Running Hot (5 page)

“I know how surveillance works,” Luther said patiently. “Who’s Grace Renquist?”

“Among other things, she’s an aura talent like you but with a twist.”

“Every talent has a twist. What’s hers?”

“She can read auras like no one I’ve ever known.” Fervent admiration hummed in Fallon’s voice. “When she gets a look at Eubanks, she’ll be able to tell me whether he matches the psychic profile that was prepared by the agent who investigated the crime scene. What’s more, she’ll probably be able to tell if Eubanks committed an act of extreme violence anytime within the past few months. Our client’s daughter was murdered six weeks ago.”

“Give me a break. No one can see that kind of detail in an aura.”

“Grace Renquist can. You know that old saying about murder leaving a stain? She says it’s true in the sense that it taints an aura in some unusual ways.”

“Uh-huh. And just how would she know that?”

“With Grace I don’t ask too many personal questions,” Fallon said.

“Look, even if she can make a positive ID for you, that’s not going to be of much help. You need solid evidence to give to the police in cases like this. Oddly enough, they hesitate to arrest people on the basis of an aura reading.”

“Which is a major pain in the ass,” Fallon grumbled. “But I’ll worry about digging up hard evidence after I know whether or not we’ve got the right guy. I’m still looking at two other possible suspects.”

“You said Grace Renquist is not one of your regular agents. What does she do?”

“She’s a reference librarian in the Society’s Bureau of Genealogy.”

“A
librarian
?”

“Specializes in the familial patterns of genetically inherited psychic traits.”

The Arcane Society had kept extensive genealogical records of its members since its inception in the late 1600s. It had not escaped the notice of the founder of the Society, Sylvester Jones, a brilliant if decidedly twisted alchemist, that psychic talent could be passed down through families. In the past few years, the Bureau of Genealogy had put the contents of its extensive collection of dusty tomes containing the family trees of generations of members into a computer database.

“I don’t believe this,” Luther said. “You want to pair me with some gray-haired little old lady from Genealogy? Is this your idea of a joke?”

“Now do you see my problem? I can’t send a sweet, innocent elderly librarian into a situation like this alone. She wouldn’t have a clue. With my luck she’d give herself away to Eubanks, who would bop her on the back of her bun and dump her body. Next thing you know, I’d have Old Beak yelling at me for getting one of his people killed on the job.”

Harley Beakman was the notoriously obsessive and powerful head of the Bureau of Genealogy. The name Old Beak had been bestowed on him decades earlier because of a certain unmistakable aspect of his profile. The moniker had stuck because he possessed the personality of a bad-tempered rooster.

“You can skip the high drama,” Luther said wearily. “I get the point.”

“I depend on Genealogy for a lot of my research. I need the cooperation of Old Beak and his staff. If I let anything happen to one of his people, I’ll be screwed.”

“I admire the way you’re always thinking of others, Fallon.”

“Listen, this is just a fast in-and-out job. Two days max. You and Miss Renquist go to the resort on Maui. You hang out awhile until she makes the ID, and then you put her on a plane home before she can muck up my investigation. How complicated is that?”

“Let me guess, I’m going to pose as a dutiful son escorting his elderly mom on a Hawaiian vacation, right? Please tell me I’m not going to be one of those guys going on forty who’s still living with his mother.”

“I’m having the documents related to your covers couriered to Renquist tonight,” Fallon said a little too smoothly. “She’ll have them with her when she meets you in Honolulu tomorrow.”

“You’re sure you don’t mean this morning?”

“I don’t make mistakes like that. She’s booked on a flight from Portland, Oregon, tomorrow morning that leaves at eight. Got a pen?”

Luther went back inside the apartment. He found a pen and a pad on the kitchen counter.

“Go,” he said.

Fallon rattled off the flight number and repeated the date. “She lands in Honolulu at eleven thirty-five. The two of you will travel on to Maui under your new IDs and check into the hotel.”

“She lives in Portland?” Luther asked.

Not that it mattered where Renquist lived.

“No, a little town on the Oregon coast,” Fallon said. “Place called Eclipse Bay.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Yeah, well, I get the impression that’s why Miss Renquist likes it there.”

“A lot of senior citizens get off the planes here,” Luther said. “How will I recognize her?”

“She’ll probably be wearing gloves.”

“Gloves? In Hawaii? It’ll be eighty-one degrees here tomorrow.”

