Victoria's Destiny

by L. J. Garland

  A piece of folded white paper lay in the driver’s seat. Had it fallen out of his pocket when he’d left the car earlier? He searched his memory, trying to place the scrap. A receipt from the gas station he’d stopped at on the way home the night before?

  He snagged the paper, intent on shoving it into his pocket. But the moment his fingers grazed the smooth surface, he jerked. The damned thing felt alive. Tingles flowed over and through his hand as though daring River to open it.

  He stared, not wanting to know what might be inside. But it might be a clue to who had murdered Penny Newhouse. He had no choice.

  Trace wouldn’t find any fingerprints—this guy was too slick for an amateur mistake like that—but he wanted to go by the book. He would open the note, read it then bag it for the Crime Investigation Division.

  The paper crinkled beneath his fingers, whispering taunts with each fold he exposed. He held it beneath the dome light to illuminate whatever was written.

  “Oh, sh—” His breath caught in his throat, choking off his words. Stunned, he flung the paper back into the driver’s seat and pressed his back against the passenger doorframe. The paper fluttered onto the leather seat, landing face-up, displaying its contents.

  River gaped. The neatly drawn circle in thin black marker. The star. The pointed D in the center.

  But there was something else beneath the circle. Something he couldn’t quite see because the bottom of the paper had refolded.

  Treating it as though it were a ravenous beast about to rip out his soul, he reached for the paper. His hand shook as he grasped the top corner, lifting it. The bottom fold opened, revealing its last secret.

  “No.” Disbelief and utter shock rattled his mind.

  The letters K. L. R. were scrawled beneath the circle. Kent Lee Rowton. The Valentine Killer. River’s dead ex-partner.

  “Impossible.” He stared at the paper, praying it was a sick prank played on the new guy. But Dauscher would never do such a thing. It was too sick.

  So, that meant the killer had left it—a special message just for River. It meant the killer knew River, had learned he’d recently moved to the Savannah-Chatham Police Department, and he’d been assigned to this case. It meant the killer had access to all the details of the Valentine Killer.

  It also meant the killer had been inside the car.

  Dropping the paper, he leaped from the passenger seat. He slammed the car door, extinguishing the dome light. The killer might be watching him this very second.

  “What’s taking you so long?”

  River spun around.

  “Easy.” Dauscher lifted his hands in defense.

  River’s shoulder’s drooped. “Sorry.”

  “A little jumpy?”

  “Yeah.” River opened the car door, retrieved the evidence. “Our killer left a note.”

  The big guy squinted at the paper. “Damn,” he drawled, his eyes widening as he recognized the symbol. “But the real Valentine Killer is dead.”

  “Yes.” He wanted to shout the word. The fucking Valentine Killer was dead. Kent Lee Rowton was dead.

  “Gotta be a copycat.” Dauscher ran a hand through his hair. “I tell you, the freaks come out around here with all the ghost and goblins stuff. Better bag it for CID.”

  Reaching inside the car, River grabbed a clear plastic bag from the glove compartment.

  “I took down your girls’ information and sent them home,” Dauscher said. “They seemed pretty weirded out by it all, which makes me think they’re telling the truth.”

  River slid the paper inside the bag then zipped it closed. Talk about weirded out. “You think the blonde is a psychic?”

  The big guy’s shoulder lifted then fell. “Don’t know.”

  Not wanting to take a chance of the note getting misplaced, he tucked it into his pocket. “So, we still have interviews in the theater?”

  “Yep.” His partner glanced at his watch then toward the theater. “Doesn’t look like I’ll be eating pancakes after all.”

  “And I’ve got to wait for CID to process my car.” He’d be surprised if they came up with anything, but maybe they’d get lucky. “Tell you what. Do an hour of interviews, go eat your pancakes, take a nap, and I’ll meet you at the station after lunch.”

  “Deal,” Dauscher said without hesitation.

