Dream of Danger (A Brown and De Luca Novella) (2 page)

Chapter Two

I walked into the little diner like a model walking into a shoot, slow motion, wind in my hair, sun glinting off my pearly whites. In my head, anyway. In real life I’m sure it was a lot less impressive, especially considering that the wind in my hair had turned into a wet November gust, and there was no longer any sun to glint off anything.

It was mud season. October had been spectacular to my brand-new eyes. I’d devoured October. November was just brown. The trees were leafless. There was no snow yet. The ground was barren. Mud season came twice a year, I’d been told. It would return again in March.

Then I saw him, and my mind went as barren as the surroundings. He was standing in front of a booth talking to a waitress when he looked up, met my eyes and smiled. Those sexy dimples flashed at me, and I almost threw up a little from the sheer nervous energy break dancing in my stomach. I know, stupid. I realized I was grinning like a loon and tried to stop, but it wasn’t possible, so I just hurried to the booth and slid into it before he could try to hug me. Because if he hugged me, I was going to go into convulsions or something.

He stood there a second, then sighed and sat down. “Hello, Rachel. Nice to see you again. You look fantastic. How have you been?”

I looked up, catching the edge of sarcasm in his voice. He had the prettiest brown eyes. Like melted chocolate, with those thick lashes you expect on a little boy, not a grown man. He could get any woman he wanted with lashes like that.

“I’ve been good,” I said. “Busy.”

“No mosmire dreams?”

“Not a one. I presume that means no more murders.”

“Not by any of my brother’s organ recipients, anyway.”

I gave a quick look around us when he said that, because really, no one knew but us that his dead brother had been a serial killer, or that a couple of the people who’d received his donated organs had continued his crimes, or that I had seen those crimes being played out in my dreams, presumably because I’d received his corneas. No one knew. And if they did, they wouldn’t believe it.

Both the guys who’d carried on Eric’s crimes were dead. One had taken himself out, and the other had almost killed us. But in the end, we won. End of case.

“How about you?” I asked, ’cause that was the thing to do when you hadn’t seen someone in a while.

“I’m good. Busy. Tying up the last few loose ends so I can move on. Looking forward to that. Moving on.”

“I’ll bet. What about the boys?” His nephews, sons of a serial killer who had no idea what their father had been.

“Jeremy’s depressed. Josh is...well, Josh is Josh.”

“Jeremy’s sixteen. Isn’t that a synonym for depressed?”

“Seventeen. His birthday was last week.”

“Wow. Hard to believe. And how about their mom? She have the baby yet?”

“Any day now,” he said.

Then it was quiet, and I looked up from perusing my menu to catch him staring at me. “You look great,” he said.

“So do you.” I got stuck in his eyes for a second. Damn, I liked him.

He shoved the file across the table to me and I flipped it open while the waitress came with coffee and to ask if we’d decided. I ordered Belgian waffles and sausage. He ordered ham and eggs with home fries. And I studied the pages of the file, not really reading, just sort of skimming and wondering if we’d made the right decision. I’d only had my eyesight back since August. I really meant what I’d said about learning who the new Rachel was, the sighted Rachel. I needed time to figure that out before I got all involved in a romance. And he knew that. Respected it. Besides, he’d just lost his brother, after learning Eric had been a serial killer. He’d just become the only father figure in the lives of his two nephews. And on top of that, he’d been forced to admit that sometimes things happen that we just can’t explain. His life had undergone a radical change, too.

As Keanu Reeves said to Sandra Bullock in
Speed
, “I’ve heard relationships based on intense experiences never work.”

I flipped the file closed, though I hadn’t read it. “Looks fine to me. But if it’s something they might ask me about later, you might want to email me a copy so I can give it a more thorough look at home.”

“They won’t.”

I blinked and looked at him. “But you said—”

The waitress brought the food. The cook was apparently a speed demon. She set the plates down and asked if we wanted anything else. I muttered, “No, thanks,” and waited for him to explain.

He shrugged. “This is just a formality. The chief is behind me. Hell, he’s acting like I’m his new best friend.”

“Well, you nabbed the Wraith. Only serial killer I’v likiller e ever heard of in our neck of the woods. It’s a big deal.”

“I couldn’t have done it without your help, though.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, well, I couldn’t help the dreams. They just showed up.”

“It was more than that.” He sawed off a hunk of ham, ate for a minute. Washed it down with coffee. “You’re good, Rachel. Your instincts, the way you can read people. You’re like a human lie detector. Only you read more than just lies. You read the emotion behind them. The motivation. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

I almost choked on my waffle, because the praise had come out of nowhere and I hadn’t been expecting it. I quickly took a gulp of coffee, but it was still pretty hot, so I dipped my hand into my water glass, fished out an ice cube and popped that into my mouth. My fingers were dripping and my shirtsleeve had dragged through my whipped cream. Graceful I wasn’t.

