Seconds later, an icy chill rolled down her back. She glanced around, but time seemed to have stopped. The dust motes hung in the air as if suspended on strings. The morning light changed from vibrant streams to dull shafts of stale sunshine and they appeared to arrow through the icy cold like golden knives pointing to the floor at her feet.
Jules glanced down to her blue-painted toenails. On the floor, in the middle of the light, a series of brilliant, glittery red rocks spelled out the letter
P
. The rocks, maybe rubies, seemed to sparkle from all different directions, until the light they cast grew blinding and painful.
Covering her aching eyes with her right hand, Jules took two steps forward and slammed the door closed, locking it with shaking fingers.
“Give it to him!”
The words slashed through her mind. Could mental thoughts alone lacerate her brain?
“Do it now before someone else dies!”
Clutching one hand to her head, which was now throbbing in agony, Jules dropped to the floor and curled into a ball. Where the hallway had been filled with oppressive light, the living room went unearthly dark. Sound and light were sucked into a vacuum and she was left with the paralyzing reality that the ghost wasn’t finished yet.
Then she heard it.
The cry of a baby. Weak, sad. The sound cut through her like a knife.
Swinging her head from left to right, she peered into the blackening room for the infant.
No baby. Only the ghost hovered nearby. Her muddy red aura pulsed around her. Crystalline tears tracked down her cheeks.
“You must do it, today.”
The sound of thousands of nails shrieking down chalkboards echoed in her ears again, sending a rush of tears pricking her eyes. She clapped her hands to her ears and sent a mental plea to the angry spirit.
“Please. I’ll do what you want. Tell me what you want me to give and who I should give it to—”
The ghost screamed. Jules lifted her head in time to see the room erupt into flowing crimson. Red saturated the room like someone had splashed buckets of blood on everything.
The room began to spin. Then the vision started again. The Buick, the desperate search for a way out of the trunk, the smell of blood in the confined space . . . and Jules was there. Reliving the ghost’s murder.
Helpless to do more than ride the vision, Jules lay still. Beneath her body, the trunk’s carpeting scratched against her skin.
“I’m not in the trunk,” she whispered to herself in a desperate attempt to hang on to her sanity. “I’m home.”
But as the vision continued, she disconnected from herself and became the victim.
My name is Aimee-Lynn.
The awareness of being someone other than Juliana Scott was enough to pause the vision, like a DVD. Had the ghost spoken or just remembered suddenly? Either way, Jules heard her.
“Do you remember your killer?” Jules winged the question mentally.
Aimee-Lynn didn’t answer. Instead, the nightmare started playing again, louder and in a high-def that techno geeks would have killed to produce.
Cold, leather-encased hands squeezed her naked throat. She gasped and wheezed, fighting for breath. As the life slipped from her body, the vision faded. Once again, Jules was in her apartment, alone. Blackness descended, and just before she succumbed to the peace, Aimee-Lynn’s voice floated gently through her mind.
“Give it to him and finish what I started.”
• • •
T
HE MORNING HAD
been a royal pain in the ass. Mondays always sucked at the station. Today transcended from merely sucking into shitsville.
“Christ!” Seth glared at the glossy 8x10 photo, then shoved it into the McGivern’s file and dropped it onto his desk. He pulled out his chair and sank into it.
He’d suspected the Dumpster victim had been his tipster, Aimee-Lynn. He’d been right. Worse, he hadn’t spent twenty minutes with Iris Masters before he learned it had been her red diamond ring stolen from the Holcomb robbery. Why the hell would Aimee-Lynn steal her mother’s diamond only to contact him with information about it? It didn’t make sense.
The moment she’d identified Aimee-Lynn’s body, her tough-as-nails façade shattered. Captain Peterson had arrived and personally driven the woman home. A sure sign that Iris’s threat to call the mayor hadn’t been a hollow one.
Now, Seth was back to no suspects and a dead tipster.
Damn it!
He was running in circles. Scrubbing a weary hand down his face, Seth yawned. He needed a break in the case that actually might help him. He needed sleep. He needed . . . Jules.
Where had that thought come from?
