Killer Charms

by Marianne Stillings

  So she thought to snare him, did she? No wonder she was so keen on getting him to play along with her séance, insisting on a dinner engagement, continuing to see him even after the Haggis Incident, as he’d come to think of it. And finally, demanding to know how he faked his clairvoyance.

  Had she worn a wire? Probably.

  He took another sip of brandy and considered the big picture. Why had she been sent undercover? What did the SFPD suspect him of, hope to learn about him—that he was a rogue and a charlatan? A thief? A murderer?

  Sure, he was all those things, and damned if he wasn’t.

  His chair squeaked as he leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. He could confront her, come clean, put all his cards on the table, or whatever term the Yanks used.

  Or…

  A slow grin curved his mouth as a much more appealing thought began to take form inside his head. He could play her game, see how far she’d take it, how far she’d go—in the line of duty—to get her man. According to the file, her brothers held distinguished service records. He’d be willing to bet she was out to best them; it would be just like her, or what he knew of her—and he fancied he knew a lot at this point.

  He pursed his lips. Giving the adorable Andie Darling the runaround might prove interesting. After all, he now knew who she was and what she was up to, but she knew nothing of him, save for his reputation and whatever information the SFPD thought they had.

  He powered down the laptop. By rights, he should be angry as hell at being played like this, but the allure of getting his hands on a woman who was pledged to find whatever means she could to get close to him was simply too fascinating to resist.

  This was going to be fun, damned if it wasn’t. If he kissed her again, would she let him? If he ran his hands under her clothes, would she protest? How far was she willing to go to get him to spill his secrets?

  Sliding his cell phone out of his pocket, he flipped it open to dial her number, when a knock on his hotel room door stopped him. He made sure the computer was completely shut down, then went to the door.

  A man and a woman stood there. The man was good-looking, blond, midthirties, wore rimless glasses and a nicely tailored blue suit. Though he looked vaguely familiar, Logan was certain they’d never met before.

  The woman waited a step or two behind him. Forty-something, maybe older, but she was eye-catching, and no mistake. Red hair, beauty-queen bone structure. Full lips that did not curve into a smile.

  The man raised his hand. A brass shield flashed in the light of the hallway.

  As if these two didn’t have cop written all over them.

  “Logan Sinclair,” the man said.

  “Aye.”

  The man grinned, and Logan could have sworn he’d seen that smile somewhere before.

  “I’m Inspector Darling, and this is my partner, Inspector Matthews. We’d like a word with you.”

  Logan stared at the badge, then at the man. Same color hair, same cheekbones, same smile. The color of their eyes was different, but there was no mistaking this was one of Andie’s brothers.

  The voices inside his head began to chatter, competing with each other to be heard. Jesus, had something happened to her?

  Panic quickened his heartbeat as he stepped back, opening the door wider to allow the two entry.

  “Always happy to cooperate with the police, Inspector…Darling did you say?”

  Behind the lenses of his glasses, the detective’s brown eyes narrowed. “Best not to go down that road, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Logan nodded. “Understood.”

  In a solemn tone, Andie’s brother said, “You’re acquainted with a woman named Drew Mochrie, correct?”

  Och. So this was about Drew. Well, best to play along, not stray too far from the truth, and say no more than required.

  “Miss Mochrie is a client of mine.”

  “Client?”

  “Aye. I’m a clairvoyant. I’m helping her to encourage the spirit of her brother to leave this world behind and move on to the next.”

  “That so? When did you see her last?” Inspector Matthews eased forward and all but glared into his eyes.

  He lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Last night. And again this morning, as a matter of fact.”

  “Where?” Darling said.

  “At her home last evening. This morning, we met for tea in a café in Union Square. Why? What’s all this about?”

  The detectives exchanged quick glances.

  “What time this morning?” Darling said.

  “Close to eleven thirty, I should think,” he said, not bothering to hide his impatience. “Are you going to tell me what this is about, or do I have to resort to mental telepathy?”

