Whisper of Warning

by Laura Griffin

  She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t talk, and she answered him the only way she could. Yes.

  And after a final, burning moment, they collapsed together.

  Alex waltzed into APD headquarters and did what she always did when she didn’t belong somewhere—she faked it. She walked briskly down the corridor, stopped briefly for a drink at the water fountain, and then pretended to be taking a cell-phone call until she spotted a mid-twenties guy with some sort of tag hanging around his neck. By the scruffy, harried look of him, she decided he was a print reporter and followed him through a set of double doors to a chest-high counter. Once there, he joined several other young, newshound-looking people culling through metal trays of police reports. Alex joined them and tried to look bored. If they knew she wasn’t one of their ranks, they didn’t mention it. And anyway, the thing she wanted was public information.

  But it wasn’t in the trays. Finally, she stepped up to the Plexiglas window and cleared her throat to get the attention of the woman seated at a desk behind the counter.

  “Excuse me. I’m looking for an incident report from earlier this week.”

  The woman stood up and stepped over. “Date and address,” she intoned. “Incident number, if you got it.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Date and address.”

  “Actually, it’s a missing person’s report. For a Dr. Martin Pembry? You know where I could find it?”

  The woman’s gaze sharpened, and she glanced over Alex’s shoulder at the information junkies behind her.

  “Have a seat,” she said, and nodded at the bank of chairs beside the door. The woman disappeared down a hallway, and Alex wandered back over to the trays of paper. She thumbed through the reports one by one and pretended to be interested.

  A trickle of unease traveled down Alex’s spine, and she turned around. A dark-haired man was slouched against the nearest doorway, watching her. He stepped forward.

  “Hey, there.”

  “Hello,” she said. Did she need a press pass to be in here? She was pretty sure this room was open to the public.

  “I’m Nathan Devereaux.” He held out a hand, and she caught a glimpse of the holster beneath his jacket. “Alex Lovell.” She shook his hand firmly, and he smiled.

  “Nice to meet you, Alex.” He jerked his head in the direction of the hallway. “This way.”

  She followed him down the long corridor and took the opportunity to check him out. He had thick, dark hair—a little shaggy around the ears—and a navy jacket that looked like it had seen better days, but that stretched nicely over a muscular back. He wasn’t exceptionally tall, but he had a confident walk.

  And when it led her right out a side door, to a flight of concrete stairs, she stopped in her tracks. He stopped, too, and turned casually around to face her.

  “Just thought we’d get some air. A little crowded in there, don’t you think?”

  He had a low southern drawl, and she guessed he used it to put people at ease. It wasn’t working with her, though.

  “What is it you want, Mr. Devereaux?”

  “Nathan. And I was thinking we could go get a drink.” He nodded in the direction of Red River Street, where a neon sign advertised a dubious-looking barbecue joint.

  “Why would I go get a drink with you?”

  A slow smile spread across his face. “I have something you want.”

  It was either the worst come-on in history, or he knew something about Martin Pembry.

  She shrugged. “Let’s go.” The place was within blocks of a police station, and she wasn’t riding in a car with him. How dangerous could it be?

  They walked in step, and Alex suddenly felt self-conscious about her clothes. She was wearing the same outfit she’d had on when Courtney Glass had appeared in her office—faded blue jeans, a snug ACL Fest T-shirt, and worn cross trainers. But the Smokin’ Pig didn’t exactly look like a five-star establishment. It smelled heavenly, though, like hickory and campfires.

  He held the door for her, and she decided he wasn’t just a cop, he was a detective. He looked the part, with his cheap business casual and his alert blue eyes that noticed everything but didn’t react.

  She picked a table for two in the bar area.

  He pulled her chair out, and she smirked. “Is this a date?” she asked.

  “Nah, I don’t date other detectives.” He took the seat across from her.

  “What makes you think I’m a detective?”

  “You’re not a PI?”

  She tipped her head to the side. “I asked what makes you think that?”

  He shrugged. “Experience. You’ve got that bad-ass, don’t-follow-the-rules look about you. And you’ve got a purse full of gadgets.”

  She jerked her head back, amazed. “How do you know what’s in my purse?”

  “I’m psychic.”

  A waitress stopped by their table, and Devereaux smiled up at her. “Two Shiner Bocks, please. A glass for the lady.”

  Alex crossed her arms. This guy was too cocky for her tastes. “I don’t drink beer, thanks.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Charlie on the X-ray machine’s a buddy a mine. He saw you come in.”

  Okay, this was getting creepy. Charlie on X-ray was sharing the contents of her purse with some detective? And they’d sent him down to talk to her about Martin Pembry? She was starting to believe Courtney Glass was right—there was a major conspiracy going on here. She’d thought the woman’s story sounded over the top, but now she had to wonder.

  “What do you know about Martin Pembry?” she asked.

  “I know that he’s missing. And the press hasn’t caught wind of it yet, which makes me wonder how you found out.”

  “If the guy’s missing, why isn’t his family sounding some alarms? He’s a UT professor, right? It should be all over the news.”

