Bad to the Bone (2 page)

Except Phil.

She’d become Jessica Daniels years ago. That was part of the deal. No one knew the nature of their association; no one else had ever contacted her.

“Who the hell are you?” she asked quietly.

“Iris Munro.”

“Iris … 
Munro
.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Her tone was respectful, almost fearful. “Phillip Munro is my father.”

“I see.” But Jessica didn’t see, not at all. This little girl should have been in bed asleep instead of calling her. No one should be calling her. Not anymore. “What do you want?”

“I need to hire you.”

Stunned, Jessica tried to find her voice and couldn’t. This obscene parody of her conversations with Phil cut sharply into emotional wounds that had only just begun to heal. She didn’t need this. She didn’t need to be reminded of what she was. Especially not by an innocent child with a shaky voice.

“How old are you?” Jessica finally managed.

“Twelve.” There was the briefest pause, and then the girl forged on. “Look, Ms. Dannemora, I wouldn’t
ask if it wasn’t important. I know you’re retired. I know your file—”

Jessica’s mind reeled. File? Phil had a file on her? There wasn’t supposed to be a file. There wasn’t supposed to be a record of any kind except her name and number in a little black book.

“—your file says no women and children but this is different,” Iris assured her. “You’re the only one who can do it.”

“It’s never different,” she told the girl coldly. Then the black sense of humor, which had plagued her all her life, threatened to surface.
Thank you for your confidence, Miss Munro, but I don’t kill people anymore. Not for the government. Not for your daddy. Not for you
. It was also the truth, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe the child really wanted someone dead.

Except—

Iris had read about her in a file. The girl knew her real name, about the retirement, and how to find her. She was Phil Munro’s
daughter
. Conscience reminded Jessica that she’d hardly been any older than Iris when—

Suddenly another explanation occurred to her. Making no effort to hide her disapproval or sarcasm, Jessica said, “I can’t believe Phil has stooped so low that he’d send a child to do his dirty work. You tell him that the answer is still no. It will always be no. I don’t work anymore.”

“Daddy doesn’t know I want to hire you.”

“He will soon enough,” Jessica told her grimly. “Put him on the phone.”

“I can’t. I don’t know where he is. That’s why I need you.”

Closing her eyes, Jessica tried to tell herself this wasn’t her problem. Then Iris made it her problem.

“I think … I think something bad has happened to him. And I don’t have anyone else.”

If Iris had called another night, maybe Jessica could have refused, but not tonight. Not when she remembered so clearly how it felt to be twelve years old, alone and afraid. Not when the pain of Jenny’s death was so close to the surface. Quietly Jessica began to ask questions and make plans.

For a second Detective Sullivan Kincaid thought he had the wrong house. It was possible. He was still feeling his way around Jericho—getting used to the island’s Gulf breeze and the idea that a rash of car stereo thefts would constitute a crime wave. After double-checking his list of addresses, he got out of the car, satisfied he hadn’t made a mistake.

From the street everything looked normal. There were no badly painted signs of upraised palms, crystal balls, or seductive gypsy women. There was nothing which indicated a psychic parlor until he stepped onto the porch.

“Welcome to Jericho,” Sully said under his breath as he stared at the array of doorbells.

Oh, they were all for the same occupant, but the trick seemed to be in the selection. Each was clearly marked with a small engraved plate screwed into the siding. Obviously, the visitor was supposed to ring the one that met his needs.

The first buzzer, set with a cat’s-eye stone, was for seekers of wealth and beauty. Someone searching for healing, love, or wisdom was urged to press the jade button. A quartz crystal looked like the ticket for those attempting projection on an astral plane.

Sully smiled at the next one. The simple black onyx
button offered protection from evil. Well, hell! What a shame no one ever told him a stone was all he needed. It was too late now. The damage had been done for a long time.

The last bell—turquoise—was for courage.

Five choices.

And not a damn one of them said: B
URNED-OUT DETECTIVES LOOKING FOR PSYCHIC TIPSTERS
. Well, he’d just have to wing it. Sully decided on turquoise and pushed the buzzer. He needed a little courage if he was going to have to spend another interview in the dark, choking on incense, and snapping the subject out of hokey impromptu trances with spirit guides.

For a nanosecond, Sully almost missed real crime. Then he came to his senses, forcing the restless part of himself back into the corner of his soul where he kept the darkness. Walking away from Houston’s major case squad was the first sane decision he’d made in a long time. This was going to be the year of the kinder, gentler Sullivan Kincaid. If it killed him.

When the door opened, Sully frowned. This psychic was older—maybe sixty—and definitely a cut above the rest. Slim and well-dressed in black, she looked like Jericho Island’s “psychic to the wealthy.” Her hair was a blue-white, close-cropped with a natural wave.

Around her neck was a commanding silver-and-turquoise necklace. The turquoise stone motif repeated in her bracelets and rings. He suspected she’d have decked herself out in jade if he’d pushed that button.

“I’m Lillian Anderson,” she said without extending her hand. “I knew you were coming.”

“I imagine so, ma’am. I rang the doorbell.”

“Yes. But you rang the wrong one.”

Sully laughed in spite of himself as he showed her his identification. “I did?”

“Don’t worry.” She stepped back and ushered him inside. “It’s not your fault, Detective.”

“No?”

“I don’t have a bell for inner peace.”

That wiped the smile off Sully’s face before he realized it was only a lucky guess from a clever pro. He admired her irony, though—a peace officer without peace. Nice touch.

When she closed the door, she led the way into a modern living room with a stained glass panel-screen shielding one corner. A mythical dragon fought its way across the sections, fire roaring from its mouth.

“I was expecting you,” she told him, “because Georgia Petrovich called. You interviewed her this morning, and—it seems—every other palmist, card reader, and psychic on the island.”