  When Darling’s mouth flattened, Logan said slowly, “Just what division of the police department are you with, Inspector?”

  “Homicide.” Darling’s gaze intensified.

  “Hom—What in the hell? Has something happened, then?”

  Inspector Matthews raised her chin, locking her gaze with his. It was obvious she didn’t want to miss his reaction, whatever it might be.

  “Ms. Mochrie was found dead earlier this afternoon at her home,” she said.

  “What?” Drew was dead? What in the hell had happened? “How did—”

  “Early reports,” she interrupted, “indicate a broken neck suffered in a fall down the cellar stairs. We won’t know for sure until the ME’s had a chance to perform an autopsy.”

  Drew broke her neck in a fall down the same cellar steps as Tolley? Logan swiped his hand over his jaw and mumbled, “Jesus Christ.”

  Inspector Darling cleared his throat. “Also, a valuable necklace is missing. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about any of this, would you, Mr. Sinclair?”

  Chapter 12

  I’ve a grand memory for forgetting.

  Robert Louis Stevenson

  Andie watched Nate pace the floor of her living room. Her house on Russian Hill was small, but even so, on a cop’s salary, if Ethan hadn’t helped her out with the down payment, she never would have been able to afford the charming, single-story tongue-and-groove.

  Nate was a big guy and covered the carpeted area in five long strides before turning on his heel and pacing back again. Shoving his glasses up on his nose, he said, “Without probable cause, we couldn’t do a search of Sinclair’s room, and the necklace sure as hell wasn’t sitting out in plain view.” He scrubbed his jaw with his knuckles.

  Andie eased herself into the floral wing chair by the bay window that overlooked her tiny and very precious rose garden. “What about prints?”

  Her brother’s brow furrowed. “Even if we lifted some latents, he admits to having been at her house. Doesn’t prove anything.”

  “You said the maid talked about a second man.”

  “According to Sinclair, the guy’s name is Oliver Kerr. He films the sessions.”

  “Well, is he a witness, an alibi, or an accomplice?”

  “Sinclair could have named him as a witness to his innocence, or his alibi, but didn’t, so I’m looking at accomplice. Or I will, when we find him. Apparently, he hooked up with a girl, and Sinclair doesn’t know where he is.”

  “You try his cell phone?”

  He gave a quick nod. “Voice mail.”

  Andie closed her eyes for a moment. This new information on Logan—that he was implicated in robbery and murder—began to overlay, color, even distort what she knew about him. And what she didn’t know.

  Was this why Bostwick was so eager to collar him? Did the commander have information on past crimes, maybe including a homicide…

  Damn. Something nagged at the back of her brain—something insistent yet indistinct, like the buzz of a mosquito under a blanket. Then she realized what it was. The idea of Logan’s killing a woman to rob her didn’t jibe with her perception of him. Sure, he was charming, he was smooth, he was a con man head to toe—but a stone-cold killer?

  “I don’t know, Nate,”
she said thoughtfully, tenting her fingers under her chin. “I figured him for a lot of things, but this. My gut tells me no.”

  Nate put his hands on his hips. “It’s obvious you’re letting your personal feelings sway your judgment.”

  She raised her head and scowled. “I don’t have any personal feelings one way or the other about Logan Sinclair!”

  Her brother’s lips curved downward as though he’d just been asked to believe in the Easter Bunny.

  “I see the look in your eyes when you talk about him, Andie. Maybe you don’t realize it, but he’s not just a suspect to you, and this isn’t just a case. Something inside you has gotten too close, made it personal.”

  When she began to protest again, he raised one hand. “Hold on,” he growled. “I know what I’m talking about because the same thing happened to me. I recognize the signs. But if you think you need a second opinion, ask Ethan, because the same damn thing happened to him!”

  “You’re wrong. You’re dead wrong, Nate.”

