Contact

by Evelyn Vaughn

  Lynn nodded, following her.

  “And Krystal had a lover sometime before her murder, even though we didn’t know she’d been dating anyone.”

  “Would she have been gullible enough to sleep with Greg?”

  “He fooled me, didn’t he?”

  Captain Downs, who’d relieved Captain Crawford hours before, ducked into the room. “Folks, this isn’t supposed to be entertainment. Especially not for civilians. As for civilians involved with the case—”

  Most of the police officers dispersed, but as she left, one—a pretty redhead—said, “The pistol’s got an interesting theory, Cap. You might want to hear it.”

  Downs, a fifty-something black man with a salt-and-pepper flattop—shooed Faith and Lynn out before he raised his eyebrows and waited for the theory. So Faith explained how Greg might have dated Krystal. “Maybe they kept it quiet so it wouldn’t make things weird for us at work. I don’t know. It’s pure speculation. But think about it—Chet went years since killing his last psychic. Why did he suddenly notice Krystal Tanner?”

  The detectives had already discovered the family connection between Chester Simpson and his half brother, Greg.

  Captain Downs considered Faith for a moment. Then he said, “You’re not quite as big a pain as Crawford said you were, little lady.” And he went inside and tapped on the glass.

  It was Max who came to the door—and Faith wished she didn’t feel disappointed. When the captain whispered their theory, Max nodded and went back to his interrogation. “Let’s talk about Krystal Tanner, Greg.”

  Greg’s pulse sped.

  “Now out!” ordered Downs. “If you want to wait for the detectives, you can go to the booking room.”

  So they headed out to the desks. A drug addict twitched in one chair. Another chair was occupied by a man in a tuxedo—a man so drunk he kept swaying sideways, into an apparent hooker who kept pushing him back the other direction.

  “Oh, this is better,” said Lynn with gentle sarcasm.

  “Weirdly, I’m getting to like it,” admitted Faith. “Do you want something from the machines?”

  But before she could force Lynn to choose between wrapped cupcakes and a candy bar, a disturbance from the hallway caught her attention. Faith’s step hesitated when she recognized one of the gangbangers who’d attacked her in the alley. Then another. Then a third. All three of them, as before, wore some piece of green. All three of them had their hands cinched behind their backs. And all three of them sported an assortment of abrasions, black eyes, bleeding noses and swollen lips.

  Behind them came an irate desk sergeant, calling for the captain….

  And Dawn O’Shaughnessy.

  She nudged her captives forward, then folded her arms to wait, her eyes seeking out and finding Faith and Lynn.

  Dawn actually didn’t show relief but, as Faith and Lynn hurried to her side, Faith sensed it off her all the same. Something in her heartbeat. Something in her scent.

  Faith liked having sisters who worried about her—and sisters to worry about. “What did you do?” she demanded.

  Dawn widened her eyes and, with a jerk of her head, indicated the gangbangers. Like it was obvious. “I dragged in some witnesses.”

  “Witnesses to what?” asked Lynn.

  Faith asked, “How’d you handcuff all three of them at the same time?”

  “They’re called riot cuffs…kind of like those plastic thingies you get with your trash bags,” said Dawn. “Very portable. And these guys are witnesses to whoever it was wanted Faith here dead.”

  Faith and Lynn stared.

  Dawn rolled her eyes. “Damn, you’re innocent! If it was just revenge for the earlier fight, maybe they would’ve sent five, maybe six or seven guys. But twelve of them? The more I thought about it, the more I figured they were there to take Faith down. Professionally. So tonight I went looking, asked a few questions and persuaded these nice fellows here to tell us who hired them.”

  She said to the captain, who’d come out in time for the last half of her story, “Call it a citizen’s arrest.”

  “Or I could call it assault and battery,” suggested Captain Downs. But all three of Dawn’s prisoners reacted to that.

  “That little girl didn’t beat up me!” “You don’t know nothing about nothing!” “I got these bruises earlier today!”

  “So tell them—” started Dawn, but Faith interrupted.

