Night Moves: Dream Man/After the Night (58 page)

“You’re in a piss-poor mood,” Trammell commented
lazily, all tipped back in his chair and watching Dane’s expression.

He grunted. There was no denying it.

“Talked to Marlie lately?”

Annoyed, Dane shot him a glance. “This morning,” he said briefly.

“And?”

“And nothing.”

“Nothing? Then why did you call her?”

“I didn’t.” Restlessly Dane twirled a pencil. “I went over there.”

“Oh, ho. Keeping secrets from your partner, huh?”

“No secrets to keep.”

“So why did you go over there?”

Damn, all this interrogation was making him feel twitchy. Dane had a brief moment of sympathy for the suspects he and Trammell had questioned for hours. A very brief moment. “No reason,” he replied, blatantly stonewalling and not giving a damn if Trammell knew it.

“No reason, huh?” Trammell was having fun. His dark eyes were gleeful. He had never thought he’d see the day when his good buddy Dane would be so antsy over a woman, and he intended to enjoy every minute of it. Dane
never
had woman trouble; they had always cared about him far more than he cared for them, which gave him a tremendous advantage in his relationships. He’d never mistreated a woman, but at the same time their influence on him had been very slight. If they didn’t like his irregular hours, tough. If he had to miss a date, so what? He’d never given anything of himself beyond the physical to a woman, because the job had always come first. Dane was a damn good cop, one of the best. But he’d pretty much sailed unscathed through the rough seas of romance, unlike the rest of them who wrestled with the conflicts between job and relationships, so it was nice to see him squirming now.

Trammell prodded the beast again. “What did she say?”

Dane scowled, and darted another irritated look at his partner. “Why are you so curious?”

Trammell spread his hands, feigning innocence. “I thought we were working on this case together.”

“It didn’t have anything to do with the case.”

“Then why were you over there?”

“Just checking on her.”

Trammell couldn’t hold back a chuckle, and the telephone rang while he was still laughing.

Dane picked up the receiver. “Detective Hollister,” he barked.

“Finally turned up some stuff on the Keen woman you asked about,” a laconic voice said in Dane’s ear. “Interesting. Damn interesting.”

Dane had stiffened at the first mention of Marlie’s name, his entire body alert. “Yeah? Like what?”

“I’ll let you read it for yourself, pal. I’m faxing it to you. Didn’t know you went in for that kind of shit. Nice-looking woman, though.”

“Yeah,” he said automatically. “Thanks, Baden. I owe you one.”

“I’m marking that down in my little book,” Baden said cheerfully. “See ya.”

Dane hung up the phone to find Trammell watching him with sharp interest, all amusement gone. “What’s up?”

“Baden’s faxing me some information on Marlie Keen.”

“No kidding.” Trammell’s eyebrows lifted. “I didn’t think anything would turn up on her.”

“Well, it has.” The fax machine in the corner began to hum and spit out paper. Dane got up and went over to it, his face grim. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see this. Two days ago he would have loved to get his hands on some information about Marlie, but not now. Ever since she had called him the night before, he had stopped even trying to deny the effect she had on him. He wanted her, damn it. And he wanted her to be innocent. He wanted there to be some
explanation of the things she had told them on Monday. Trammell came over to stand beside him, his dark gaze inscrutable as he watched Dane.

The first sheet came out. It was a photocopy of a newspaper article. Quickly he scanned the headline:
TEENAGE PSYCHIC FINDS MISSING CHILD.

Trammell whistled, the single note almost soundless.

Page after page followed. They all had a common theme: Marlie Keen’s psychic abilities. Some of the articles seemed to be from psychology magazines, or were papers on parapsychology. Several grainy photographs were printed, showing a younger, almost childish-looking Marlie. Most of them were newspaper articles, reporting how “noted psychic” Marlie Keen had worked with police to solve various cases. The articles were all from the Northwest, he noted. Oregon and Washington mostly, though there were a couple in Idaho, one in northern California, one in Nevada.