Probably from his lack of sleep and the fact that he could still taste her on his lips. Whenever he’d closed his eyes last night, he’d pictured her naked beneath him. Several times between midnight and six this morning, he’d debated going back to her apartment and finishing what they’d started.
He couldn’t explain why they’d stopped. Well, yes, he could. The window. He was almost certain it had been closed when he arrived. Almost, but not entirely. After all, he couldn’t exactly see the window past the boxes in the living room. At least, not until the curtain started to blow in the wind.
Tonight, before they went to dinner, Seth would make sure all of the windows in Jules’s apartment were closed and locked. For safety’s sake, he’d draw all the curtains too. Any thief glancing in her living room window might see the boxes as a chance for a smash and grab.
And if Jules didn’t like it, he might just have to convince her to sleep at his place.
The thought of Jules in his bed brought a smile to his lips.
“Morning,” Jones said, dropping his jacket on the back of his chair and sitting down. The man appeared well rested, leaning back casually in his chair. “Anything new on the case?”
Seth grimaced. “Unfortunately. But it requires coffee before I start talking about it.”
“None left.” Jones shook his head and hiked a thumb over his shoulder toward Reynolds and O’Dell. “They finished off the last of the pot just before I got to it. I’ve started brewing another.”
Seth glared at his two ex-partners who appeared engrossed in an oh-so-mature game of punch tag. “Damn, I could really use a caffeine IV.” Since none was available, he focused on their case. Handing the file to Jones, he described his morning. “So we’re back to square one.”
“Holy shit!” Jones lifted the photo from the file, then dropped it again. He spun to his computer and started typing. A minute later, he sat back in his chair, a satisfied smile on his face. “Want some good news?”
Without waiting for a reply, Jones rotated his monitor on its base so Seth could see it. The heading on the website read “Recently Engaged.” The center of the screen displayed a man and a woman, smiling and wrapped in each other’s arms. It was Aimee-Lynn and . . .
“Mason Hart!” Seth bounced his gaze from the screen to Jones and back again. “Sonofabitch! Her mother didn’t mention him.”
“Probably because they broke up two days
after
the Holcomb robbery.” Jones scrolled the screen down to an addendum announcing the wedding had been canceled.
“Aimee-Lynn’s mother said she’d been withdrawn for the last seven weeks, but that last week it had all changed. What happened?”
Jones shrugged. “Good question. But I’ve got a better one. Why would someone knowingly keep her mother’s stolen diamond ring, only to call the police with a tip about it?”
“And where is it now?” Seth asked with a frown.
Jones scrolled the screen back down until the smiling couple was centered on it. “Where do we go from here?”
“To interview Hart. Let’s see if he can shed some light on what happened to his relationship with his fiancée.” Seth frowned and gestured to the monitor. “How’d you find this?”
“She was in the society section of the paper two months ago,” Jones returned the monitor to its normal position. “I remembered seeing it.”
“You read the society column, do you?” O’Dell interrupted.
Reynolds cackled like a hyena. Seth glared at both intruders as they perched their annoying asses on the corners of Seth and Jones’s desks. O’Dell fingered the McGivern file while Reynolds picked up the photo.
“Laugh it up, boys, but less than three hours ago, this girl’s mother filed a missing persons report.” Seth leaned across his desk and plucked the picture out of Reynolds’s hands. “We now have the name of our murder victim from the Dumpster.”
“You sure?” O’Dell frowned as he looked at the photo. “She seems too pretty to have had a tramp stamp. I thought the vic had one of those.”
“I’m positive.” Seth frowned at the conversation’s odd segue.
“Pretty doesn’t make you smart,” Reynolds retorted. “I mean, come on, you’d have to be a complete jackass to intentionally mutilate your body to begin with.”
“Or young and stupid,” O’Dell agreed, then cut his gaze to Jones.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jones asked, his normally even tone sharp with indignation.
“Back off, assholes.” Seth glared at his former partners.
O’Dell and Reynolds shared a surprised glance, then laughed.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist,
girls
,” O’Dell said, pushing off the desk. He nodded to his partner and Reynolds stood up too. “So aside from learning your victim’s name, how is your case coming?”
