a Touch of Ice (9 page)

He waved me off. “Surely you don’t think all that red hair and the big, blue eyes are enough to make me believe this shit you’re coming up with.”

My fists clenched around the edge of the chair, and I bit down on my tongue. Now was not the time to engage in violent behavior.

Mitch shook his head, sat back, and scowled at me. “I thought better of you than that. Did you set me up? Knock me down at the beach as part of some scheme? Are you taking drugs, delusional? Maybe we can get you moved up to the psych ward—but not before Stone has a go at finding the truth.” He reached for the phone again. Not that an unplugged phone would do him much good.

Mention of the psych ward brought me right up out of the chair. “Listen, you pig-headed, sorry excuse for a photographer, I told you the truth.” I reached out and touched his hand. He jerked it away, but not before I had the images I needed.

“When you woke up this morning, Jayne was sitting in that chair.” I pointed to the one next to the head of his bed. “I got an image of the nurse, plump with gray hair, giving you a clean gown and nodding toward the bathroom. The next image was of you getting in a wheelchair and arriving in radiology. Does that sound anything like how your morning went?”

He smirked. “Good guesses, El. Just about anybody could have come up with that list. Look, I get it. You believe you have—” he wiggled his eyebrows, “—special non-psychic powers. Have you gotten any help for this? Seen anyone who specializes in mental illness?”

To my credit, I didn’t hit him. I did, however, reach out and touch the bed. Then with detached calm, I continued. “Jayne sat here last night and cried. It was right after you spoke to her for the first time since your disappearance.” My voice gentled. “That’s not something I would have guessed, because the Jayne I know does not cry; she badgers.”

The silence was deafening. Mitch eventually looked at me. “Go. Sit. Over there.” He pointed to the chair against the wall, far away from him. “You’re not—”

“Sane?” I piped in helpfully as I moved across the room.

He scrubbed his hands over his face. “I need some aspirin. Probably a beer. You’re damn scary, El.”

Aspirin and a beer. My heart thudded hard against my breastbone, the pain sharp. How simple for him to eliminate me from his life.

I pushed the door open, turned to face him. “Bye, Mitch.”

Ten

I escaped to the safety of my Bug just as tears slipped down my cheeks and the frustrated scream that had been clawing at my throat escaped. A couple good swipes at the steering wheel and I felt better. No wonder I hadn’t dated anyone for over a year. I blew my nose, started the engine, and gave an apologetic pat to the dashboard.

Home. Safe. I pulled on my baggiest blue jeans and a soft, scoop-necked shirt. The strappy sandals stayed. Sexy shoes rival chocolate for healing a battered heart—and calming down a pissed off redhead.

The first bite of Dublin Mudslide melted on my tongue, rich chocolate spread across my palate and I inhaled a sweet, calming breath. Oh, yeah. Much better. I finished the entire carton with a satisfied lip-lick and promised myself a healthy dinner. Or not.

After I sent the last of my afternoon clients on their way, I picked up paper and pen with the intention of facing my own demons. I needed closure on my confrontation with Mitch, and writing a letter to myself from his perspective would be a good way to wrap things up, as well as keep me true to my rule of applying client assignments to my life. When I finished, I dropped it in the mailbox for pick up. Somehow, it seemed necessary to get it out of the house before I moved on to the next step. Figuring out
why
Tony was murdered.

It wasn’t like I had a choice—not after seeing the images of his death. Not after he sent them to me. That was the biggie. Creepy as it was, it established a bond between us and I needed to honor that. To stand for him. It would be easier if I had a clue what to look for, but the universe had kicked me out of my hermit-hood, and since I didn’t want the dawn wake-up-in-a-cold-sweat phenomena to start again, I’d have to trust in divine intervention for answers.