  River didn’t expect to get much out of the early morning gawkers, but it needed to be done. Besides, he wasn’t going to sleep a wink after finding the note in his car. His gut was in a knot, and there was something about the blonde. She knew more than she’d told them. Maybe it was the way she’d continually glanced at Ms. Carlson. Had it been for support? Or maybe she was worried her artist friend would crack and spill their involvement in the murder.

  River trudged up the steps to the theater’s rear entrance. “How many did you round up for interviews?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  Well, hell.

  Chapter Eleven

  Vicki jiggled her knee, the heel of her tennis shoe lightly thumping the linoleum tile floor. She gnawed her fingernail while she waited on the wooden bench. In the fifteen minutes she’d sat in the Savannah Police Department waiting area, a vast array of people had passed her, from hookers and scary-looking brutes to police officers and lawyers.

  When Detective Dauscher had told her and Becca they could leave the crime scene earlier, her friend had dragged her out of the alley to the car. Thank goodness, Detective Chastain had been nowhere in sight.

  “That detective was completely unprofessional,” Vicki had ranted on the drive home. “He was sneaky and controlling.”

  Becca slanted her eyes. “You like him.”

  “A woman is dead.” Vicki stared out the passenger window. A fishing boat, heavy with an overnight catch, meandered through the water beneath the bridge they crossed to Tybee Island. “He accused us of murdering her. All because I had a vision.”

  “Detective Chastain was just doing his job.” Her friend slowed the car, exited the bridge, and entered Tybee Island proper.

  “Why are you defending him? You’re the one who got all ice maiden when you found out he was a cop.”

  “True. But I’d have to be dead not to notice how handsome he was. Did you see his eyes? Clear as a summer sky.”

  Vicki snorted. “Thought you were taking a break on men.”

  “I’m an artist. I appreciate beauty. So should you.” Becca stopped at a light. “Besides, he didn’t say we murdered that poor woman. He never accused us of anything.”

  “He might not have used those exact words.” Vicki shoved a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But he was thinking it.”

  Becca’s laughter filled the car. “You do like him.”

  Gritting her teeth for the remainder of the ride, Vicki had gone straight to her room and finished unpacking her belongings. Just when she’d stored the final suitcase beneath the bed, her cell phone rang. Detective Chastain of the Savannah-Chatham Police Department had requested her presence at eleven-thirty.

  So, here she sat on a hard bench, waiting. Vicki glanced at her watch. Eleven-fifty. You’d think he’d have the decency to be on time. Why not just call and set up a later appointment? Irritated, she rose from the bench and strode toward the stairs.

  Detective Chastain stepped through the doorway, and she stumbled into him. He caught her by her shoulders, setting her aright. “Ms. Spiere.”

  Vicki looked up into intense blue eyes, and her heart fluttered. His hands lingered on her shoulders, his warm grip sending spirals of heat down her arms. She wanted to stand there, staring at him, but remembered the dangers of direct eye contact and dipped her gaze to his mouth. However, his lips created a whole new set of problems. She stepped back.

  The corners of his mouth twitched when he released her.

  “Detective Chastain.” Her words came out breathy, and she internally cringed. She didn’t want to sound all soft and girly. But damn if the anger swirling in her stomach a moment before hadn’t
turned to mush. She wanted it back.

  “You’re here.” He placed his hands on his hips.

  She noticed the gun lodged in his shoulder holster for the first time. The blocky black grip jutted out, the business end snug within the nylon pocket. Of course he has a gun. He’s a detective.

  “I, um…yes.” Flustered, she put her hands on her hips, mimicking his stance. Her forest-green sweater stretched across her breasts, the small pearl buttons threatening to pop free. Oh my God. Why did I pick this top? She waited for his gaze to descend to her chest, but Detective Chastain remained the consummate professional and kept his eyes focused on her face.

  “What can I do for you?” His concentrated stare created more discomfort than if he’d just gone ahead and taken a glimpse of her boobs.

