Dead to the Max (Max Starr Series, Book 1, a paranormal romance/mystery)

by Jasmine Haynes

  “You were about to spell it out,” Max prompted when he just stood there a few moments longer than necessary.

  He shook his head as if to clear it. “Nicholas Drake.”

  “The owner of a green 4Runner.”

  “And Wendy Gregory’s lover. But you knew that, didn’t you, Max? Theresa must have told you within five minutes of your arrival.”

  “Actually, I think it took five days.”

  “He arrived on a flight from Boise the night Wendy died, his flight number was written on a piece of paper found at the crime scene, and his fingerprints were all over the car.”

  God, she was right about that damn piece of paper. When they got Nick’s DNA sample, they’d match it to the semen found inside Wendy. They hadn’t bothered with the condom. Max shuddered. Witt was so close, she was sure he must have felt her reaction. He’d probably think it was because of him, too. “He’s been your prime suspect all along.”

  “Not prime. Simply the only one not around to answer any questions.”

  “Which makes you suspicious.”

  “He’s hiding. Innocent men don’t hide.” Witt glared down at her, his mouth grim.

  Max’s neck ached from tipping her head back. Traffic had picked up on the road. Her head swam with the diesel scent of a delivery truck. “He’d have to be pretty stupid not to wipe his fingerprints off if he was guilty.”

  “Killers are stupid all the time. How do you think most of them get caught so quickly? They leave a trail a mile wide.”

  “Someone else could have followed Wendy there.”

  “We’ve got a surveillance shot of every single car going in and out of that lot. They all checked out.”

  “They could have gotten in the same way Wendy and Nick did. On the terminal buses.”

  “The simplest explanation is usually the right one. Conspiracies are for television dramas.” He swept a hand out in disgust, his jacket billowing. The material brushed her breast as he moved.

  Her mouth went dry. She should have pushed him away, forced him to back off. She was afraid to touch him. “He still wasn’t necessarily driving that Toyota just now.” She tapped her lips, her arm between them creating just enough breathing space. “Who reported it stolen?”

  “His wife did.”

  “Hah. Just think of her motive. Dead lover. Jealous wife.”

  Witt cocked his head to one side, but said nothing.

  “Don’t forget Hal. He told me Wendy left him for another man.”

  “Dead wife? Jealous husband?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Awfully interested in saving Nick Drake, aren’t you, Max?”

  Her insides froze up, and she knew how she sounded. Desperate. Like Wendy. “I just want to make sure you don’t miss anything by going for the simple solution, Detective.”

  “There’s more here than meets the eye. Tell me what you know.”

  Wedged between Witt’s persistence and the car door, she reviewed her options. She could tell him Wendy had thrown away the note with Nick’s flight number on it. That someone else had picked it out of the trash and put it in her car. That same person had been following Wendy long before Nick got off that plane. But Witt would want to know how she knew. She didn’t think he’d like her answer. He’d already scoffed the first time she’d called herself psychic. He’d also suspected her of murder over the Lilah dream.

  She wasn’t about to test him again. Instead she picked on something they both knew was fishy. “Wendy’s appointment book wasn’t in the drawer that first day you went through her office.”

  He smiled slightly. “Correct.”

  “Theresa said Wendy took that appointment book with her everywhere.”

  “Right.”

  “Which means that someone stole it out of her purse and planted it for you to find.”

  “Highly likely.”

  “Did you also note that Wendy never used ballpoint, except in one specific instance?”

  Witt stared at her. She couldn’t tell whether he’d figured that out or not. Couldn’t tell if that was admiration sparking his blue eyes. “Go on.”

  “His flight time was written in for the night Wendy died. In blue ballpoint. She was strictly colored rollerball. So...why would Nick Drake forge an entry in her book, then plant it in the drawer when the only person he’d be incriminating was himself?”

  Something changed in Witt, like a light going on. He backed up a step—thank God—straightened his shoulders, stared down at her, hard. “How’d you know that was a flight time?”

