Danger Signals Page 3

  "How old were you when you were adopted?" And she wondered, even as she asked it. how she'd found the audacity to probe into the personal business of so guarded and resistant a man.

  She was greatly surprised when he hitched a shoulder in an offhand way and answered her. "I don't know-six, I think. Maybe seven."

  "Really? You weren't a baby, then. What happened to your parents?" But this time she knew at once she'd gone too far. She saw his jaw tighten, and he didn't answer right away. She muttered. "I'm sorry," putting up a hand as if to stop herself. "Forgive me, please. I'm not- It's none of my business, I know."

  The detective let out a breath, frowning. "No, it's a legitimate question, considering the conversation." He paused, shifting his car keys from one hand to the other and back again, then turned to her. "They're dead, that's all I know." His grin appeared, tilted in a way that made curious pleasure-ripples course through her chest. "Believe me, as a police detective it irks me no end to have to admit that. I've tried-" He broke it off with a shake of his head, seemed to hesitate, then turned to the gallery door.

  "Do you remember them?" Tierney asked softly. "Your parents?"

  She was unprepared for the sudden surge of emotion, followed by a withdrawal so abrupt it was almost violent, like a slap in the face. She stepped back reflexively, and so almost missed his reply, spoken in a quiet voice and without turning.

  "I don't remember anything from before I was adopted."

  Still reeling from the emotional one-two punch, she couldn't have spoken even if she'd been able to think of what to say. After a brief but electric silence, he threw her a glance that didn't quite make contact.

  "Yeah, look-I need to get back to the job."

  "Yes," she said. "Of course."

  "Let me know if you get any more on our killer-or the victims."

  He pushed the door open and went out, hurrying, like someone escaping from a trap.

  She wasn't sure why she followed him. But she did. And when she stepped onto the sidewalk, she felt as if she'd collided with an electric fence. Energy sizzled along her scalp and crawled over her body, just beneath her skin. Even her bones seemed to vibrate. As if it were frantically batting at a bombardment of tennis balls, her tired mind tried to give names to the overwhelming emotions ricocheting inside her head.

  Watching…watching…

  Waited…searched…so long!

  Found you!

  Glee!

  Victory!

  Success! At last!

  The only thing she knew for certain was that someone was watching. Watching with riveted attention and avid interest, a focus so intense it felt like a laser beam. Watching Wade.

  A few dozen yards down the block, the police detective was getting into his car. She called out to him-a croak, at first, then louder. "Detective Callahan-Wade! Wait-please!"

  He turned to look at her across the roof of his car. He was frowning because his heart was beating way faster than it had any reason to, unless he wanted to count having just scared himself silly, coming so close to telling a woman he didn't know or trust things he'd never told another living soul. Right now half of him wanted to ignore her. jump in his car and get the hell out of there, get back to dealing with things he knew were real, and knew what to do with-like facts and evidence and witnesses. Dead bodies. Those things he understood.

  Fortunately the other half reminded him that he'd just told this woman to let him know if she picked up anything more on his killer-or his victims. And even if he wasn't sure whether he believed in her "gift," the department had made her part of his team, and it behooved him to listen to what she had to say.

  He watched her hurry toward him. breaking into a run the last few yards so that she arrived breathless and pink-cheeked, reminding him once again of a high school cheerleader.

  Except, as she came close, he got a good look at her eyes, and against all reason and everything he thought he believed in, his skin began to crawl. He'd seen that look before.

  Damn, he wished he didn't have to ask it. But he did. "What is it? Radar pick up something?"

  A pained smile flashed on and off like a light with a bad connection. "It was…someone was here, Wade. Just now. I think he's gone, though…"

  She didn't look around, as anyone else would have, to see if she could see someone lurking in the vicinity. No- this lady closed her eyes and went still. Looking inside her own head. It gave him cold chills.

  "What do you mean, someone was here? This have anything to do with-"

  "No-I mean, no, not the case. At least, I don't think so. But…he was watching you, Wade. It was like…he'd been waiting. Looking for you. For a long time. And now he's found you. He was so…happy about it. Gleeful."

