Whisper of Warning

by Laura Griffin

  Devereaux nodded for him to continue. Will let his gaze roam slowly around the room. Nothing looked broken, no obvious signs of struggle. What was he overlooking here? He took a whiff of air but didn’t detect any gunpowder. His gaze paused on the armchair positioned in front of the TV.

  The coffee table sat at a slight angle, just inches away from the entertainment cabinet. Eight feet of space separated it from the armchair, making it impossible for anyone to prop their feet up or use it to rest a drink.

  Will visually combed the room again, noting the drapes that matched the sofa upholstery, the framed art on the walls, the bookshelves filled with hardback volumes and trinkets, even a silk plant. Someone, at some point, had taken the trouble to decorate this place.

  “It’s the rug,” he said. “There should be a rug here, but it’s missing.”

  “Exactly,” Devereaux said. “And so is Pembry.”

  Courtney woke up with the sun in her face and a crick in her neck. She smelled turpentine and remembered where she was. She stared for a minute at the skylight in her sister’s living room and cursed Will Hodges for dragging her over here last night. He’d practically dumped her on Fiona’s doorstep before taking off to attend to something “important”—some dead body somewhere, most likely.

  Courtney squirmed up onto her elbows and tried to orient herself. The living room curtains were closed, but given the blue patch of sky above her and the brightness of the room, she guessed it was at least eight. Jack would have left for work already, but Fiona still would be around. Courtney’s arrival late last night with a grim-looking homicide cop had caused a stir, and Courtney had no doubt her sister would be in full worrywart mode.

  Pans clanged.

  Courtney kicked off the quilt and shuffled into the kitchen. Fiona stood at the stove, melting butter in a skillet. She glanced up as Courtney plopped into a chair beside the breakfast table.

  “Morning,” Fiona said cheerfully.

  “Morning.”

  “You want breakfast? I’m making French toast.”

  “Just coffee, thanks.” Courtney pinched her neck, trying to alleviate the kink. Fiona wore one of her boring beige pantsuits, meaning she planned to spend her day around cops and robbers. Her gleaming strawberry blond hair was tucked neatly away in a ponytail. Unlike Courtney, Fiona didn’t like to draw attention to her sex appeal, even though she had it in spades.

  “What time is it?” Courtney asked.

  “Eight-thirty. Jack already went in.”

  Courtney mustered some energy and followed the aroma of expensive caffeine to the coffeepot. Her sister never cheaped out when it came to coffee. Courtney pulled a mug down from a cabinet and poured herself a cup. Meanwhile, Fiona got out eggs and orange juice. She poured a glass and put it on the counter beside Courtney.

  “Here.”

  “Thanks,” Courtney said, annoyed. “So. Another rape case?”

  “I don’t know. Lieutenant Cernak just left me a voice mail. I’m supposed to interview someone at nine.”

  Courtney closed her eyes and savored the breakfast blend. Fiona busied herself at the stove, which was her way of coping with stress. It was their pattern: Courtney’s life spun out of control; Fiona hovered and tried to act maternal.

  Courtney wasn’t up for a fight this morning, so she took her coffee into the next room, which had a cement floor and unpainted Sheetrock lining the walls. Light flooded the space through two huge skylights. In the center of the room, on a worn drop cloth, stood a paint-spattered easel.

  “This is coming along,” she said.

  “Yeah, they’re almost done.”

  The art studio, which recently had been added to the back of the little house, was Jack’s wedding present to Fiona.

  It was love, the kind neither of them had ever expected to find when they were kids growing up in L.A. The Glass sisters were realists. And yet, Fiona had found someone. Someone good and solid and head over heels in love with her. Just looking at the studio made Courtney’s chest ache. She was insanely happy for her sister and also a tiny bit jealous.

  Courtney walked the perimeter of the room and checked out the canvases leaned up against the walls. When she wasn’t drawing rapists and murderers, her sister painted nature scenes. Back in California, she’d gone through a desert phase, but lately she’d been into water.

