Celeste Files: Unlocked (14 page)

After he ended the kiss, he snuggled her against his warmth. Exhaustion and contentment set in and had her smothering a yawn and closing her eyes.

“Do you want me to go with you tomorrow to meet with the PI?” John asked.

“I’m good, unless you want to.”

“Nope. I’m fine hanging with our girl.”

She smiled. “I might be a while.”

He shifted, then turned off the lamp on the nightstand. For the first time in years, she was glad the light in the bathroom was still on and she hadn’t been plunged into darkness.

“Whatever you need,” he said, pulling the comforter over them. “One question, though. And be honest.”

She inhaled his familiar scent and sighed. Now that the truth was out and John was sort of okay with the return of her
psychic stuff
, she had nothing to hide. “Ask away. But do it quick before I fall asleep.”

He ran his hand along her hip. “If your mom had the gift, and her mom had it too, along with…how many generations are we talking about?”

Eyes heavy, her body sated, her mind done for the night, she snuggled closer to him. “I have no idea.”

“So you don’t know if Olivia could end up with the gift, too?”

She opened her eyes and stared at the sliver of light glowing from the bathroom. “Time will tell,” she answered honestly.

Moments later, John’s breathing regulated and she assumed he’d fallen asleep. Exhausted, she closed her eyes. As she drifted, hung in that place between consciousness and sleep, the black figure reappeared. Its dark mass undulating and rolling over itself. It moved, growing larger, revealing a small head covered in golden curls.

Olivia
.

Heart pounding, Celeste left the safety and comfort of John’s arms and slid from the bed. She rushed down the hall to her daughter’s partially-opened bedroom door. When she reached the crib, she let out the breath she’d been holding. Olivia lay on the center of her small mattress, her arms raised in a touchdown symbol. Her little sighs and the sight of her were more beautiful than what Celeste had seen in the light with Tracy.

Satisfied her daughter was fine, Celeste went back to bed. But before sleep finally claimed her, she couldn’t shake the ominous and terrifying image of the black mass surrounding Olivia or what that image could mean. Maybe tomorrow she would find the answers she was looking for…she hoped.

The black figure had killed twice. The evilness it exuded told her it would kill again.

But who and why?

Chapter 9

GEORGE LANDRY’S OFFICE was located on Davis Street in Evanston, Illinois, a short thirty-minute drive from Celeste’s Lincoln Park condo. She parked her Jeep at a meter in front of the three-story office building. After feeding the meter, she stepped onto the sidewalk and moved toward the dark-blue awning branded with the building’s street address and leading toward the second and third floor offices. Off the street level, a salon, along with a cell phone store, occupied the first floor of the charming, 1930s building.

Celeste entered and took the stairs to the third floor, where George had said his office was located. When she found a door labeled in brass with the numbers 303, she knocked. A knot of nerves twisted in the pit of her stomach. She hoped to God George would listen to her and accept what she had to tell him. She prayed he’d help her find Tracy. Although she had the woman’s name and, based on her phone number, knew she lived in or around the Milwaukee area, she’d rather have George make the trip to Wisconsin with her. Since George had helped Sandra find Tracy, he would have her address. And if she was wrong and Tracy was alive, Tracy would likely listen to the private investigator over a psychic stranger.

The doorknob turned and she took a step back as a tall man with silver hair cut in a severe crew cut filled the doorframe. “Celeste Kain?” he asked.

She held out her hand. “Good morning. Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Landry.”

His handshake was warm and firm as he widened the door and invited her inside the cozy one-room office. “Please, call me George,” he said, then tapped the chair in front of a dark wooden desk that took up a large part of the room. “Have a seat and tell me why you’re interested in hiring a PI.”

She sat and placed her purse in her lap. “I’m not looking to hire you, I’m interested in a case you worked on for Sandra Welsh.”

