Evil to the Max (5 page)

“Max—”

She narrowed her eyes and gave him that I’m-a-woman-so-don’t-mess-with-me look. It was enough to shut him up. “I’ll be as careful as I was at Hackett’s Appliances.”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s what worries me.”

She’d only taken the job to help
him
find a killer. “What happened there wasn’t my fault, you know.”

“Promise me one thing.”

She eyed him warily. “What?”

“That you won’t drive anyone at that hair place to attempted murder in less than a week.”

“Actually, it took a little under two weeks the last time.”

She flashed him a bright smile, then munched on an unappealing piece of broccoli while pretending fascination with the surroundings. A hanging lamp covered with cowhide provided muted illumination. The mustard-colored vinyl chairs were hideously out of fashion, and the indoor-outdoor, urine-yellow carpet tiles were frayed around the edges. Plexiglas divided the booths, insulating them while at the same time allowing Max an impressive view of masticated food in the mouth of the man seated at the next table.

Witt’s beeper had gone off twice so far during dinner, and despite the privacy of the Plexi walls, he’d excused himself to make the return calls on his cell phone. Thank God he’d returned each time. She couldn’t have tackled the Round Up on her own, not with champagne fizzing in her veins.

“And how is everything, you two?” The waitress had a perky face, perky breasts, perky butt, and the most annoyingly perky attitude.

“Just perky, thanks,” Max said. Witt had the good sense to keep his mouth shut. When the waitress left, Max returned to talk of their investigation. “I visited the bus station.”

He narrowed his gaze. “And just what did you find?”

Nothing. Zippo. Nada.

“I ruled it out as a home for key 452. I also ruled out the YMCA, and the local gym.” She’d spent the afternoon canvassing the neighborhood within a four-block radius of the Round Up. No snake-tattooed wino. No lockers numbered higher than sixty-five.

Witt sighed, picked up his fork. “Guess there’s no point in asking you not to approach this guy on your own.”

“What choice do I have since you won’t sic the cops on him?”

Another long-suffering sigh. He pulled a pad from his back pocket, wrote, then tore out the page and handed it to her.

She eyed the phone number warily. “What’s this?”

“My cell number. Call if you see him. I’ll do the rest.”

She folded the paper precisely in half. “So, what? I’m supposed to run to the nearest phone booth and put everything on hold until The Man arrives?” Did he
know
how hard it was to find a working payphone these days?

His blond brows went up, but he ignored the verbal male-bashing. “No cell phone?” The tone indicated it was something akin to not having a car, or a job, or a laptop, and a DVD player.

“There isn’t anyone I need to call with such urgency.” There wasn’t anyone to call at all. Except Cameron. But then mental telepathy worked just fine for him.

Witt just shook his head. “I’ve got an extra in the truck.”

The idea almost popped the blood vessels in her eyes. “I don’t need your phone. I can afford one.” And she could damn well take care of herself.

He drummed blunt fingers against the tabletop. “I am trying not to lose my patience. If you want my help, it’s my way or no way.”

Max pursed her lips. She hadn’t laid into anyone in at least a week. Not since that mother of all fights with Cameron—for which she still hadn’t quite forgiven him even if he had returned with his ghostly tail tucked between his legs.

The problem was, she needed Witt. She aped his exaggerated sigh. “You win. Your way, your phone,
this
time.” She cocked her head. “It’d be more macho if you gave me a gun.”

She had the satisfaction of watching his jaw drop. “A gun in your hands, Max, is a very scary thought.”

She made a face. “Have they got any suspects?”

He recovered quickly. “Ex-husband. She left him three months ago. Got a quickie divorce in Reno. No alibi, but no motive, either. The two were supposedly still the best of friends.”

She clapped her hands together lightly. “Oh, it’s him. Definitely.” She had no idea if she was right. Her psychic abilities didn’t suddenly give her access to every detail. No, dammit, it only gave her enough to create a mystery she felt compelled to solve.

Cutting into her rare steak, she popped a small bite into her mouth. God, it was heavenly. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had filet. Months. No, years. Dinner out with Cameron. She licked the juice from her lips.

“What are you doing?”