Sometimes she was described as a “youthful clairvoyant,” once as “lovely,” twice as “extraordinary.” It was a common theme in the articles that the local police forces had been, at the beginning, both skeptical and derisive of her talents, until she had done exactly what she had said she could do. Usually it was to find a missing person, though on a couple of occasions she had helped find kidnappers. Several times it was mentioned that, when not involved in a case, Miss Keen lived in Boulder, Colorado, at the Institute of Parapsychology. A Dr. Sterling Ewell, a professor of parapsychology at the Institute, was quoted several times.

Trammell was standing right beside him, reading each sheet as he did. They were both silent. Even though they had been forewarned, by Marlie herself, reading about it in black and white was unsettling.

Then one stark headline jumped out at them:
KILLER ATTACKS PSYCHIC
. Dane grabbed the sheet, holding it taut as it was printed, and they began reading as it emerged from the machine.

There had been a series of child kidnappings in a remote
area of Washington; one child had been found dead, two others were still missing. Marlie had been brought in by the local sheriff, with whom she had worked before in another town, to help find the children. Just before she had arrived, another child had disappeared. A big article about her had been printed in the paper the same day.

That night Arno Gleen had kidnapped Marlie from her motel room and taken her to the same place he had taken the most recent missing child, a five-year-old boy. He had been seen, though, and the sheriff alerted. It was a small town; they were able to identify Gleen and track him down. But the little boy was already dead when they got there, and though they were in time to save Marlie’s life, she had been severely beaten.

Her condition, “poor,” was reported in a subsequent article. Then there was nothing else. Absolutely nothing. Dane checked the date on the last article. A little over six years ago. For six years Marlie Keen had literally disappeared from the public eye. Why had she relocated to Florida? As soon as he had the thought, he pictured a map in his mind and knew why. Florida was as far from Washington as she could get and still stay in the country. But why, after six years of anonymity and a completely normal life, had she walked into the lieutenant’s office and told them about Nadine Vinick’s murder?

“It couldn’t have been easy,” Trammell murmured, his thoughts obviously following the same path. “To have involved herself after what happened the last time.”

Dane ran his hand through his hair. Part of him was elated, the last doubt demolished. There was an explanation for her knowledge. If he still couldn’t quite believe, at least now he had to suspend his disbelief. There was no longer any reason at all for him to stay away from her; he could go after her the way his body had wanted right from the beginning. But another part of him, perversely, didn’t want to accept what he had read. Half of it was the sheer unlikelihood of it, for it went against the grain with someone
so solidly grounded in reality and facts. The other half was alarm. Shit, what if it was for real? He didn’t want anyone reading his mind, though after a moment’s reflection he had to admit that it would be convenient if a woman could tell how he felt and he wouldn’t have to talk about it.

But it was more than that. He was a cop. He had seen things, heard things, done things, that he didn’t want to have as common knowledge between him and his woman. It was something only another cop would understand. The job marked them, forever set them apart from civilians. Some cases would go with him to the grave, living in his mind. Some victims’ faces, he would always see.

He didn’t want anyone invading the privacy of his mind. Not even Marlie. His nightmares were his own.

He gathered up the sheets. “I’m going to check on some of this,” he said. “Talk to this Dr. Ewell, find out about the past six years.”

Trammell looked a little strange, a kind of amusement vying with sympathy. Dane scowled at him. Sometimes having a partner was like living with a psychic, you got to know each other so well. Trammell was sadistic enough, damn him, to enjoy seeing Dane squirm over a woman.

“What’s so damn funny?” he growled.

Trammell shrugged. “It looks like we’ll be working with her, and I was just picturing you trying to get on her good side, after the way you two hit it off. Or didn’t hit it off, I should say.”

Dane went back to his desk and got on the horn. Wryly he remembered when he had put in for detective. He had pictured a lot of fieldwork, fitting obscure pieces of evidence together like Sherlock Holmes. Instead, he had spent a lot of hours on the phone, and he’d found out that a detective was only as good as his snitches. A smart detective cultivated a lot of contacts on the street, lowlifes who were willing to drop a dime on someone else. Too bad he hadn’t had any snitches in Nadine Vinick’s neighborhood.

A call to Information got him the number for the Institute
of Parapsychology in Boulder. Less than a minute later he was being connected to Dr. Sterling Ewell.

“Dr. Ewell, this is Detective Dane Hollister, Orlando Police Department.”

“Yes?”

Dane frowned slightly. There had been a wealth of caution in that one word. “I’d like to ask you some questions about Marlie Keen. She used to be affiliated with the Institute.”