  “Do for me? Some woman called and told me to be here at eleven-thirty.” Her anger returned, embers sparking low in her stomach. She kept her hands on her hips, threw her shoulders farther back, the buttons on her sweater perilously close to releasing. Good. Let him get an eyeful.

  “Just a minute.” He disappeared through a doorway, leaving her standing in the hall like a rock in the middle of a river with hookers and lawyers flowing around her.

  Frowning, she stared at the empty doorway. How dare he just walk off like that? He’s crazy if he thinks I’m going to wait for him to return. Pissed, she marched toward the stairs again. Why the hell didn’t he just look?

  “Leaving?”

  Vicki spun around, her cheeks burning. “I was just….”

  He leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest. “It seems you were on the witness callback list. I meant to mark out your name.”

  “Well, that explains everything,” she said, letting the sarcasm roll off her tongue. She gestured at the stairs. “I’ll be leaving now.”

  “Wait.”

  She glared at him.

  “Stay there. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared through the doorway again.

  Vicki rounded toward the stairs but stopped. What else did she have to do? She turned back just as he reemerged.

  “So, I was thinking.” He moved in her direction, adjusting the navy windbreaker he’d shrugged on. “You want to grab some lunch?”

  She blinked. “Lunch?”

  “Yeah. There’s a pub a few streets down. It’s reputed to be haunted.” He zipped the jacket partway. “And since you took the time to come down here when you didn’t really need to, I figure the least I can do is make it up with some grub and ghosts.”

  “Grub and ghosts?” Vicki glanced at the water fountain, her back teeth grinding. God, I sound like a freaking parrot.

  “Sandwiches and spirits.” He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and smiled.

  Her stomach quivered, his bright-blue eyes morphing her anger into another type of heat. Instinct screamed no.

  “Okay.” Hmm. Seems my mouth has other ideas.

  * * *

  River led his curvy blonde lunch date to a round, polished oak table positioned in front of a huge window that opened onto the street. He’d never eaten at this pub before, but the bustling activity promised a good meal. The waitress arrived, handed them menus, and scurried away to get their drinks.

  He peered over the top of his laminated list of foods. The muted light from the overcast sky streamed through the window, illuminating Ms. Victoria Spiere with a soft glow. She nibbled her nail while she pondered the choices.

  Her hair was different from earlier this morning. She wore it up with soft tendrils framing her face. She’d look good in any light.

  He twitched when her gaze flitted up, catching his stare. Those eyes of hers. Damn. He was attracted to her. No sense denying it. He offered a tentative smile. But she returned a tight-lipped smirk and went back to perusing the menu.

  A couple of minutes later, the waitress brought their drinks. Taking out a pen and pad, she asked for their order, jotted down his ham sandwich and her Waldorf salad, and rushed to another customer’s table. With the menus no longer available as shields, conversation was inevitable.

  He leaned back, resting his elbows on the chair’s wooden arms. “Thanks for coming. I don’t really like to eat alone.”

  “What about your partner?”

  “He met his wife for lunch.” River ground his molars at his ineptitude. He’d just informed her she was a substitute. Good job.

  “I never like eating alone either.” She angled toward the window. Bitter sorrow flashed across her face and vanished. More secrets than he’d first imagined lay buried within her.

  “How long have you been psychic?”

  She sank into her chair, crossed her arms over her chest. “All my life.”

  His question created a gulf between them, wide and deep. But his need to learn how she knew about the Valentine Killer’s symbol was more than enough to bridge the gap.

  “Had any visions lately?” He remained reclined in his chair. Calm, amicable.

  She swung her gaze toward him, distrust radiating in waves. “I thought you didn’t believe in psychics.”

  “Make me a believer.” It would be so much easier if he did believe. Why, because I might have a shot with her? Yeah, she’s hot. But at some point she’ll start talking about destiny and supernatural hoodoo. What the hell then? “Tell me how you knew about the pointed D symbol.”

