In Harm's Way (Heroes of Quantico Series, Book 3) (4 page)

Folding her arms across her chest, Rachel shook her head.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to freak you out too. To be honest, I
hoped you might ask Joe's opinion. I thought the police might
be interested"

Marta grimaced. "I'll ask if you want me to. But I've heard a
few stories from him through the years about people who show
up at the station claiming to be psychics and offering to help
the police solve a crime"

"I'm not claiming to be a psychic. I don't even believe in psychics. In fact, I can't believe we're having this conversation:"
Rachel shoved her shoulder-length hair behind her ear and resettled her glasses on her nose.

Marta tipped her head. "This really got to you, didn't it?"

"Yeah" Rachel massaged her forehead and returned to the table.
As she rewrapped her almost untouched sandwich, she realized
her fingers were trembling. Marta, she noted with a quick shift
in focus, was watching them too. She stopped fiddling with her
sandwich and shoved her hands in the pockets of her slacks.

"Okay, Rachel:" Marta wadded her sandwich wrapper into a
tight ball. "Let me run it by Joe. I can vouch for your sanity-or I
could until the past few weeks. I've never seen you this stressed.
Are you sure everything's okay?"

"Yes. Everything's fine. I have no idea why I've been on edge"
Rachel heard the irritation nipping at her voice and softened
her tone. "But I appreciate your concern"

"Hey." Marta laid a hand on her arm. "We'll get this sorted
out, okay?"

Rachel felt the pressure of tears behind her eyes. That, too,
was a new-and too frequent-phenomenon in recent weeks.
"Yeah"

"Maybe it's some kind of hormone thing"

"I almost wish there was a medical explanation for it'

"There might be. Set up an appointment with your doctor.
In the meantime, I'll get Joe's take. Tonight's our once-a-month
dinner date without the kids, meaning I'll have his undivided
attention. I'll let you know what he says tomorrow, okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks. And listen ... you guys won't tell anyone about
this, will you?"

"Of course not. I know how to keep my mouth shut when
I have to. And Joe's the soul of discretion. Just one thing ...
until I get back to you with Joe's input, stay away from that
doll, okay?"

Claudia Barnes liked the soup at Le Bistro. The chef had a
way with mushrooms, no question about it. And the desserts
were to die for, despite the dent they put in her reporter's salary.
But tonight, the conversation between the couple in the booth
behind her was even better than the food.

Pulling out her notebook, Claudia opened it to a blank page
and tuned in, her pen poised.

"Tell her to forget it" A man's voice.

"But Joe, she's really spooked by this:" A woman speaking
now. "And Rachel isn't the type to go for any of that supernatural stuff. We've worked together for two years, and she's very
levelheaded. She thinks it's weird too:"

"That's understandable. I mean, come on, Marta. She finds a
Raggedy Ann doll buried under a pile of snow in a Bread Company parking lot and says it's sending her a message?"

"I know. If it wasn't Rachel telling me this, I'd dismiss it. But
I told her I'd check with you and see if the police would be
interested"

"Nope" The sound of ice tinkling in a glass.

"You're sure?"

"Honey, if she shows up at the station, no one will take her
seriously. They'll listen to her story with a straight face, but once
she's gone, everyone will have a good laugh. Trust me on this.
Save your friend the embarrassment"

A heavy sigh. "That's what I thought." The sound of cutlery against china. "What do you think she should do with the
doll?"

"Pitch it"

"That's what I told her. But I might have to do it for her. I
don't think she wants to touch it again"

More ice clinking. "Listen, don't get involved, okay? Stay away
from the doll:"

"I thought you said her story was a bunch of nonsense?"

"It is. But weird things happen sometimes."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know. Nothing"

"Hey, I'm not letting you off the hook that easily." The woman's
tone was half teasing, half serious. "'Fess up. I sense a story
here."

"Not much of one"

"Come on, Joe. Out with it. We always said there'd be no
secrets in our marriage, remember?"

"This isn't a secret"

"Then tell me"

"Okay. Fine. I had this friend in high school. Nice guy, on
the quiet side, very straight-laced. Anyway, a couple of days
after I got my first used car, I tossed him the keys and asked
if he wanted to drive it. He stood there, jingling the keys, and out of the blue he said, `I'd lay off the booze and smoking if
I were you. It could cause you a lot of trouble. That blew my
mind."

"Why?"

"Because the night before, I'd met up with some friends who
were a little more on the wild side, and we shared a twelve-pack
and some cigarettes at a picnic table in one guy's backyard. No
one was around-but I was scared to death we'd be caught. That
was the first time I'd ever done anything like that. The thing is,
my keys were on the table the entire evening."

"Are you saying the keys ... transmitted ... your secret to
him?"