  Well, hell. What was he supposed to say to that? He ducked his head and ran a hand over the crisp stubble of his short-cropped hair while he thought about it, then lifted it up again when he heard her say softly, "You don't believe me."

  She was standing with her arms folded, and he got the impression she was shivering, or trying hard not to. Even though she was on the opposite side of the car from him, he felt a thoroughly ridiculous urge to put his arms around her and warm her. Anything to get her to stop.

  "Nah, look, it's not that," he said, trying to smile when what he felt like doing was grinding his teeth. "It's just- look, thanks for the heads-up. okay? You said whoever it was is gone now, right?" She nodded, and he was relieved that her eyes were vivid and focused again. Although he had a feeling the image of those eyes would be staying with him for a while.

  "Let me know if he comes back," he said, and he got in his car and headed back downtown.

  Pride made him wait until he'd turned the corner before he checked his rearview mirror. Well, hell. He was involved in a murder investigation, after all, and it was a long way from being his first. Not too much of a stretch to think somebody could take a notion to come looking for him with revenge on his mind.

  It wasn't much of a stretch, either, for a so-called psychic looking for a way to convince a skeptic to think of that, too.

  Tierney watched the detective's car until it had disappeared around the corner at the end of the block, absently rubbing her arms even though the chill that always followed an impression had already faded. She turned and went back into the gallery, frowning uneasily and wondering whether she'd done the wrong thing, telling Detective Callahan about the entity she already thought of as The Watcher. He was already teetering on the edge of disbelief, and passing along an impression so vague and meaningless was bound to only increase his skepticism. Especially since she hadn't gotten any sense that The Watcher meant any harm.

  The Watcher. From the objectivity of ten minutes removed from the experience, she replayed that extrasensory bombardment over again in her mind, searching for any signs of malevolence or danger. She couldn't recall anything negative in it at all-quite the opposite, in fact. She kept getting that overwhelming sense of success achieved after great effort. Triumph. Intense glee. Profound relief. Joy.

  What it reminded her of, she realized, was an image from a television minisenes she'd seen years ago, about a black American man searching for his roots in Africa. She'd never forgotten the look on the man's face-an actor, of course, but no less emotionally intense, at least for her- when he heard at last the old griot, the verbal historian, recount the familiar story of how his ancestor had been taken by slavers. The man's incredible, overwhelming joy as he cried out, "I've found you, you old African! I've found you!"

  Yes. It was that kind of feeling. So vivid it shook her, brought tears to her eyes and goose bumps to her skin even now.

  Laughing at herself, she dashed the tears from her eyes, rubbed away the goose bumps and went back into the gallery. She walked slowly among the paintings, soaking in their sunlit freshness and tranquility one last time before climbing the stairs to her apartment…and the darkness that was Jeannette.

  Ed Francks was on the phone when Wade walked into the squad room. He cove
red the mouthpiece with his hand and muttered. "See the boss," as he jerked his head in the general direction of the hallway that dog-legged off the main squad room.

  Wade nodded, tossed his jacket over the back of his chair and tucked in his shirttails as he headed for the office of the homicide division chief. It was more automatic than necessary; the current chief wasn't a stickler for spit and polish. The only thing that impressed Nola Hoffman was closing cases.

  Nola, being five-ten and a little bit-six feet in the high-heeled pumps she always wore-and carrying more weight than she probably wanted to, was more than impressive enough to fit her title. It didn't hurt, either, that she had skin the exact color of Hershey's milk chocolate, a neck about a foot long topped off with a perfectly shaped head that was covered with maybe half an inch of fuzz the color of vanilla ice cream and the face of an Egyptian pharaoh. She was referred to as "Boss" to distinguish her from the head of Special Cases, Allan Styles, who was just about Nola's direct opposite in every way. Styles was known as "The Chief" to his face; what most of Wade's fellow homicide cops called him behind his back was considerably less respectful and a whole lot more colorful. Dwight Cutter, Chief of Police of the City of Portland, was never called anything but "Chief Cutter," both to his face and behind his back.