“Fine.” Seth ground his teeth. He knew where this was going. The clock was ticking, and with each passing day his former partners acted more like rabid animals who smelled fresh meat. They wanted his case. Well, he’d be damned before he let them have it. “But we need to get back to work.”
“You do that.” O’Dell shrugged and started toward the kitchen with Reynolds beside him.
“Assholes,” Jones muttered under his breath.
Surprised by his partner’s uncharacteristic remark, Seth glanced at Jones. “Ignore them.”
Jones’s cheeks were mottled red and he rubbed at his left biceps. “That’s such crap. I know PhD’s with tattoos. Just because you have one doesn’t make you stupid.”
The kid seemed to take Reynolds and O’Dell’s comments personally. Again, out of character for the young detective. “Kid, let it go. They’re dicks.”
Jones glared at him.
“
Detective
Jones.” Seth waited until his partner stopped glaring. “You’re right. I happen to know a bright, beautiful woman with a tattoo of three intricately designed roses. She didn’t do it out of stupidity or youthful foolishness. She did it to honor her sisters. She even had their names put in each one.” Seth stretched his arms wide, cracking his back. “Don’t let the idiot twins rile you.”
An inscrutable expression crossed Jones’s face.
“You all right, kid?”
“Y-yeah.” Jones blinked twice. “Thanks.”
O’Dell and Reynolds strode out of the kitchen and past Seth’s desk at that moment, heading toward the captain’s office.
Seth pushed to his feet. “Time to report in.”
“Don’t you think we should interview Hart as soon as possible?” Jones asked, rising to his feet.
“Yes, but right now, we don’t even know where to find him.” Seth tugged on his jacket.
“I do,” Jones answered. “He’s at the Tidewater Country Club.”
That gave Seth pause and raised the hairs on the back of his neck. “Fifteen minutes ago, we didn’t know Hart was involved at all. How is it you know where he is right now?”
Jones’s expression turned sheepish. “Our mothers were sorority sisters. They kept in touch. The Harts have eaten breakfast at the club every morning for as long as I can remember.”
“Your family dines regularly at country clubs?”
Jones swallowed but shook his head. A crimson stain darkened his cheeks. “No, my-my mother’s maiden name was McKinnon. It’s why I keep an eye on the society section. It’s the only way I can keep up with my childhood friends.”
Seth’s eyes widened. The McKinnons were Tidewater’s version of the Kennedys, old money and political power. And it explained much about Jones’s taciturn ways. The kid could have thrown his family name around to get what he wanted. He didn’t. Instead, he appeared rather embarrassed to admit it at all.
And it gave Seth a newfound respect for his partner. “Okay. Then let’s see if we can’t get over to the country club before he leaves.”
Captain Peterson appeared in his office doorway. A frown dug a deep wrinkle in his forehead. “English. Jones. Would the two of you like to join me for the morning briefing?”
“Sir, we’ve just received a tip on the case,” Seth said, gathering up his supplies. “We need to go uptown and interview a potential suspect.”
“Who?”
“Mason Hart.”
The captain rolled his eyes and a tic worked in his jaw. “I know you didn’t just tell me the two of you plan to interrogate the son of the wealthiest businessman in the city.”
“Captain, Hart might possess knowledge pertinent to our case,” Seth explained.
“
Might
isn’t good enough.” The captain shook his head. “The last time someone started asking that family questions, we got our asses handed to us. You’d better have something substantially stronger than
might
.”
“Sir, his mother and mine are old friends,” Jones said.
“Do you think he’ll talk to you?” The captain asked, clearly not surprised by the information. It made Seth wonder how many secrets his current partner kept from him.
“Although I haven’t seen the Harts in years, I bet Mason would be receptive to me.” Jones met Seth’s gaze levelly, then added, “I can go over there and ask him one or two questions without raising his suspicions. I doubt he even knows I’m on the force.”
Seth’s stomach shrank.
Jones was asking to go alone?
The captain ran a hand over his sweaty bald head, sneezed, then said, “English, we need to discuss what happened with Iris Masters. I need you here. Jones, go conduct the interview but be discreet and get your ass back here pronto.”
Captain Peterson disappeared back inside his office. This was exactly how it had happened before. His rookie partner was sent to do the actual investigative work, while Seth played office politics.