Night Moves : Dream Man/After the Night

  Just as she had expected, he pulled into her driveway before she had time to cut the ignition off. He got out of the car and took off the sunglasses, tucking them into his shirt pocket. No matter how uneasy sunglasses made her, she suddenly wished he had left them on, because his hazel green eyes, caught by the last rays of the sinking sun, were hard and frighteningly intense.

  “What now?” she asked. “Or did you come all this way to help me carry in my groceries?”

  “You said you could manage them without my help,” he pointed out. “I thought we’d have a little talk.”

  Someone came out next door. She looked up and saw her neighbor, Lou, standing on the porch and staring curiously at them. Marlie waved and called out a hello. Beside her, Detective Hollister also waved.

  “Nice to see you again,” he called.

  Marlie sternly controlled her temper. Of course he had already been out questioning her neighbors; she wouldn’t have expected him to do otherwise. He had made it plain this morning that he was very suspicious of her.

  Despite what he had said, when she opened the trunk he plucked all four bags of groceries out, clutching two in each hand. “After you,” he said politely.

  She shrugged; if he was willing to carry her groceries, she was willing to let him. She unlocked the front door and held it open for him, then followed him inside and directed him back to the kitchen, where he placed the bags on the table.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Why say thank you now, when you didn’t before?”

  She lifted her brows. “You told me not to.” She began putting the groceries away. “What’s on your mind, Detective?”

  “Murder.”

  The circumstances of Nadine Vinick’s death weren’t something she could be flippant about. Strain tightened her face as she said simply, “Mine, too.” Her eyes were wide and haunted.

  He leaned against the cabinet, eyeing her thoughtfully as she moved about the kitchen, bending to stow this item here, stretching to put another on a top shelf. He hadn’t missed the strain in her expression.

  He looked around. He liked the kitchen, which was a rather unsettling thought; whatever he had expected the interior of her house to be like, this soothing coziness wasn’t it. His own kitchen was strictly utilitarian; Trammell’s was the latest in high tech, totally intimidating. Marlie Keen’s kitchen was comforting. Rows of herbs in small pots grew in a rack in the window over the sink, giving the air a fresh scent. The tile under his feet was a creamy white, with patterns of soft blues and greens. The open shutters over the windows were painted the same soft blue. A white ceiling fan was positioned over the table.

  “Did you find out anything interesting about me today?” she asked, keeping her back turned to him as she placed canned goods on a shelf.

  He didn’t reply, just broodingly watched her. He wasn’t about to keep her informed of his progress, or lack of it.

  “Let me tell you,” she offered lightly. “Today you found that I’ve never been arrested, never had a traffic ticket, and that to the best of my neighbors’ knowledge, I don’t date or have anyone over. I pay my bills on time, don’t use credit cards, and don’t have any books overdue at the library, though I would have if I hadn’t returned those today.”

  “Why don’t you tell me again about Friday night,” he said. His tone was sharp. She had neatly outlined his day, and he didn’t like it. The anger that had simmered in him all day was under control, but just barely. The lady definitely put his back up.

  He could see her shoulders tense. “What part didn’t you understand?”

  “I’d like to hear it all. Humor me. Just start at the beginning.”

  She turned around, and she was as pale as she had been that morning, when she had related the story for the first time. Her hands, he noticed, were knotted into fists at her sides.

  “Does it bother you to talk about it?” he asked coolly. He hoped it did. If her conscience was bothering her, maybe she’d spill her guts. It had happened before, though usually it was sheer stupidity and a perverted sort of pride that led the perp into confession.

  “Of course. Doesn’t it bother you to hear about it?”

  “Seeing it was a lot worse.”

  “I know,” she murmured, and for a moment the expression in her eyes was unguarded. There was pain in those dark blue depths, and anger, but most of all he saw a desolation that punched him square in the chest.