  “Breakfast is ready.”

  Courtney returned to the kitchen and sat down beside a plate of French toast and cantaloupe, which she had no intention of eating. Fiona put the pan in the sink, grabbed a piece of toast for herself, and picked up her car keys.

  “Are you sure you’re okay with the bus?” she asked. “I can swing back by here around ten-thirty if you need a ride to Bella Donna.”

  “I’m fine. My first client’s at noon, so I’m just going to hang out.” Fiona bit her lip, and Courtney headed off her next comment. “I’ll keep the doors locked.”

  “And the alarm on.”

  “And the alarm on,” she promised. “Hey, can I use your computer? I need to check e-mail.”

  “Sure. And there’s lunch meat in the fridge.”

  “I know.”

  “Well…bye.” Fiona headed for the door, and Courtney dutifully followed her and secured the bolt behind her.

  On the way back to her coffee, she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror on the breakfast-room wall. Her eyes were puffy and her complexion sallow. She sighed. Then she opened up Fiona’s pantry and rummaged around until she found some oatmeal. She took out a mixing bowl and a wooden spoon and started whipping it together with water and an egg white.

  The bell sounded, and Courtney’s hand froze.

  She padded silently through the living room and parted the gauzy curtains covering the front window. A tan Suburban was parked at the curb.

  Courtney glanced regretfully at her jeans and rumpled T-shirt. Her bra was sitting with her purse and shoes beside the sofa, but she doubted Will would notice. She threw the bolt and pulled open the door.

  “Hey.”

  He looked her up and down, and she saw him notice. “Hi. Can I come in?”

  “Sure.” She stepped back to let him in. “You look like you slept in your car.”

  He grunted something and brushed past her. He wore the same clothes he’d had on yesterday, right down to the worn Nikes.

  “That coffee?”

  “Yeah. We’ve got breakfast, too, if you’re hungry.” She led him into the kitchen and took down another mug from the cabinet.

  He stood beside the counter and watched her pour his coffee.

  “Let me guess,” she said. “You were on a stakeout?”

  “Something like that.”

  So he didn’t want to talk about it. She could understand. Fiona was that way sometimes about her really bad cases.

  “Black?”

  “Yeah.”

  She handed him the cup, then went to the table to refill her own. When she turned back around, he had a perplexed expression on his face.

  “That’s breakfast?” he asked.

  She looked at his goopy finger and smiled. “It’s a mask.”

  “A what?”

  “For my face.” She handed him a dish towel. “Breakfast is on the table. Have at it.”

  He sat down in front of the French toast and doused it with syrup. The man must burn zillions of calories a day. She watched his back muscles strain against the T-shirt and wondered when he found time to work out.

  She joined him at the table and squared her shoulders. “Is this a social visit?”

  He looked at her warily and forked up a bite. “No.”

  She lifted a brow. “Too bad. I have the morning off, and you need a shower.”

  He reached for his coffee, and she actually saw a blush creeping up his neck. He was fun to tease. It would be even more fun if he teased back.

  “I have some more questions for you.”

  “Okay.” She picked up a chunk of his cantaloupe and popped it into her mouth.<
br />
  “You ever heard of a Martin Pembry?”

  The cantaloupe was sweet and juicy, and she stole another chunk. “I don’t think so.”

  “Professor Pembry? From the University of Texas?”

  She felt a prick of irritation. “I didn’t go to college. But surely you know that, right? It’s all in my file?”

  He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it to reveal a copy of what looked like a driver’s license photograph. He showed to her. “He was a linguistics professor. A PhD.”

  “Was.” She glanced at the picture. “So that means he’s dead?”

  Will sighed. “Most likely.”

  Whatever that meant.

  “Look, I don’t know him. I didn’t kill him last night, either, if that’s what you’re thinking. You get to be my alibi this time.”

  He gave her a sharp look as he tucked the paper back in his pocket. Then he shoveled up some more French toast. “You should cut the jokes, Courtney. This is serious.”