The killing I’d witnessed wasn’t professional (according to television). Scary yes, but truth: Shaved Head and Pudgy were not the elite of the criminal set, so it had to be something personal, something they wanted to take care of themselves. I jotted down a few questions, hoping to clear my head some. What did Tony know? Whose toes was he stepping on? Why didn’t he fight back?

From the storyboard, I made another list: Diamonds, Cats, New York. It was clear that the picture of the camera and the surrounding storm had to do with the photographs and subsequent events.

And I knew exactly what I had to do next.

The timing was perfect. Tony’s neighborhood would be settled in for the night, too comfortable to notice me checking out the area. I slipped into the nifty black outfit that was becoming an indispensable part of my wardrobe. It helped to calm my nerves, because hey, I didn’t have a plan per se, just thought I’d drive around Tony’s neighborhood and see if anything caught my attention.

Not that I was planning to break into his house again. Really I wasn’t. For one thing, Violet refused to teach me how to use those clever little tools. Then there was the illegal thing. But mostly it was because no one in their right mind would expose said mind to that kind of abuse a second time. I did, however, want to stroll around the neighborhood, and inconspicuously touch anything that registered on my intuitive radar.

The drive was a flash of slow motion that ended with me parking in the hotel lot before I realized I’d covered the distance across town. I got out of the car, locked it, and made my way across the lot.
This was a stupid idea, El. Go home where you belong. You should go back to hiding from life and let Violet handle this. She’s the PI, not you.
I’d about talked myself into giving up, but stopped in front of Tony’s house, bent down—ostensibly to tie my shoe—and touched the sidewalk.

My fingers didn’t find anything useful—too much scattered input for a clear image of anything to register in my mind’s eye. I shook out my fingers and tucked my hands in my back pockets. Stupid. This was such a bad idea, but now I was too embarrassed to just give up. I strolled along the walkway to the front door, hoping that to any casual observer it looked like I was “visiting.” I covered my fingers with the edge of my t-shirt and brushed them against the wood.

Something? The outline of an image, maybe? I tried again, letting my fingertips slide around the doorknob. There. Shadows began to form in my mind, not clear, but I could make out the body shapes of Shaved Head and Pudgy. And then it snapped into view: a clear picture of Tony’s expression when he answered the door. Not welcoming, but not surprised either. He’d expected these guys, but for just an instant fear burned behind his eyes. Looked like he knew there were possible consequences to letting them into his house.

Why’d he let them in? The need to know was gnawing at my stomach. I rubbed the sore spot on my abdomen while I circled to the side of the house, casually glancing in the windows, just wondering if anyone was home. Right. Like I’m any kind of actress.

Tony’s bedroom window loomed on my left. Don’t know how I knew it was his bedroom, or why I couldn’t take another step. It was like running into a steel door. I could
not
move. I had to get into that room. The need beat in my brain, timed to the thuds of my heartbeats.

Whoa.

Nope. No way was I breaking into Tony’s house again. Aliens had obviously taken over my common sense. I gently touched the window. No images popped up, so I did the next best thing—shuffled common sense into the oblivion of my subconscious. Whatever evil force had taken possession of me zipped into movement. I was getting in that bedroom one way or another. And if I got caught…well, I’d blame it on the aliens. Made more sense than the truth.

From the break-in with Violet, I knew the house didn’t have a security system, so it wouldn’t set off an alarm if I pried the window open. I pushed up against the sash. Futile hope pounded in my chest that it would open easily, that Tony didn’t bother to lock his windows. A grating, creaking sound cut through the quiet of the night, skittered along my nerves, and had me sinking into the shadows beneath the window. I listened for curious neighbors, holding my breath until it burned to escape from my lungs.

Quiet. Except for the chattering of my teeth.

Crooking my head, I eyed the window. The musty, closed-in odor of Tony’s house filtered down, gagging me. I ruthlessly squashed all thoughts of spewing my dinner and focused on the window. It had gotten stuck part way up, but I guesstimated there was enough room for me to slide through without causing any serious damage to delicate body parts.
Note to self: cut down on the chocolate consumption if you intend to pursue a life of crime.