  Their beers arrived, and he waited for her to take a sip before tipping back his bottle. Old-fashioned manners seemed ingrained in the guy. She wondered if he was a true southern gentleman, or if the accent was just his shtick.

  “He’s divorced,” he told her. “Plus, he’s on sabbatical. He was supposed to leave for England next week, as a matter of fact. Wasn’t putting in face time at the university.”

  Alex sipped her beer again and wondered why he was telling her all this. In her experience cops didn’t share information just for the heck of it, and certainly not with outsiders. He must think she knew something.

  “I have a client who thinks she’s in danger from the same people who may have made Pembry disappear. She seems legit, but I’m trying to check out her story.”

  “You’re a skeptic, huh?”

  Alex shrugged. “It’s standard.” She’d had people try to hire her to help them flee the police, or kidnap their children, or get money out of the country. She didn’t take those clients. And she didn’t break the law.

  Sometimes she just bent it a little.

  “So this client wants you to run security for her?”

  “Sort of.”

  His gaze traveled over her, taking in her petite frame. Alex’s curly, dark hair was in a ponytail today, which she knew made her look even younger than she normally did.

  “You employ bodyguards, I take it?”

  “I’m not going into any more detail about my client,” she said. “I just need to know if this Pembry thing is real. She also gave me the name of some woman she thinks was killed in a staged bike accident.”

  “Eve Caldwell.”

  Her surprise must have been visible on her face.

  “Your client isn’t crazy,” he said. “We just reclassified that incident today as a homicide.”

  Alex suppressed a shudder. Courtney Glass wasn’t nuts. This wasn’t some wild story.

  Which meant her life really was in jeopardy. And Alex would have to make good on her promise to help protect her from whoever it was who wanted her dead.

  Devereaux leaned forward on his elbows. “Listen, Alex. I need to kno
w who your client is.”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Won’t.”

  He didn’t react to this, except to lean back in his chair. He watched her for a long moment, and she started to get uncomfortable.

  “I’d like to show you something,” he said. “I can almost guarantee it will be of interest to your client. But if I do, I need you to tell me who that person is. I can’t protect someone if I don’t even know they’re in harm’s way.”

  Alex sipped her beer and considered the offer. She didn’t want to reveal her client’s identity, but this was an unusual case. The timeline was short. She needed all the information she could get, and she needed it now.

  “Okay,” she said. What did she have to lose? If everything went as planned, Courtney Glass would be long gone by tomorrow morning anyway. Who cared what APD knew about her? With Alex’s help, she’d be invisible.

  “Don’t go anywhere.” Devereaux got to his feet. “I’ll be back before you finish that beer you didn’t want.”

  Courtney lay against him, her hair still damp from the shower. He twisted and untwisted a lock of it around his finger. He’d figured it out finally. It wasn’t perfume that made her smell so good—it was something she put in her hair.

  She shifted, sliding her thigh higher up on his body, and tipped her head up to look at him. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “You’re really quiet.”

  “I’m recovering,” he said, although that was a gross understatement. He felt like a bomb had gone off in his bed. He’d never be the same.

  “Are you in trouble now?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, is there supposed to be some kind of line between you and me because of the case?”

  He slid his hand over her hip, up the length of her thigh, then back down again. “I’m so far over the line, I can’t see it from here.”

  She propped up on an elbow, and his attention was drawn to her plump, white breasts.

  “Are you sorry I came over?”

  “I don’t know.” It wasn’t the nicest thing to say, but it was the truth. He could lose his job for this, a job he’d spent years earning the chance to do. “We just made everything a lot more complicated.”

  She gazed down at him, and he was relieved she didn’t look hurt. She stroked her hand over his chest, tracing the muscles. She seemed to like touching him, and she could do it until the cows came home, as far as he was concerned.

  “I’m not sorry,” she said.

  She settled back down against his side, all curves and heat, and he decided he wasn’t sorry, either. No matter what happened. But he wasn’t ready to tell her that.

  She lifted his hand and turned it palm up, and he knew what she was going to say.

  “What happened to your hand?”

  “Stupid accident,” he said. “Drunk at a party. Tripped and fell on a glass bottle.”

  “Hmm.” She traced the silvery scar with her index finger. Her finger trailed over his wrist to another scar on his forearm. “And this?”

  He tensed as her finger sought out yet a third faint scar near his elbow. He started to say something, then stopped himself. It felt strange, lying to her. She’d lied to him over and over, but he felt like they were past that now. Some sort of trust had developed between them, and it seemed wrong to break it.

  “It’s something from when you were a soldier, isn’t it?”

  He glanced down at her.

  “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it,” she said. She pressed a kiss into his palm, and something twisted inside him. “I have stuff like that, too.”

  She nestled closer and tucked her head against his chest. Her ear was right next to his heart, and he wondered if she could hear it pounding, if she could sense how uncomfortable he was. He’d never been tempted to talk about this, especially not with a woman. But something about her leaving it alone made him think maybe she’d understand better than most.

  He tightened his hold around her. “Tell me about your day.”

  Now she was the one to tense up.

