Wrapping both hands around a chipped coffee mug, she lifted it to take a sip. So far Detective Garcia had been too much of a gentleman to come right out and call her a liar. But she’d seen the doubt in his eyes. He didn’t quite believe anything she’d told him. Not that she’d dared to tell him everything.
But that was almost beside the point. She was a believer now. She knew the truth. With a touch of her hand, she could communicate with the dead. She could hear them. She could question them. She could use what they told her to solve the mysteries surrounding their deaths.
So far her time with each spirit had seemed limited. The spirits appeared to tire easily, as if they felt the weight of being tied to their earthly bodies, as if communication took an effort. But they never left until they got all the important information out.
Reflected movement in the window ahead of her caught Emma’s eye. She looked up. But instead of Charlie returning from a meeting with the crime scene investigators, Jason crossed the big room.
“Sorry to keep you.” His voice was rough, his movements tight as he took a chair at the desk that faced Charlie Garcia’s.
“Where’s your partner?” she asked. She didn’t want to be alone with this man who made her feel desires she could barely control. And she was afraid to answer any more questions. Still excited over having proven what she could do, still distracted by Jason, she feared she might blurt out the truth.
Jason pulled his chair close to the desk. “I wasn’t getting anywhere with Potter so Charlie decided to take a turn questioning him. He’s gone to the hospital.”
Emma’s hands twitched, causing the coffee in her mug to slosh to the rim.
“So you’re taking your turn to interrogate me?” She placed the mug on the desk before she spilled coffee all over her lap.
“This isn’t an interrogation. We just want information.” He pulled a notepad onto his coffee-stained blotter. “Charlie told me you don’t want to press charges against Potter.”
“There’s no point. He didn’t hurt me.”
Jason took a pen out of his shirt pocket. “He could have.”
She shrugged in a casual manner although she felt anything but casual. Excitement hit her hard on two fronts—spiritual and carnal—and sitting here made her feel fidgety. “You’re getting him for murder. That’s the more important charge.”
“If we can make it stick. We have one witness who says Potter stole his gun to kill Turner. But he’s as bad a junkie as Potter, himself and won’t make a credible witness.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You should just be glad we stumbled across the guy. If it wasn’t for him, Charlie and I wouldn’t have known to look for Craig Potter near the docks this evening.”
“I wondered why you were there,” Emma said quickly, hoping he would stop wondering about her presence there.
He pierced her with curious eyes. “We may need you to testify that Potter attacked you.”
Thinking of the questions an attorney might ask—about why she’d been in that area of town—Emma shook her head. “Please don’t ask me to do that. I’ve been through too much lately.”
He leaned both elbows on the desk and glared at her. “You did a post mortem on Dennis Turner today. And you want me to believe that it was pure coincidence that you were in Potter’s territory tonight.”
Emma’s purse lay in her lap and she began twisting her fingers around the strap. If she kept this up, she’d better start carrying strapless purses. “I guess so.”
“You’d never met either man before today.”
“I didn’t actually meet Mr. Turner.”
He frowned. “This is nothing to joke about. Potter could have killed you if Charlie and I hadn’t come along.”
“I know and you saved my life. Thank you.”
The pink in his sun-darkened cheeks surprised her. Hard-nosed cops didn’t blush. Men on the prowl didn’t blush.
Confused, Emma tightened the strap around her fingers. Her insides sizzled and popped. Her mind went blank as it occurred to her that Jason MacKenzie might find her attractive in something more than his usual predatory way.
Don’t you dare start thinking like that!
“Yeah. Well.” Jason started scribbling on his notepad. His voice remained cold and unconvinced. “You said you were lost. And your cell phone battery was dead so you were looking for a phone. Who were you planning to call?”
Her mind searched frantically for a logical answer. “My ex-husband.”
Jason looked up sharply. “Your ex-husband?”
“Yes.” He still doesn’t believe me, she thought and started talking faster. “You saw him that night in the restaurant. Alan Winfeld. He’s been doing business in that area of town and I thought he could give me directions.”
Jason’s eyes brightened. “You’re friendly with your ex?”
“Alan and I have an amicable divorce,” she said quietly.
“So amicable that you’ve started dating him.”
She cleared her throat and fiddled with the strap of her purse some more. “Yes.”
“So you’re getting back together.”
“Maybe.” The word came out on a shallow breath. As color rose higher in her face, she forced herself to hold his gaze, to convince him of this newest lie so that he would turn his attention elsewhere, maybe toward a woman who could handle a man like him. She’d already proven with her ex-husband that she couldn’t. “We’re…discussing it.”
Jason’s gaze moved down her face and then up again. Muscles that hinged his jaw tightened. “I don’t believe that you were lost, Dr. St. Clair. I don’t believe that you were looking for a phone. I don’t believe that you were at that warehouse by chance. Why don’t you tell me what you were really doing there?”
Fear chilled the marrow of her bones and her thoughts churned, seeking an answer that he would accept. She couldn’t tell him the truth.