I pulled myself together, wiped my fingertips with a napkin, then nipped the whipped cream off my sleeve and popped it into my mouth, because hey, it was freakin’ whipped cream. Then, ready to speak again, I said, “Being blind for twenty years would have the same effect on anybody.”

“I don’t think so. I think you’re unique. Special.”

My lips lifted at the corners and my eyes sort of got wet. “Gee, Mason, I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything yet. I have something to ask you. Then you can say something.”

“What?”

“I’d like you to consider applying to the department as a consultant. That way I could use you on tough cases and you’d get paid for your time.”

I blinked. Just sat there dumbstruck and blinked at him. “I don’t need a job. Best-selling author, remember?” Then I told my brain to shut up, because it was hopping with notions of why he would ask me this, and opened my senses instead. That was where the answer would be. I had it in seconds. “That’s why you asked me to meet you, isn’t it? It had nothing to do with the case. You just wanted to pitch this ridiculous...consultant idea.”

“It’s not ridiculous. Police departments use consultants all the time. You could be a huge help to us.”

“Are you forgetting what happened last time I helped? I was almost murdered, Mason.”

“Yeah, but that was a fluke. It wouldn’t be like that.”

I sighed, reined my emotional responses in again, stopped reacting and went back to feeling. And I realized what was happening here. He missed me. That was all it was. He missed me. And the boys probably missed me, too. Josh must be having withdrawal over Myrtle. I drew a breath, nodded and said, “If you want to hang out sometime, we could—”

“I think you have a gift, Rachel. It hit me, as I was going over everything that happened on the Wraith case, that you could put it to use. You could help people.”

“So it’s not that you miss me.”
Yes
,
it is.

He made a face, as if to say that was ridiculous.

“‘Cause, see, I
do
have a gift. And it
does
help people. In my books. But I’m not a cop, and I don’t aspire to be one.”

“Okay, okay.” He held up his hands. “It was just an idea.”

Yeah
,
an idea of how we could spend time together without him having to admit he missed me.
The jerk.

* * *

I was in a shitty mood that afternoon. The writing hadn’t gone well—one of the big downsides of doing what I did for a living was that it was hard to pull it off when you were in a bitchy mood. How do you write sunshine and rainbows when you’re wishing you could poke someone in the windpipe with an acrylic nail?

So there was that, and then there was the report from the vet, which Amy delivered from as far from me as she could stand without being out of earshot. According to Dr. Einstein—
not
—my dog was obese. Not chubby. Not fat. Not a little overweight, but
obese.
If he’d said it to my face, I’d have hit him.

And now, still steaming over that little pronouncement, I was face-to-face with Mel, the new boyfriend.

And no, I am not Amy’s mother or her aunt or her guardian. I have no power over her. And it was probably none of my business.

But I will tell you right now, I knew from my chestnut-brown hair to my scuff-around-the-house slippers, which I put back on my feet the minute I got home, that there was something wrong about this guy.

Oh, he smiled at me, had great manners, said all the right things, looked adoringly at Amy and then made his exit with all the grace and ease of a seasoned actor. And I got the feeling that was exactly what he was. The big Thanksgiving trip was about to begin, and they were due at her parents’ before the night was out. Five-hour drive, after all. Yada yada yada. I snapped a pic of his Jag with my cell phone when they drove away. I don’t know why. It was as knee-jerk a reaction as blinking when someone claps their hands in front of your face. I didn’t think about it. Just did it, then thought,
Huh.
That was weird.

I didn’t like him, and I didn’t like Amy going off with him.

When Amy’s mother called the next morning to ask if I’d heard from her daughter, I liked it even less.

Chapter Three

I had to bite my lip to keep from blurting something that would scare the hell out of Ellen Montrose. But I knew it was bad. I don’t know how I knew. I just
knew.
It was just there, right in the middle of my chest, like a big pulsing tumor. Something bad had happened to Amy. And my brain was running at light speed, churning its gears and finally spitting out a series of simple commands.
Stay calm.
Get the details.
Call Mason.

I took a deep breath and tried to obey.

“I haven’t seen her since she left here yesterday evening,” I told Ellen, trying to sound casual. “When did
you
hear from her?”

“She called along about six. Said she was goin’ to pick up her car, go home to pack a bag and then she’d be leaving to head home. Riding down with this new fella she’s been seein’. Mel.” I heard it in her voice when she said the name: she didn’t like the guy any more than I did. Mother’s intuition. It’s the real deal. “They should have been here by midnight at the latest.”

Stay calm
,
get the details.
Call Mason
, my brain reminded me.

“Maybe she changed her mind at the last minute. Did you call her?”

“Well, of course I called her. Heaven’s mercy, Rachel, do you think I’d be callin’ you if I hadn’t already tried to call her first?”

“I’m sorr—”

“No. No, I’m sorry. I got no call to snap at you. I just...I’m worried about her.”

“I know. It’s okay. Really. I’ll look into it from here, okay? I’ll find her, give her hell for worrying her mother and have her home in time for Thanksgiving dinner. All right?”

