by Kay Hooper
“Like interacting with them is another step?”
“We believe so.”
“Why do you believe so?”
Again, Jordan and Avery exchanged glances, and he said, “Because we had one survivor. And according to her, he was very friendly, very chatty. He treated her like a person. Even though it’s at least possible that he intended to kill her from the beginning.”
Carrie Vaughn was not what anyone would have called an easy person to live with, and she was the first to admit it. She was strong-willed, opinionated, extremely self-confident, and very set in her ways after twenty years on her own. Any lover was expected to adapt to her rather than the other way around, and those who hadn’t been able to accept that fact had been no more than a blip on her radar.
Which was probably why she was uninvolved more often than not.
But that was okay. Carrie liked being alone, for the most part. Her career as a software designer was both lucrative and creative, plus it allowed her to work out of her home and to travel when and where she wanted. She had a lovely home she took a great deal of pride in, a passion for jigsaw puzzles and old movies, and the capacity to enjoy herself even when no one else was around.
She was also extremely handy, so when the late September afternoon turned unexpectedly chilly and her heat pump refused to come on, Carrie got her toolbox from the garage and started around back to check it out.
“That’s dangerous, you know.”
Startled, Carrie swung around to find a strange woman standing in her driveway. She was, maybe, ten years younger than Carrie, medium height, slight build, and with the darkest hair and eyes Carrie had ever seen accompany such ultrafair skin. She wasn’t exactly beautiful, but definitely arresting; there was something curiously exotic in her heavy-lidded eyes and sullen mouth.
The bulky sweater she wore was a size too big for her and her jeans were worn to the point of being threadbare, but her straight posture held a kind of simple pride and there was something both cool and confident in her voice.
“Who are you?” Carrie demanded. “And what’s dangerous?”
“I’m Sam.”
“Okay, Sam. What’s dangerous?”
“Your carelessness. No fence, no dog, no security system—and your garage door has been up all afternoon. None of your neighbors is even close enough to hear if you should need help. You’re very vulnerable here.”
“I have a gun inside. Two in fact.” Carrie frowned at her. “And I can take care of myself. Hey, have you been watching me? Just who are you?”
“Somebody who’s worried that you’re vulnerable here.”
“And why the hell should you care?”
For the first time, Sam’s dark gaze faltered, darting away for just an instant, and her mouth twisted a little before it firmed again. “Because I—I don’t want you to end up like that man. Callahan. Mitchell Callahan.”
Carrie felt absolutely no threat coming from this woman and wasn’t in the least frightened of her, but something told her not to laugh or dismiss what she was hearing. “The real estate developer who was kidnapped?”
“And murdered, yes.”
“Why should I end up like him?”
Sam shifted her weight slightly and thrust her hands into the front pockets of her jeans. “There’s no reason you should if—if you’re careful. I’m just saying you should be careful.”
“Look,” Carrie said, uncertain why she was even allowing the conversation to go on, “I’m no target for a kidnapper. I have a little in savings, sure, but—”
“It’s not about money.”
“Kidnappings usually are.”
“Yes. But not this time.”
“Why not this time? And how do you know that?” While the younger woman hesitated, Carrie studied her and had a sudden realization. “Wait a minute, I know you. Sort of. I’ve seen your picture. On a poster.”
Sam’s thin face tightened. “Possibly. Miss Vaughn—”
“You’re with that carnival out at the fairgrounds. You’re supposed to be some kind of fortune-teller.” She heard her own voice rising in indignation and wasn’t surprised. A fortune-teller, for Christ’s sake! On that poster advertising the services of Zarina, All-Knowing Seer and Mystic she’d been wearing a turban.
A purple turban.
“Miss Vaughn, I know you don’t want to take me seriously. Believe me, I’ve seen the reaction before. But if you’ll just—”
“You have got to be kidding me. What, you read the tea leaves and they told you somebody was going to kidnap me? Give me a break.”