  He had to clench his own hands, to prevent himself from reaching out to support her. Suddenly she looked so frail, as if she might faint. And maybe she was just a damn good actress, he grimly reminded himself, pushing away the unwanted and uncharacteristic concern for a suspect. “Tell me about Friday night,” he said. “What did you say you were doing?”

  “I went to a movie, the nine-o’clock one.”

  “Where?”

  She told him the name of the cinemaplex.

  “What movie did you see?”

  She told him that, too, then said, “Wait—I may still have the ticket stub. I usually put it in my pocket. I haven’t done laundry since then, so it should still be there.” She walked swiftly out of the room; he didn’t follow but listened intently, tracing her movements through the house so she wouldn’t be able to slip out without his knowledge, if that had been her intention. Of course, he had her car blocked in the driveway, and he didn’t think she would try to run away. Why should she, when she was so certain he didn’t have anything on her? The hell of it was, she was right.

  She came back in only a minute and gave him the ticket stub, being careful not to touch him as she let the small piece of paper drop into his hand. Then she swiftly retreated a few steps; his mouth twisted as he noticed the move. She could hardly make it more plain that she didn’t like being close to him. He looked down at the ticket stub in his hand; it was computer-generated, with the name of the movie, the date, and the time printed on it. It proved that she had bought a ticket; it didn’t prove that she had actually watched the movie. He hadn’t seen it himself, so he couldn’t ask her any pertinent questions about it.

  “What time did you leave the movie?”

  “When it was over. About eleven-thirty.” Marlie stood tensely beside the table.

  “Coming home, what route did you drive?”

  She told him, even the exit numbers.

  “And where were you when you had this so-called vision?”

  Her lips tightened, but she kept her composure, and her voice was steady. “As I told you this morning, I had just left the expressway. The visions have always been very . . . draining, so I pulled off to the side.”

  “Draining? How?”

  “I lost consciousness,” she said flatly.

  His eyebrows rose. “You lost consciousness,” he repeated, disbelief so plain in his tone that her palm itched with the urge to slap him. “You mean you fainted from the stress?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What, exactly?”

  She shrugged helplessly. “I’m taken over by the vision. I can’t see anything else, I don’t hear anything else, I don’t know anything else.”

  “I see. So you sat there in your car until the vision ended, then calmly drove home and went to bed. If you’re so certain that you’re psychic, Miss Keen, why did you wait over two days before telling the police? Why didn’t you call it in immediately? We might have been able to catch the guy still in the neighborhood, or maybe even in the house, if you’d called.”

  Marlie’s face lost its last tinge of color under the lash of that deep, sarcastic voice. There was no way she could explain what had happened six years before, why some of the details had confused her until she wasn’t certain if she’d had a flashback or if the knowing had returned. She couldn’t expose herself to this man like that, strip her psyche naked to let him see all of her fears, her vulnerabilities. Instead she focused on the one thing he’d said that she could refute.

  “N-No,” she stammered, hating the unsteadiness of her voice.
She took a deep breath to banish that hint of weakness. “I didn’t just drive home. A patrolman noticed my car and stopped to see if there was any trouble. I don’t remember anything except the vision from the time I pulled over until he knocked on my window and brought me out of it. I was pretty shaky, and I told him that I was an epileptic and must have had a mild seizure. He was a little suspicious and made me get out of the car, but finally he let me go, and followed me home to make certain I got here okay.”

  Dane didn’t straighten away from the cabinet, but acute attention was in every line of his big body. “What time was this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Estimate. You left the movie at eleven-thirty; about what time did the vision start?”

  “Eleven-forty, eleven forty-five. I’m not certain.”

  “So what time did you get home? How long did the vision last?”

  “I don’t know!” she shouted, whirling away from him. “I barely made it home; I collapsed afterward and didn’t wake up until late Saturday afternoon.”

  Dane studied her rigid back. She was shaking, a very faint but visible tremor. He should have been glad that he had her rattled, but instead he had this crazy urge to comfort her.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said abruptly, and left before he gave in to that urge. Damn it, what was it about her? He was very aware of the heaviness in his loins, and knew that if she had looked, there was no way she could have missed it. Thank God, she seemed to want to look anywhere but at him. He’d heard of cops who got turned on by danger, but he’d never been one of them. What in hell was the matter with him?

