Fired Up

  “Yes, Fletcher was afraid that he would lose his position if he made an accusation. He wanted to deal with it privately.”

  “So he came to you to get proof.”

  “I turned up a lot of stuff on the Internet, of course. It’s amazing what people will write in their blogs and on their personal websites. They treat cyberspace as if it were a private diary. Madeline chatted at length about the affair. Her obsession was clear, but she did not implicate herself in the stalking. She just wrote that she had given Fletcher a few presents and that he had not appreciated them. He wanted photographic proof of what was going on.”

  “You took the case because you felt sorry for him.”

  “And because we’re still friends,” she said. “I could tell that he was very nervous. Fletcher is a nice guy. Intelligent. Fun to be with. Even-tempered. Great sense of humor. What can I say? I like him.”

  “You didn’t mind that he terminated your relationship at the end of the quarter?”

  “Well, actually, I was the one who ended it,” she said.

  “Because you found out about his serial monogamy?”

  “No, of course not.” She sounded genuinely surprised. “His dating pattern was one of his two best features as far as I was concerned.”

  “What was the second one?”

  “His commitment phobia. The problem was that once Fletcher discovered that I also have commitment issues he kept trying to fix me. Probably some form of misguided projection.”

  “Misguided projection.” He realized that he was still grappling with the serial monogamy thing and the commitment issues. Somehow, he hadn’t seen either coming.

  “Things got even more awkward between us when I told Fletcher that I have some talent. At that point I think that I became a patient to him.”

  “Let me take a wild guess here. Monroe doesn’t believe in the paranormal.”

  “He’s got a Ph.D. in psychology. Of course he doesn’t believe in it.” She sighed. “All in all, I had no choice but to end things after only a few dates. We never even made it as far as the bedroom. Rose thinks that still bothers Fletcher, but I have a hard time buying it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he moved on immediately. Started dating someone else right away. Fell right back into his usual pattern. It wasn’t like he couldn’t let go. I think he just sees me as a professional failure, that’s all.”

  “Because he couldn’t fix your issues.”

  “Right,” Chloe said.

  “How did you meet him?”

  “I took one of his classes. I thought it would be useful in my work.”

  “What, exactly, does he teach?”

  “Criminal psychology.”

  “Learn anything?”

  “Mostly what I learned is that psychologists look for explanations and motives. Me, I’m just a PI. I look for bad psi.”

  He took the on- ramp onto I-5, heading toward downtown. The freeway was nearly empty at this hour. The lights of the city’s high-rise buildings, including the one in which he lived, glittered in the night.

  “You really thought that Monroe’s serial monogamy habit and his commitment issues were good features?” he asked after a while.

  “Are you kidding? I was almost convinced that he was Mr. Perfect. When I gave him The Talk, he looked downright thrilled. Then, again, men often seem happy enough at first. I’ve never been able to figure out why they change their minds. Aunt Phyllis says it’s just the way men are.”

  “I’m probably going to regret asking this, but what is The Talk?”

  “That’s when I explain about my commitment issues. I make it clear that any relationship I enter into is likely to be short-term and that there are no strings attached. I make sure that the other person knows that he is free to dump me on a moment’s notice without feeling any guilt.” She frowned a little. “But for some reason I’m usually the one who ends up doing the dumping.”

  “You’re a real romantic, aren’t you?” he said flatly.

  “I can’t afford to be a romantic, Mr. Winters. Not with my talent.”

  He shot her a quick, searching look. “What does your talent have to do with it?”

  “It’s hard to explain,” she said. She leaned her head against the back of the seat, folded her arms. “It doesn’t matter now, anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “The serial monogamy thing got old. I moved into a new phase about a year ago. I admit that I toyed with the idea of going back to serial monogamy for a time with Fletcher, but I finally realized it just wouldn’t work.”

  “And what comes after serial monogamy?”

  “Celibacy.”

  He felt blindsided again. “Celibacy?”

