MIND READER (5 page)

A trickle of disappointment that he wasn’t following her
seeped through her chest. Peeved at herself, Caron shifted
on the seat. She had enough problems without adding
Parker Simms to them. The man could make her dizzy with
just a look. He could also make her want to strangle him.
With the case tapping her emotions—and sure to drain
them—she didn’t have any to spare. Especially not for a
man who thought she was a flake. The distraction could be
lethal.

Traffic on the Greater New Orleans Bridge heading to the
west bank was bumper-to-bumper, and moving about as
fast as a pregnant snail. She glanced from the Super-
dome’s marquee, which was flashing a red Happy Holidays, to her watch, and she groaned. Four-fifteen. Rush
hour for downtown commuters. And she had skipped lunch again. Stomach growling, she grabbed a Butterfinger candy
bar from her purse and ripped it open.

She was two-thirds through with the candy before traffic thinned out. Crossing the Mississippi River, she then
exited and hooked a left onto Belle Chase Highway. S
he spotted the reddish brick buildings several blocks ahead—long before she could read the street sign. Yet she
didn’t need the sign. This was definitely the place. Meyer’s
Properties, a real estate office, was there on the corner, right next to the grocery store, exactly as she’d imaged it.

The shopping center had been around a while, too; the concrete in the parking lot was cracked, and as full of potholes as the street. She steered around an orange sawhorse straddling a hole big enough to swallow her Chevy, drove on
to the back of the building, then stopped. Stuffing the
candy wrapper into her purse, she closed her eyes and let
the images come.

When they had, she drove the path they’d shown her, certain that she following the same route the little girl had taken. Down two blocks. Then three more. A right turn,
and...

At the corner, Caron hit the brakes hard and stared at a sagging green house. Two trucks—both up on blocks— were in the front yard. A shiny new Lincoln, looking to
tally out of place, was parked beside one of the trucks. The
lawn needed mowing; the grass and weeds stood half a foot
tall. Two huge evergreens stood sentry over an unwelcom
ing front door. Long scratches dug deep into the wood on
the bottom half of it. A mean-looking Doberman, run
ning ruts into the ground along a length of hurricane fence,
explained the scratches and warned Caron that she was far
from welcome.

The girl didn’t belong here. Caron knew that as well as
she knew her own name. But she had been here, or she was
here—Caron couldn’t tell which. And, needing to deter
mine that, she called out from the car. “Hello!”

No answer. Just the Doberman barking, snarling, show
ing her his vicious teeth, his ears lying back flat. She locked
the car door. Totally irrational—the dog could hardly open
it—but it made Caron feel better.

Then the front door opened, and the first man she’d im
aged walked out, waving a can of Budweiser.

Beer sloshed onto his T-shirt. Once, it might have been white, but that hadn’t been lately. It was stained by perspiration, dirt, and now beer. Only God knew what else.

“Whaddayawant?”

He was drunk, potently reminding Caron of Sarah’s abductor. The dog went wild, as if to prove to his master he
was earning his keep. Shaking from head to toe, she
cranked down the window all the way, cleared her throat and yelled out, “I’m looking for someone. Maybe you can
help—”

“Shut up, Killer!” he shouted at the dog. Then, at her:
“I can’t hear ya.”

The dog stopped barking, but didn’t stop growling. “I’m looking for Parker Simms,” she said, tossing out the first name that came to mind. “I thought this was his house.”

“It ain’t.”

“Do you know which house is his?”

“No.” He let out a healthy belch and rubbed his belly.

“Have you ever heard of him?”

The man didn’t answer. He slid her a narrow-eyed glare,
walked back inside, then slammed the door. Given no
choice but to come back later, Caron pulled away from the
curb.

Two blocks down the street, a blinding pain streaked through her stomach. Caron bent double over the steering wheel and groaned. When she could move, she veered to
the side of the street and braked to a stop.

The pain was so strong! Appendicitis? What? What ill
ness had struck the little girl?

A long shadow fell across her window and stayed there.

“Caron?”

Parker Simms. Oh, God, not now. He was the last thing she needed right now. Holding her stomach, she again
lowered the glass.

“Are you all right?”

Her stomach hurt like hell, and she was in a cold sweat.
“I’m fine.” She forced herself to glance over at him.
Big,
brawny, beautiful—
all those words came to mind...again.
“What do you want, Mr. Simms?”

“Parker.” He crouched down and looked in through the window. “You sure you’re okay? You look half-dead.”

She felt worse. “I’m fine.” The pain lessened to a dull ache. She grabbed a tissue from the box on the dash and wiped the beads of sweat from above her lip and at her
temple. “What are you doing here?”

“I want to help.”

Caron dropped the tissue box. “You walked out on me
once. I don’t have time to play revolving-door games. This
girl’s in trouble—and I don’t need a keeper.”

“Look, I wasn’t ready to hear what I heard. This psy
chic stuff is pretty hard to swallow. So cut me a little slack,
okay?” He gripped the top of the car door and leaned closer. “And just for the record, I never thought you needed a keeper.”

She didn’t miss the strong insinuation that Sandy did
think so. A sharp pain seared her left side, and she winced.