“I’m sorry, Detective,” the professor said coolly. “I don’t give out any information over the telephone about my colleagues.”

“Ms. Keen isn’t in any trouble—”

“I never thought she was.”

“I simply need some background information on her.”

“As I said, Detective, I’m sorry. I have no way of knowing if you are who you say you are. Tabloid reporters have often tried to get information by claiming to be with various police departments.”

“Call the Orlando Police Department,” Dane said tersely. “Ask for me.”

“No. If you want any information about Ms. Keen, you’ll have to apply for it in person. With the proper identification, of course. Good-bye, Detective.”

The receiver clicked in his ear, and Dane hung up with a curse. Trammell said, “No luck?”

“He wouldn’t talk to me.”

“Any reason why?”

“He said he doesn’t give out information over the phone. If I want to know anything about Marlie, I have to go to Boulder and talk to him in person.”

Trammell shrugged. “So what’s the big deal? Go to Boulder.”

Dane gave him an irritated look. “The LT is going to be tickled that she’s really a psychic, but there’s no way he’ll authorize a plane ticket just for a background check on someone who isn’t a suspect.”

“You won’t know until you try.”

Ten minutes later, he had the answer he’d expected. Bonness was indeed elated that his hunch about Marlie had turned out to be accurate, and he even gloated a bit that he must have a touch of psychic ability himself. Dane barely managed to restrain himself from rolling his eyes at that. But no way could the lieutenant justify the cost of sending Dane to Colorado to check out something that didn’t really need checking out. They already had all the verification they needed, didn’t they? He dismissed the six missing years as being unimportant. The budget was tight, and they needed all the resources they had to be used tracking down criminals, not snooping into the private lives of people who weren’t doing anything wrong.

But those six years were important to Dane. “Do you have any objection if I take off tomorrow and go on my own?”

Bonness looked startled. “You mean pay your own way?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“Well, no, I don’t guess there’s any problem, except that you’re in the middle of a murder investigation.”

“This is related. And the investigation isn’t going anywhere. We have no evidence, no motive, no suspects.”

Bonness sighed. “Take off, then. But just tomorrow. I want you back here by Friday morning.”

“No problem.”

Dane returned to his desk and told Trammell what was happening, then got on the phone again. He had to call three airlines before he found an available flight. After booking his ticket, he called Professor Ewell again and tersely informed him when he would be arriving.

•  •  •

Dane felt naked without the Beretta, but since he wasn’t traveling in any official capacity, he reluctantly left it at home. He couldn’t make himself travel without any weapon, though; he carried a pocketknife that was only a little larger than normal, with nothing else about its appearance that
was out of the ordinary, but which had a single blade made from an alloy stronger than steel. The knife also had perfect balance, a requisite for a throwing knife. Throwing a blade was an arcane little skill he had taught himself, on the theory that it might come in handy someday. The knife wasn’t the equal of a pistol, but it was better than nothing.

He was a nervous flier. It wasn’t the flying itself that got to him, but the strain of being trapped in a small space with so many strangers. He couldn’t leave old habits behind, couldn’t draw a boundary between on-duty and off-duty. He was the same man regardless. That meant he automatically watched everyone, subconsciously noting any erratic behavior, studying appearance, constantly evaluating the situation. The situation was boring, but that didn’t mean he could stop. Just as sure as he let his guard down, something bad would happen; it was an unwritten law.

He had taken the earliest flight out. Because of the two-hour time difference between Orlando and Colorado, he arrived in Denver well before lunch. He had no luggage, so all he had to do was go to the car-rental desk and lease a car for the day. Boulder was about twenty-five miles to the northwest, interstate all the way.

Once in Boulder, he stopped to look up the address of the Institute and ask for directions. With one thing and another, it was twelve-thirty when he drove up to the Institute. There were no fences, no gates; his policeman’s eye noted that the security measures were skimpy, at best. There was an alarm wired to the door, but nothing any third-rate burglar couldn’t disarm,
INSTITUTE OF PARAPSYCHOLOGY
was neatly painted in large block letters on the double glass doors. He pushed the doors open and noted that there was no tone to signal his entrance. It looked as if anyone could walk in off the street.