"I have no idea. I never asked. I wasn't about to admit my
guilt, so I passed it off as a joke. But I knew he knew. I told
myself he must have seen us, but I never did quite buy that. He
lived on the other side of town. And he didn't socialize with
the fast crowd:"

A few seconds of silence followed. The woman sounded more
serious when she responded. "Maybe the police should check
into Rachel's story."

"It's not going to happen, Marta. Trust me:"

"Can you offer her some other options?"

"Pitch the doll:"

"Besides that one"

"She could always try the FBI:"

"Would they be more receptive?"

"Probably not. But it's the only alternative I can think of. Hey,
do you want to split this chocolate decadence thing for dessert?
I won't feel as guilty if we share it"

As the conversation shifted to mundane matters, Claudia
set her pen down and dipped her spoon into the cooling soup,
considering her own options. The features editor at the St. Louis
tabloid where she worked was always on the hunt for unusual stories. A local woman with some sort of telepathic power ought
to qualify. Her tale would be a great lead for a story on ESP or
clairvoyance. If she dug around, Claudia was pretty certain she
could find some interesting material connecting ESP and crimefighting. Better yet, if she dug deep enough she might be able
to put a local slant on the piece.

If nothing else, a story like that should help circulation.
Readers might claim they didn't like sensational stuff, but it
sold papers. Look at the National Enquirer. And anything that
boosted circulation boosted advertising revenue. Her editor
would love that.

Too bad she hadn't tuned into the conversation earlier. Claudia
propped her chin in her hand and toyed with her spoon. All she
had was the ESP woman's first name. Rachel.

There was a way to fix that, though. The woman in the next
booth was the psychic's friend. Claudia figured she could trace
Rachel through the cop's wife. All she had to do was check the
last name on their credit card.

Unless they paid in cash.

Nursing her soup, Claudia listened to the exchange as the
waiter presented the couple's bill. Smiled when it was clear the
twosome was paying by credit card. Followed the waiter and
positioned herself behind a pillar. Ran into him as he passed on
his way back to the table from running the card. Beat him to the
ground picking it up as he apologized. Scanned the information
she needed.

You didn't get to be an ace reporter by being meek, she congratulated herself with a smirk as she slid back into her booth.
And that was her goal. Working at the tabloid didn't thrill her,
but she was only twenty-four and two years out of J-school.
Everyone had to start somewhere. If she could write some unique
stuff that got noticed, she could move on to bigger things sooner
rather than later.

Claudia jotted down the cop's name in her notebook and
smiled. Not bad for a night's work.

Signaling for the waiter, she ordered dessert. And considered
charging her meal to the paper.

She figured it qualified as research.

I shouldn't have come.

The knot in Rachel's stomach tightened, and she squeezed her
laced fingers, whitening the knuckles. She'd never been claustrophobic, but the walls of the small, sterile interview room off the
lobby in the glass and concrete FBI office building in downtown
St. Louis seemed to be closing in on her. With each minute that
passed-ten and a half so far-she grew more uncomfortable.
The temptation to flee before she made a total fool of herself
was strong.

But the vibes from the doll were stronger.

Strong enough to counter the dubious glance the woman
behind the bullet-proof glass in the reception area had given
her. And strong enough to convince her that she needed to
pass the Raggedy Ann on to someone who was in a position to
investigate-whether they chose to or not.

Based on her conversation earlier today with Marta, she knew
that "not" was the likely outcome. While her co-worker had
been diplomatic in relaying her husband's comments from their
dinner last night, Rachel had read "fruitcake" between the lines.
And if a local police officer thought her story lacked credibility,
she had little hope the FBI would take it seriously.

But she felt a compelling need to try. And if she failed to
convince anyone to pay attention to the odd vibes emanating
from the doll stashed in a small paper shopping bag at her feet-well, at least she could walk away knowing she'd done
her best.

"Nick? Sharon. I've got a hot one for you."

Special Agent Nick Bradley shifted the phone on his ear and
checked his watch. Twenty minutes to quitting time. "What's
up?"

"A woman showed up in the lobby a few minutes ago. She
wants to talk to an agent."

"About what?"

"She wouldn't say"

Stifling a sigh, Nick raked this fingers through his hair. He
had an important dinner date, and he didn't want to be late. "I'm
working on a 302. Can someone else handle it?" He doubted
his excuse of completing a routine evidentiary interview form
would carry much weight with the seasoned receptionist in the
St. Louis FBI field office, but he decided it was worth a shot.

"I tried. But it is Friday. The place cleared out early. I guess
everyone has plans"

"Including me"

"Sorry. You're it. Her name's Rachel Sutton."

"Thanks a lot." Sarcasm gave way to resignation. "Okay. I'll
be out in a few minutes."

Dropping the phone back in its cradle, Nick surveyed the 302
on his desk. He could let it sit until Monday, but he preferred
to fill these forms out while the information was fresh in his
mind. Besides, he was almost done. The woman in the lobby
could cool her heels until he finished.