The man’s eyes softened to the gentle gray of a molting
mallard. “Are you sick?”

“No.” She shuddered out a steadying breath. “Just em
pathy pains.” Why had she told him that?

He shifted, and something hard flashed in his eyes. “Can
we go somewhere to talk?”

Feeling human again, she gave him a second look.
Charming smile. A perplexed black brow and soft gray eyes
that were questioning. Nothing threatening there. His hair
was a riot of close-cropped curls that teased his ears and the
collar of his black leather bomber jacket. His shoulders seemed to spread out forever, and no man that she’d ever seen could better fill out a pair of jeans. Lean hips.

Moneyed, but not flashy—except for the car. Her third
impression mimicked her first and second. He
was
big and
brawny...and beautiful.

“I think we should confer on the case.” His eyes twin
kled a what-you-see-is-what-you-get promise.

It wasn’t at all convincing. Why the turnaround? He’d
been a third-degree pain at Sandy’s office. What had him
soft-soaping her now? He smiled, as if knowing she’d been
summing him up and still wasn’t sure she was on solid
ground. “Why should we confer, Parker?”

He shrugged. “To help the girl.”

Caron didn’t see it, but she sensed he was a man on a
mission. And that mission had nothing to do with benev
olence.

“Look,” he said, as though sensing her uncertainty.
“My father and Sandy were friends for a long time. Occa
sionally he asks for my help. When he does, I give it.”

“You work on cases you don’t believe exist?”

“When asked to by family friends. Haven’t you ever
been put on the spot by family friends wanting favors?”

She had, and some of those favors had cost her dearly. But how did Parker know? He couldn’t know about her father; she’d never breathed a word about him to anyone.

Understanding settled in Parker’s eyes. Was it genuine?
She couldn’t tell that, either. In fact, she couldn’t read
Parker Simms any better than she could Sandy. And that oddity had a fair shiver racing across her shoulders.

“Hey, I’m not going to stand in the street and beg you to
let me help you. If you want me, I’m available, okay?” He
reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and flipped out
his card. “Just give me a call.”

She studied him for a long moment. He seemed sincere, and not at all hostile. Maybe he could help, after all. Sandy
had said Parker was the best, and she knew from experience that Sandy was hard to please and spare with praise. She’d be a fool not to accept Parker’s offer. She couldn’t let the little girl
end up like Sarah. If she worked alone and failed, wonder
ing if Parker could have saved the girl would torment her
the rest of her days.

“All right, Parker Simms,” she said, sounding a lot more
confident than she felt. “We’ll confer.”

“Great. There’s a Shoney’s up on the corner. Meet you there.” He walked away, toward the shiny black Porsche.

Caron frowned and called out, “Hey! Why are you re
ally doing this?”

“You’re the psychic.” He slid her a wicked smile chock-
full of challenge, and waggled his brows. “Figure it out.”

Figure it out?

The tiny hairs on her neck lifted. She’d dragged the
man’s name through every muddy pothole between New
Orleans and Gretna for being antagonistic, and now he was
teasing her?

No, Caron shivered. He wasn’t teasing. He meant ex
actly what he’d
said…
and, once again, she inexplicably
thought of Sarah James.

Parker whipped into Shoney’s parking lot and killed the engine. Had he lost his mind? He’d practically demanded
that Chalmers nose around until she found out why he was
going in on this case.

He’d figured that if he pushed, she’d do the opposite.
 
For as long as he could remember, it had worked with his
 
mother and his younger sister, Megan. But Caron Chal
 
mers wasn’t like them. Maybe he’d screwed up. Maybe he
 
 
shouldn’t have pushed so hard. He wanted her curious, but
 
 
if she got too curious and started checking up on him…

Hell, done was done. He’d just have to hope she didn’t,
and press on as planned. He shoved his keys into his
pocket; they jangled, clashing with loose coins.

Chalmers pulled in and parked. Relief soaked through
him, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d held.
 
She’d come. He hadn’t blown it—this time.

In the future, he’d be more careful. He’d ruffled her feathers pretty good at Sandy’s, and he’d forgotten a snippet of advice he’d learned on his mother’s knee. Remem
bering it could save him a lot of heartburn in dealing with Caron Chalmers.
“You win more flies with honey than with
vinegar.”

When she’d seen him, Chalmers
had
done a double take.
Her pupils had dilated, and her lips had parted just enough to let him know she was interested. At least she had been,
until she’d recognized him from the parking slot incident.

He shouldn’t have done that, at least not the way he had.
But he hadn’t been sure how he’d react to getting his first
up-close glimpse of her. He’d had to test himself while he was alone to minimize his risks; she wasn’t a slow woman.

As it worked out, it was good that he had tested himself privately. Caron Chalmers was more than just not slow; she
was extraordinarily fast on the uptake.

The stunt had cost him. After she’d recognized him,
she’d become distant, and from there, things had zoomed
downhill.

Finally she got out of her car, locked the door and started
toward the restaurant. The wind caught her hair and blew it back from her face. Harlan had been right; Caron Chalmers was
a knockout...and she was a fraud. A missing child, and no report? Get real.

Harlan had failed. But Parker would take care of it.