  “I was at a crime scene when you called, or I would have picked up,” he said, combing a hand through her hair.

  “The closet case?”

  “Fiona told you?”

  She sighed against his skin. “Yeah. She was really upset about it. I spoke with her on the phone.”

  “So what happened this afternoon?”

  “Someone tried to kill me.”

  He bolted upright. “What?”

  “They came after me at the Internet café—”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “I called you.”

  She lay there, looking up at him, and he was skewered by guilt. She’d called him. And he’d been too busy to deal with it.

  “What happened?” he demanded, searching her for signs of injury.

  She sat up and scooted back against the pillows. Then she pulled the sheet up and tucked it around her. “I was doing some research at an Internet café. I found this video clip—”

  “You were attacked at a coffee shop?”

  “Just outside. The black Escalade pulled up and—”

  “Goddamn it, what were you doing there?”

  “I was researching something.”

  He clenched his teeth and tried to rein in his temper. If he overreacted now, she wouldn’t tell him the full story. “And then what?”

  He listened, grinding his teeth to nubs, as she told him about being chased through restaurants and down alleyways until she was lucky enough to hop on a bus without getting gunned down by some thug, probably the same thug who’d tried to kill her at Zilker Park. Will watched her recount everything, amazed that she could be so calm right now. He wanted to take someone apart.

  “So that’s why I came here,” she said now. “I didn’t want to lead them to Fiona. Or to Amy and Devon. I didn’t want to go anywhere but here.”

  “You need to report this. We need to talk to my lieutenant—”

  “Fine, I’ll do all that. But maybe tomorrow, okay? I don’t want to think about it right now. I just want to be here.”

  He closed his eyes briefly, realizing now just how badly he’d screwed this up. He’d let this get personal. And now he was going to have a hell of a time doing his job. How could he protect her—not to mention clear her name—if he couldn’t even listen to her talk without going ballistic over the danger she was in?

  He clasped her shoulder. “I’m going to get you some police protection.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll talk to Cernak, see what we can set up, all right?” Even if it had to be him, and Nathan, and whoever else he could drum up—he was going to get someone on her twenty-four/seven. “This isn’t going to happen again.”

  “Okay.”

  He studied her face in the lamplight. She looked way too nonchalant about this, as if it didn’t matter what he did.

  She leaned forward, and the sheet dropped away. “Let’s worry about this tomorrow.” She kissed him.

  “We should go in tonight.”

  “Tomorrow.” She kissed him again and slid onto his lap.

  “First thing, Courtney. I mean it.”

  She settled herself on top of him and draped her arms over his shoulders. “First thing.”

  Nathan made it back to the barbecue joint in record time. He sat down in front of the pretty PI and noticed her beer was exactly the level it had been when he left. She was stub born, and he wouldn’t be surprised if she left it sitting there, untouched, just to piss him off.

  “Is this a top-secret file?” she asked, and nodded at his thick brown folder.

  “Not really.” He pulled out several large Ziploc bags containing yellow sheets of legal paper. He selected the first letter he’d received and placed it in front of her.

  “Any of that gibberish mean anything to you?”

  She pulled the page closer and hunch
ed over it, resting her elbows on the table. “‘No evil I did, I live on’? What’s it mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her finger went to the bottom of the page where someone—presumably Martin Pembry—had sketched a fairly good depiction of Lady Justice. She was blindfolded and holding a scale.

  “‘Level, madam, level!’”

  “I think he’s referring to the scale,” Nathan said, somewhat proud to have made the connection.

  Alex frowned down at the page. It wasn’t so much a letter as it was a collection of phrases and doodles. All of the notes he’d received from the professor—two at work and two at home—had been similar. All yellow sheets of legal paper, folded up and stuffed into business envelopes with MR. DEVEREAUX, HOMICIDE UNIT printed neatly on the front above an address.

  Alex tapped her finger on something scrawled in the margin beside what looked like a caricature of a bald man with glasses. “Who’s ‘Dr. Awkward’?”

  “Got me. I thought you might know. Sounds like maybe a nickname. He mentions someone named Sarah there, too. Is that your client?”

  She didn’t say anything, just stared at the page. He watched her face, searching for a clue, but she gave nothing away.

  “Or maybe your client’s a doctor?” he asked.

  “Oh, my God.” She looked up at him, her eyes bright with excitement. “This guy’s a professor, right? Does he teach English?”

  Nathan frowned. “Linguistics. Why?”

  “It’s a palindrome.”

  “A who?”

  “A palindrome,” she said, turning the page around for him to see. “It reads the same forward and backward. ‘Harass selfless Sarah.’ See? And this one here: ‘Evil is a name of a foeman, as I live.’”

  “Holy shit,” Nathan muttered, gazing down at the page. It seemed so obvious now. He’d read these things over and over and never spotted it. He glanced up at Alex. “How did you know that?”

  “I grew up in a family of crossword freaks.” She grinned. “We played Scrabble every Sunday. Let me see another one.”

  He slid another page to her, feeling a little dizzy. He knew what it was now, but what did it mean? And why had some guy mailed all this to a homicide detective right before he disappeared?