  Now he lifted both hands in the air, palms up, as though he were pushing an invisible box across the room. “You can deny it all you want, but I think it’s time you took a good hard look at what’s going on inside your head. Hell, maybe even your heart for all I know. Either you stay detached, aloof, impersonal, or you admit you have inappropriate feelings for this Sinclair and ask to be removed from the case. Do you really think you can be effective if you have a crush on him?”

  She thrust herself to her feet, her arms rigid by her sides. “What am I, fourteen? I do not have a crush on Logan Sinclair!”

  “Don’t you?” he shot back. “I’ve talked to him. He’s good-looking and charming, smart, smooth…hell, if I wasn’t straight, even I’d fall for the guy!”

  Crossing her arms over her stomach, she turned away from her brother. Fury and confusion formed a battleground inside her head. Nate was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. She was as professional and detached as any cop she knew. More. Nate didn’t know what in the hell he was talking about.

  She dropped her gaze and examined the detailed pattern of the Oriental rug beneath her feet. “Does Sinclair have an alibi for the murder?”

  A moment passed while Nate apparently decided whether to continue with his line of attack or address the question at hand. Finally, he said, “It’s not a homicide…yet. We won’t know until we get results of the autopsy whether she was murdered—and maybe not even then. Sinclair says after he had tea with her, he went for a drive—alone. He says he doesn’t remember where he went or how long he was gone.”

  Andie licked her lips, turned the information over in her head. “When will the results of the autopsy be available?”

  “Few days.”

  “Really? That fast?”

  “Yeah. Apparently, Commander Bostwick called in a few favors to get it bumped to the head of the line.”

  She rubbed the back of her neck, then brushed a piece of lint off her jeans. It was Saturday, her day off, and she’d planned on spending it at the library doing research on Jacob Harte and Emma Conner. But now, with Logan implicated in a homicide, finding out about the players in her ghostly dreams would have to wait a little longer.

  Turning to face Nate, she said, “Look. I’m sorry I yelled. You’re right. I need to examine my priorities. I…I don’t have a crush on Sinclair, at least, I don’t think I do, but he’s…well, it’s hard to keep a safe distance from him emotionally. He’s very…attractive, likable. It’s difficult to imagine him as a cold-blooded killer.”

  Nate paused a moment, then walked toward her and grasped her shoulders. She raised her head and looked into his kind brown eyes.

  “Look, you were just seven when Mom and Dad split up,” he said softly. “Hell, I was only fourteen, and if I hadn’t moved to Olympia with Dad, I’d’ve been around to see you grow up. Maybe you and I would have the same kind of relationship you have with Ethan.” The dull gleam of regret shone in his eyes. “But that’s twenty years’ water over the dam, baby sister. Since I came home, I’ve tried real hard to reconnect with you, Andie. You and Ethan.”

  She gave him an understanding smile, then arched a brow. “How’s that working out for you?”

  He looked a little sheepish. “Peaks and valleys, kid. Peaks and valleys. Anyway, I’m sorry if I come across to you as harsh or judgmental. I don’t mean to be. Honest. I love you. Always have, even when you were an irritating little brat who kept trying to butt in to whatever Ethan and I were doing.” He smiled. “I hope that the next twenty years brings us back to where we should be, know what I mean?”

  Wrapping her arms around his waist, she gave him a tight hug. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  She released him and stepped back, clasping her hands in front of her.

  “When I was little, I…I worshipped Ethan. And you, too, what I remembered of you. And Daddy. But you and he were so far away. Cards, letters, phone calls, they were enough to stay in touch, but not enough to really know your father and your brother.”

  “Yeah.”

  With a hard swallow, she said, “Did, uh, did Daddy talk about me much?”

  “All the time,” Nate whispered, chucking her under the chin with his knuckle. “All the time.”

  She felt hot tears well up in her eyes and fought to dispel them, but they came anyway, stinging her lids, rendering her vision to a watery blur. “Wish I’d seen more of him.”