Her lids popped open. She hadn’t realized she’d closed her eyes. “I’m eating.”

“Well, quit it.” His pupils dilated. His fist clenched on his knife.

She stopped, her fork two inches from her mouth. “Quit eating?”

“Quit making it sound like you’re having sex.” His tone, low and harsh, was meant for her ears only. It gave her chills. Very nice chills.

She sucked in her breath, remembered the dream and wondered what sex with Witt would be like. Talk about sexual energy, the way he watched her was like ... well, like he knew exactly what she was thinking, and that he’d do her fantasy one better, way better.

Of course, he was right, the steak had been damn near orgasmic. But she’d better stop that line of thinking before things got out of hand, before
she
got out of hand. “Do all cops have one-track minds?”

“Only me when I watch you eat. It’s a religious experience.”

“I’m serious here, Witt. We were talking about motives.”

“I’ve got one.”

“Not
your
motive, you turkey.”

He tapped the end of his fork on the table before spearing a piece of his steak. Thank God. She’d sidetracked him. Hopefully.

“Detectives Scagliomotti and Berkowsky—”

“Scagliomotti? That’s the guy’s real name?”

He sighed. “Don’t interrupt unless it’s to drag me outside to ravage my body.” He didn’t blink or comment on the fact that her mouth had dropped open, just went on as though he hadn’t made her heart pound. She had a suspicion he knew his effect on her, too. “The boys think it had something to do with the disturbance at the Round Up Saturday night.”

Max almost choked on a bit of meat. “Disturbance?” she countered. She should have known the cops would put two and two together. Only idiots really believed the police were dumb. And those were the ones who got caught.

“A woman matching Tiffany Lloyd’s description performed ... er ... was seen ...”

Poor Witt. His fair skin began to glow. The flush started at the neckline of his pink shirt, then worked its way up. Amazing for a man who made more than his share of sexual innuendoes.

Max smiled oh so innocently. “Tiffany did what, Detective?” A sip of champagne sizzled down her throat, and she began to enjoy herself in earnest. Absentmindedly, she rubbed the glass across her lower lip.

Witt tugged on the neck of his T-shirt. “She was observed having ... ahem ... in the public restroom.”

Max tapped her fingers on the edge of her plate and shot him a quizzical look. “Having
ahem
? I don’t believe I’ve heard of that.”

He put his fork down. “Sex, Max. She had sex in the men’s bathroom,” he said with a straight face.

She hid her smile behind a broccoli flower. “Oh. And the police think
that
man killed her?”

“Him. Or someone who was watching. Helluva fight broke out afterwards. Trashed the place. According to witnesses, Tiffany disappeared. So did the guy.”

“Did they get a description of him?”

It was Witt’s turn to smile. “Got fifteen detailed descriptions of the woman. Not one of them could remember what the man looked like.” He pushed his plate away. “Tell me, Max, why so interested in visiting the Round Up? And remember,
you
said I don’t believe in coincidence. So don’t bother with any crazy stories.”

Busted. Once again, she’d underestimated the man. “I read about the riot and figured there was a connection.”

“Riot?” Witt’s narrowed eyes could become the most piercing blue when he was onto something. “I never said riot.”

“Disturbance then.”

“
You
used the word riot. Something you’re not telling me? Because I know you didn’t read about any ‘riot.’”

“Would you believe I overheard the girls at the salon talking about it?” It was worth a try.

He didn’t dignify that one with an answer, but sat back with his arms crossed and ran her through with an blue-ice gaze.

“All right, you asked for it. I dreamed a blonde woman—who I now know was Tiffany—picked up a man in the bar. She had sex in the restroom while a bunch of guys were in there listening to her. Then the place broke out in a riot, at which point she vanished, only to be murdered later in a twelve-by-twelve foot, blue-walled room by Frankenstein and Dracula. Then the two monsters dumped her body in the alley. And the dump was witnessed by my wino.”

He relaxed his arms, regarding her with as much pride as interest. The look warmed her. Damn, this was getting really scary.

“More like it, Max.”

She stared, her pulse drumming. “You actually believe me?”

“Shall I enumerate the things you shouldn’t have known about Wendy Gregory’s murder, but did?”