  “Thanks for the reminder.” She crossed her arms. “Why are you asking me about this? Is it related to David?”

  “Devereaux thinks so.” He guzzled the last of his coffee and stood up. “I need to get home and clean up. What are you doing today?”

  “Oh, you know. Plotting my next crime spree.”

  He put his hands on his hips and gave her the scary look again. He was going to make a great dad someday. She felt sorry for his teenage girls, if he ever had any.

  “I’m working,” she said finally. “From noon to six. I’ll be taking the bus.”

  “Be careful. And if anything strange happens, call me.”

  “Okay.”

  “I mean it. Anything weird. Even if it’s just a feeling. Your body’s conditioned to pick up on cues you may not even register consciously. If you get a funny feeling about something, just get somewhere safe and pick up the phone.”

  She gazed up at him and didn’t know what to say. He was worried about her. When her sister acted like this, she felt insulted. But with Will, she felt touched.

  He glanced at his watch, and she stood up. “Thanks for dropping in,” she said. “I’ll call you if anything happens. Where will you be today?”

  “Downtown.” He walked to the door. “I’ll try to get your computer back to you this afternoon, if I can.”

  She opened the door for him. “You’re finished with it? What did you find out?”

  He turned to face her. “You were right about the e-mail messages. They weren’t from Alvin. Or at least, they probably weren’t.”

  “Where were they from?”

  “A public library near the capitol. The messages were routed through Alvin’s law firm by someone who knows something about technology.”

  Courtney gnawed her lip. That sounded sophisticated. And frightening. Hitmen and technology experts, disappearing witnesses and dead professors. What on earth was this about? And what did it have to do with her?

  She shuddered, and Will noticed.

  “Be careful,” he said. “And remember to trust your gut.”

  She put on a brave face as he left, and then collapsed on the sofa. She trusted her gut. And it was telling her to call in sick to work and hide under the bed.

  Instead, she went back to her coffee. She couldn’t call in sick. She needed the money.

  She picked up the newspaper that Fiona and Jack had abandoned on the breakfast table. She skimmed the front page, looking for any mention of something involving a UT professor. Nothing. She reached for the Metro section and scanned the headlines.

  A photograph at the bottom of the page caught her eye.

  “Memorial Fund Honors Slain Cyclist.”

  Courtney’s heart skipped. She recognized the woman. She was plump. Thirtyish. She had a brunette bob and flawless ivory skin. Eve Caldwell, according to the caption. The name wasn’t familiar, but Courtney knew she’d seen her before, and she knew she’d been with David at the time. Where was it? Where had they been? Courtney stared at the photograph and tried to visualize it.

  The Randolph Hotel.

  Eve Caldwell had been glaring at Courtney from across the bar the last time she’d met David there. This woman had been the one to set off Courtney’s alarm bells, the one to make her think David was seeing someone else. Later, she’d snooped through his pockets and his BlackBerry for evidence….

  Courtney dropped into a chair and gazed down at the picture. Eve Caldwell, whoever she was, was dead. And David was dead. And someone was trying to kill her.

  What was this about?

  She bent over the article and scoured it for information. Eve Caldwell had been thirty-two. And according to the story, she’d been killed in a cycling accident on Loop 360 last week. This article wasn’t about the accident, though; it focused on some scholarship fund that had been set up in her honor. A memorial service would be held today.

  Courtney curled her fingers around her coffee mug and stared out the window. Slain cyclist. Murdered attorney. Dead professor.

  Dead hairstylist.

  She wanted to run. She wanted just to jump into her car and take off. Where would she go? She had no idea. And if she didn’t, no one else would either.

  But she didn’t have a car. And she didn’t know the first thing about hiding.

  Courtney rested her head in her hands and took a deep breath. This was crazy, whatever this was. What was her connection to all these dead people? No wonder Cernak believed she was guilty—she was at the vortex of something, and it kept getting worse. Just wait until he found out about Walter, and that she’d been investigated for murder once before. He’d have a warrant out for her in no time.