  “Captain, I’d like to file a complaint against these men for attacking me in an alley, yesterday afternoon. My sisters witnessed the whole thing. Would you please read them their rights, before we ask them anything else?”

  The Storyville gang exchanged sullen glances, disliking the way their night had gone. Dawn cracked her knuckles. Lynn put her hands on her hips. Faith folded her arms.

  Together, they made the boys very nervous.

  Once they were officially advised that anything they said could and would be used against them in a court of law, the youngest gave in first. “Okay! Just keep these psycho bitches off me, man. It was this white dude, works for the city. Real Einstein type, with glasses, curly black hair. Maybe so tall—” He indicated. “With a beard. Like some animal growing on his face.”

  He’d just described Greg Boulanger—and in a way that made Faith wonder why she’d ever considered dating him.

  “And how did you know him?” asked Faith.

  “The man did a little pushing on the side, no big deal,” said the boy with the nose stud. “A little C now and then. He said it was stuff he boosted off crime scenes. Anyhow, he comes to us and says blondie here was getting into too much of his personal business. Said we should shut her down.”

  Captain Downs beckoned the redheaded cop over. “As soon as Chopin and Leonard are through with their suspect, we need him in a lineup. Now.”

  “Merry Christmas, Captain,” said Faith, and turned to her sisters. “I think I’m ready to go home after all.”

  Lynn wrapped an arm around her, carefully not touching bare skin. When Dawn would have hung back, Lynn caught her arm, too, and the three of them headed out of the station together.

  “Now,” said Faith, “it feels like it’s over.”

  “Except for finding out who hired the hit on Rainy Miller Carrington,” Dawn reminded them. Dawn was something of a workaholic, wasn’t she?

  “And finding out if Thomas King is really our father,” added Lynn.

  Faith stopped in her tracks. “Thomas King?”

  “I admit, I can see the resemblance,” said Tamara Corbett, trying to peer past the enthusiastic cocker spaniel on her lap to consider the magazines and pictures Faith had brought. Wilbur, as they’d named the stray dog, kept trying to lick Tamara’s face. Despite her protests, Faith’s mom seemed to like that.

  Especially now, with its leg in a cast, the dog needed a person. And Tamara had been too lonely for too long. Faith would have taken Wilbur back home to the apartment, if her mother had hated the idea. But this was clearly not hate.

  In fact, any dog that could distract a healthy, middle-aged woman from the idea that she may have borne Thomas King’s child was a dog who had a permanent home.

  “The Cassandras still aren’t a hundred percent sure. Neither are Lynn and Dawn,” Faith said now. She’d brought her sisters home for lunch, the previous day, while the dog was still staying with her roommates. Tamara had taken to them with as much love and sympathy as she was now giving Wilbur, but with a lot more respect. The way her sisters had responded to Tamara’s immediate acceptance made Faith all the more aware of how lucky she’d been, to grow up with a mother.

  A mother who kept secrets, yes. But Faith had no moral high ground to stand on there.

  “Once we know for sure,” she continued, drawing one of the magazines closer to her, “we’ll meet him together.”

  This particular cover story was “Long Live the King,” written the previous year when the Navy SEAL who’d been presumed dead was discovered in a secret prison. He had thick blond
hair, like Faith’s and Dawn’s. Unusual green-gold eyes, like all three of the sisters.

  According to the Cassandras, he’d had sperm frozen for his wife, in case one of his dangerous missions left him unable to father children. That was the sperm bank from which Lab 33 had gotten their material.

  “The Cassandras are those women from the Athena Academy,” said Tamara, and Faith didn’t have to use her abilities to sense her mother’s feelings of inferiority. The former prep school graduates who’d been Rainy Miller’s friends were all eminently successful—an FBI forensic scientist, a TV reporter and an Air Force test pilot, among other impressive careers. Once they’d learned of Faith’s existence, they hadn’t just answered Lynn’s e-mailed announcement. Several of them had already telephoned with their welcome and encouragement.

