Always Look Twice

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  Making logic hard to apply.

  Bethany’s was an upscale boutique on Melrose Avenue, but in Olivia’s opinion the fashions were dull and the displays stark and sparse. Headless mannequins with anorexic bodies made an overly chic statement.

  “Nice place,” West said.

  Olivia ignored his comment. He wore a dark suit every day of his life.

  A tall, slim woman approached them, mimicking a runway model. Her dyed-black hair, blunt cut and razor sharp, framed an angular face with strong cheekbones and iridescent lipstick. Her two-tone dress, sand and sepia, draped her to perfection.

  No doubt this was Beth. The former Mrs. Moon, an ex-Hollywood wife who visited her cosmetic surgeon for regular touch-ups, little procedures here and there that made her look younger than her fiftysomething years.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, eyeing Olivia’s trendy top and slim-fitting jeans with a concerned expression. Obviously, she didn’t peg Olivia for a paying customer, someone who would shop at Bethany’s.

  Good call, Olivia thought. Her gold card would remain in her wallet.

  The look Beth graced upon West was altogether different. She assumed he’d dragged Olivia into the shop for a makeover.

  Offering him an elegant smile, she stepped closer. “Is there something special you’re looking for?”

  “We were hoping to speak to the owner,” he said.

  “That’s me.” She extended her hand. “Beth Moon.”

  “Special Agent West.” He shook her hand, then flashed his badge and government ID. “And my companion is Olivia Whirlwind.”

  “Whirlwind?” Beth flinched. “Please don’t tell me you’re related to Yvonne.”

  “I’m her daughter.”

  “And Yvonne is the reason we’re here,” West said.

  Beth agreed to speak with them privately, instructing her sales assistant to watch the floor.

  A few minutes later, Olivia and West were seated in Beth’s office, a tidy area in the backroom of her boutique. She offered both of them coffee, but she kept her attention focused on West, ignoring Olivia in the process. Uncomfortable, it appeared, by her blood-related connection to Yvonne.

  West asked Beth if she knew who Yvonne had left town with, but she shook her head, claiming she didn’t keep tabs on Olivia’s mother.

  “Are you sure?” he prodded.

  “Yes.” She tucked one side of her hair behind her ear, where a topaz jewel sparkled. “Is Yvonne in trouble with the law?”

  “She’s missing,” West said. “And we suspect foul play.”

  “Pity,” came the cool reply.

  He sipped his coffee, then leaned forward, making direct eye contact with the wealthy divorcée. “Did she ruin your marriage?”

  Beth raised a manicured hand to the front of her dress. Her nails were painted the same iridescent shade as her lips. “Did Derek tell you that?”

  “He told me,” Olivia said.

  The other woman finally turned to acknowledge her. “What else did he say?”

  “He mentioned voyeurism.”

  “Did he?” Her eyes turned cold. “Derek was obsessed with that type of behavior. And so was your mother.”

  Olivia couldn’t tell if Beth was being truthful. Nothing radiated from her. Nothing but a bitter divorce. “He said they weren’t lovers.”

  “They weren’t. But Yvonne used to have sex with other men and let Derek watch. That bitch got off on it.”

  West glanced at Olivia, and she felt sick inside. The stories about her mom were getting worse.

  “Did Derek give you that spiel about him being a good witch?” Beth asked.

  Olivia nodded. “He said he practiced white magic.”

  “Well, he doesn’t, not anymore.”

  “Anymore?”

  “After he met Yvonne, he began to explore her magic. The dark things she taught him. Within no time, he was using witchcraft in negative ways, casting spells to advance himself, trying to obtain more wealth and more power.”

  And he lies about it to protect his reputation, Olivia thought. To stop the media from making scandalous accusations about his squeaky-clean company. “If my mother taught him the things he practices today, then why does he hate her?”

  “Because I divorced him over her. He never acted on his voyeurism fantasies until Yvonne came along. She corrupted him. With her supernatural powers, with her sensuality. He isn’t the same man I married, and he never will be.”