  Under the circumstances. Wade wasn't surprised to find all three of those individuals gathered in the Homicide Division chief's office, their faces turned expectantly toward him as he entered. The only wonder to him was that his honor the mayor hadn't chosen to join them, as well.

  "Chief Cutter… Chief Styles… Boss…" Wade said as handshakes and nods were exchanged and appropriate titles acknowledged all around. He then assumed parade-rest stance, since all available chairs in the office had been taken, and arranged his features in an expression he hoped would appear both alert and somber.

  "I've just been telling Chief Cutter and Chief Styles about our task force," Nola said, leaning forward to place both forearms on her desk, the center part of which had, in their honor, been swept clean of papers clear down to the blotter. "Detective, can you fill us in on the latest developments?"

  Wade managed to get his throat cleared, but Chief Cutter beat him to the actual forming of words. "Understand we had another torture murder last night. What's this make now, five?"

  "Five with roughly the same M.O., yes, sir. Assuming they're all connected. We haven't established that they are, not for certain."

  Styles, who'd never been Wade's biggest fan, said with a superior smirk, "Come on, Callahan, all five victims have been-"

  But Cutter's blunt "Why not?" overrode it.

  Wade chose to respond to the chief of police. "There's no connection between the victims, for one thing. Except gender-all were female. Age-wise, we have a college student, a retiree, a city bus driver and a middle-aged housewife. Now this new one-she's a widow, three grown kids. All were tortured in approximately the same way. None was sexually assaulted, although they were left naked and hanging by their wrists, and no clothes or IDs have been found."

  "But you have positive IDs on the victims?"

  "Yes, sir-missing persons matchups and next-of-kin verification on the first four. The most recent-our widowed mom-had fingerprints on file. Seems she was a docent at the art museum."

  "No suspects, I take it."

  "No, sir. So far, there's been no physical evidence left at the crime scenes by the killer or killers. None of the victims had any enemies, owed anybody money, took drugs or fooled around with anyone's husband, girl or boyfriend. Model citizens, all."

  "Hell, sounds like we got ourselves a serial killer to me." Chief Cutter snorted, fixing his jowly features in a Churchillian scowl. "Looks like I get the honor of breaking the news to the mayor. Just what this city needs-another serial killer. We got the Rose Festival coming up in a couple weeks, the eyes of the country on us-in a good way, for a change. How long's it been since the last time we had a serial killer? Fifteen years? Back in the nineties, wasn't it?"

  "It's spring," Styles said. "Warm weather always brings out the weirdos."

  "Weirdos we got plenty of-always have. Wouldn't be Portland without 'em. At least they're not generally homicidal, thank the Lord." Cutter pushed himself to his feet. Once at eye level with Wade-and with an unmistakable gleam in his eye-the police chief said. "Speaking of weirdos, how's the newest member of your team working out, Detective?"

  Nobody made the mistake of taking that question at face value. Everyone in the room was familiar with Chief Cutter's habit of setting conversational traps for unwary subordinates, and well aware of from whence the order to involve the psychic had originated.

  So it was that Wade addressed an audience perhaps more respectfully attentive than it might otherwise have been. "Ah…well, sir, so far she seems…" He coughed, hoping to gain time for his brain to find a word that wouldn't get him in trouble with his boss and make him the butt of department humor for the foreseeable future. When the word failed to appear, he started again. "From the crime scene this morning, she did pick up that the, uh, latest victim didn't know her killer." He paused while everyone nodded gravely, then continued with an absolutely straight face. "Oh, yeah-and the killer doesn't like uniforms."

  There was a snuffle of poorly stifled laughter from someone-probably Styles. Nola put one long-boned hand over the lower part of her face and became suddenly interested in a large spill of something on her desk blotter.

  Chief Cutter pushed abruptly to his feet and favored each person in the room individually with two seconds of jaw-jutting scowl. If it hadn't been for the city-wide smoking ban. Wade knew, there would have been a cigar clamped between his teeth. "I expect everyone in this department to give the gal some time. She's done a good job for other departments, and Lord knows this one, and this city needs all the help it can get." He took a step toward the door, then jerked around to stab two fingers-holding the invisible cigar between them, of course-at the room in general. "I don't need to tell you, we need this sicko caught. I want this thing wrapped up before the Rose Festival begins. That clear?"