Sam drew a breath and spoke rapidly. “Whoever he is, he was at the carnival. I didn’t see him, but he was there. He dropped something, a handkerchief. I picked it up. Sometimes when I touch things, I can see—I saw you. Tied up, gagged, blindfolded. You were in a small, bare room. And you were afraid. Please, I’m just asking you to be careful, to take precautions. I know I’m a stranger, and I know you have no reason to believe me, but would it hurt to just humor me?”
“Okay,” Carrie said. “I’ll humor you. I’ll be careful. Thanks for the warning, Sam. See you around.”
“Miss Vaughn—”
“Bye.” Carrie shifted her toolbox to the other hand and went back into the house, deciding to check the heat pump later. When she looked out a front window just a few minutes afterward, it was to see Sam trudging down the driveway toward the road.
Carrie watched, frowning, until she could no longer see the other woman.
Every ounce of her common sense told Carrie to shrug off the “warning” and go about her business normally. She was rather on the fence when it came to believing in psychic abilities but was definitely skeptical of carnival fortune-tellers and was not at all inclined to believe this one.
But.
It wouldn’t hurt, she thought, to take a few sensible precautions. Lock her doors, be wary. Because Mitch Callahan had, after all, been kidnapped and murdered, and she would never have picked him to be a target for something like that.
So Carrie locked her doors and went on to other things, thinking about the warning for a good hour or two before it faded from her memory.
“I guess you guys see a lot of rooms like this one,” Detective Lindsay Graham said to the two federal agents.
Lucas Jordan glanced around at the functional if uninspiring conference room of the Clayton County Sheriff’s Department, exchanged glances with his partner, then said, “A few, yeah. They always seem to look the same; only the view outside the windows changes. If there is a view.”
This room had no view, since it was central in the building, but it was well-lit and spacious and seemed to contain all the necessary furniture, equipment, and supplies.
“We haven’t generated a whole lot of paperwork on the Callahan investigation so far,” Detective Graham said, indicating the file folders on the big table. “And all of it after the fact, since Mrs. Callahan only called us in when the kidnapper got his ransom and her husband never showed. Statements from her, his coworkers, the hiker who found the body; the medical examiner’s report; our forensics unit’s report.”
“Since you only got word he was missing on Saturday, and the body was found Sunday morning, I’d say you had accomplished quite a bit,” Jaylene Avery said. “I’m Jay, by the way.”
“Thanks, I’m Lindsay.” She barely hesitated. “We don’t have a clue who the kidnapper is, dammit. The boss says you guys believe it could be a serial deal?”
“Could be,” Jordan told her.
“And you’ve been tracking him for a year and a half?”
“Don’t rub it in, please,” Jay requested humorously. “We’ve been one step behind him all the way, and Luke is taking it personally.”
Eyeing the fair and decidedly good-looking Jordan, Lindsay took note of that very intense gaze and said, “Yeah, he looks the type to take it personally. Does he make lists? The sheriff makes lists, and I hate it.”
“He swears he doesn’t, but I don’t be
lieve him.”
“I’m still in the room, ladies,” Jordan said, sitting down at the conference table and selecting a file folder.
“He’s also a workaholic,” Jay confided, ignoring his comment. “In the four years I’ve been his partner, not one vacation. Not one.”
“I went to Canada last year,” Jordan objected mildly.
“That was a law-enforcement seminar, Luke. And you ended up spending nearly a week helping the RCMP locate a missing teenager.”
“They asked for my help. I could hardly say no. And I came back rested, didn’t I?”
“You came back with a broken arm.”
“But rested.”
Jay sighed. “An arguable point.”
Lindsay shook her head. “Does anybody ever ask if you two are an old married couple?”
“Occasionally,” Jay said. “But I always tell them I wouldn’t have him on a platter. In addition to his very irritating perfectionism and workaholic nature, he’s got one of those dark and stormy pasts that would frighten any sensible woman out of her wits.”