  “Do you know Glenn Sabolich?” West asked.

  “Yes. He used to be part of the coven, the one Derek started with Yvonne.”

  Glenn is a witch, Olivia thought. Just like Moon. Lord only knew which man had killed her mother.

  Beth continued. “Yvonne called the coven a witch society and referred to Derek as the ceremonial father rather than a high priest. I assume those are Native terms.” She heaved a sigh. “I’ve always been fascinated by other cultures. I suppose that’s what drew me to Yvonne when I first met her.”

  “Will you compile a list of the men and women in Derek’s coven?” West asked her. “I’d like to interview them.”

  “Yvonne was the only woman.” She reached for her coffee, frowned into the cup. “As for the men, I’ll give you their names, but don’t expect them to cooperate. They’re all very rich and powerful, and they don’t like people poking around in their business.”

  Olivia scooted to the edge of her chair, dreading her next question. “Did my father know that my mother was involved in witchcraft?”

  Beth shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of.” She picked up a pen and began making a list of the men in her ex-husband’s coven. “But I only saw Joseph a few times.”

  West asked the next question. “How did you know that your husband was watching Yvonne with other men? How did you know that she wasn’t lying to you?”

  She handed him the list. “Because she showed me a videotape that he’d filmed, that he’d hidden in his safe. Derek never meant for me to see it. He didn’t want me to know what he was doing. Not the black magic or the voyeurism.”

  The special agent sat back in his chair. “Why was Yvonne trying to break up your marriage?”

  “Why else? She wanted Derek and the glamorous lifestyle he could provide. A mansion in Beverly Hills, a thriving production company, rich and famous friends.” Beth twisted the topaz in her ear, the amber jewel glinting against her hair. “But in spite of her influence over him, he was still in love with me. She was his playmate, someone to feed his fantasies. Yvonne was the darkness and I was light, the part of himself that he’d lost. That she’d stolen from him.” She stopped turning her earring. “Now if you don’t have any more questions, I’d like to get back to work.”

  Olivia and West agreed to end the interview, and when they turned leave, Olivia finally got a reading on Beth Moon.

  She hadn’t been lying. Everything she’d said had been the truth. But like her ex-husband, she also hated Yvonne enough to kill her.

  Chapter 9

  Once they were on the sidewalk, Olivia turned to look at West. “Is it possible the Slasher could be a woman?”

  “Why? Did you just get a mental confession from Beth?”

  “No. But she hated my mom enough to kill her.”

  “Apparently a lot of people did.” He slicked his hair back with his hands. Then he fell silent.

  She supposed he was contemplating the female-killer angle. She could almost see the wheels turning in his head.

  “Is it possible?” she prodded.

  He walked to his car, which was parallel parked a few feet from Bethany’s. Olivia’s Porsche was around the corner. West had snagged the closer spot.

  When he didn’t respond, she pushed the issue. “That could be the mistake in your report.”

  He unlocked the rented sedan and gestured for her to climb into the passenger seat. “I don’t think Beth is the offender.” They sat in his car, and he rolled down the windows, allowing a small breeze to cool their face
s. “I can see her stabbing your mom, but the other victims? It doesn’t wash.” He leaned against the headrest. “Female killers usually exhibit a preference for victims who can be easily subdued, their own children, an elderly relative. Either that, or they knock off lovers or spouses. They rarely attack adult strangers.”

  “Maybe she slashed up those other women to make it look like a man committed these crimes. To throw the police off track in case they find my mom’s body.”

  “That’s possible. Women are often methodical, eminently lethal in their actions. They don’t fool around.” He pushed his hair off his forehead again, where the straight, dark strands rebelled from the wind. “And with all the tampered-with DNA, we don’t have any gender-specific evidence.”

  “Plus there was no sexual assault. None of the victims were raped or sodomized.” Olivia glanced at the headless mannequins in Bethany’s window display. “That could indicate a woman.”