I scanned the area. No barking dogs. No traffic. Not even the sound of a distant television drifted through the night, so I went with it, got on with the entering now that I’d done the breaking.

The window ledge angled enough so I was able to ease my body over the sill without the use of gymnastics. I eyeballed the room, taking mental notes on what to touch, my heart doing double back-flips in my chest. I avoided the bed. Nothing there I wanted to know anything about. Ever.

My gaze came to rest on a table sitting along the far wall. I tiptoed toward it, closed my eyes, and opened to any vibes it gave off. Fear slammed into me, snaked through my body, and left behind watery knees and lungs struggling for oxygen. Okay, then. A frantic couple of minutes of later, when my ability to think kicked in, I realized this was right. Perfect. I recognized the texture, the nuances of my fear. It had been an intimate part of my nightmares and the visions. It led me to Mitch. And it led me here.

I wrapped my fingers in the hem of my shirt again and touched the table. The image of a diagram, like a map but with times and dates as well as addresses filled my head. I stood silent, eyes closed, soaking up the imprint. No way could I take a chance on losing this one. Not until I’d had a chance to get home and draw it out with paper and pencil. I stayed there a long time, committing the image to memory even though my nerves were beginning to twitch. I ignored them.

Until I heard the front door open. Scuffling. Not a stealthy entrance. I froze, blood pooling in ice cubes that chilled my body and held me rooted to the floor.

I had to make like a shadow and disappear. Fast.

Footsteps. But no voices. Just one person, then?

“Hey, gloves, dickhead. Then hit the bedroom. Boss says we don’t find that diagram, we’ll be fish bait.” Male voice. Coarse. So, more than one person.

A scream tore at my throat, fighting to get free.
Not now. Scream later, run now.

Bloody, bloody hell.

I whirled to face the window.

A shadow crossed the room, and an unholy sound clawed at the back of my throat. I clamped my hands over my mouth.
Quiet, El. Quiet
.

I darted to the window, tripped. Sirens crashed through the quiet and smothered the sound of my body hitting the floor. Ugh. No telling what was on this floor. My fingers picked up a bunch of images, all too garbled to sort into useful images.
Move, El. Get the hell out of here!

Adrenaline poured through my veins, and I fought the wild need to crash through the window and escape.

Yelling came from down the hall, but I couldn’t make out the words through the Doppler effect of the sirens. The noise ricocheted inside my skull and left a stabbing pain behind.

I crawled—the scent of my fear stinging my nostrils—reached the window in seconds, pulled myself up, and peeked over the sill.

Had someone seen me? Or them? Called the cops?

I peered into the night, searching the dark for one of the killers.

A wind had come up and shadows danced around the yard with wild abandon. No way to tell if someone lurked in the dark or not. A huge branch attached to the neighbor’s oak tree dipped in the wind. The shadow crawled over my body, and evil closed in around me.

I couldn’t wait any longer. Whoever was in the house was
right there
. Behind me. Dropping out of the window, I landed with a thud, banged my knee, and stashed the pain in the back of my mind where it could commiserate with my piercing headache. Nothing left for it but to stretch up, slam the window shut, and run.

It didn’t take more than a few seconds before I realized there were fire trucks speeding by on the cross-street a block away. Damn. No help there. Why the hell didn’t I think before I rushed head-long into criminal pursuits?

I reached the car, no one chasing me. That I knew about, anyway. I burned rubber getting out of there, slammed on the brakes when I hit my driveway, pulled off my sweat-drenched clothes as soon as I’d locked the front door behind me, and hung out in the shower until the shaking stopped.

What the hell had I been thinking?

Eleven

I cradled a cup of hot water between my hands and watched dawn arrive, all pink-streaked and full of promise. No nightmares, no visions, but the diagram sitting on my night table weighed heavy. Well, not the diagram per se. It was really more about explaining my clandestine B and E to Violet and Adam that weighed. And the diagram was evidence, illegal evidence, but still not something I could hide.