“Yes, ma’am, that I have.”
And I’ve got the incense headache to prove it
. “I’m trying to locate a psychic who may be able to help us in an investigation.”

“I see.”

Behind the screen was a small oak table with claw feet. One shelving unit was filled with a dragon collection, the other with crystals, geodes, and gem stones. He was pleasantly surprised to find there wasn’t a crystal ball in sight. Lillian sat down across from him and reached for a silk-wrapped rectangle, which rested at the center of the table.

As she undid the ribbon and fished a deck of tarot cards from the silk, she asked, “I hope you don’t mind if I shuffle while we talk? The cards help me concentrate.”

He shrugged. Anything was better than another incense assault.

“Good,” she said. “Now, ask me your questions about this psychic. What has she done to draw the hunter?”

“Excuse me?”

“You pursue her.” Lillian casually flipped a couple of cards onto the table in an east-west arrangement, and shuffled again. “Doesn’t that make you a hunter?”

Sully glanced at the cards, noticing the gilded edges and rich detail. These weren’t mass-produced like the others he’d seen today. No, like the woman who handled them, they looked old and felt real. That bothered him. She was too good at probing weak spots.

Ignoring her question, Sully verified her personal information and background before he finally asked, “Do you practice your … art under any other pseudonyms?”

“Like Madame Evangeline?” She smiled. “Georgia told me. No, I don’t.”

“Have you ever used the name?”

“No.”

She added two more cards to complete the compass points. This time raising her eyebrow in concern as the cards fell. Sully didn’t take the bait, although she wiggled the hook better than most of the psychics he’d visited that day. Instead he asked, “Do you know anyone in the business who goes by that name?”

“No.”

“Maybe someone retired or even an amateur who dabbles in the occult?”

“No.” She placed one card in the center of the others and set the deck aside. Looking him in the eye, she asked, “Have you considered the possibility that Madame Evangeline doesn’t exist on the physical plane?”

Sully’s lips twitched, and he had to contemplate the toe of his cowboy boots. “Can’t say that I have. She did use the telephone to contact us.”

“Perhaps she called from the spirit world. I could try and reach her.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary just yet, but I appreciate the offer and your time.”

Sully got up to leave. He’d had all the New Age babble he could take for one day. Even when they looked normal, they were living in an alternate universe. At least this one hadn’t warned him in hushed, dramatic tones about his dark “aura.” Now
that
was a psychic news flash.

“You never did say what this psychic wanted, Detective.”

Since his chief wanted Phillip Munro’s name kept out of the interviews, Sully said, “She thinks someone might be in danger. We’re just trying to check it out, but she didn’t leave her phone number last night.” He pulled a business card out of his wallet. “If you remember anything, give me a call.”

Lillian took the card. As he turned away she whispered, “It won’t help.”

“Excuse me?” Sully wheeled back around.

“Running from the past that consumes you.”

Raising a skeptical brow, he asked, “Is this the part where you talk about my dark aura?”

Lillian shook her head with a tolerant smile. “Georgia sees auras, not me.”

“Oh? And what do you see?”

“The occasional angel.” She paused a half beat as if debating with herself. Then she added, “Yours is weeping.”

Jessica’s doubts about coming to Jericho Island multiplied the moment she pulled the rental car into the cul-de-sac. Who called the police? She told Iris to sit tight, say nothing, and wait for her arrival. So what the hell had gone wrong?

“Everything obviously.”

She sighed as she looked at the bubble light on the dash of the unmarked police car parked in front of the high-security wall around Munro’s beach house. Slowing, she turned into an adjacent driveway and reversed directions. The next block over, she pulled to the side. Now what? If Phil Munro was truly missing as Iris claimed, the last thing she needed was the involvement of bumbling backwater cops.

Jessica swore softly. Leaning back against the headrest, she considered going home to Utopia. She would have except for three things: The little black book, the damned file, and a scared little girl who needed her. No one had needed Jessica in a long time. No one had believed in Jessica for a long time. She couldn’t walk away.

Resigned, Jessica picked up the mobile phone she’d gotten when she rented the sedan. The piece of paper with Iris’s phone number and address was on the passenger seat, sandwiched between her purse and the map. She checked the number and dialed.

Before the phone could ring a second time, it was snatched up. “The Munro residence!”

“Iris?”

“Aunt Jessica! A policeman just got here. He wants to talk to Daddy. Are you lost again?”

Aunt Jessica? Are you lost again?
Iris had struck her as many things during the phone call last night, but stupid was not one of them.

“Yes, honey. I’m on—” Jessica grabbed for the
map, which was neatly folded to this section of the island, and said the first street name she could make out. “I’m on Chandler. How far away is that?”

“Five minutes.” Iris gave her directions, which Jessica pretended to be writing down, and the code to the gate. Then the girl whispered a quick good-bye and broke the connection.

Jessica pulled the phone away from her ear and whispered, “Congratulations, Jessie … you’re an aunt.”

It was supposed to be a joke, but it didn’t come out that way. Her voice caught in the middle. Those were words she had never expected to hear. Or deserved to hear.

As Iris Munro hung up the phone, Sully decided the setting around her—pastel colors and expensive bleached wood—was the perfect complement for a drop-dead blonde. Little Iris was definitely going to be one of those. Right now she was Goldilocks with Elizabeth Taylor eyes that were much too serious. She wore short faded overalls and a green T-shirt. Only one of the straps was fastened. He wasn’t sure if it was a statement or an omission.

“Well, that was my aunt,” Iris explained unnecessarily as she fell gracefully back into the profusion of cushions on the white sofa. Her feet, encased in clunky combat boots, looked too big for the rest of her. “I
told
you she was coming. She’ll be here soon. You can wait if you want.”