  “True, but it could indicate a man, too. Thrusting a knife into a body can be a substitute for thrusting a penis. For some killers, sexual satisfaction is derived from seeing the victim’s blood spill.” He blew out a rough sigh. “This is such a complicated case. One step forward and one step back. We’re not getting anywhere.”

  “Which means what? That you’re not ruling out a woman?”

  He reached into his pocket for his sunglasses, a pair of Men in Black shades that shielded his obscure gray eyes. “At this point, I’m not ruling out anything. But I still have my doubts about Beth.”

  “She has motive—revenge. And she matches the height of the perpetrator.” Something that had been determined by several factors, including the distance between the Slasher’s shoeprints. Luckily, the distance between those prints seemed too concise, too real to be considered contaminated, unlike the shoeprints themselves. “Wouldn’t a slightly built man be around the same size as a statuesque woman? And wouldn’t the victims be more likely to allow a woman into their homes? To not be afraid of her?”

  West frowned. “Yes, but Beth isn’t a witch, is she? The offender has supernatural powers.”

  “I didn’t get a reading on her spiritual energy. But she’s certainly been exposed to the occult. She was telling the truth about her ex. He practices black magic.”

  “Was she honest about Glenn Sabolich, too? Was he part of the coven?”

  “Yes.” The man who’d helped shape her childhood was a witch.

  “At least we know that much,” West said, as sunlight slashed across the windshield.

  Silent, Olivia glanced out the open window, where a trio of teenage boys walked along the sidewalk, shoulder to shoulder, displaying their hard-core style and retro-punk attitudes. In the eighties, Melrose had been besieged with studs and spikes and shoes called Creepers. A strangely colorful era, she thought, that had been part of her youth.

  But those days were gone, taking her innocence, as well. A father who’d committed suicide. An adulterous mother who’d been murdered. A family friend who’d betrayed the daughters left behind.

  If only Allie didn’t trust him. If only she could make her sister see that Glenn was dangerous.

  West interrupted her thoughts. “Maybe we’re dealing with a sophisticated shape-shifter. A man who can morph into a woman. Or a woman who can morph into a man.”

  “Or a transvestite,” she said, making him laugh.

  After that, they both turned quiet. Feeling unsettled, Olivia gazed at him, trying to see beyond his masked eyes. She’d become accustomed to the strange color, to their magnetic allure.

  The late-day traffic picked up, and cars sluiced past them, zooming through green lights, honking at jay-walking pedestrians.

  To abate the noise, West rolled up the windows. And in the stillness of his motionless sedan, she continued to study him. She wanted to touch his face, to graze the texture of his skin, to follow the structure of his bones, the hollow depths that shadowed his features.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.

  Because suddenly his car seemed like a coffin, a reminder that he was going to die. She could sense his scattered energy, the way he would struggle to breathe, his desperate gasps for air. A premonition she couldn’t control.

  “No reason,” she said. What good would her constant warnings do? He would only laugh it off. But maybe that was part of his death wish, the morbid humor that made him who he was.

  “I’m going to head over to the station,” he told her. “I’d like to reevaluate what we have. Go through those files again. There’s got to be a way to zero in on the gender of our killer.”

  She crossed her arms to avoid a shudder. Our killer. It sounded so personal. So intimate.

  “Do you want to follow me over there?” he asked.

  “No.” She wanted to get in her own car and go home, to forget that she was psychic, to ignore her powers and pretend to be normal.

  Just once, she thought, curling her fingers around her purse, grasping the inanimate object instead of touching him.

  Agent West. The man who was bound to disappear.

  When evening came, Olivia still struggled with her emotions. She sat in front of the TV, eating ice cream from the carton, pigging out on chocolate mint.

  Allie bustled around the loft, getting ready to go out. She breezed into the living room to model her new outfit, a flowing black dress that made her look like a dark and dangerous gypsy. Silver hoops dangled in her ears, and her hair, long and loose, exploded in crimping-iron disarray.