  Courtney stood up. She couldn’t just sit here, locked away in her sister’s house. She needed to do something, to figure out what was going on. She was linked to these deaths, whether she wanted to be or not, and she might be the only one who could connect the dots.

  She checked the kitchen clock and made a decision. She was going to take Will’s advice today and follow her gut. She was going to call in sick.

  But she had no intention of hiding under the bed.

  “What’s she doing here?”

  Nathan turned around to see Hodges standing behind him, gazing at the video monitor. The screen showed real-time footage of Fiona Glass conducting an interview.

  “Cernak called her in,” Nathan said, muting the volume. “She’s talking to Pembry’s neighbor. He says he was taking out the trash when he saw an SUV backing into the professor’s driveway two nights ago, between seven and eight.”

  Hodges stepped further into the room. “Cernak wanted to use her? What if it turns out to be connected to the Alvin case?”

  Nathan shrugged. “It’s his call. Anyway, he’s skeptical about the connection. Or at least he was. He might change his mind when he sees the first drawing.” Nathan handed Hodges a sketch, the one Fiona had completed just a few minutes ago.

  “Who’s this?” Hodges asked.

  “The man this neighbor saw getting out of the SUV. White male. Mid-forties. Short, stocky build.”

  “Sounds like the guy our jogger spotted in Zilker,” Hodges said.

  “That’s what I’m thinking, too. And the vehicle fits.”

  Cernak stopped in the doorway of the cramped little room. His gaze flicked to the screen. “She’s still at it?”

  Hodges passed him the drawing.

  Cernak frowned down at it. “This is it? So, what’s she drawing now?”

  “Hands,” Nathan said.

  “Hands?”

  Nathan turned to the monitor and watched Fiona work. The witness was smiling, comfortable. He’d been in there more than an hour now and had hardly stopped talking. Fiona always said the key to a good sketch was the interview, and Nathan knew her interview skills were unparalleled.

  “Witness insisted he couldn’t see the guy behind the wheel—”

  “How do we know it was a guy?” Hodges asked.

  Nathan smiled. “
That’s what Fiona wanted to know, too. Turns out, he caught a brief glimpse of the hands on the steering wheel. Didn’t even realize it till she started asking him questions about it.”

  Cernak muttered something and shook his head. The lieutenant wasn’t a big believer in soft skills. He liked Fiona’s work product, but he didn’t always trust her methods.

  Fiona turned her drawing board, sharing her sketch with the witness. He nodded eagerly, and said something. Nathan turned the volume up, but it sounded like the interview was ending. Fiona sprayed fixative on the drawing and shook the man’s hand. Then she ushered him out of the room and handed him over to a uniform so he could fill out some paperwork.

  “I don’t like this,” Cernak said, just as Fiona poked her head into the observation room.

  “Finished,” she said, giving Nathan the second drawing.

  Unlike her usual sketches, this one showed the driver’s-side door of a vehicle and, through the window, a pair of hands on the steering wheel. The driver wore a distinctive ring on his left pinky. Fiona had drawn a close-up of it on the lower left corner of the paper. It was chunky and square-shaped. Men tended to wear the same jewelry on a day-today basis, so it was a good detail to have.

  “This a diamond?” Nathan passed the picture to Cernak.

  “Something that looks like one, anyway,” Fiona said. “The witness said he noticed it because it caught the light.”

  “This is helpful,” Nathan said, stating the obvious, mainly because Cernak was scowling at the drawing. The lieutenant would be thinking Fiona’s sketch was both good and bad. The good part—they now had a lead in the Pembry case. The bad part—that lead suggested a connection to the Alvin homicide, which meant the evidentiary value of Fiona’s drawing had just evaporated. They could never use her pictures to help solve a case in which her sister was a suspect.

  At least, they couldn’t openly use the drawings.

  Nathan exchanged glances with Hodges. Like it or not, Fiona had just established a link. The next challenge was to figure out what that link meant.