.

  “You broke it off?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, all couples fight. Make up with him and—”

  “Yeah, well I’m hoping.”

  I really was. I didn’t want to lose Jake. I just wanted to slow things between us a bit. I’d never cared this much about a man before and sometimes it scared me spitless.

  “So then you’ll bring him.”

  “Actually, I don’t have much time for personal business, not when a commanding officer is sitting on me to make sure I don’t screw up a case.”

  “Shelley, that’s not what I think at all.”

  “It’s what you made it sound like. I don’t know when I’ll have a day off with this case being so important and all. I’ll let you know if and when I can fit in a personal life,” I said, echoing Jake. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Silke followed Oriel into Metaphysical Arts, a store selling tools of the occult. The walls were black, the windows covered with dark velvet draperies. Black shelves lining the walls were jammed with books and magazines, and several tables in the middle of the store were littered with supplies.

  “Not exactly inviting, is it?” Silke whispered so the guy behind the counter wouldn’t hear her.

  “It’s not supposed to be,” Oriel said, also keeping her voice low. “It’s not meant for the normal person, but for serious practitioners like us.”

  “Welcome anointed ones,” the owner said, tilting his head so his long gray hair spilled over the shoulders of a T-shirt with occult markings. “If you seek assistance you merely need ask.”

  A thrill shot through Silke. “Thanks.”

  She might not have a lot of experience, but she was serious about getting more, one of the reasons she was happy to hang around with Oriel. The other woman had taken her to Illusions, where she’d met other students of the occult and practitioners who’d been at the craft for a while. Like Oriel herself.

  The other woman picked up a basket and started filling it with small empty vials, then vials filled with various colored liquids.

  “Going to make some potions?” Silke asked.

  “If I must.”

  A strange reply, Silke thought, as Oriel stopped in front of a table holding small plastic bags of herbs and powders of various colors. What would make her feel she must make a potion? Oriel picked up one packet of herbs after the other, checking the labels, obviously looking for specifics.

  Silke got a basket too, but she began collecting more benign supplies—incense and oils and candles. A purple Celtic moon caftan called to her and she picked it up and held it against herself.

  “What do you think?” she asked Oriel.

  Her friend gave her a disapproving expression. “I think you’re playing at magic. What you wear doesn’t matter. What you know does.” She nodded to the bookshelves behind Silke.

  Wondering exactly how much Oriel knew, Silke replaced the caftan, set down her half-filled basket on a table and began browsing the books for sale. Books on Wicca, on the history of magic, on creating spells. About to pick one of the last, she stopped with her hand in midair.

  As if compelled, she gravitated toward a dark tome without a title on the spine. Lifting it from the bookshelf, she turned it over to read the front cover. Chaos Magic.

  Her pulse shot up and her breath caught in her throat for a second. Her physical reaction to the book was so strong she almost put it back on the shelf. But for a moment, she couldn’t move. For a moment, she tasted fear at the
back of her tongue.

  Why was she afraid?

  This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To expand her metaphysical horizons?

  “Good choice,” Oriel said from behind her.

  The other woman stood so close, Silke felt like Oriel was inside her skin. Oriel sometimes gave out weird vibes, but never this strong before. Silke’s heart beat a little faster.

  “Aren’t you going to buy it? You know you want to. If you’re serious about the craft you will.”

  Compelled to do as Oriel suggested, Silke found herself taking the book to the counter. Only then did she look at the price.

  “Whoa, that’s a lot of money,” she gasped.

  “Then you don’t want it?” the owner asked.

  Silke looked back at Oriel. If she didn’t buy it, would Oriel give up on her, refuse to teach her what she knew? She glanced back at the book. Touched it. Felt as if she couldn’t not buy it.

  “I’ll take it,” Silke said.

  She had to have it, even if it maxed out her credit card.

  On the verge of becoming something that was obsessing her, she would be as fearless as her sister.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Norelli and I spent all day tracking down every person involved in the prisoners’ escape the night before in hopes finding a lead. The uniforms couldn’t say how the thugs got out of their paddy wagon. The staff at Lola’s confirmed Sebastian’s alibi. The security team working the performance hadn’t noticed anything unusual. Other than the attempted robbery, of course.

  And with every hour that passed without result, my frustration level grew.

  Norelli figured a big burger and greasy fries would fix my attitude, and we stopped at a diner that was one step away from a fast food joint. Norelli got into his food—literally. I would like to think he’d never again wear that tie after it had been baptized by ketchup, but I knew better. Eating didn’t do it for me. My mind seethed with unanswered questions. So I left half a burger and most of my fries to Norelli as I made my way to the restroom.

  The case wouldn’t leave me alone.

  Neither would thoughts of Sebastian. I wondered if he would join me when I next slept. I felt guilty as hell. Like I’d cheated on Jake by conjuring Sebastian in my dream.

  So why had I?

  Because of Jake’s pressuring me to take our relationship to the next level?

  Satisfied that made sense, I shook away what I considered to be undeserved guilt, washed my hands and headed back into the dining area. Norelli was just flipping his cell closed and wearing a shit-eating grin.

  “What’s good?” I asked.

  “The husband got back from his business trip,” Norelli said, setting his phone on the table. “He was shocked when informed of his wife’s death, and yes, of course he’ll cooperate to get the bastard who killed her.”

  “Sounds upright.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Norelli seemed to have forgotten his interest in Edmund Fox for the moment, though he did have one of the uniforms in the department tracking the guy down.

  A half hour later, we met with Joseph Martin at his home. He lived east of Wrigley Field, where most of the big apartment buildings had been turned into condos, and frame bungalows and two flats had been razed to make way for million-dollar-plus oversized homes on narrow lots. He lived in one of these.