  “Wow. You look hot,” Olivia said.

  “I do, don’t I?” Allie did a vampish pirouette and laughed. She had been continuing her training with Kyle, and the self-defense sessions seemed to boost her confidence.

  Olivia smiled around a spoonful of ice cream. No doubt her sister enjoyed beating up on Kyle.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go out?” Allie asked. “A little dancing might do you some good.”

  Olivia quit smiling. She wasn’t in the mood to prowl the club scene, even if she liked Allie’s ditzy friends. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

  Her sister scrunched up her face. “Did something happen today?”

  “No.” She didn’t want to admit that her deathly premonitions about West were getting stronger. Allie was already too attached to the FBI agent, probably thinking he was a great catch.

  The kind of man Olivia needed. She wouldn’t put it past her baby sister to try to marry her off, to dream up some grand illusion that Olivia was falling in love with Ian West.

  “I’ll probably be late,” Allie said.

  “That’s fine. Just watch your back, okay?”

  “I won’t let any witches get me.” The younger woman fluffed her wild mane. Around her neck, she wore a self-designed charm, a wolf claw wrapped in leather and decorated with beads. According to their father, wolves were associated with war, and wolf medicine was used as protection from one’s enemies.

  Olivia doubted that Allie’s charm was strong enough to ward off the witches their mother had spawned, but she wasn’t about to discourage her sister’s effort.

  After Allie left, Olivia remained in front of the TV. Thirty minutes later someone knocked at the door. She climbed off the couch and checked the peephole.

  It was West.

  With a deep breath she answered the summons. He stood like a sentry in the doorway, tall and strong, with the loft stairs framing him in an architectural backdrop.

  “Did Allie call you?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I came on my own.”

  “Why?”

  “To eat some ice cream with you.”

  She frowned, wondering how he knew she’d been pigging out, then she glanced back and saw the carton on the coffee table. Apparently he’d spotted it, too.

  “Do you want to come in?”

  His lips tilted in a half smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Once he was inside, she closed the door. But their conversation didn’t pick up. They simply
gazed at each other. Stared into each other’s eyes.

  And then Olivia’s knees threatened to buckle.

  Déjà vu. This was her vision, the moment West would kiss her.

  She fidgeted with her top, with the silk pajamas she wore. West watched her like a predator, and she realized her loungewear was the same color as his eyes.

  Had she dragged these pajamas out of her drawer purposely? Or had it been a subconscious effort?

  He wore familiar clothes, too. The jeans and tan pullover she’d seen in her vision. She glanced at his feet and noticed his scuffed boots.

  “I know why you’re here,” she said.

  “Do you?” He stepped closer.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He reached out to touch her face, to skim his knuckles along her jaw.

  She moistened her lips. There was no point in fighting it. She wanted this to happen. She wanted to feel his mouth against hers, to taste his desire.

  His hand slipped, moving down the column of her neck.

  She waited, expectation pummeling her body like burning coals.

  And then he did it. He kissed her, pushing his tongue into her mouth.

  Olivia pressed closer, clawing his shirt with her nails. Somewhere nearby, somewhere in the crowded cavern of her aroused mind, she heard Samantha hissing.

  The cat was jealous.

  West kept kissing her. But he wasn’t gentle. He was fierce and strong, cupping her rear, dragging her pelvis against his.

  But Olivia didn’t care. This was exactly what she needed, exactly what she craved. Hard-driven lust. His tongue swallowing hers.

  She untucked his shirt and reached under it, skimming her fingers along his stomach, dipping her thumb into his navel. He made a rough sound, and she knew he wanted her to unzip his pants. But instead she moved her hand in the other direction, pressing her palm against his heart.

  And then she froze. She couldn’t feel anything. No life force. No strong, steady beats.

  Agent West was dead.

  No, she thought, as she pulled away, as she ended the kiss. No.

  He frowned at her. “What’s wrong?”