  Amid three mumbled Yes, sirs, the chief of police made his exit.

  Tee placed the bowl of thick chicken-and-barley soup in front of her grandmother and the spoon alongside it, then unfolded a dish towel and draped it over her grandmother's lap. "There you are, Jennie, just the way you like it."

  Jeannette, thankfully in one of her sweet moods, smiled up at her. 'That's very kind of you, dear. Such a lovely lass…my, but you remind me of my daughter. Her name is…" A look of stark distress wiped away her smile.

  "Isabella." Tee said quickly, before the distress could blossom into panic.

  The old lady's face brightened, although her eyes remained vague…unfocused. "Oh-you know my daughter? Are you one of her little friends? I used to know all her friends. Boyfriends, too. She always has boyfriends, my Isabella. Well, she's such a pretty thing, 'tis no wonder…"

  Tee picked up the spoon and gently curled her grandmother's fingers around it. "Here.,Jennie, dear, try the soup. It's barley-you like barley."

  Jeannette obediently dug into the soup bowl and slurped a noisy spoonful, making humming sounds of approval as she worked it around in her mouth. She swallowed, then gave a trill of musical laughter. It sounded poignantly young. "Izzy always brings her young men home to meet me, you know. She hasn't The Gift herself-doesn't like mine much, either, except when it suits her. Like when she wants to know what's in a boy's heart. Then she doesn't mind it, not a bit…" She scooped up another bite of soup, still chuckling to herself.

  Tee leaned her chin on her hand as she watched her grandmother attack the bowl of soup with gusto, crooning and mumbling to it as she ate. "I wish you could help me know what's in this one's heart, because I sure can't," she said, knowing Jeannette wouldn't really hear her, that she was years away, now. A lifetime away.

  "Wade Callahan…that's his name-the detective I'm working with now. You said he's lost, Jennie, and I think he is, but only
parts of him. He's like…a jigsaw puzzle with pieces missing." She sighed. "I can't read him."

  Jeannette paused with the spoon on its downward arc. "I could never read my Tommy, either."

  "Tommy?" Tee felt excitement vibrate through her breastbone. Her grandmother's voice had taken on a different timbre… a younger, lighter pitch, with a definite Irish brogue. Softly she asked. "Was he your boyfriend, Jennie?"

  "Boyfriend? Oh, well, I s'pose he was to begin with, before I married him." She chuckled. "Tommy was my husband, of course."

  Tee felt her grandmother's emotions fill her head, warm and sweet, at first, like spring breezes wafting through orchards of apple trees. Then just as quickly they changed to hot, sultry winds, blowing gusts that smelled of passion and storms.

  "I never knew you were married," she said in a wondering voice. She'd always assumed single parenthood was the norm in her family.

  "Not for long, I'm afraid," Jeannette said in the gently wistful manner of one reliving an old, old tragedy. "My Tommy was killed, you see, only weeks after we married, when I was already carrying his daughter. My lovely Isabella-looked just like him, she did, and took after him in other ways, as well. Reckless, he was. Always takin' risks. Went off to Belfast to fight the British. And I couldna' stop it…" Her accent seemed to thicken as a tear trickled down her cheek. "I saw, I did. But I wouldna' believe."

  Tee couldn't answer. One hand covered her mouth; the other groped blindly for her grandmother's as waves of inconsolable grief washed over her.

  Later, after the effects of the impression had faded, she remembered the words. I saw, but I wouldna' believe.

  And felt a chill of an altogether different kind.

  In a motel room on the outskirts of Portland, a private investigator named Holt Kincaid took out his cell phone and punched a number on his speed dial. A woman answered, a voice he knew well. It sounded sleepy.

  "Hey, Sam," he said with momentary qualms of guilt, "did I wake you?"

  "Hey, Holt," his employer's wife muttered in her mild Georgia drawl. "'S okay. What's up?"