And then there was the fight with Mitch.

It wasn’t that I intended to spend the morning hiding in bed, but after my pre-dawn wake up, I went back to bed and buried under the covers, ignoring the blast of the alarm when it went off several hours later. No clients were scheduled, so why not pamper myself with a lazy morning?

An excellent plan, until someone pounded on my front door. For a solid five minutes.

I fumbled into my robe and worked up a good rant to toss at Violet. Who else would be stubborn enough to wait me out when it was obvious I didn’t want company?

Mitchell Hunt stood on my porch with a brightly colored bunch of gerbera daisies in one hand and a tray with two Starbucks cups in the other. Cinnamon lattes. The fragrance was unmistakable and my taste buds tingled with lust, but it was Mitch’s face that held my attention—the angry cut and the bruise, now rimmed in pale yellow, on his cheek. My stomach twisted. He could have been killed. Like Tony.

“Oh…damn.” I looked worse than he did—dark circles, wild hair, sock monkey pajamas. Would he notice if I slammed the door, showered, dressed, tamed my hair? A do-over would be
so
good here.

“May I come in? Please?” he asked, handing me the daisies.

The “please” was good, but he already had me with the flowers and coffee. I motioned him in. “You’re here, why?”

“We, um, I’d like to talk to you. Apologize.”

I nodded, not sure what I wanted to say, and then headed upstairs leaving him to follow me or not. He did. Set the coffee and the flowers on the kitchen counter and turned to me, mouth open.

“I need a minute,” I said, holding my hand up to stop his words. I contemplated the flowers, opened a cupboard, and pointed to the top shelf. “The white pitcher. It’s perfect for the daisies. Would you put them…?”

“Yeah. I can do that. Flowers. Vase. Prep for a still life, right?”

I bit my tongue to stop the smile, and then gulped down half the cup of coffee. “Uh-huh.”

It didn’t take but a couple minutes to brush my teeth and pull on some clothes. He’d already seen the worst, and if I spiffed up too much it would look like I was trying too hard. Oh, the complexity of a potential make-up discussion.

He’d finished his coffee by the time I got back to the kitchen, so we settled on my deck with glasses of soda. I’d opted for outside, hoping the breeze would help to keep me calm.

His lips were moving. Silently rehearsing words? Maybe. “This morning…” He paused. “I was out of line.”

“Uh-huh.” No way was I giving in this quickly, daisies or not.

Mitch took a quick swallow of soda and set his glass aside as though he couldn’t figure out how it got in his hand. He frowned, pushed his wire-rims tight against his nose, and finally leaned toward me, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I admit to having a problem with stuff that isn’t grounded in scientific fact, especially anything reeking of—” he unlaced his fingers, wiggled them in the air— “supernatural crap. When I did the article on psychics, it was with the intention of debunking them.”

My body went very still and my fingers tightened around the icy cold glass of soda. I opened my mouth, but he stopped me with an upheld palm.

“It was a mixed bag. Most of them were charlatans; a couple were the real thing. Sorry. This is coming out all wrong. You’re real. I don’t get it, don’t understand it, but I know you’re not making this stuff up. You. Have. A. Gift.” He sat back, looking pale and a little drained.

My fingers eased their death grip on the glass. “A gift?” I prodded, wanting to hear more of his theory about psychics. Of which I wasn’t one. Well, I was in the strictest sense of the definition because I did perceive information hidden from normal senses, but I wasn’t like a fortune teller or anything.

“Yeah, a gift. I know there are people who are born with strange abilities.”

“Strange abilities?” No point making this too easy for him.