“I…got…” Swallowing, she sat up straighter and forced herself to continue holding his gaze. “An anonymous phone call. From a man. He told me… He said that I might find a clue at the warehouse.”
“What kind of clue?”
“The gun. He told me I might find the gun that was used to kill Dennis Turner.” God, even to myself, I sound like I’m lying!
“So you went down there to look for it.” Skepticism thickened his tone. “You didn’t think you should call the police?”
“I did think about it but…” She swallowed again. “I know it was stupid but I just wanted to follow through.”
“It was stupid.”
She blinked as her eyes began to burn and she looked down at her tangled fingers.
A moment of silence passed before Jason sighed heavily. “This anonymous caller…what did he sound like?”
“There was nothing unusual in his voice. It was about as deep as yours. Slight Texas drawl. Nothing unusual.”
Jason made a few more notes. “Good. Okay. Well, I guess that’s it. I hope it works out for you with your ex-husband.”
Despite her relief, guilt continued to press on her conscience. “I can go?”
“Yes.” Picking up the pad, he shoved it inside a drawer. “But stay away from the docks. People get killed down there. And next time you get an anonymous call like that, call a cop.”
“I will.”
As he looked at her again with those fevered eyes, her friends’ warnings whispered through Emma’s mind. That was why she’d lied about Alan, she told herself. Because Jason MacKenzie was just like her ex-husband and with little incentive he would break her heart.
Unfortunately, her body told her it didn’t matter what kind of man he was. She found him attractive and her libido wasn’t letting her forget it.
Slipping her mangled purse strap over her shoulder, she stood up.
He rose too. “I’ll walk you out.”
“I can find my way. Thanks.”
He nodded quickly, glanced around as if he’d lost something on the floor and the
n dropped back into his chair. “All right.”
Turning, Emma walked away. She heard his chair squeak and, as quickly as she could, she hurried out the door.
Anger washed through Jason as he watched her from the corner of one eye. He was angry because she’d put herself in danger with so little thought. Because she was still involved with her ex-husband. Because he couldn’t think straight when he looked in those gorgeous eyes of hers.
But close behind all that anger followed that damnable need that he’d been working so hard to ignore.
Turning his back on the door as she passed through it, he threw his pencil across the room, bouncing it off the window. As the clatter echoed away, the most overwhelming emotion of all came over him. Loneliness.
She’d said she wanted to work things out with her ex-husband. She’d made that point very clear. She wasn’t interested in him. She did not feel the same attraction he felt for her. He ought to accept that. He ought to straighten the painful twist out of his heart and put her aside. From now on, she should be important to him only as a victim or as a witness. That ought to be the end of it.
But it wasn’t the end of it. Not by a long shot.
Chapter Twelve
Hailey Newman met Emma as she stepped off the elevator the next morning. “Dr. Powell wants to see you right away.”
The admin’s fretful attitude puzzled Emma. “I thought he was going fishing today.”
“He cancelled. You’d better go in.” Hailey stepped into the elevator and pressed a button. She waved her hands in a “hurry-up” motion and then the elevator door slid closed.
Puzzled, Emma headed for her boss’s office. He wouldn’t have given up his day off unless a serious problem existed. He wouldn’t be calling for her unless that problem involved her. Holding one hand against her suddenly jittery stomach, she raised the other to knock on his door and then opened it.
Edgar stood behind his desk, staring out the window. To Emma’s surprise, Marta sat in one of the guest chairs, legs crossed, one foot swinging impatiently. Both of them turned as Emma entered the room.
“What were you doing in the warehouse district last night?” Edgar demanded before she could greet them.
Surprised by his tone—and his knowledge—Emma stopped just inside the open doorway. She had switched out purses this morning but this one was apparently on the way to ruin too, as she clutched the strap in both hands. “How did you—”
“The chief of detectives called me at home early this morning. He was all over my ass about you meddling in police affairs.”
“Chief Hosken called me too, Emma and then Edgar asked me in to talk to you.” Uncrossing her legs, Marta turned in her seat. Sympathy gleamed in her dark eyes. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Emma forced herself to lower one hand from her purse strap. “Yes, I’m fine.”
Edgar yanked his own chair from under the desk. Anger darkened his eyes. “You’re not a detective. I won’t have you risking your life like that.”
“Hosken said you got an anonymous tip,” Marta said more gently.
“Yes.” Emma forced the half-lie out of her mouth. “A man told me where Craig Potter hid the gun he used to kill Dennis Turner. I thought I should check it out.”
“And you didn’t think to call someone? Not even me?” Rising, Marta reached out to catch Emma’s free hand. “Why would you do something so dangerous?”
“You had a date last night,” she answered, gripping her friend’s hand, trying to convey a reassurance she didn’t feel. “I didn’t want to bother you until I knew if the tip was good.”
“At the very least you should have called the police.” Marta narrowed one eye and peered more closely at Emma. “Jason MacKenzie is in charge of your hit-and-run. Did you know he was also looking for Turner’s killer?”
