Darlings of Paranormal Romance (Anthology) (84 page)

A whitewashed ceiling stared back at
her.

She shivered. How could anything so
bizarre happen in such a calm and normal setting?

"Sam, damn it, answer me." Brandt's
voice screamed through her phone, dragging her attention back to
the task at hand. "Are you there? God damn it!"

"Brandt." Sam's vocal cords sounded
wrong to her own ears, hoarse and rough. She tried again. "It's
okay. I'm here."

"What the hell happened? Jesus, you
said just a minute. I thought you'd gone to get
something."

Sam frowned. "How long was I
gone?"

"At least two or three fucking
minutes." His voice calmer now. "I almost hopped into my truck to
drive out to your place. Jesus, don't scare me like that
again."

Sam shook her head. That long? No,
surely not. She stared uncertainly at the small plastic clock on
the milk crate that passed for a nightstand.

"So what the hell was that all
about?" Brandt blasted her, obviously pissed now that she'd
returned.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to worry you.
Her husband's name was Alex."

"Husband? Was he the
killer?"

"No." She rushed to explain. "That's
what the killer wants you to believe."

"So, the husband was a wife
beater?"

"I think so."

Silence through the phone as he
digested that information. When he spoke again, he was all
business. "I've got to take another call. I'll need you to come to
the station and give a statement. How about eleven? I'll see you
then."

Sam
stared down at the dead phone. "Shit. That was
so
not
what I wanted
to happen."

Chapter 7

8:55 am

App
roaching the same imposing building
for a second time was no easier. She glanced at her cheap watch.
Right on time. The station had called just over an hour ago asking
her to come in for nine instead. Two hours earlier meant two hours
she didn't have to wait and worry. Taking a deep breath, she
straightened her shoulders and walked in.

Her reception, this time, was quite
different. After letting the front desk know she was there for her
appointment, she was taken to a small room and left alone. Sam
shivered as she took in the square table and two chairs. No
windows, no couch, nothing to indicate comfort. This appeared more
like an interrogation room. Silently, she walked to the far side of
the table and sat down. Sam didn't need any other cues to
understand she could be in serious trouble.

She just didn't know why.

The door opened, admitting an older
grizzled cop. "Miss Blair, thanks for coming in. I'm Detective Stan
Robertson."

Sam grimaced. Warily, she watched as
the man pulled out the other chair and sat down, dropping a file
folder on the table.

"So you're a psychic, are
you?"

She replied, "Somewhat."

He glanced over at her, his bristly
eyebrows slightly raised. "Explain."

"Sometimes I get visions, but I can't
read tarot cards or anything like that."

He opened his folder and started
writing notes on his pad of paper. She tried to read his chicken
scratch. It proved impossible. She waited until he'd finished
writing before asking a question of her own.

"Why did you call me in?"

"You reported a murder." Calm, quiet,
he gave no inkling of his reaction to her report. He could be
writing out a grocery list for all the emotion he showed. Sourly,
she realized he'd probably been on the force so long nothing fazed
him.

"Where's Detective
Sutherland?"

"He's off duty right now. He'll be in
soon."

"I'd prefer to speak with him."
Actually, she wanted to speak with only him, suddenly realizing she
might not have the chance. What the hell was going on?

"We'll have him call you to follow
up." His demeanor suddenly changed. "So where were you when this
murder happened?"

"In bed, sleeping."

His disbelief should have been an
early warning. It wasn't.

"The same bed as this
woman?"

Blindsided, she slumped in her chair.
So, that was it. She was a suspect. Wait a minute. She sat straight
up. "Did you find her?" she asked.

"Why don't you tell me?" He smirked
at her and returned to note-taking.

Sam didn't know what to think. Every
time she stepped forward to help, she became a suspect. But stupid
her, she kept coming back for more. When would she ever
learn?

"So where were you at..." the officer
stopped to look at his notes, "between midnight and four this
morning?"

"At home," Sam answered, her
shoulders slumping. "And yes, I was alone."

"So you have no alibi." He jotted
something down.

"If I'd known ahead of time that I'd
need one, then I'd have made an effort to be with someone. But I
didn't." Sam glared at the man sitting opposite her. She didn't
want to be here. She should have told Brandt that she couldn't
come.

"I'd like to talk to Detective
Sutherland," she repeated.

"Yeah, we'll get on that right
away."

He never moved.

Sam snorted before subsiding into
silence. She was past helping him.

"Let's get back to exactly what you
were doing the evening leading up to the death of your
friend."

"She wasn't my friend. I didn't know
her. I don't even know where she lives." It took effort to keep the
wobble from her voice. She didn't think she'd ever get used to the
accusations or the mockery that often accompanied the disbelief.
She eyed the officer writing extensive notes. What the hell could
he write to fill two full pages?

Without a word or a glance her way,
he got up and left the room.

Sam
waited with mounting frustration, and when an hour later, she was
still sitting there, the frustration morphed into an insidious
fear. She couldn't stop trembling. She interlocked her fingers and
sat on them.
Focus, you idiot. Don't let
them get to you. You can do this. There's no reason for them to
hold you here much longer.
Using a mantra
that had helped her in the past, she mentally repeated: All will be
well. Everything happens for a reason. All will be
well.

Shit happens. That was the other
mantra of her life. And it sure as hell had.

All will be well. All
will be well. All will be well.

The door opened suddenly.