  “They sound like very special women,” said Tamara.

  Faith left the magazines, came around the table and gave her mother a hug. Her mother—and a very happy Wilbur. Their emotions flowed through her gently, familiarly. Now that she’d accepted her abilities, her control over them was increasing by the day. “So are you, Mom.”

  “Me? Oh, baby, I’m nothing special. I didn’t even go to college. I never fit in.”

  “But that’s why you were so good at keeping me safe all these years! I’m sorry I reacted the way I did, Mom. You may have saved my life with what you did. Without you I could have ended up being trained as a thief, like Lynn, or even an assassin, like Dawn. Or considering my abilities, probably a con artist. You know. Exactly the kind of person who makes life so hard for all my friends in the French Quarter. I would have hated that.”

  Tamara let out a broken sigh, petting Faith’s hair. “Oh, I don’t know about that. You may have found you liked it. You always were something of a rebel.”

  Faith wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know. Lately, I’ve kind of got a thing for the law.”

  He was waiting not far from the streetcar stop.

  Faith sensed him almost a block away, but that was because of Roy Chopin’s pushy energy. Especially when he was impatient. Apparently, this afternoon, he was feeling very impatient.

  He leaned against the fender of his parked Malibu, arms folded, the picture of nonchalance. But everything in him sped up when he saw her coming. His breathing. His pulse.

  She couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or not.

  When he saw that she’d seen him, he raised his eyebrows in silent question, but he didn’t make a move toward her. Instead, she detoured over to him. “Are you stalking me?”

  “If I were stalking you, I woulda been right outside your mom’s place. Or should I say, the D.A.’s place.”

  Since that wasn’t an answer, Faith just folded her arms and waited.

  “Your roommate Moonsong said you were here,” he offered. “You’re gonna have to watch that one. She’s way too trusting.”

  Maybe she was. Faith’s roommates had been surprisingly understanding about her secret identity as a police contact. They thought it was exciting. “So you’re here because…?”

  “I’m not sorry I arrested you.” His jaw was a definite dare, just now. It went with his scowl.

  Faith leaned into his space—and damned if it didn’t still feel good there. Familiar. Challenging. “Then I’m not sorry I tore your arrest to shreds.”

  He shook his head, his mouth pulling into a mockery of a smile. “Right. You’re cute when you’re a smart-ass.”

  In the distance, Faith could hear the ding-ding of the trolley approaching. In another minute, she was sure Roy would hear it, too. “I’m more than just cute. And I’m more than just a pistol in the sack.”

  His eyes widened. “Did I say you weren’t?”

  “I’m just clarifying, here. You searched my closet.”

  “On an anonymous tip. Last time I heard, you were in favor of those.” He considered his argument, then added, “And I found something.”

  “Like that justifies anything.”

  “Maybe not to lawyers, hon. But as far as the truth coming out, yeah.”

  The way he said “lawyers” made her grin. “So you really came all the way out here just to tell me you weren’t sorry?”

  “Yeah. That, and to ask you out.”

  Her own heart began to race, and her stomach began to flip-flop. But it felt good. It felt…normal. “Really?”

  “We got a lot to talk about. Greg and Chet both got indicted, largely because of you being such a stupid Bernie. I figured you might want to celebrate.”

  “And have sex,” she guessed. Not that the idea made her ill, but there were some trust issues to get past, here, too. On both sides. No matter what his body was telegraphing.

  “I wouldn’t rule it out, but I’m determined to cram a dinner down you sooner or later.” Now his head came up. He heard the trolley, too. And here it came, the dark-green car with dark-red trim, up the center of St. Charles Avenue.

  “What’s a Bernie?” she asked—and he laughed, a sharp bark.

  “I’ve been calling you Bernie all this time, and you don’t know?”

  She shook her head.

  “Like Bernhard Goetz, the guy who shot those muggers on the New York subway. A Bernie’s a ringer, Corbett. Someone who looks completely helpless, then turns around and kicks someone’s ass.”