Her mother sniffled. “I got a bad feelin’, Rachel.”

“You just focus on that homemade cranberry dressing Amy’s been raving about all week long. Let me worry about your girl. I’ll get her there. I promise.”

She sighed. “Okay. I guess. Keep in touch, all right?”

“I will.” I hung up the phone, closed my eyes for a second, took a deep breath. Then I went to my cell phone, which was sitting on the long sofa table behind the couch on its charger pad. Hit the button, flipped to the photos, selected the shot of the departing Jag and sent it to Mason, along with a brief message.

Amy missing.
Need u.

I hit Send and realized my hand was shaking.

He called within two minutes. In another thirty he was at my front door.

* * *

I was riding beside Mason in his black Monte Carlo, which was his dream car. I didn’t see why. It was big, it was old and it was ugly. I far preferred my ‘02 T-bird, a replica of the ‘65 model, only with electric everything, and lots of bells and whistles. His was original. It even
smelled
old. There was just one long vinyl bench, no console between the driver’s and passenger’s seats.

Myrtle, however, loved it. She liked the window seat, so I was in the middle, crammed up beside Mason, because she took up a lot of room. We had the window down halfway because I’m ridiculously in love with my dog and she loves the wind in her face. She crammed her face into the opening, mouth gaping, tongue flapping in the chill November breeze, goggles protecting her eyes.

I didn’t mind being close to Mason. He smelled good. Familiar. I hadn’t realized how much I’d grown to love his smell. A little bit the soap he used. A little bit the work he did. I could smell his gun, or maybe that was the oil he used to clean it. I could smell the leather holster that held it. I could smell
him.
The combination was the clear scent of cop. This cop, in particular. And for me, that was an aphrodisiac.

Note to self:
stop dissing the New Agers peddling aromatherapy.
They’re right.
Scent
does
have power.

“Sorry to drag you away from the family on a holiday,” I told him.

“They’ll be all right. The boys have friends over, gaming until the food’s ready. Mother and Marie are cooking, and I’ve got all weekend off to spend with them.” He looked my way. “Your plans got blown out of the water, too, huh?”

“I was just going to eat at Sandra and Jim’s. I cal lom’s. led her. It’s no big deal. They’re as worried about Amy as I am.”

He nodded, and I looked away, because I was thinking about my earlier wish that I could be with him today, and how it looked as though it was panning out. Though I’d envisioned us munching on leftover turkey in between bouts of sex and football. Not searching for my favorite goth.

I held a printout Mason had brought with him. The silver Jaguar with the plate number MIB-576 was registered to one Melvin Brandt. Not Mel Brennan. He wasn’t a lawyer, he was a plumber. And he was very, very married. He also lived right on the way to Amy’s, so we decided to visit his house first. I didn’t expect him to be there, but someone sure as hell would be. His wife, maybe. We could learn a lot from her. Mason by talking to her, and me by feeling the emotions underneath the words. Amy’s place would be our second stop.

“I knew that jerk was hiding something. Lying about something. I knew it. Why the hell did I let her go?”

“How’d you know?” Mason asked. He was driving at a good solid clip, seven miles an hour over the limit. Consistent. No cruise control needed. Not that a car this old probably even had such a thing.

I sent him a look. “You know how I knew.”

“Yeah, I do. And I know if you’re this scared, something’s wrong. I don’t even doubt your instincts anymore.”

“Instincts.” I played with the word in my head and decided it was better than
ESP.
He’d accused me of having that once, as had Amy, and I’d damn near choked on it both times. “Something’s happened to her.”

“We’ll find her.”

But we couldn’t even file an official missing person’s report that the department would take seriously until we’d at least checked the basics. Her place and Mel’s. Then we’d call it in, Mason had promised. “I promised her mother I’d have her at the table for dinner.”

“I’m pretty sure we’ll be able to keep that promise.”

“I hope so.” He turned onto Hooper Road, and I started scanning houses for the matching number. Then I found it. There was a big wooden swing set on the lawn. “There it is. The lying prick has kids.”

“Jag’s in the driveway. He must be home.”

I pulled Myrt across my lap and into the middle so I could get out. She was so heavy it was all I could do to drag her bulk over the slippery vinyl seat, and I grudgingly conceded that my vet might have a point.

Mason jumped out his side, came around to mine, took hold of my forearm, no doubt to keep me from charging up to the door and ruining the guy’s holiday, not to mention his marriage. “We don’t know this guy did anything.”

“Other than cheat on his wife and lie to my best friend, you mean?”

He tipped his head to one side. “Amy’s your best friend? Does she know that?”

“
I
didn’t know it until just now. And if this son of a—”

The front door opened before we reached it. A pretty little brunette stood there, big brown eyes, paintbrush lashes and all of five-one. “Can I help you with something?” she asked.

“It’s Thanksgiving,” Mason whispered near my ear. Then he smiled his best charm-your-socks-off smile and extended a hand. “Mason Smith. This is my better half, Becky.”