“Most of the population doesn’t get a bunch of pictures in their head when they touch something. I sure as hell never thought I’d ever meet anyone like you. It’s—”

“Weird. I know. I’ve been living with it for thirty-two years.” Probably it was time to let him off the hook. He did, after all, have a point. I am different. And I did spring this on him kind of suddenly. I took a swallow of soda and realized I wasn’t sure what to say next. Some words finally tumbled out. “I think it matters to you—” I held his eyes with my gaze— “whether or not I’m okay with your apology.”

“It matters. And, the thing is, I’m curious as all hell.” He flashed a grin, dimple and all.

My traitorous lips curve in response. “I’m not sure what to say. Does this mean you know I was being completely honest this morning?”

“Yeah,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “I know that.”

He did another pass of hands-through-hair that left the curls sticking out in odd shaped clumps. It was kind of cute all messy like that.

“
I
want you involved. Even if I don’t understand exactly what the hell you do, I’m open to any help I can get.” In a single motion he was up, striding around the deck. “I found Tony’s body. We grew up in the same town. I won’t let this go. Those bastards beat me, invaded my home. I’m pissed off, El. Very pissed off.”

I waited until he eased back into his chair with a sigh, until his eyes found mine. “I get it.”

He grinned. “You’ve been waiting for me to blow.”

“Yeah, I have.”

He checked his watch. “Gotta move. I have stuff to do, and promised Violet I’d be back in time for lunch, with beverages. Soft or hard?”

“Soft. Diet Coke for me.” I followed him downstairs. At the office door he turned to me with a long look that bordered on deliciously tempting. He touched my cheek. “Do you see images of what I’m thinking when I touch you?”

I surfaced from those deep pools of chocolate long enough to shake my head. “No. I have to do the touching for images to appear.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

We sat around Violet’s kitchen table with cartons of Chinese, chopsticks flying and food disappearing at a rapid rate. We ate family style, no serving spoons. Just passed the cartons and helped ourselves to whatever looked good.

Between bites, Mitch brought us up to speed on what happened to him. Violet was running on a high level of impatience, occasionally checking her laptop and making notes.

“After my date with El, I planned to grab a nap then head for Bragg to catch my flight. I hit the sack, but my mind wouldn’t shut off.” He leveled his chopsticks in my direction. “You kept popping up. Never had a sea nymph drop at my feet before. The pie, the bike ride, none of it typical. Psychic redheads have never appealed to me. Catalogued them as ditzy until now. ”

I bristled, anger creeping under my skin, simmering. He held up his hand to keep me from interrupting, or more accurately, erupting.

“Just trying to set the stage.” He nabbed a piece of General Tso’s chicken and flashed me a smile. “You broke my stereotypical ditzy definition. I knew it, just ignored it because of the probable complications of a potential relationship. The red hair can wait for a later discussion.”

I ignored him, keeping my temper in check by busying myself with unruly chopsticks and Lo Mein Noodles—mostly because I wanted to hear the rest of his story.

Mitch chugged a couple mouthfuls of soda, then continued. “You were a complication, a distraction from finding Tony’s killer.”

“But we—”

Violet gave me a not-so-gentle nudge under the table and jabbed her chopsticks at Mitch. “Get on with it.”

I choked on a noodle, washed it down with a slug of soda. How could she not tell him? We
knew
who killed Tony and she didn’t so much as blink, much less spill the info.

Mitch plucked a bite of noodles from the Lo Mein carton I was holding. “I’d stopped downstairs long enough to stash some water in the fridge, then I headed up to the third floor. The view, the sunlight, caught my attention, so I stayed on the deck. It was almost sweet light, so I turned, thinking to grab my camera. Figured it’d clear my head some to get lost in the images.”

Violet glared at him. He lifted one broad shoulder in a what-the-heck shrug, and popped the bite of noodles.

