a Touch of Ice (6 page)

Just as I was about to attempt to string some comforting, understanding, logical, wise words together, Jayne turned into a driveway.

At least I assumed it was a driveway.

The hiss of Violet’s inhalation matched mine as Mitch’s house came into view.

Violet found her voice first. “It looks—”

“It’s like a photograph,” I whispered. “An award-winning photograph.”

We tumbled from the car, and Jayne unlocked the front door—beveled glass and aged cedar—and smiled for the first time since I’d met her. “It is a bit breath-taking isn’t it?”

As a group we stepped inside a two-story foyer that opened into a great room with huge windows framing more of nature’s photographs. I took one of those deep, calming, breaths to still my senses. Then opened to the energy of Mitch at Home.

Nothing.

How could that be? This is where he came Saturday after he left us, upset, grieving, sleep-deprived, and still in shock from finding Tony. That kind of intense energy clings to inanimate objects, and usually for a long time.

I slowly turned in a circle to absorb the feel of the house. Sensations touched the edge of my awareness. Laughter, happiness, pleasure—nothing sinister at all. Something was wrong, either with me, or with the Jayne’s belief that Mitch disappeared from here.

I paced off the perimeter the great room, passing through the living area, dining alcove, and finally moving into the kitchen. I could sense Mitch’s energy here and lightly touched the refrigerator. The respondent image of him was quick and clean—stashing groceries and reaching for a bottle of water. He was wearing the clothes he had on when I first met him. Hard to miss the perfect-fit jeans and that black cashmere sweater.

Violet wandered in my direction, notebook in hand. “See anything? Because I’m not finding a thing.”

“He was here on Saturday, took a bottle of water out of the fridge, but the rest of the room feels strangely empty. There are a few overtones of grief, but mostly stuff from before Tony’s death, calm, happy feelings.”

Violet tapped her foot. “Your radar must be off. He had to be here on Sunday before your date. Had to exchange the truck for the bike. Maybe you’re too close to this. Too involved.”

I had to grant her that one. “I’m reluctant to go upstairs.” I touched the newel post at the base of the carved, wooden staircase, the wood sleek and cool under my fingers. Looked like maple. “It’s too much like trespassing when my fingers aren’t picking up a strong negative sensation to justify it. I’ll look around outside instead.”

I hustled out the front door, glad to leave the nagging sensation of trespassing behind me. I don’t find bodies, don’t typically get phone calls in the middle of the night, and I certainly don’t wander through other people’s houses looking for clues. Clues. I mean seriously. Violet is the investigator, not me.

Nothing had been normal since Shelly’s last appointment, and then the beach. I needed normalcy for my intuition to function properly. So I walked the land that Mitch owned. Took in the beauty and the peace and absorbed the strength of the earth with every step.

Until I turned a corner of the house and bumped smack into a hidden alcove.

Six

There’s nothing like an unexpected corner, and damn if all of those things I didn’t want to feel—violence, fear, greed, desperation—started creeping in, suffocating me as I approached the alcove and the stairway leading to Mitch’s third story.

Decision time.

Was I going to brave the stairs or get reinforcements?

Brave versus Incredibly Stupid. My trepidation didn’t come from the ESP part of me. It was a side-effect of watching too much television and reading thrillers. What woman blindly stomps up an unknown staircase, by herself, when she’s been thoroughly trained by the media that it puts her in the too-stupid-to-live category?

Apparently
I
do.

The negative vibe deepened as I continued up the stairs, threatening to smother me. I pushed through it with a deep breath. The only reason I kept going was because I knew it was okay. No prickly neck phenomenon warned me away from death and dismemberment. Or worse.

Violet would probably say my internal warning system was broken, but I had to keep going. My logical mind didn’t like this one bit, and I would definitely take it up with my curiosity later—when I was able to calm down enough to have a rational discussion with myself.

I got to the top of the stairs and took in the picture-perfect rolling hills—so many shades of green blending into each other—that disappeared into unending blue sky. Unlike the pounding in my chest, the view was serene.

One more deep breath and I would turn to look at the house, well, maybe a few breaths. Really, I couldn’t put this off any longer. I turned away from the view and crossed the expanse of deck toward the house. Mitch’s living space was displayed in front of me, not the more formal part we had all been wandering around downstairs, but his home. His lair, the private space where he worked, created, reflected and lived, stretched behind a paned-glass door.

The room was trashed.