  As he got into his car he admitted that he never should have come here, at least not without Trammell. Ostensibly they had called it a day, but he hadn’t been able to. Instead he’d waited for her in the parking lot where she worked, then followed her home. Stupid move; what if she called the lieutenant and complained that he was harassing her? The LT had given them the go-ahead to investigate her, but Dane knew he’d been out of bounds this afternoon.

  At least she’d given him something interesting to check out. If a patrolman had stopped to investigate a suspicious vehicle, it wouldn’t be difficult to verify. He had the location and date, and he knew it was on third shift. Piece of cake.

  He went back to the office and started making phone calls. It took him an hour to get the name of the patrolman in question, Jim Ewan, a six-year street veteran. When he called Officer Ewan’s home, there was no answer.

  He waited another hour, calling Officer Ewan four more times, without results. He checked his watch; it was almost eight o’clock, and he was hungry. He supposed he could get up early in the morning and catch Officer Ewan as he was coming off his shift, but he’d never been very good at waiting when he wanted something. What the hell; Ewan would be reporting in to work in less than three hours, so Dane figured he might as well get something to eat, then come back and talk to the officer tonight. Whatever he found out, it would give him the night to think about it.

  He drove home and slapped together a couple of sandwiches, then checked his messages while he munched and caught up on the scores of the new baseball season. He was still pissed at the San Francisco Giants, and wanted anyone but them to win.

  Baseball couldn’t hold his attention, and his thoughts kept slipping back to Marlie Keen, to deep blue eyes that held more shadows than a graveyard. Whatever scheme she was running, she wasn’t entirely comfortable with it; she became visibly upset every time she talked about Friday night. Not even an Oscar-winning actress could make herself go as white as chalk, the way Marlie had been this afternoon.

  He remembered how her slender frame had been shaking, and the urge welled up again to put his arms around her, cradle her close to him and tell her everything would be all right. What was with this crazy protectiveness? He accepted his natural male instinct to take care of a woman; he was bigger and stronger, so why shouldn’t he put himself between a woman and any danger that might threaten her? Why shouldn’t he guard her when she went up or down stairs, always ready to catch her if those treacherous high heels women wore caused her to trip? Why shouldn’t he do any grunt work for her when he could, schedule permitting? When he’d been a patrolman, investigating car accidents, he had always gone first to check on any woman or child involved, without even thinking about it. But damn it, his protectiveness had never before extended to someone he suspected of murder.

  He was a cop; she was a suspect. He couldn’t allow himself to touch her in any way, except those necessary in his job. Cuddling her wasn’t included on that list.

  But he wanted to. Damn, he wanted to. He wanted to let her rest her head on his shoulder, he wanted to stroke her cheek, her neck, then let his hand drop lower to investigate her breasts, the curve of her belly, the soft notch between her legs.

  He surged to his feet, cursing to himself. He’d seen her for the first time that morning, and hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since. That good old physical chemistry had sure blindsided him with this one.

  He checked the time: nine-fifteen. Hell, he might as well go down to the station and wait for Officer Ewan. At least the usual bullshit going on would keep him from thinking about her so much. He paced restlessly for a moment, then got his car keys and put the plan into action.

  As he had hoped, Officer Ewan came in early, as a lot of policemen did, so he would have plenty of time to change clothes and drink coffee, kind of settle into routine before the shift began. Jim Ewan was average in almost every way: average height, average weight, average features. His eyes, though, were the alert, cynical eyes of a cop, someone used to seeing everything and expecting anything.

  He remembered the incident Friday night very clearly.

  “It was a little spooky,” he said, thinking about it. “She was just sitting there, like a statue. Her eyes were open and fixed; at first I thought I had a stiff. I turned on the flashlight, but couldn’t see anything suspicious in the car, and I could tell then that she was breathing. I rapped on the window with the flash, but it took her a while to come around.”