  The Cubs were in town and traffic was tough, parking non-existent. We left Norelli’s car on the corner past the no-parking-from-here-to-corner sign. The municipal code on the car’s plates would identify it as a CPD vehicle.

  Then we approached the house, a high three stories, fronted by a couple of narrow trees, some bushes and lots of low-growing plants. A professional landscape job surrounded by a black iron fence with an intercom next to the gate. The Martins had money, all right. Well, Joseph Martin did now that his wife was dead.

  I tried not to let the fact color my attitude toward the husband.

  Even as I reached for the bell, we were buzzed in. “Martin must have been watching for us.”

  “An eager beaver. I don’t like it.”

  Norelli never liked much of anything, so I didn’t let his mutterings get to me. I raced up the steps and stopped in front of the owner. Joseph Martin looked to be in his mid-forties. Not a handsome man, but with his trim body, good haircut and expensive clothes, you could call him attractive. I showed him my star.

  “Detective Shelley Caldwell. And this is Detective Mike Norelli—he’s in charge of the case.”

  I figured I’d better add the last so Norelli didn’t get aggravated with me taking the lead.

  “Go on in and sit,” Martin said, his voice heavy. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Nothing,” I said, “but thank you.”

  I sat while Norelli inspected the surroundings. The couch probably cost more than the furniture in his whole apartment, and he undoubtedly knew it. I took a quick look around as well. Understated money. Whose? I wondered again as Norelli finally sat and pulled out his notebook and pen.

  “How can I help, Detectives?”

  I said, “You could give us an idea of what your wife was like.”

  “Intelligent. Kind. Dedicated to her work.”

  “Which was…” Norelli had told me she was a lawyer but I didn’t have the details.

  “She was a real estate attorney.”

  Here I’d been hoping she’d practiced criminal law. That might have given us motive—a disgruntled client seeking revenge against the lawyer who failed him.

  Obviously on the same track, Norelli asked, “Was Mrs. Martin having any trouble with clients?”

  “No. She’s had a dozen or more closings this month. As far as I know, everything has been going smoothly for her. I really can’t fathom it. Julie wasn’t the type of woman to make enemies. Not like…”

  “Not like who?” Norelli asked.

  “Well…her brother.”

  “Anything specific?”

  Martin shrugged. “A judge presiding over criminal cases must have a lot of people who would like to get even for the sentences they get.”

  A fishing expedition. He didn’t have anything specific. Was he trying to turn the attention away from him? Or did he know information we didn’t?

  “Are you saying Judge Rafferty has gotten threats?” I asked.

  “Not lately that I know of, but you would have to ask him,” Martin said. “A few months ago, some guy tried to get at Bobby, but the bastard was caught and put back where he belonged. I was just generalizing…wondering…”

  He was wondering the same as I was. Sometimes an offender out for revenge picked on a family member rather than the cop or lawyer or judge who’d sent him to prison.

  Martin hung his head but not before I noticed his eyes. They swam with unshed tears and I sensed he’d been holding back real emotion. I swallowed the lump in my throat and hoped I wasn’t being a patsy for believing in his grief. I knew better than to rule anyone out until I nailed the murderer.

  “Your wife never mentioned anything odd going on?” Norelli asked, picking up where I left off. “Someone following her? Phone calls with no one on the other end? Threatening mail?”

  “No, nothing.”

  I sat back and let Norelli do his thing. He was incredibly smooth when he questioned his subjects, which surprised me. I’d always figured he and Jamal Walker had done the good cop/bad cop thing, with Norelli as the bad cop. Walker had cautioned me not to blow off Norelli, that he dedicated his life to the job. Even though Norelli still drove me nuts sometimes, I had a new respect for him.

  Lately, my days were filled with surprises.

  “How long have you been away on business?” Norelli asked Martin.

  “Since the day before yesterday?”

  “And you spoke to your wife last…”

  “Yesterday morning. We both had busy days. By the time I tried calling her last night…”

  She’d been murdered, I finished silently.

  “But you’
ve been through the mail?” Norelli asked.

  Martin nodded. “And the phone messages.”

  “What about her emails?” I asked.

  “I don’t invade her privacy.”

  “Maybe it’s time you do.”

  Martin agreed to bring up his wife’s email program. She’d left her laptop at home. It took him only a few minutes to log on.

  “Lucky for us she set it so the computer remembered her password.” Martin gave the enter key a last tap before handing over the laptop to me.

  I started. “Fifty-seven emails between yesterday and today?” Who in the world spent that much time on the internet?

  As Norelli picked up his questioning, this time concentrating on personal relationships, I did a quick inventory of the email situation. A third were sent to Julie Martin after her death. Of the rest, more than half were advertisements, junk or otherwise. That left less than twenty emails to check. I started going through them, skimming the first lines of one before going on to the next. Most were inquiries or responses about houses the Martin woman had represented. A few were personal.

  One was too personal.

  If you don’t want your husband to know where you were last night, meet me at ten o’clock…

  The email gave an address in Bridgeport, one of the neighborhoods adjoining the murder site.

  I stared at the missive, wishing I weren’t the one who had to give the husband the bad news. I didn’t know where Julie Martin had been the night before she’d been murdered, but obviously she hadn’t wanted her husband to know. This wasn’t going to bring him any joy.

  Suddenly, I felt like the bad guy.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Staring out the window, Sebastian closed his eyes and concentrated, but though he sent his inner vision reeling through the night, he couldn’t sense Shelley Caldwell. How was she blocking him? Could he only get to her through her dreams when her defenses were down?

  A sharp peal snapped his eyes open. He hurried to the intercom and buzzed in his visitor. Perhaps with her help, he would get the insight he needed.

  Opening the door, Sebastian said, “Silke—just the woman I was hoping to see.”