  “I told you. I saw it in a vision.” She looked out the window again. “Buying me lunch isn’t going to make me say something that isn’t true just so you can put it in a box and mark it Explained. Having visions is something I’ve lived with for as long as I can remember, and I still can’t define how or why it works.”

  An emotion seeped into her eyes. Worry? Regret? Something other than Penny Newhouse’s murder troubled her.

  The meal arrived, and River backed off. With each bite she seemed to relax, and the gulf he’d created between them grew smaller. Her drawn brows and tight jaw eased. They talked about movies and books, the weather and things they had in common. By the end of the meal, their conversation turned to personal topics.

  “I’ve never been married.” She pushed her fork through the remnants of lettuce in her bowl.

  “So, no current boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  River nodded, surprised at how much her answer pleased him.

  “The men I dated always found their true love at the end of our relationship. You?” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a light pink staining her cheeks. “I mean were you ever married?”

  “I was. She left.”

  “Why?” Genuine interest shone on her face. She wanted to know more about him, and the best way to get her to trust him was to open up about himself first.

  “The job mostly. At first, I think the thought of being married to a cop was exciting to her. That lasted about a year. Then she learned about the all but nonexistent pay, odd hours, and gunfire.” Picking up his glass, he finished off his iced tea. “After a year of arguments, she decided to trade up. Moved to Seattle and married some guy who builds hotels.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “We’re both better off.”

  The waitress arrived, cleared the plates, and asked for dessert orders. They declined sweets, but he ordered coffee for both of them. The waitress nodded, pausing to clear another table on her way to the kitchen.

  River assessed the blonde sitting across from him. She appeared calm and relaxed. It was time to learn what she knew. Leaning forward, he planted his elbows on the table. “Ms. Spiere.”

  “Detective, I’ve told you more about myself than I’ve ever shared on any date. I think you can call me Vicki.” She smiled, and guilt rode him hard for what he was about to do.

  “Vicki.” Reaching into his pants pocket, he retrieved the folded paper. He opened the photocopy and slid it across the table where she could see it. “I was wondering what you could tell me about this.”

  Her eyes widened with recognition. “It’s the same symbol as on t
he wall at the murder scene.”

  “Yes, it is.” River had personally walked the original note through forensics, and, as expected, it came out clean. He studied her face, searching for telltale signs that might lead him to the answers he needed. “What else can you tell me?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “It’s also the same symbol I saw in a vision.”

  “Were your vision and the crime scene the only times you’ve ever seen it?”

  She looked out the window. “Yes.”

  A lie. She’d seen it someplace else. At a cult gathering? Or was she the one who’d left the note in his car?

  The waitress brought their coffee along with a silver pot of creamer. “Can I get you anything else?”

  Vicki shook her head. The waitress turned to leave, but not before favoring River with an enticing smile.

  “She likes you,” she murmured.

  “What?” He folded his hands on the table and smiled. “You have a psychic vision or something?”

  “I don’t need to be psychic to tell when a girl flirts with a guy.” She peered over her shoulder at the waitress who gathered drink orders at the bar. “She’s interested. I wouldn’t be surprised if she left her phone number on the lunch check.”

  They’d moved back into comfortable territory. A smile played on her lips. Lips he wanted to kiss. “Is that what you would do?”

  “No.” She faced him, her eyes fiery with challenge. “I’d see just how good of a detective you really were. Make you scour the DMV or whatever other personal databases the police have access to.”

  He laughed. Fiery didn’t begin to describe her. Molten was closer.

  She’d challenged him earlier at the station when she’d thrown her shoulders back, those tiny buttons on her tight green sweater almost bursting free. Mercy. It’d taken every ounce of self-control not to reach out and flick one of those buttons loose.

  “I can tell you there’s a good chance you weren’t the one who drew this.” She pushed the paper back across the table, the remnants of a smile still on her lips.

  “What makes you think so?” He dragged the paper toward him. Even as a copy, the damned thing radiated evil, transmitting unnerving sensations of soul-stealing energy through his hand, up his arm. He tucked the note in his jacket.