  Busted. God, how could she be so stupid? She opted for the truth. At least then he’d only doubt her sanity. “Same way I knew 452 was a flight number. I saw it all in a dream.”

  He ignored her. “You’ve seen him, haven’t you, talked to him?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Goddamn it, he’s wanted for questioning. Where is he?” He pointed his finger again.

  She knew she’d gone a tad too far. It wasn’t a good time to remind him she hated finger-pointing. She couldn’t remember hearing him swear before. She shoved his hand aside anyway.

  “I have no idea.”

  She suddenly became aware of eyes at the window of the shop opposite. A horn blasted; she jumped. Her eyes teared up from the road grit in the air.

  Witt never took his gaze off her. “Where did you see him?”

  Damage control. “He accosted me at the grocery store yesterday. On Friday, I saw him at a bar I...frequent.”

  His lips thinned, turned white. He really was pissed. “You’re playing with fire.”

  Shades of Cameron’s little speeches. “I should have told you, but—”

  “Two women are dead, and someone tried to run you down. Are you an idiot or just crazy?”

  “I really don’t think he kil—”

  “You have no fucking clue what any of these people are capable of.”

  There it was again. Another swear word. Worse than the last. “I assure you I know any one of them could be a killer.”

  Witt suddenly stepped forward, pushed her flush against the rear car door with his body. Sirens sounded in the distance. His gaze was dark, deadly. “Someone just tried to kill you.”

  “It was probably just a scare tactic.”

  “Whatever game you’re playing, Max, it better be worth your life. Because that car would have hit you if I hadn’t seen it coming.”

  “I wasn’t really paying attention when I crossed the street.”

  “It pulled away from the curb and aimed right for you. If I hadn’t been here, the responding officers would have been calling for a body bag.”

  She shivered. This time, she knew he could feel the tremors. His eyes darkened. He raised a hand to her face, trailed a finger down her cheek. “Am I scaring you yet?”

  He did far more to her body than scare her. She liked it, the macho man act, the big hulking body, everything. “Yes.”

  He watched the slide of her throat as she swallowed. “Good.” His voice and touch were soft. Like a lover’s. His gaze was absorbed. Angry. Hot.

  “Just one thing, Detective. If he was over there waiting for me”—she pointed east—“and you were over there”—she pointed west—“why didn’t you see him and arrest him?”

  The sirens were closer now, right on top of them, screeching, and the sudden cessation of sound as they cut off created a vacuum around them. His jaw tensed. “I should have seen him. I didn’t. I was watching your ass.”

  God, a man who admitted making a mistake. She liked that about him. Dammit. And she liked that he’d been looking at her ass.

  “You will tell me why you’re looking for Wendy Gregory’s killer, Max. Sooner or later.”

  “You didn’t believe me when I told you before.” Her heart pounded in her ears. Her voice inside her head sounded distant, tinny, like a microphone caught on reverb.

  He eased himself away from her. “You sit.” With his hand on the back of her head, he pushed her down on the f
ront seat. “When I’m done here, I’ll follow you home.”

  “I’m fine, I can—”

  “Don’t argue. I’m not in the mood.” He pulled a pad and pencil from his shirt pocket. He’d taken three steps toward the officers in blue when she called his name.

  “Yes, Miss Starr?”

  Ahh, he was back to calling her Miss. Things couldn’t be all that bad. “Thanks for saving my life.”

  He smiled then, a mere quirk of his lips. “Just doing my job, ma’am.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was dark by the time Witt followed her home. He didn’t get out of his car, but stayed until she’d parked at the curb, pulled up the top on the Miata, then closed and locked her door. His headlights swept the drive as he made a slow U-turn.

  Max climbed the stairs. She was tired, angry, and cold despite the fact that the heat of the day hadn’t fully dissipated in the stuffy apartment. She kicked off her shoes, dumped her jacket and shirt in the middle of the floor, then pulled out an old sweatshirt from the bottom drawer of the dresser. Tugging it over her head, she moved to open the window.