  “There’s a kind of freedom in the celibate lifestyle.”

  “Yeah? I hadn’t heard that.”

  11

  HE PARKED ON THE STREET IN FRONT OF THE BUILDING THAT housed Harper Investigations. Chloe got out before he could open the door. Energy crackled in the air around her. It kept his senses aroused and on edge.

  She reached into one of the trench coat pockets and pulled out her keys. An odd looking gadget came out with the keys and fell to the sidewalk. There was a muffled clank of metal. He picked up the small high-tech device and held it to the streetlight.

  “I’m not even going to ask,” he said, handing it back to her, “because it looks like a very fancy lock pick and is probably highly illegal.”

  “It was a birthday gift.”

  “Another ex-boyfriend?”

  “No, my cousin Abe.”

  “Your family gives interesting gifts.”

  She opened the door and stepped into the tiny lobby. He followed her inside and shut the door. Together they started up the stairs. Chloe gripped the banister tightly, half hauling herself up the steps. When he took her other arm she did not protest.

  He knew immediately that the physical contact was a mistake. It intensified the sexual urgency that was heating his blood, stirring things deep inside him. He got a sudden vision of taking her right there on the stairs. Not a hallucination, he realized, more like an almost overpowering need.

  They paused on the second floor so that she could rest.

  “This is embarrassing,” she muttered. “Didn’t realize I was so out of shape.”

  “You’re exhausted,” he said. “Monroe is a big man. How far did you drag him?”

  “He was in the living room when I arrived.”

  He’d seen enough of the house to know that she’d exerted a lot of effort to get Monroe all the way into the front hall. And then there was the business of having a gun pointed in her face, her dog getting shot and her being hit with a blast of nightmares.

  “You’ve had a rough night,” he said.

  “You know, now that you mention it—”

  Rose appeared on the third-floor landing.

  “I just talked to the vet hospital,” she said. “Hector is okay, but they knocked him out to stitch him up and he’s still sleeping. They said we can pick him up in the morning. Are you all right, Chloe? You look like you’re going to crash right there.”

  “Not,” Chloe said, hauling herself up another step, “before I get that drink. And a shower. I definitely need a shower first.”

  Jack took her arm again and more or less levitated her up the stairs to the third floor. Rose opened a door.

  “Home, sweet home,” Chloe muttered. “You’ll have to excuse me. I can’t stand the smell of smoke a minute longer.”

  She vanished through the doorway. Rose followed. Jack considered for a moment and concluded that no one had told him to leave or bothered to shut the door in his face. That amounted to something of an invitation. He walked into the apartment and closed the door behind him.

  The room was very non-Seattle. It was drenched in the rich, warm colors of the Mediterranean Coast. The walls that weren’t red brick were painted in deep shades of amber and ochre. The carpet was patterned with an abstract design done in saffr
on and rust- red. The honey-colored sofa was covered with a rainbow of throw pillows. Lush green plants in red ceramic pots stood near the windows.

  Rose returned with a pile of clothing that smelled strongly of smoke.

  “Chloe likes color,” she explained. “Lots of it.”

  “I can see that,” he said.

  He thought about his own cold, steel-and-concrete condo. Everyone said it suited him. He had a feeling it was not necessarily a compliment.

  “You can clean up in the kitchen,” Rose said. She motioned him toward the sink. “I’m going to put these in the washing machine.”

  “Thanks.” What he really needed was a shower, but he didn’t want to go home just yet. He wanted to stay here near Chloe until she kicked him out.

  There is a certain kind of freedom in celibacy.

  Like hell.

  He rolled up his sleeves and ran the water in the sink. Rose disappeared into a tiny laundry room. He heard the washer start. When she returned a moment later she opened a cupboard and took down a bottle of red wine.

  “I thought private investigators always drank whiskey,” he said.

  “Chloe tried that. Unfortunately, it turned out she didn’t like whiskey.” Rose reached into a cupboard for a glass. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Whatever.” Rose set the bottle and the glass on the table. Concern darkened her expression. “She’s okay, isn’t she?”