Jordan lifted an eyebrow and was clearly about to speak when they all heard Sheriff Metcalf’s voice approaching. He sounded a bit like a bear somebody was poking with a sharp and annoying stick.
“I don’t know why the hell you’ve got the nerve to be surprised I’d want to talk to you again. You came to me last week, remember?”
“For all the good it did.” The woman’s voice wasn’t exactly bitter, but it had an edge to it.
Lindsay happened to be looking at Lucas Jordan’s face, and as the unseen woman spoke, she saw it change. He seemed almost to flinch, a momentary surprise and something much stronger tightening his features. And then he was utterly expressionless.
Interested, Lindsay turned her gaze to the door in time to see Sheriff Metcalf come in, followed by a slender woman of medium height with extremely dark eyes and black hair in a short, no-fuss hairstyle.
She stopped in the doorway, her unreadable dark gaze going immediately to Jordan. As though, Lindsay thought, she was not only not surprised, as he had been, but had fully expected him to be there.
He, however, got in the first jab.
“I see the circus is in town,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair as he looked across the room at her.
Perhaps oddly, she smiled, and her voice was dry when she said, “It’s a carnival, as you well know. Hey, Luke. Long time no see.”
“Samantha.”
Metcalf was the one who was surprised. “You two know each other?”
“Once upon a time,” she replied, her gaze still locked with Jordan’s. “Obviously, he was . . . slumming . . . when we met.”
Jordan was the first to look away, his mouth twisting slightly.
It was his partner who said casually, “Hey, Samantha.”
“Jay.”
“You been in town long?”
“Couple weeks. We’re at the fairgrounds for another two.” Her dark gaze fixed on Lindsay, and she inclined her head politely. “Detective Graham.”
Lindsay nodded but remained silent. She had been with the sheriff when Samantha Burke had shown up here at the station early last week, and her disbelief—like Metcalf’s—had been just this side of hostile. She felt her face heating up now as she remembered that scorn.
Misplaced scorn, as it turned out.
Because the carnival “mystic” had tried to warn them, and they hadn’t listened.
And Mitchell Callahan had died.
2
Metcalf was frowning as he looked from the federal agent to the carnival fortune-teller, and he didn’t try to hide his unhappiness, uncertainty, and frustration with the situation.
She didn’t let it show, but Samantha could sympathize.
To Jordan, his tone not quite questioning, Metcalf said, “She came to us last week and said a man was going to be kidnapped. Didn’t know his name, but gave us a damned good physical description of Mitchell Callahan.”
“Naturally,” Samantha said, “they didn’t believe me. Until his wife called in to report it late Saturday. Then they came straight back to me, of course. Filled with questions and suspicions.”
The sheriff’s frown deepened to a scowl as he stared at her. “And I would have had your ass behind bars if so many of your fellow carnies—who also all had alibis—hadn’t sworn by all they supposedly hold dear that you’d been there and in full view virtually all day on Thursday when Callahan disappeared.”
“Miles away and with my car being worked on here in town by your own mechanic,” Samantha reminded him. “I think somebody might have noticed if I’d ridden one of the ponies down Main Street, don’t you think?”
“You’re not the only one of that bunch with a car.”
“Nobody else loaned me a car or found theirs missing,” she reminded him coolly. “I was at the carnival every day until after midnight, from Tuesday afternoon after I left here until you guys showed up there on Saturday to . . . talk . . . to me.”
Obviously trying to be fair and impartial—at least now—Lindsay said, “Golden isn’t a regular stop for the carnival, and we couldn’t find a single connection between any of them and anyone in town. Plus, none of them had been in the area long enough to know Callahan’s habits well enough to pinpoint the best time to grab him, and there wasn’t a sign of the ransom money anywhere near the carnival. There was absolutely no evidence to indicate that either she or any of the other carnies could have been involved.”
“Except,” Metcalf said, “that she knew before it happened there would be a kidnapping. Something I still don’t have a satisfactory explanation for.”