  Buzzard sat on the big ledge. His plaintive meow ceased only after she’d set down half a can of cat food mixed with a handful of crispies. His backbone and ribs still stuck out ominously, but his fur was sleeker, and his cries had become less strident.

  “You’ll hang around for the food or until something better comes along. Just like a man.”

  With frantic woofs, the cat ate the meal in six bites, as if he were afraid someone would steal it right out from under his nose. Jealous, guarded, fearful.

  She stood at the window. Black clouds had rolled across the sky, obliterating the stars. At first, she thought they were part of her imagination, brought on by her dangerous mood, but then she heard the first drops hit the leaves of the big elm outside.

  “I am so pissed at you.”

  She could smell him over the scent of salmon cat food and ozone on the concrete. Peppermints and aftershave. Cameron. He always did that when he wanted to con her, wore some sexy aftershave designed to drive her crazy with lust.

  “I won’t fall for it.”

  “You already did fall for the biggest con in the book.” His voice came from the recesses of the room.

  She rounded on him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I didn’t kill her, I loved her.” With the backdrop of the rain, his impersonation sounded eerily like Nick, though she was sure Nick had never used the “L” word. “You fell for it, Max. A true sucker.”

  “He didn’t kill her. You’re just jealous.”

  It was her only weapon against him, the only way she was sure she wouldn’t break down or beg him to take her in the oblivion of her dreams. She was afraid of what he’d punish her with this time. A few whips and chains. Or worse, Witt Long going down on her. No, she couldn’t handle that, she really couldn’t. Her nipples still ached from that brief contact on the roadway.

  “You’re blinded by your overactive libido. You want Nick, therefore he has to be innocent.”

  If only it was just about Nick Drake. “You don’t like the competition.”

  “He tried to kill you.”

  “You don’t know that, Cameron, unless, of course, your modus operandi has changed suddenly and you can wander all over the planet. It’s a helluva lot more likely that his wife tried to run me down.”

  “You’re not even frightened of him, are you? He’ll strangle you, then slit your throat just to make sure you’re dead.”

  “You don’t know he was driving that truck. You don’t even know if he killed Wendy.”

  She felt sick to her stomach. Wendy’s emotions roiled in her. Wendy was the one who believed unconditionally in Nick’s innocence. Max was the one who knew he’d do just about anything to protect his family. Even commit murder.

  “He should have thought of that before he screwed Wendy.”

  “Get out of my head.” Her throat hurt as if she’d screamed.

  “I can’t.”

  “Wendy would remember if he was the one,” Max insisted.

  “Wendy doesn’t know any more than I know. We believe what we want to believe, even in death, Max. We carry our dreams and illusions with us. None of us wants to know the ones we love are the very ones who would stab us in the back.”

  Images of his death, his blood, and his killers twisted like a knife in her gut, and she cried out. The cat, sitting in the window, stopped licking his paw to look at her, only his faintly accusing yellow eyes visible in the dark trees.

  “I’m sorry, Max,” Cameron’s sweet whisper at her nape. “But I want you to see that Wendy will tell you only what she wants you to believe. What she wants to believe. But her vision of the truth is warped.”

  She wanted to crawl onto the bed and curl into a ball until she’d managed to shut out the world. Instead, she swallowed bitter tears. “You’re deflecting,” she accused. “You don’t want to talk about why you sent me to Divinity without warning me. You knew what she’d say to me.”

  “You wouldn’t believe me when I told you about your power.”

  “And you were there, egging her on.” She clenched her fists. If he’d been alive, she might have slapped him.

  “I never said a word to her.”

  “You let her see you.” Her voice shook. She pulled her anger over her shoulders like a blanket.

  “Being able to see me is her gift.”

  “I’ve never seen you.” And God, it hurt so.

  His voice gentled. She thought she heard tears. “Not because I don’t want you to. Your gifts lie in far more important areas.”

  “Don’t try to get around me with those fake tears.”