  Dane felt an uneasy tingle up his spine. “Had she fainted, maybe?”

  Officer Ewan shrugged. “Only people I’ve ever seen with their eyes fixed like that were stiffs or crazies. The eyes close when it’s just a faint.”

  “So what happened then?”

  “It was like she was real confused, and she looked scared at first. She had trouble moving, like someone coming out of anesthesia. But then she managed to get the window rolled down, and she said that she was an epileptic and must have had a seizure. I asked her to get out of the car, and she did. She was shaky, trembling all over. I couldn’t smell any alcohol, and she didn’t seem to be on anything; I’d already called in her plate number, and it had checked out okay, so there wasn’t any reason to hold her. Like I said, she was pretty wobbly, so I followed her home to make sure she made it.”

  “What time was this?” Dane asked.

  “Let’s see. I can check my paperwork for that night to give you the exact time, if you need it, but I think it was a little after midnight, maybe twelve-fifteen.”

  “Thanks,” Dane said. “You’ve helped a lot.”

  “My pleasure.”

  He drove back home, mulling over everything Officer Ewan had said. For such a brief meeting, it had given him a lot of information.

  For one thing, Marlie Keen had been on the opposite side of town from the Vinick residence at about the same time Nadine Vinick was being murdered.

  Officer Ewan’s observations pretty much verified what Marlie had told him about how the “vision” affected her.

  So what did he have now? Logically he could no longer consider her a suspect, and something inside loosened with relief. She hadn’t been there; she had an alibi. There was nothing to connect her to the murder . . . except her own words. She had seen the murder happen. There was no other way. But how?

  She knew something, something she hadn’t told him. Someth
ing that put those shadows in her eyes. He was going to find out what she was hiding, find out exactly how she was tied to this murder. The only alternative was that she really was psychic, and he couldn’t buy that. Not yet. Maybe not ever, but . . . not yet.

  6

  HE COULD FEEL THE ANGER burning in him as the woman marched away, and he sternly controlled it, as he controlled everything. Now wasn’t the time to let his anger show; it would be inappropriate. Everything in its own time. He looked down at the complaint form the woman had filled out and smiled as he read her name: Jacqueline Sheets, 3311 Cypress Terrace. The guarantee of retribution gave him a certain peace. Then, taking care that his body blocked Annette’s view of what he was doing, he slipped the complaint form into his pocket to be disposed of later. Only a stupid person would leave it lying about, perhaps for some busybody to look at and remember later, and Carroll Janes did not consider himself stupid. Quite the opposite, in fact. He prided himself on taking care of every little detail.

  “I don’t know how you can be so calm when people talk to you like that, Mr. Janes,” Annette muttered behind him. “I wanted to punch her in the face.”

  His expression was perfectly calm. “Oh, someday she’ll get hers,” he said. He liked Annette; she had to put up with the same things he did, and she was always sympathetic when someone gave him a hard time. Most people were acceptably courteous, but there were always those few who needed to be taught a lesson. Annette, however, was unfailingly polite, calling him Mister. He appreciated her perception. She was a homely little thing, short and dark and plain, but generally amiable. She didn’t irritate him as so many other women did, with their silly airs and pettishness.

  Carroll Janes carried himself in an erect, military posture. He had often thought he would have been perfectly suited for the military—as an officer, of course. He would have been at the top of his class in any of the academies, had he been able to attend. Unfortunately, he hadn’t had the connections necessary to get into any of the military academies; connections were imperative, and those who lacked them were shut out. It was how the upper class kept their ranks closed. Joining the military as an enlisted man was unthinkable; he had likewise rejected both ROTC and OCS as being a poor second to the academies. Instead of the distinguished military career he should have had, he was stuck in this degrading job handling customer complaints in a ritzy department store, but that didn’t mean he would let his personal standards slide.