Power to the Max (5 page)

His hands slid from her back to cup her face, then he planted a quick kiss on the tip of her nose. “Didn’t really think you’d do it.”

“You mean you would have told me even if I didn’t?”

“Can’t stand a wasted drive.”

She pushed him far enough back so she could sock him in the arm. Damn, he was cute when he laughed like that. He grabbed at her hands, saying, “Uncle. Uncle.”

Something bad clicked inside her head at that turn of phrase, and suddenly she didn’t feel lighthearted. She felt heavy, smothered, dark, terrified, and knew whatever triggered those emotions was something she couldn’t bear to face. Besides, she had business to take care of. Lance La Russa. “What’d you find out?”

He held onto her hand, stroked her fingers. “Killed with his wife’s letter opener. Died in her downtown office. Had sex on his wife’s desk with some woman no one can seem to identify at this point. But you already knew all that, didn’t you?”

“Not about the letter opener.” In her mind’s eye, she saw everything toppling to the floor, swept aside to make room for sex. She didn’t bother to ask how Witt had gotten the information. He’d never tell her anyway. He liked keeping some of his cop secrets, even if all he’d done was call up a buddy in the San Francisco police department. “Did anyone see anything after ... the desk thing?”

“He closed the blinds after”—Witt smiled, pausing as she had done—“the desk thing. Mask he’d been wearing was lying on the floor beside him.”

“All right. So what about the wife? Seems like a particularly good motive for murder. She walks in, catches them as they’re cleaning up.”

“Has an alibi.”

“Aren’t you the one who always says alibis can be broken?”

“Benefit dinner at the
St.
Francis
Hotel
. Fifty witnesses.”

“But she could have slipped away.”

“She was the coordinator. Couldn’t have disappeared that long without her absence being noticed.”

Max pursed her lips. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you didn’t think she was guilty. What are you not telling me?”

“I’m telling you everything.” He made an X over his heart. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

She still eyed him suspiciously, dismissing the slight flutter his common little ditty gave. “Liar.”

His eyes widened in mock shock. “Never told a lie in my life.” He shrugged. “Now, omission,” then spread his hands, “that’s another thing altogether.”

“Tell me.”

Blue irises darkened, seriousness settled in. “The number of the office suite was 452.”

Her heart sank past her stomach and straight into her shoes. “452.” A psychic number, it had appeared somewhere in all four murders she’d been involved with. A flight number, an address, a locker, and now a suite, it appeared to be nothing more than an indicator, a pointer, telling her there was a connection between all the deaths.

“Didn’t really doubt you before, Max. But this psychic stuff is starting to get weird.” Witt was as much as saying he’d become a believer.

“Suite 452,” Max pondered. “If the wife did only charity work, why did she need an office?”

“It made her feel important,” he answered as if the cops had already asked the question. “La Russa had the other office in the suite. Investments.”

That said it all about him, certainly. Max needed more on the wife. “What benefit organization did she work with? Maybe I can volunteer, or get on their board.”

“So you can suck up to her and break her alibi? Don’t think so, sweetheart. She’ll probably cut way back on her involvement now that her husband’s been murdered.”

Okay, he was skeptical. That didn’t mean she couldn’t give the plan the old college try. With or without his help.

Obviously reading her expression, he wagged a finger. “Don’t even think about doing anything without telling me first.”

She tipped her head to one side. “Consider yourself told. I can always look the benefit up in the newspaper. And I do feel like doing a little community service.”

He shook his head and finally stepped away. “You’re gonna drive me crazy.” His gaze shuttered. “Don’t make me have to hurt someone to keep you safe.”

They both knew he was talking about Horace’s prophecy. It sent a chill through Max’s bones. The ghost of his late father Horace had once told Ladybird—who’d of course told her son—that someday Witt would be forced to kill someone to protect Max. He’d never shot anyone before, not in the line of duty, not off duty, never. The fact was perhaps even a source of pride with him, as much as solving every case he’d ever had. Max hated the idea that in the end, he’d have to kill for her.

But if he had to, she hoped to God that it was Bud Traynor. She’d encountered the man in each of her other “cases”. Though encounter was such a mild word for someone so malevolent. Traynor was the devil incarnate, in her opinion, a murderous mastermind. One day she would prove the crimes against him, and she would bring him down.

Then she shrugged off the feeling of dread and the bad omen of mentioning Traynor’s name, but it was harder to ignore the guilt for wanting Witt to solve her problems. “All I’m going to do is help you find a killer. Nothing dangerous.”

He rolled his eyes, then changed the subject they were both uncomfortable with. “Aren’t you even curious about the other woman?”

Max shrugged, pretending she hadn’t been curious. Instead, she told him the conclusion she’d come to. “She’s either dead or she’s the killer.”

He smiled. “That’s the general line of thinking.”

She knew he referred to the cops in charge of the case. “So I’ll go to work on the wife.” When he opened his mouth to rebut, she cut him off. “And I’ll carry your cell phone in case of emergency.” She did a moment of debate, then plunged ahead. “You want to go to dinner?”

“Can’t. Got some stuff to do tonight.”

Cop stuff. That’s why he still wore his suit and had driven the department car.

Okay. He had a job to do. It wasn’t rejection. So she didn’t need that alarming tightness in her chest.