A long sofa and deep, cozy chair were turned over, the comfortably worn, sun faded, red canvas cushions had been slashed and stuffing spewed across the floor. A well-loved, threadbare oriental carpet rested on the wide plank pine floor, and a huge worktable, dumped on its side, showed stains that were strangely right, almost artistic—a jolting contrast of peace and violence.

I was looking at a crime scene, so I pulled my sleeve over my fingers before I touched the doorknob. An image of three men creeping up the stairs passed across my mind. I shuddered with the intensity of the vile energy surrounding them. It clung to the air, making it hard to breathe. I turned, my movements cautious as I approached the deck railing and touched it.

So had Mitch.

This was where he was standing when they tackled him and beat him. It made me queasy, and I wrapped my arms around my middle. My belly settled, but my nerves still twanged on high alert.

Mitch had tried to protect himself.

Unsuccessfully.

His pain slammed into me, and I focused on the horizon until I could grab a full breath. Mitch was alive. I knew that, but he was hurt. Badly. I straightened my spine, tensed my muscles, and touched the railing with the single intention of learning where they’d moved him. Nothing. I couldn’t get past Mitch’s pain. It permeated the wood, not leaving room for other, more subtle clues.

“El?” Violet stood at the bottom of the stairs, hands on hips, shades dangling from her fingers.

“Un-huh.” I barely managed a mumble.

“What did you see?” She gave me a long look, then pushed by me to climb the stairs.

I grabbed her arm. “No, don’t.” My voice wobbled in rhythm with my nerves. Crime
so
isn’t my forte. Especially when it’s connected to the first man, ever, who didn’t run from my ESP fingers. She glared, planted her sunglasses on top of her head. “Talk.”

“Okay. It’s like this. Mitch was here Sunday after our date. Two images, the first one was of three men. I’ll describe them to you later. The second one was of Mitch being attacked, beaten, and carried down the stairs. The room upstairs is his personal space and has been trashed. That’s it, and I don’t want to share with Jayne quite yet.”

“All right.” Violet pried my hand free, red half-moon circles clearly visible from where my nails had dug into her skin. “How do you know
when
the image happened?”

“His clothes were the same, and he had a plastic container with two pieces of apple pie in it. It was one of my purple containers.”

“Not many of those around. I’ll take a quick look upstairs and then show Jayne. Did you leave fingerprints?”

“No fingerprints. I don’t suppose we can…disturb the scene…let my fingers stroll through his lair?”

“Not on my watch. No way are we going to step on any legal toes, at least not yet.” She planted her shades over her eyes, cutting off further discussion.

I sank down on the bottom step. “Then we have to get me out of here before you notify the police and they start asking questions. There’s no way they’ll accept my hinky touch thing, and I don’t have it in me to go through a psych evaluation. I had to do enough of that when I was a kid and my parents were trying to insure I didn’t need medication or prolonged therapy.”

Jayne chose that moment to pop around the corner of the house. “What’s going on here?” Her gaze shifted between Violet and me. “You’re hiding something.”

Any attempt at denial would have been absurd, considering that both Violet and I must have looked like teens sharing an illegal substance.

Jayne stepped over me, took the stairs two at a time, but staggered to a halt when Violet clamped a hand on her shoulder. I’d never seen Violet move so fast, like one of those ninja characters.

“I haven’t checked it out,” Violet explained by way of an apology for the bruises that would surely appear on Jayne’s shoulder. “Wait. Here.”

Even I knew that wouldn’t happen. I didn’t try to stop Jayne, ignored the creak of stairs as she followed Violet. Mitch was alive. In trouble, but definitely alive, and all I cared about was finding him. Fast. My head was sorting through possible rescue strategies when Violet and Jayne joined me at the bottom of the stairs.

“He’s
my
brother, so
I’ll
report it. Besides, I want to be here when they search his study.”

“Good idea.” I added my support to Jayne’s plan before Violet got all bent out of shape about not being in control and insisted on staying at the scene.

Jayne pulled an oversized bundle of keys from her pocket and separated one off, handing it to Violet. “Go. Take my car. I’ll drive myself back in Mitch’s—” her voice broke— “truck.”

Violet eyed the two of us, and palmed the key. “Right. Call me with the name of the investigating officer, Jayne. I’ll want to check in with him later.”

Jayne dutifully nodded, crossed her arms, and began pacing, her steps uneven. The reality of the mess upstairs must have hit her hard, because her breaths were short and ragged and her eyes brimmed with tears.

“I know this is hard, Jayne, but you have to report this. Now.” Violet nudged me toward the Murano. “I want to know they’re on the way before we leave.”