“And
you
wanted to arrest me for knowing too much.”

He quirked his brow. “In my defense, no one but Wendy’s killer knew about that note found on the floor of the car.”

“The green one with the flight number written on it?”

“Yeah. Flight 452. Same number as the locker key your wino supposedly had. No one knew about that note except Wendy’s killer. And you. Which you claimed to have seen in a dream.” He leaned forward, blue eyes intense. “Now you’ve seen a key in a vision. And I’m still willing to suspend my disbelief for the time being.”

She snorted softly. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I know you didn’t kill Wendy because if you’d helped, believe me, that murdering asshole would have made sure you went down, too.” His lips were flat-lined, grim.

“Goodness, I thought it was your faith in me.”

He shot another icy, penetrating gaze at her. “You don’t recognize faith when you’re looking at it. I’m a cop. I deal in logic. But nothing about you is logical.”

“Logic was how I nailed Wendy’s killer.” And a few visions.

He tipped his head like a curious cat. “Tell me how it works.”

Goosebumps rose on her arms. “We covered that.”

He tapped his fingers on the table. “More. I want more.”

So did she, and the need got stronger the more time she spent with him. “They’re just like dreams.”

“Then how do you know they’re real?”

A damn good question. “I ... they’re ... the visions are very linear, like real time. No weird or funny stuff like in normal dreams. I’m not myself, and I’m aware of that. But, the same as with dreams, by the time I wake up, I’ve forgotten a lot. I sometimes think things are held back on purpose, so I’m
forced
to search.”

She didn’t realize she’d closed her eyes until his finger trailed across her hand. She pulled back immediately, pushed her plate away, and crossed her arms in front of her.

Witt looked at her, one corner of his mouth up as if he was laughing at her. “What about the visions when you’re awake?”

“Same thing. I’m someone else. It’s just a scene. I don’t always know what it means at first. Details just seem to pop into my head later. Stuff I noticed but didn’t really pick up on.”

He still smiled.

It made her nervous. “Are you humoring me or something?”

“Unsure of yourself?”

“I’m unsure of
you
.” She wondered belatedly if that was a real smart thing to admit. His interest, however, warmed her.

“Just curious how you did it, that’s all.”

“Well, I don’t use a crystal ball or tarot cards.”

He seemed about to say something else, but the waitress chose that moment to drop off the check, her perky smile flashing at Witt. Max went for the small wad of cash in her purse.

Witt took the check and handed back her two fives and twelve ones. “I’ll pay.”

“I have enough.”

“My date doesn’t pay for her own dinner.”

“This isn’t a date. We’re staking out the Round Up. It’s like work. You can probably even put in for overtime.” Besides, she hadn’t been on a real date since Cameron was alive. The idea was ludicrous and downright petrifying.

“I’m not working tonight. And you’re not paying.”

“Is this like a matter of honor or something?”

He stared at her a moment, shook his head, then flashed his sexy grin.

“Max, if we both make it through the night without doing bodily harm to each other, it’ll be a miracle.”

Chapter Five

Billy Joe’s Western Round Up wasn’t jumping, but then it was only Tuesday night. Well-populated tables ringed the dance floor, but the rest of the place was empty. Witt was the only guy without a cowboy hat, and she was the only gal without denim fringe on her blouse. Eight couples twirled smoothly across the wooden floor as a music video played on big-screen TVs. The music was loud, and her feet itched to move. Someone hooted and clapped, acknowledging a good shot at the pool tables. Laughter and voices, raised to be heard over the country videos, made the bar feel far more crowded than it was.

She picked a table right next to the sunken dance floor and ordered two Coronas.

Without the normal crush of bodies, Max could smell the lemon cleaner they’d used to wipe down the lacquered tabletops. The usual haze of illegal cigarette smoke hovering near the ceiling had almost dissipated. Two front windows were boarded up and broken chairs were stacked against the back wall. The glasses behind the bar were two deep instead of the customary three. One of the TV monitors was blank. That was the extent of the evidence of Saturday night’s riot.

Except for the scattered remnants of Tiffany Lloyd inside Max’s head. The dead woman had loved inciting a riot.