Now she knew he’d be safely out of the way when she made her little trip to the Embassy Hotel.

On his way back to his car, he turned. “Almost forgot.”

Her heart went into her throat. He’d already figured out her plan. “What?”

“A couple of people saw a guy in the vicinity.”

She stood away from the Miata. “What guy?”

“Someone who didn’t seem to belong in the area. Big, blocky dude, no neck. No ID from anyone on him. Any idea who he was, Max?”

She shook her head. Not a clue. But she sure as hell intended to find out if Blockhead was important.

“You can’t go down there by yourself.”

“You sound like Witt.”

It was six o’clock in the evening. Max stood in front of her bathroom mirror and tied a knot in her red tie. She’d chosen one of the plain black pantsuits she normally wore for work, a cream colored blouse, and the tie. With her three-inch black pumps, she oozed feminine power.

Cameron’s essence wavered in the room. The lights flickered infinitesimally. Something red glowed outside the bathroom door. His eyes. His disapproval. There wasn’t a trace of his peppermint scent.

“You need backup.”

“Now you really sound like Witt.” From the mirror, she glared in his general direction. “Are you sure the two of you aren’t on speaking terms?”

“He has a hard enough time dealing with his father’s ghost. I think I’ll wait before introducing myself.”

She added a touch of blush to her cheeks and mascara to her lashes.

“Take Sutter.”

Max snorted. “Nobody’s mentioned her, Cameron.”

“I did, just now.” He always took even the slimmest connection to ride Max about the best friend she’d thrown away. “She’s a good choice.”

Max hadn’t spoken to Sutter Cahill in two years, not since Cameron died. Of course, that hadn’t stopped Sutter from leaving a message on her machine every few weeks. One of these days Max would get around to calling her back. One of these days when she was ready to talk about what happened. One of these days when she could accept Sutter’s comfort without crumbling into pent-up tears on the spot.

“Tonight is not the time to get reacquainted.”

Cameron’s sigh ruffled the short hair at the nape of her neck. “If you don’t take someone to keep an eye on you, I will find a way to let Witt know.”

God, she was surrounded by dictatorial men. And she hated being ordered around. “You and I both know you haven’t been able to get more than twenty feet away from me without fading out of existence.” Which actually did point to the theory that she was crazy. She ignored the implication. “So if I’m not near him, you can’t get near him.” She smiled at herself in the mirror as she put the finishing touches on her lips.

“I can always talk to Horace and get him to tell Witt. Haven’t you noticed how good we are at relaying messages through Ladybird?”

Bastard. In the past, Cameron had used Ladybird’s dead husband to pass on information. Now, he was threatening to use that ability against her. Cameron did, however, have a good point. She could get herself into big trouble on her own. Though she hated being told what to do, she wasn’t exactly stupid.

Besides, Cameron had managed to give Witt a psychic nudge before in an emergency. She didn’t know why but she trusted him to be true to his word and resist nudging Witt. If she didn’t go alone.

“All right, since you’re so worried, I think I’ll take...” She chewed on her lip thoughtfully. “I think I’ll take Ladybird.”

If a ghost could choke, Cameron was doing that right now. Or maybe those were peals of laughter. “Your boyfriend will murder you in your sleep.”

She ignored the boyfriend comment. Cameron was trying to get a rise out of her. “Ladybird’s a perfect partner, and she knows how to keep a secret.” She crossed her fingers behind her back and hoped Ladybird did indeed know how to keep secrets.

“Fine. Take Ladybird. Just don’t get her killed, Max.”

* * * * *

“Oh my, oh my,” Ladybird chirped. “We must have champagne cocktails. I love the bubbles, you know.”

Ladybird also loved Max’s little red convertible. She’d insisted they drive with the top down. With her hair tucked securely beneath a multi-colored scarf, she resembled a parrot.

Max was fine on the way up, until she got to the City, then her hands tensed on the wheel. She hated driving in the City, the one-way signs, the congested streets that all looked alike so that she was never sure exactly where she was. It reminded her too much of her days as a CPA when she’d driven regularly into the City and regularly gotten lost. Max breathed a sigh of relief when she finally parked in the underground garage in the middle of
Union Square
and put the top up against the evening cold and thieves. Not that a vinyl cover would stop a thief if he really wanted something.

Armed with Ladybird and the address of the Embassy Hotel, Max headed up the hill. Ladybird’s navy suit brought out the highlights in her blue-tinted hair. The jacket, edged with braided piping, reached the palms of her hands, the pleated skirt landing somewhere in the middle of her calves. At her throat, she’d fastened a mother-of-pearl cameo, and on her feet, she wore a good pair of orthopedics. She looked every inch the society matron—despite the shoes—like her namesake, Ladybird Johnson. Of course, Witt’s mother had been born with the name Ethel, a signature she hated and had somehow eliminated back in the sixties.

The walk was less than half a mile, but Max’s feet ached in her high heels by the time they reached the hotel. The doorman was absent—perhaps they were too early for him at eight o’clock—but the door was embossed with gold and the carpeting in the lobby was the same shade of green as the kid’s uniform in her dream. Everything was as she’d predicted.

The bar was to the right, past the elevators. Max led Ladybird to the soft music. Piano again. This time she wasn’t sure of the song.