  “I know he wanted that, too, but he wasn’t much for showing his emotions or asking for what he needed. Besides, he hardly ever took vacations. And what with putting in extra hours to have enough money to send to Mom for you and Ethan, keeping an eye on me during my wild years, and then the cancer came…”

  She sniffed and swiped the tears from her cheeks. “Yeah. The cancer.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stir up bad memories.”

  Shaking her head, she said, “You didn’t. When I was younger, time had no meaning. There was always today, and after today, there would be tomorrow, and after that, another tomorrow, and on and on. When you’re a kid, you don’t realize that eventually, some people run out of tomorrows, and you can’t get them back, and you can’t do anything about it. I just wish I’d known him better, that’s all.”

  Nate nodded, swallowed, shoved his hands into his pockets.

  They stood in silence for a moment, and she knew they were each lost in their separate pasts. She really had no idea what his childhood had been like, and he had no idea of hers, and there was no way to go back and make things right.

  Her thoughts drifted to memories of days spent, time wasted, opportunities missed.

  “I—I want to know you better, Nate,” she stumbled, raising her head, catching her brother’s gaze and holding it. “I want to know you much better, and your wife, Tabby, and the baby, too, when it comes. I don’t want anything to come between any of us, ever again.”

  He grinned down at her and angled his head. “Even if we disagree on how you feel about Logan Sinclair?”

  She palmed away the rest of her tears, then sniffed. “Well now, it’s not really a problem, since you’re so obviously wrong.” In the kitchen, her cell phone chimed to life. “Excuse me for a sec,” she said as she hurried from the living room.

  Her phone rested on the kitchen table; the readout displayed Logan’s number. “It’s him!” she shouted.

  In a moment, her brother was by her side as she picked up the phone and put it to her ear. Nate leaned in, cocking his head, trying to listen.

  She cleared her throat. “Hello?”

  “What are you wearing?” Logan murmured.

  Nate slid her a wry look.

  “What’s it to you, pal?” she quipped.

  “I’ve a mind to indulge m’self in a bit o’haggis and whisky for supper, and wanted to know if you’re dressed for the occasion.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “There isn’t enough whisky in the wide wide world to induce me to eat haggis again.”

  He chuckled, and she steeled h
erself against an involuntary melting of her resolve. “Och,” he said. “Where’s yer sense of adventure?”

  “Not in my stomach, laddie.” She exchanged glances with Nate. “But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be interested in…getting together.”

  Nate nodded his approval, but Sinclair seemed to hesitate.

  “Hmm,” Logan said. “No haggis and whisky, eh? Well, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just spend the day curled up with a good book.”

  He wasn’t interested? She locked eyes with Nate, who looked confused.

  “Okay,” she said casually. “Since you’re the only expert on the spirit world I know, I was hoping to talk to you about those dreams I’ve been having, but I guess it can wait. Enjoy your book. Buh-bye.”

  She held her breath. She was that close to pressing the END button, when he spoke.

  “Well, lass,” he said slowly, as though it were an effort to form the words. “I might be able to spare some time today.” His tone was one of an arrogant potentate granting the wish of a desperate serf. “When can I pick you up?”

  “I’ll meet you.”

  Nate nodded his approval.

  “Suit yourself,” Sinclair said. “I’m at the St. Francis. Room 422. Three o’clock.”

  Silence.

  Andie flipped the phone closed. “He hung up on me!” she huffed. “The conceited bastard, instructed me on when and where to meet him, then he hung up!”

  Nate’s mouth quirked. “Seems pretty sure of you.”

  “Sure of himself, you mean!” Glancing at her watch, she said, “All right, fine. Go away now. I only have an hour.”

  His brown eyes grew serious. “This guy is under investigation for fraud, and maybe homicide. Wear a wire, and I’ll—”

  “And you’ll nothing. You have no evidence he killed that woman, and I’m working undercover on a separate case. Let me do my job my way. If he’s involved in the Mochrie murder, I’ll know it soon enough.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to—”

  “Stop making noises like an overprotective brother!” she huffed. “I know how to take care of myself. I know how to do my job. Now go away and let me do it.”