  The more she considered that, the more she liked it. The more she liked him for thinking of her that way. “And I’m a Bernie?”

  “You went after a guy with a gun. Who’d already tried to kill you once.”

  “Only because the alternative would have been to let him get away.”

  “Agony,” predicted Roy, his gaze caressing her face. “This is what you offer me.”

  But he was lying. And she knew it. She was genetically engineered to be able to read people, after all…and what she read, she liked. Roy was a good guy, and a good cop. Roy liked her. And Roy was someone she could touch with pleasure, instead of dread, which counted for a hell of a lot, too. Someone whose touch opened up whole new worlds for her.

  People had dated for worse reasons. And yet…

  She deserved better. And oh heavens, so did he.

  “Maybe I do,” she warned him. “Maybe I am agony, just waiting to happen to both of us. You may have noticed that I’m not…”

  Her throat closed before she could say it.

  “Not…corrupt?” he guessed, his eyes bright, mouth mocking with amusement. “Not cynical, like me and my cop friends? Not helpless and needy?”

  So she had to say it. “Not normal.”

  The streetcar was close enough that Faith didn’t need super-sight to read its curved numbers or the placard that read St. Charles.

  “So you’re special,” said Roy. “Woman-of-mystery, never-boring, one-of-a-kind special. This is a bad thing?”

  “You don’t know the half of how weird I am.” Her melodramatic conception. Her super-sisters. Her ability to sense that, amazing though it seemed, he wasn’t lying now, as surely as she knew his eyes were gray. But he didn’t know. “You don’t know.”

  “So how should I find out if you don’t give me the chance?”

  Which, she realized with a rush of pleasant surprise, was exactly how normal people did it. Roy Chopin brought blessed normalcy to her life. And as for what she brought to his…

  Well, maybe they could find out, at that.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll go out with you.”

  She savored his relief. “Tonight? I know it’s short notice, but tonight’s my night off.”

  The trolley was slowing now with a squeal of brakes. “I’ve got plans this afternoon with my sisters, but…Give me a call later today, and you’ll find out.”

  “I would, but you keep throwing phones into the river.”

  “Call me at home. Like a real date.” But it had been three days. And he was addictive. So instead of strolling back to the trolley stop, Faith rose onto tiptoes and offered a kiss, which Roy took with gusto.

  Yes….
>
  His lips were warm and real. His breath struggled in his throat, which seemed to be tightening with uncertain emotion. His hands pulled her possessively closer to the tall, hard, physicality of him, and when his tongue slid into her mouth, she shuddered her release.

  Yeah, this was worth another try.

  “Screw the streetcar,” he muttered breathily into her ear, making her shiver again. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

  But at least one of them had to get better at delayed gratification. Shaking her head, Faith backed out of his arms. “Nope. A real date. Somewhere I can dress up.”

  “Oh, now you’re high-maintenance all of a sudden?”

  She jogged toward the streetcar. “You have no idea.”

  Roy followed with his long stride, but when she looked over her shoulder, he seemed entertained. There was something to be said for increased expectations. “So where do you want to dine, Your Highness?”

  “Greg took me on a riverboat.”

  “Greg’s a sociopath.”

  “One of many reasons I like you better.” The trolley rang its last warnings, and she heard it start moving, so she turned and ran full-out. She caught the streetcar and paced it as it picked up speed. She tapped on the door-glass, and the doors slid open. She jumped on board and flashed the conductor her monthly NORTA pass.

  “You oughtn’t to be doing that, miss!” he scolded. “That’s dangerous. You oughtn’t get so close to the streetcar when she’s moving like that.”

  But some days, Faith felt more sure of herself than others. She slid across an empty seat and hung out the open window to watch Roy’s retreating figure. “Call me!” she yelled.

  And he held up one hand in a single, silent wave. She knew he would.

  Maybe she was special, at that. Maybe it ran in the family.

  “This is nowhere near as cheesy as I would have thought,” admitted Dawn, looking around the tasteful back room of Celeste Deveaux’s French Quarter parlor.