“Then I’m afraid you wasted your time coming here.” George sat behind the desk, his dark brows tugging together. “If you want to know about that, you’ll have to ask Sandra. What I do for my clients is confidential.”

“Sandra’s dead.”

Sadness softened his face as he glanced to the calendar hanging on the wall. “She thought she had more time.”

“She did.” Celeste drew in a breath. “Someone murdered her.”

George quickly leaned forward, his brown eyes wide, his jaw hardening. “How? Have the police found her killer?”

Oh, boy. He’s so not going to believe me.

“The police aren’t looking.”

“I worked Homicide for twelve years.” He reached for the cell phone on the desk. “I’ll make a few calls and find out what—”

“George, they don’t
know
she’s been murdered. But I do.”

He dropped his hand next to the phone and narrowed his eyes. “Did you kill her?”

She jerked back. “God, no. It looked like she committed suicide by overdosing on morphine.”

Shaking his head he leaned back in his chair. “Mrs. Kain, I—”

“Celeste.”

He sighed. “Celeste, have the police and ME ruled her death as a suicide?”

“Yes, that’s my understanding.”

“And you think otherwise because…?”

“You’ve known Sandra for a year. Do you think she was the type of person who would kill herself?” she asked, instead.

“No. But she was dying anyway.”

“True. But I know Sandra didn’t kill herself, and I think the person who murdered her did it because of the daughter she had given up for adoption. The daughter
you
helped her find.”

He looked away. “I told you what I do for my clients is confidential.”

“It’s not so confidential if I already know that you helped her find Tracy Saunders, who I also believe was murdered.”

George rubbed the back of his neck. “Ma’am, I think maybe you should leave.”

“Could you open your mind and hear me out? Please. Just give me a few minutes to explain. At this point, I think you’re the only one who can help me. And, when I’m finished, if you still want me to leave, I will. Then I’ll drive to Milwaukee and check on Tracy myself.”

He glanced at his watch, then met her gaze. “You’ve got five minutes.”

“Thank you,” she said, relieved. “Remember you said that.”

“My memory is just fine.”

“Good.” She straightened and let out a breath. “I’m psychic,” she admitted, then arched a brow when he didn’t even flinch. “No comment?”

He looked at his watch again. “You still have four and a half minutes. Say what you need to say.”

Undeterred, she quickly explained everything that had occurred since Wednesday evening. When she finished, her mouth had gone dry from either talking too much or nerves, maybe both. She plucked a roll of mints from her purse, took one, then offered the roll to George.

After declining, he checked his watch.

She shrugged. “Sorry, I might’ve gone over five minutes.”

“You went more than might’ve.” His face unreadable, he leaned forward. “There’s only one reason I didn’t stop you. When Sandra first came to me, we talked for a long time. She was a good woman. Hell, eventually I ended up considering her a friend. Anyway, she told me about the day she learned she was pregnant. She was sixteen and went off into the fields near her family’s farmhouse. She said she placed a quilt in a grassy field filled with wildflowers, then she lay down on that quilt and touched her stomach. Sandra told me she was excited and scared about being pregnant. The baby’s father had been her boyfriend for two years. He was also a couple of years older than her. Sandra’s strict Catholic parents didn’t approve of him, but she kept seeing him anyway.” His lips thinned in a grim line. “She planned on marrying that boy, only he died during his first tour in Vietnam, a month after she found out she was pregnant. She never had the chance to tell him he’d fathered a child.”

Poor Sandra. “Did she tell her boyfriend’s family?”

“She did. She snuck behind her parents’ back and contacted the family, hoping they’d help her keep the child.” He shook his head. “They were so devastated over the loss of their son, they wanted nothing to do with Sandra or the baby.” He was silent for a moment, then he cleared his throat and picked up the phone. “I don’t know how much of what you’ve told me I believe, but I can’t disregard the wildflowers. That’s something Sandra said she’d never told anyone. But I’ll call Tracy and give her a heads up. She might not even know Sandra died, or that the attorney is waiting on her.”