“I’m psychic,” Samantha said, without a trace of defiance or defensiveness in her matter-of-fact tone. She had long ago learned to make that particular declaration calmly and without fanfare. She had also learned to make it without the bells and flourishes necessary in advertising a carnival “act.”
“Yeah, Zarina, all-knowing seer and mystic. I read the signs out there at the carnival and in town.”
“The carnival owner decides how to promote my booth, and his hero is P. T. Barnum. There’s not much I can do about the result.”
“Get a new picture. The purple turban makes you look ridiculous.”
“And made you instantly decide it was all bullshit. That I con people for a living.”
“That’s about the gist,” Metcalf agreed.
“Are you always right, Sheriff?”
“About cons, usually.”
Samantha shrugged. She came into the room and took a chair at the conference table across from Lucas but kept watching the sheriff. And kept her manner calm and relaxed, difficult as that was. “Usually isn’t always. But trying to convince somebody with a closed mind is worse than talking to a post. So let’s keep doing this the hard way. Want to go into one of your tiny little interview rooms and shine a light into my face, or shall we have the next interrogation here where we can all be comfortable?”
He grunted. “You look comfortable enough.”
“There’s more room in here. And I assumed you’d want your new federal friends to participate. I’m sure they have questions too.”
Since Jordan and his partner had been singularly silent, Metcalf wasn’t so sure. And he was tempted to order Samantha Burke into one of the interview rooms just to make it clear who had the upper hand here.
Except he was afraid it was her.
More angry because he knew it showed, he said, “I want to know how you knew about the kidnapping.”
“I told you how. I’m psychic.”
“So the tea leaves told you. Or is it a crystal ball?”
“Neither.” Her voice was measured and calm, as it had been all along. “Last Monday night I was running the sharpshooting booth—”
“Nobody wanted their palms read, huh?”
Samantha ignored that, continuing as though he had not interrupted. “—and when I picked up one of the guns I had a vision.”
&n
bsp; “Was it in Technicolor?” Metcalf asked with wonderful politeness.
Lindsay, who had been watching the two federal agents unobtrusively, decided that both of them were uncomfortable, though she couldn’t tell if it was with the questions, the answers, or the antagonistic attitude of the sheriff. Or merely the subject, for that matter.
“They always are,” Samantha replied to the sheriff, her voice dry this time.
“And what did you see in this vision?”
“I saw a man, sitting in a chair, bound and gagged and blindfolded. In a room I couldn’t see too clearly. But I saw him. His hair was that rare orange-red, like a carrot, and he was wearing a dark blue business suit and a tie with little cars all over it. I think they were Porsches.”
Lindsay said, “Exactly what Callahan was wearing when he was abducted.”
Metcalf kept his eyes on Samantha. “You knew he’d been kidnapped.”
“It seemed fairly obvious. Either that, or he was into some very kinky bondage games. Since he was fully dressed and didn’t look at all happy, I thought kidnapping was probably the more likely explanation.”
“And there was no one near him?”
“No one I saw.”
Lucas finally spoke, asking quiet questions. “Did you hear anything? Smell anything?”
“No,” she replied without looking at him. She wondered if he’d expected a different reaction from her when they met again. If they met again. Had he expected her to be frozen? To lash out at him?
Metcalf said, “You knew Callahan, didn’t you? Maybe he got rooked at that carnival of yours and threatened to sue or something. Was that it?”
“I had never seen Mitchell Callahan—in the flesh, so to speak. As far as I know he never visited the carnival.”
“Really wasn’t his sort of thing,” Lindsay murmured.
But Metcalf wasn’t willing to let go. “He was trying to buy up the fairgrounds for development, everybody knew that. If he had, it would have put your carnival out of business.”
“Hardly. We can fit in a parking lot, Sheriff, and there are plenty of those in Golden.”
“They’d cost you a hell of a lot more.”