Edgar leaned forward. “Is there a problem with MacKenzie, Emma? Do you not trust him because he hasn’t solved your case?”
“Of course I trust him.” The words burst forth with conviction, surprising even her. “I mean… Why wouldn’t I?”
“MacKenzie isn’t perfect.” Marta gave her hand another squeeze. “But he’s a good detective. You have to trust him to do his job.”
“Let the cops do the cop work,” Edgar ordered. “You could’ve been killed. You’re playing in a rough playground when you step into police matters.”
“I’m sorry.” Emma took a deep breath. Giving her friends a weak smile, she pulled free of Marta’s grip. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to my own work.”
Before they could chastise her further, she hurried out of the office. They had no idea how rough this playground was or how hard she intended to play in it. She couldn’t give up now that she knew the truth. The spirits, she felt sure, wouldn’t let her.
* * * * *
Jason jabbed his spade into the ground under the rose bushes. Morning sunlight warmed his back but the dirt turned cool four inches down. He barely noticed the contrast as his thoughts focused on Emma. He’d told Charlie about her anonymous informant. With Edgar Powell’s permission, Charlie had started checking all phone records at the ME’s office, hoping to track down the informant and see what else he might know about the Potter case.
But why hadn’t Emma admitted to the call from the beginning? What was she still holding back? And why the hell couldn’t he just think of her as a victim or as a participant in a criminal investigation?
As he jabbed the dirt again, his elbow bumped a fat rose. The flower’s heady scent surrounded him and he found himself wondering what brand of perfume Emma wore. He wondered if she liked old film noir or modern thrillers. He wondered if she would laugh with abandon at The Three Stooges like his sister had or if she’d prefer the caustic humor of modern comics.
He wondered if her lips would taste as sweet as the petals of the rose they so resembled or if there would be a zip like cinnamon to her womanly flavor. Would she, after his harsh questioning of last evening, ever speak to him again? That possibility hurt as much as the knowledge that he’d never hear from Rose or his parents again.
And that, he realized as he dug deeper into the earth, might be the loss that undid him.
* * * * *
“Turn him over to Talbot, Skitch.” Turning her back on the latest deceased, Emma stepped to the nearby sink while her assistant reached for the phone to call in one of the morgue attendants.
This man had been a marathon runner whose heart had exploded. The one before that had been a woman who, if she hadn’t experienced the sudden rupture of a previously undetected aneurysm, would eventually have talked herself to death.
Before that had been a teenage overdose victim who claimed his doctor had killed him but he’d been too strung out all the time to catch the doctor’s name. Emma wanted to tell Marta about that one but couldn’t figure out how to do so without revealing the source of her information or why she would suspect a doctor of such a thing. And if she’d learned anything from her encounter with Craig Potter, it was to plan her story before she acted.
Now as warm water flowed over her hands, weariness seeped through her. Six post mortem procedures in two days plus the paperwork and research that went with each one, would have taken a toll on her anyway. In addition, although not all of the spirits wanted her to do something, all of them needed to unburden themselves. And as their burdens shifted to her shoulders, she feared she might sink under the weight.
But she couldn’t complain about the load. A complaint would require an explanation. An explanation would get her tossed out of the autopsy suite. And if she couldn’t work, she really would lose her mind.
“Why is this man here?” Edgar complained from the center station. “His medical chart says he had acute hepatitis. He was under a doctor’s care so he shouldn’t need a post mortem.”
Emma lathered up her hands. “Who brought him in?”
A moment of silence preceded his answer. “Oh. Hmm.”
She rinsed her hands and reached f
or a paper towel. “Why did you say ‘hmm’?”
“The police found him this morning in a motel on the edge of town. His wife reported him missing two days ago.” Edgar stepped aside as Emma approached his table. “With no medical personnel around the police had to consider it a suspicious death.”
Weary, Emma stumbled. As she caught herself on the table, the knuckles of one hand brushed the thigh of the corpse.
“They damn well ought to consider it a suspicious death!” came an angry voice.
“Oh, no,” she groaned and looked up to see the image of Edgar’s patient standing beside him on the other side of the table.
“Are you all right, Doc?” Leaving the phone, Skitch reached to help her right herself. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m okay.”
“I want something done about this,” the spirit complained. “I want that bitch to pay!”
“I’m sorry,” Emma said without thinking. Angry, this one wouldn’t tire easily. It needed to vent its hostility completely before going on its way. Sometimes the rant of an angry spirit could last fifteen minutes. The strength of its presence could be numbing to the living. Even Edgar and Skitch had felt the effect a couple of times, although both continued to blame the air conditioner for the cold that accompanied the dead.
“No need to apologize.” Looking over the top rim of his glasses, Edgar considered her from across his table. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”
Releasing her, Skitch headed for the cooler room door. “I guess we’re all getting a little tired.”
“What about me?” the apparition demanded. “My wife poisoned me!”
“This man was ill for months.” Edgar looked back at the file. “Chronic Hepatitis C. He was responding to treatments but suddenly stopped seeing his doctor.”
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