  “Please forgive me. I never meant to hurt you, or to be false with you,” he whispered and his voice was everywhere, inside her, like the full feel of him when they had sex. A terrible intimacy, the loss of self. His words, steeped with hidden meanings, sucked the breath from her.

  “I’ve only wanted you to accept the gifts God gave you.”

  “And once I do, you’re out of here, right? Like that’s your purpose? Your good deed that gets you into heaven?”

  “I’ll only leave when you don’t need me.” He paused, his love and his pain undulating in the air, sneaking into her bones. “Or until I can’t help you anymore.”

  Please don’t leave me, not again. I couldn’t bear it a second time. She hugged the words to her breast, knew he’d hear them, prayed he wouldn’t acknowledge them.

  The fear was the worst. She’d never been so overwhelmed by it, not even when she was younger, before Cameron saved her. Fear of being unloved, unwanted, unneeded. Fear of dying. A sudden, horrible vision of Bud Traynor, fist raised, eyes bloodshot, rose relentlessly in her head.

  “You aren’t Wendy, Max, and Bud Traynor isn’t your uncle. Your uncle’s dead, and he can’t hurt you anymore. Nobody, especially not Bud Traynor, will ever hurt you like that again. You don’t have to be alone to ensure that.”

  Max whirled, searching for him, gunning for him in the darkness of her one room apartment. “You’re dead, Cameron. And I am alone.”

  “You’ve chosen that with your temporary jobs, your temporary men, and your temporary cat. You can’t even hack having a cell phone, for Christ’s sake. Your whole life is temporary, and you’ll lose it if you don’t listen to someone. To Witt.”

  She didn’t need a damn cell phone. If Sunny wanted her, she could leave a message and Max would call her back when it was convenient. But a cell phone wasn’t his big point. Max jammed her hands on her hips. “Is that what this is all about? Witt? Are you pushing me off on him? Big cop, big protector? Is that why you made me think he was the one fucking me on that swing?”

  “I keep telling you that was your fantasy, not mine. You think you don’t need a man. But you do need someone.”

  “Goddamn it, I’ve taken care of myself since I was eight years old.”

  “You were a wreck when I found
you.”

  “I was a college graduate.”

  “You weren’t living. You were going through the motions.”

  “And you rescued me,” she scoffed, the ache behind her eyes slid down into her chest, tightened around her heart.

  “I loved you for who you were.”

  “A slut and a tramp.”

  “That’s what your uncle called you. I never did.”

  She rode right over his plea. “I was your great mission in life. So much so that you can’t even leave me alone in death.” She slapped her hands to her sides, turned on her heel, her stride eating up the small length of the room. “God, you sound like Nick talking about his wife. She was mistreated. She needed him. He had to save her,” she mimicked.

  “You did need me.”

  Cameron’s truth, the truth, cut to the core. She’d been so needy.

  She stabbed a finger in the air at the spot his voice came from, hated him for being right. “I was your Eliza Doolittle. Your protégé. Your masterpiece.”

  “You were my lover. My heart. My soul.”

  “Then why did you die on me?” she shouted, fists slashing at the air, heart cleaved in two.

  “I didn’t want to, baby. I wanted to be there forever.”

  “Well, you can’t be.” She didn’t cry. She wouldn’t cry. She couldn’t cry.

  “You’re right. I thought I was protecting you by staying, helping you through the worst of it. What my murderers did to you after—”

  “Don’t you say it. Don’t you ever say it.” She turned her back on his voice, turned again when it surrounded her.

  “You’ve never wanted to talk about it.”

  The room was too small to pace. She turned in circles, her anger spiraling down along the same route. “I know exactly what they did. I saw the gun. I saw the blood. I saw them kill you.”

  “And I saw what they did to you when I couldn’t stop them. I watched when they dragged you out of that store and into their car. I never left you. And afterwards I talked to you as you lay there, naked, beaten, and raped, in the park where they dumped you. Until the sun came up. Until the joggers found you.”