  “Chloe? She seems fine. A little shaken, that’s all. Why?”

  “It’s just that she looked like she’d been through hell when she came out of that house. I haven’t seen her like that since—”

  Rose stopped abruptly.

  “Since when, Rose?” he prompted.

  “Since she closed the Anderson Point case for the cops.”

  “She told me that she rarely did the kind of work she was doing tonight,” he said.

  “That’s true. She doesn’t like what she calls the messy stuff. She says her real talent is for finding lost things like your lamp.”

  “She’s really good at that, huh?”

  “She’s brilliant. Like you said, she’s psychic.”

  He lowered himself into a chair. “You wouldn’t happen to know if she’s made any progress on my case, would you?”

  “Didn’t she tell you?” Rose poured half a glass of wine. “She found your lamp in Vegas this afternoon.”

  “What?”

  “Well, she thinks it’s the right lamp but she’s going to arrange an intro to the owner tomorrow. If all goes well, she’ll fly down to Vegas the day after to make sure it isn’t a fake or replica. She says she can’t be sure until she gets into the same room with it. The woo- woo factor, you know.”

  He stared at Rose’s back, disbelief splashing through him. “I spent years on and off trying to find that damn lamp. This past month I’ve been looking for it full time and I’m a strat- talent. Are you saying that she located it in one afternoon?”

  Chloe appeared in the doorway. “Told you I was good.”

  He looked at her and felt everything inside him clench. She was muffled in a white spa robe. Her hair was wrapped in a towel. She looked flushed and warm, but he could see the strain in her eyes.

  “Yes,” he said. “You did tell me that.”

  “I don’t know for sure that the lamp I’ve got a lead on is the genuine artifact yet.” She sat down at the table, picked up the glass and took a healthy swallow of the wine. “I’m hoping to verify it in person as soon as possible.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “No. Absolutely not.” She waved one hand and drank some more wine. “Dealing with collectors, especially the kind who acquire paranormal objects, can be an extremely delicate matter. In my experience, it’s never good to have the client in the same room. This sort of thing is always best handled by a third party, trust me.”

  “Damn it—”

  “If Mr. Stone wants to sell the lamp, I’ll let you know. You can then transfer the funds into his account. I will pick up the lamp and bring it back here to you. That’s how it works.”

  “Let’s get something straight,” he said. “Given what almost happened tonight, you’re not going anywhere very far without me.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud.” She made a face. “What happened tonight had nothing to do with your case.”

  “That’s not the point. The point is you’re not going to take any more chances until that lamp is in my hands.”

  She looked at Rose. “You see? This is always the problem with clients. They hire me to fix a problem, and then they try to tell me how to do my job.”

  12

  HE WALKED BACK INTO HIS CONDO AN HOUR LATER AND POWERED up his laptop. The newspaper accounts he was searching for popped up almost immediately. The long- delayed arrest in the Anderson Point murders had received a fair amount of coverage because of the drama at the end. He hadn’t paid much attention because at the time he’d been out of town putting together a deal with a start-up in Southern California.

  The killer had managed to evade the police sent to arrest him long enough to grab a hostage. He had barricaded himself in his house with the girl and threatened to kill her.

  The suspect, Richard Sawyer, told negotiators that he had been framed by a private investigator, Chloe Harper, who was working on behalf of the teenager he had taken hostage. The young woman was the daughter of the murdered couple, John and Elaine Tranner.

  Sawyer offered to exchange his captive for Miss Harper. Police were reluctant, but in the end, amidst some confusion at the scene, Harper walked into the house.

  What happened next is unclear. Shortly after entering the residence, Harper and the hostage emerged, unharmed. When police entered the house they found Sawyer on the floor, unconscious, having apparently suffered a seizure.