She forgot to breathe.

The same detective she'd seen at the
very first meeting walked in.

She sighed in disgust.

"I'm Detective Bresson. I need to ask
you some questions."

"Why? You didn't believe me when I
walked in here the first time. What's changed?"

He ignored her.

Sam listened in disbelief as the
questioning started all over.

An hour
and a half later, Sam was shown the front door, the officer's words
echoing in her head.
Don't leave
town.

Go where? Bitterness
overwhelmed her. She had nowhere to go.

***

10:50 am

Brandt checked his watch as he pulled
the pickup into the side parking lot and hopped out. With any luck,
he'd have time to grab a mug of coffee before Sam arrived. He'd
tried contacting the police artist last night without success. He'd
left a message. Hopefully, she'd gotten it and had shown up,
too.

Sam had too much valuable information
locked inside her head not to take advantage of it. Their police
artist had an eerie interpretation of people and events as well.
Maybe together, the two of them could produce a little bit of
useable magic.

He pushed open the side door and
nodded at Jensen, just leaving. Walking straight to the lunchroom,
he snagged a mug, filled it with coffee, added cream, and headed to
his desk. So focused on his time frame, it took him a minute to
notice the unusual silence in the station.

Glancing around, he frowned. People
weren't smiling at him. No one said hello or good morning. What the
hell?

"Hey Adam, what's up?" The younger
man was hunched over his keyboard, staring at his monitor as if it
held the answer to life on it. He started; red flushed over his
face and neck. He mumbled and refused to face Brandt.

"What?" Brandt walked over until he
stood directly in front. "Adam, talk to me."

Adam's shoulders slumped. "I think
you'd better talk to the captain."

Brandt stiffened. "The captain? Okay,
how about a heads-up first?"

Adam finally glanced around the
office and then met his gaze. "Personally, I think she might be on
the up and up, but there's some that think she's in this neck
deep."

"She?" The caffeine had yet to kick
in or his brain hadn't woken up yet. Either way, nothing about this
was making any sense.

"Your little psychic
friend."

His stomach soured. "Sam? What does
she have to do with this?" Brandt checked his watch. She should be
out front waiting for him by now. "Has she arrived
already?"

Adam looked at him, puzzled. "She
just left."

"Left?" Brandt searched the large
open room, hoping to catch a sign of her. "Why? I asked her to come
in at eleven. I wanted her to meet with the sketch
artist."

Adam lowered his voice and leaned
closer. "She arrived hours ago. They just let her go."

Black,
blinding anger coiled deep inside, stirring in anticipation of
freedom. "They?" Brandt's voice was cold and thick. Who the hell
had gone after Sam without talking to him first? Who the hell
dared? Because that asshole had a surprise coming. Sam
was
his
source and
no one else's.

Adam ducked and peered from side to
side, checking to see if anyone was watching them. The two of them
always talked. They were on the same team for Christ's sake. Brandt
leaned closer. "Talk to me," he ordered the younger man. "I want it
all, and I want it all now."

Adam flushed even redder. "I don't
know the details. Ask Kevin."

Kevin. Brandt thought about it for
half a heartbeat. Yeah that made sense. Kevin's black-and-white
view of the world matched his black attitude. Kevin didn't appear
to trust anyone. Damn it. It was time to have a talk with Kevin.
Brandt hated feeling like he'd been targeted.

Just then, Dillon joined them. Both
men half-turned away from Dillon who belonged to one of the other
teams. He wasn't privy to their work.

"What secrets are we discussing
now?"

Both men gave him a baleful look.
Adam walked away without saying a word.

Brandt studied him. Why would he even
begin to step in where he wasn't wanted? Brandt had little to do
with him, thankfully. He'd always appeared a little too slick. That
had nothing to do with his fancy suits. Today, he wore another
pinstripe suit and what appeared to be a damask shirt. This kid was
looking the part. Brandt just didn't know what that part
was.

"No secrets here." Every department
had a misfit or two. This station was no different. The captain
here was quite tolerant – as long as everyone did their
job.

Brandt didn't know Captain Johansen
well. Big, beefy, and built, his physique gave rise to the nickname
of B-cubed. He kept a military-style haircut that showed more white
than gray and had a huge squared off jaw. Buzz Lightyear anyone?
Yet, he had a reputation of being a straight shooter with his men,
and fair on most issues. But on the question of psychics, well
Brandt had no idea where he stood.

It was hard being an outsider. He was
here to do a job, allowed to join the team in order to complete a
job, yet not quite a member of the team. Obviously some of them
thought differently about him. But going behind Brandt's back was
never acceptable.

Dillon half-laughed and shifted his
position, his hands sliding into his pants pockets. "Are you sure?
It sounded juicy when I went to walk past. Couldn't help but stop
and ask."

He grinned in a way that
pissed Brandt off. He needed to talk with the captain now. He
needed to find out what the hell was going on. Brandt spun on his
heels, slopping coffee on the floor and headed for the captain's
office.

***

11:00 am

The door to the captain's office was
closed when he arrived. He knocked hard.

"Come in."

Brandt strode in and stopped short.
Kevin was seated on the left. The captain sat behind his huge
mahogany desk. There was a sense of expectation. They'd been
waiting for him.

His defenses went up.

"Come in, Brandt. Take a
seat."

"I'd rather stand." He struggled with
it, but his voice actually sounded normal. Tight but
calm.