Jayne pulled her cell out of a back pocket and punched in some numbers. As soon as she started describing the scene, Violet and I took off in the Murano. We were dead silent, both of us lost in thought—until my stomach began to request food. Loudly.

“Hungry are you?”

“Yeah, I am. But it doesn’t matter. The brutality, it’s…we need to find him, Violet, before they….” I couldn’t say kill him. Couldn’t even think it.

“Agreed. But we don’t have enough information to start looking yet.” She slid a sideways glance at me. “I want to get your impressions of those men while you still have decent recall,” Violet said as she pulled into a parking place at one of our favorite restaurants.

“Why are we here? Surely you’re not thinking of taking time to eat?” My stomach churned in protest. Hungry as I was, the very thought of food made me nauseated.

“The brain needs nourishment to function. We don’t eat, we might overlook something that will save Mitch’s life. I’m not willing to take that chance, are you?”

When she put it that way…

We settled in, got a couple Diet Cokes. Coffee would have gone better with our breakfast, but I needed something to chug, to ease the faint edge of fear clinging to my throat. Guess Violet felt the same. It took her no time to drain her glass, pull a pad and pen from her handbag, and focus a not-so-patient stare in my direction. There’d be no getting out of this one. Not that I wanted out, but she could have given me a minute to prepare before going all PI on me.

“Okay, here goes.” I pulled the clip out of my hair, weaving my fingers through the mop of curls, and cradled my head, eyes closed. “The first guy was tall, maybe an inch taller than Mitch, with a shaved head. I only saw the back of him, but he looked overly muscled. Made me think steroids. He wore jeans and a black, nondescript t-shirt. He’s the one who hit Mitch, kicked him.”

The image left my mouth dry, and I sucked down a couple sips of soda. “The second man was average height with short, curly brown hair, a little pudgy. He was standing at the door, and I got the impression he was picking the lock.”

“Why do you think that?”

I took me a minute to bring the image back into focus. “He fumbled, dropped something. It’s not clear what. But after he picked it up and bent over the handle, the door opened.”

“Okay. Go on.”

Our server came up behind Violet with our breakfast, so instead of talking, I pushed my glass out of the way. The scent of grilled sausage and pancakes had my mouth watering, and a few more growls escaped from my belly. I forked in a bite, savoring the flavor of warm maple syrup. Violet had a point. I could feel my brain kicking into gear.

“Keep talking.”

I chased the bite with a swallow of soda. “The other one looked like a misfit, like someone picked him up out of a dumpster, messy, dirty blond hair, short. I couldn’t tell much about his clothes other than they were wrinkled and didn’t fit well, almost falling off his scrawny frame. I didn’t see any faces because they all had their backs to me.”

“So, we’ve got Shaved Head, Pudgy Pick-lock and Messy. That’s what you’re giving me to work with?”

“Um-hmmm. That about sums then up.” I waited until I had her attention.

“Look, can we keep this between us? I know Jayne’s your client and has a right to know, but I’m beyond uncomfortable about this. , and since I didn’t see any faces, I couldn’t positively identify anyone. Honestly I don’t see that it will help the police if we tell them. Nothing is reportable as evidence. There has to be another way to do this, and I’m thinking we need to go back. There are images there, and I need to access them. See if I can get a face-shot.”

She made a face and looked away. A bad sign. After a minute, she blew out a sigh. “Okay. I don’t have to mention it right away. Let’s see what the cops find and see how it goes. We can’t go back until the scene is clear of law enforcement. And we need Jayne’s permission.”

“Call her.” Blood pounded through my veins, pushing me to act. “Get permission so we can move on this as soon as everyone leaves. Please.” I dug into my pancakes. “And considering I’m exhausted and running on pure nerves, it would be good to meditate for a bit, lower my blood pressure so I can think clearly. Mitch needs both of us to be fully functioning.”

Meditation drifted into a restless sleep, and it was dark when I opened my eyes. The clock read six and rain pounded on the roof, a relentless spattering that raked along my nerves. I wanted everything to be right again. I wanted Mitch to be safe, sated with apple pie and cinnamon ice cream, and I wanted to snuggle under the covers and wake up with him next to me. Anticipation shivered under my skin, tingling. It was soon, way too soon to plan an intimate relationship, but he didn’t denigrate psychics, didn’t run from my touch phenomenon…it had to be right. A smile started somewhere around my heart—but a muffled scream escaped from my lips when the third step from the bottom of the stairs creaked.