  A few months later a follow-up story appeared:. . . The thirty-one-year-old suspect in the murders of an Anderson Point couple confessed to the killings but was found incompetent to stand trial. He was ordered committed to Winter Cove Psychiatric Hospital, where he likely will spend the rest of his life.

  Three weeks later there was one last piece. It was a small one:Richard Sawyer, the confessed killer of an Anderson Point couple was found dead in his room at Winter Cove Psychiatric Hospital, the victim of an apparent suicide . . .

  It took a little more digging to turn up the name of the murdered couple’s daughter. There was a photo of her leaving the courtroom with Chloe. Most of the tattoos were discreetly covered by a coat, and the makeup had been toned down, but he recognized her easily. Rose.

  He closed the computer and went to stand at the window, looking out into the night. He thought about the rush of psi he had sensed when he went through the door of the burning house. The energy had come from Chloe. She had just reached out to touch Madeline Gibson’s shoulder.

  “Well, now, Chloe Harper,” he said aloud. The words echoed in the silence of the cold steel-and-concrete space. “What would have happened if I hadn’t arrived when I did tonight? Would Madeline Gibson have suffered a mysterious bout of unconsciousness like Richard Sawyer? And here I thought the only thing a dreamlight reader could do was read a little dream psi. What secrets are you hiding?”

  He stood contemplating the darkness for a while longer. Eventually he went into the bedroom and took out the bottle of sleeping meds.

  13

  A seething darkness filled the abyss. She looked into it and knew that no light could ever penetrate the depths. This hunger that was tearing her apart could never be satisfied.

  It was his fault. He was responsible for arousing this insatiable need. But he was walking away from her. Telling her that he did not want her; that she could never have him.

  If that was true then no one else would have him either.

  THIS WAS ALL WRONG. NOT HER ENERGY. NOT HER DREAM.

  Chloe came awake with a start. Her heart was pounding and her nightgown was damp with sweat. Instinctively she reached for
Hector, but his warm, heavy weight was missing from the bed. Belatedly she remembered that he was still at the hospital.

  She took a few more deep breaths. Gradually her pulse calmed. What had happened tonight was just bad luck and bad timing, she thought. She’d been running wide open when she’d touched Madeline Gibson. At that very instant, thanks to Jack, Madeline just happened to be plunging into a terrible dreamscape.

  There was no such thing as telepathy—no way she could actually dream another person’s dream. But the currents of dreamlight given off by an individual when he or she dreamed were much stronger than when the person was awake. In the active dreamstate the dream psi was not only deposited on everything the individual touched, it saturated the atmosphere around the dreamer.

  Ever since she’d come into her talent in her teenage years she had been uncomfortable just being near someone who was dreaming. Physical contact with the person made it a thousand times worse.

  Tonight when Jack had directed that blast of energy at Madeline he had, in effect, forced Gibson into a full-blown nightmare. And Chloe had been touching her at the time. The shock had been as bad as the one she had gotten last year from Richard Sawyer when she’d put the bastard to sleep.

  Bad luck and bad timing, that’s all. Stuff happened when you were in her line of work.

  But the experience had given her a firsthand look at Jack’s emerging talent for generating nightmares.

  Interesting.

  14

  “MORE TEA?” PHYLLIS ASKED.

  “Yes, thanks.” Chloe held out her cup and saucer.

  At home in her apartment she drank her tea out of an oversized mug, but here in her great- aunt’s elegant old mansion on Queen Anne Hill, delicate china, fine crystal and polished silver were the rule. Of course, it helped that Phyllis could afford to pay a full-time housekeeper to maintain her luxurious lifestyle.

  Hector sprawled in front of the window overlooking the garden, which, in turn, overlooked Elliott Bay and downtown Seattle. He appeared oblivious to the refined things that surrounded him. He wore a dashing bandage that covered a portion of his head and one ear. The cone-shaped gadget on his neck that prevented him from scratching at the bandage detracted somewhat from the warrior image, but he was alpha enough to handle the indignity. Phyllis had given him a new chew toy when he had arrived. Worked for him.