“I tried calling her last night and this morning. Both times the call rolled into voicemail.” As he dialed, she thought about what he’d said. “How do you know the attorney is waiting on her?”

George placed the phone to his ear. “Because Sandra told me she planned to leave Tracy twenty-five thousand dollars. Ten so Tracy could take her dream trip to Europe, and fifteen so she could finish renovating her century-old home.”

Although Celeste still wore her parka, a chill shivered through her. One of Tracy’s final thoughts had been about that dream trip. She’d also told the black figure how she still had more home remodeling to complete. “I wonder what Sandra’s estate is worth,” she said. Twenty-five grand was a lot of money, but was it worth the lives of two people?

“I’m nosy, but not that crass,” George said, still holding the phone, then he held up a finger. “Hi, Tracy. It’s George Landry. Could you please give me a call when you have the chance? It’s important.” He ended the call, then set down the phone and drummed his fingers along the desk. “I didn’t ask Sandra about her financial affairs, but by the way she talked, between her house—that she owned outright—her 401K, stock investments and savings, I got the impression she was worth close to maybe three-quarters of a million. Maybe more.”

“And I got the impression that whoever killed Sandra and Tracy didn’t want to part with any of that money.”

“Right. You said you believe they wanted the adoption records.” He stopped drumming his fingers. “Here’s the thing, although Sandra’s parents insisted on a closed adoption, with the way things are today—especially if the cops suspect foul play—those records would still be on file in Indiana where the adoption took place.”

“But wouldn’t the cops have to know that there was an adoption to even suspect foul play?” she countered. “And even though Sandra’s attorney is obviously aware, the other two parties—Kelly and Lea—might not. Which is why I think Lea and maybe even her husband are involved.”

“Good point.” He half-smiled. “You sound like an investigator.”

“I happen to be married to one, so he might’ve rubbed off on me.”

George’s eyebrows rose as he stood and grabbed his coat off the back of his chair. “Your husband’s a cop? Why didn’t you talk to him about this?”

She also stood. “Where are you going?”

“I thought
we
were going to Milwaukee.”

“Does this mean you believe me?” she asked, both stunned and relieved. In the past, most people had discounted her if she’d told them she was psychic.

“Not sure,” he said. “But
my
intuition is telling me not to discount you.” He picked up his car keys and cell phone. “Now about that husband of yours. Is he a cop?”

“No. He’s a former criminalist for the FBI, and now works for a criminal investigation agency. That’s how I got your and Tracy’s information.”

“Interesting. Well, we have a ninety-minute drive to Tracy’s. Between Sandra and your husband, I think we have plenty of topics to kill the time.” After he locked the door to his office, he asked, “Does your husband believe in your psychic visions?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s former FBI? What agency does he work for now?”

“CORE.”

He puffed his cheeks and blew out a breath. “Well, shit. We really do have plenty of things to talk about. Come on. I’ll drive.”

*

“This is it,” George said, as he parked long the curb of an old foursquare home that had been painted a light gray and accented with white trim around the windows, door and large porch columns. Although the late February weather kept the trees barren and several feet of snow covered the grass and flowerbeds, Celeste imagined the house looked beautiful in the spring.

She slipped on a pair of gloves. “Considering the house was built in 1910, it looks like Tracy did a great job with the exterior renovations.”

With his hand on the driver’s side door handle, George paused. “How do you know the house was built in 1910?”

“Because I was there when Tracy told her killer about the house and all the work she’d put in to it.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Or maybe you know your homes.”

They both climbed out of George’s Ford Explorer and met at the sidewalk leading to the front porch. “I admit to being familiar with a house this old,” Celeste began, “I grew up in a small town in Wisconsin. Before I moved to Chicago, I owned a colonial style home, but there were several foursquare houses on my street like this one. All of the homes were built in the late 1800s to early 1900s. But I
did
hear her say this house was built in 1910.”