“There was a scraping noise, figured it was a squirrel or mouse. Next thing I know, I’m flat on my back. This ugly bald bastard had stabbed me with a needle and is kicking me in the side, bitching about something. Damned if I could figure out his problem. Muscles wouldn’t work, head hurt like hell, and I couldn’t do much between kicks but cuss at him. Next thing I know, I’m in a stinking warehouse. Woke up on a cement floor, my head ready to explode, and that bald bastard standing over me, watching.”

“He didn’t ask you any questions?” My curiosity tingled.

Mitch eyed me under arched brows. “About that time my brain kicked in, and I figured whatever the hell was going on didn’t have a damn thing to do with my work, and everything to do with Tony’s murder.”

Violet’s gaze locked on Mitch, unrelenting. “Why did you rule out your assignment? You were about to deploy, so the reasoning fit ‘assignment’ better than ‘murder.’”

Why was she pushing at him when we
knew
the who of it?

He didn’t sound bothered by the edge of doubt in Violet’s words, but my mind scrambled around trying to make sense of how photography suddenly became a dangerous profession. I slid my palm against the back of Mitch’s hand. He didn’t move away so I let my fingertips touch his skin. A moment of warmth and something comfortable washed over me before the images kicked in. He wasn’t your average photographer; he’d specialized in hot spots. My breath caught, and he shot me a look, abruptly moved his hand.

“Forgot. Gotta be careful about the magic fingers.”

It hurt. My head understood the problem, but my heart—a pool of confused ache. I’d trespassed. Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Sorry,” I mouthed.

Mitch tipped his chin and then turned his attention back to Violet. “No red flags from recent assignments, and this one is a follow-up. So no go. Besides, these bastards hit with a vengeance that was fresh.”

He waited until Violet finished typing, then continued. “When dickhead noticed I was awake, he planted his boot on my chest—like he didn’t already have me by the balls—and growled something about pictures. I didn’t know what the hell he wanted, must have mumbled something about ‘What pictures?’ but between the drugs and the headache from hell, it wasn’t making sense.”

I couldn’t stop the words. “Felt kind of like a ditzy redhead, did you?”

His eye closed in a lazy wink. “No. I felt like hell, but probably sounded like a ditzy redhead.” He reached for my hand and cradled it, careful to avoid my fingertips.

I nudged him in the side with my elbow. “And? What did Shaved Head say?”

“Typical thug.” Mitch lowered his voice and rasped, “The pictures, asshole. What’dit’ya do wit ’em?”

I had to give him credit. He did a pretty good imitation of thug.

“I knew I was in deep shit because the only photos he could be referring to, I’d left with the police. Evidence. If I’d had a brain cell working I wouldn’t have answered, but—”

He chugged the rest of his soda. “Baldy knocked me around some more then made a phone call. Right after that he gave me another shot, and next thing I knew I was in the ER.”

Violet leaned back, frowned at us. “Wonder why they didn’t kill you?”

“I thought about that.” Mitch gave her an agreeable nod. “I think the asshole calling the shots has something bigger going on. Didn’t want to leave a trail of bodies. Tony should have been a dead end. Easy to call a suicide. Offing yourself with a shit load of drugs in a bottle of beer? It probably seemed like something a guy like Tony would do.” He leaned back, interlaced his hands behind his head. “My death would be tough to hide because people keep track of me. The government. Jayne. No sane person would want to be on their shit lists.”

Violet grinned. “Point.”

They had that right. The government, maybe. Jayne? Nope. Not in this lifetime would I want to tangle with Jayne. But something else was nagging at my curiosity. “What did the cops say when you told them about the pictures?”

“Not much. The Sheriff’s department is involved as well as several police precincts. It’ll probably be a cluster until they figure out who’s going to be responsible for what.”

I started to clear up the leftover food. “So, the pictures?”

“Got me why they’re worth killing for.” He handed me his chopsticks. “They’re of old barns and farm structures. No people, nothing suspicious. Didn’t seem strange since Tony had always liked old buildings. Blew me away when he hired me though. I don’t come cheap, and he commissioned five photos ringing in at a grand each.”