“Miss Renquist likes to wear gloves,” Fallon said. “She’s a little eccentric that way.”

“She’ll stand out in the crowd, all right. Tell her I’ll be in khakis and a dark brown shirt.”

“Is the shirt with or without flowers?”

“Without.”

“I’m sure the two of you will find each other without too much trouble.”

Fallon ended the sentence with a couple of odd snorts and cut the connection.

Luther left the piece of paper with Grace Renquist’s flight information on the counter and went back out onto the balcony. He would get a few hours’ sleep and then he would call Petra and Wayne and tell them he had taken the Maui job. At least they’d be pleased.

He finished the whiskey and thought about the strange vocalizations Fallon had made just before ending the call.

If it had been anyone other than Fallon Jones, he would have sworn that the odd snorts were laughter.

FOUR

Eclipse Bay, Oregon . . .

She would get a dog when she returned from the Maui assignment.

The decision made, Grace Renquist turned away from the dresser and placed the neatly folded nightgown into the suitcase. There was nothing sexy about the plain white cotton garment. The sleeves were long and the hemline fell to her ankles. It had not been purchased for purposes of seduction and enticement. She had selected the cozy gown for its practical virtues. Winter nights were chilly on the Oregon coast.

The nightgown was all wrong for Hawaii and so was everything else she was putting into the suitcase, especially the spare pair of thin black leather gloves. A year ago she had fled her old life with only the clothes on her back. She did not even own a bathing suit; hadn’t needed one in Eclipse Bay. But she was not about to buy a whole new wardrobe for what she had been informed would be a very short trip to Maui. The Arcane Society paid well but not nearly as well as her previous job. In her new life as a psychic genealogist, she had to exercise some financial restraint.

The work was fascinating and rewarding but it wasn’t enough to banish the increasing gloom of loneliness.
Should have gotten a dog months ago.
But she knew why she had resisted the temptation. There had been so many uncertainties during this first year as Grace Renquist. What if the Florida authorities tracked her down? What if the two men whose auras pulsed with dark energy found her? What if her new identity didn’t survive scrutiny by J&J? She had wanted to be prepared to disappear again in the blink of an eye. A dog would have complicated any escape plan. She knew that she would not have been able to abandon it.

But it had been a little over twelve months since Martin Crocker had died. Surely if anyone had been looking for her she would have sensed it by now. Her survival instincts were inextricably linked to her peculiar version of aura talent. Both had been honed razor sharp at the age of fourteen. Even more reassuring, she had made it through the J&J background checks. She was safe now; tucked away in that great dusty vault of the Arcane Society officially known as the Bureau of Genealogy. True, the contents of the vault these days were housed online and she accessed them with a computer; nevertheless, the metaphor still applied.

She was safe. It would be okay to get a dog.

Her cell phone rang. She glanced at the coded number and answered immediately.

“Good morning, Mr. Jones,” she said. The formality was automatic, one of the many tools she employed to keep some distance between herself and others.

“Are you packed yet?”

She had never met the man in person. Fallon Jones ran J&J from a one-man office tucked away in a little town on the northern California coast. Some said he was an obsessively paranoid recluse. Others claimed that the reason he lived and worked alone was because no one could stand being around him for more than five minutes. It was true that he had the personality of an annoyed rhinoceros. He was also a brilliant talent.

She had done some off-the-books genealogical research shortly after her boss, Harley Beakman, had begun referring Jones’s queries to her. Evidently she was the only one in the department who had the patience to put up with the ceaseless demands of the notoriously difficult head of J&J.

It hadn’t taken much sleuthing to discover that Fallon was a direct descendant of Caleb Jones, the founder of Jones & Jones. That much was not a secret. There was also no question but that Fallon ranked very high on the Jones Scale, probably off the charts. She knew from her work that the members of the Jones family—many of them legends in the Society—were not above fudging their talent rankings with a view to making themselves appear less psychically powerful than they actually were. She did not hold that against them. She had discreetly cranked her own ranking back to a more respectable and far less intimidating level seven.

The exact nature of Fallon’s talent, however, had proved elusive, probably because no one had yet come up with a polite, scientifically neutral term for what most people referred to as a full-blown conspiracy theorist.

The thing that set Fallon apart from the general run of committed conspiracy nuts was the fact that the mysterious patterns he identified and which he wove into his elaborate theories were not a product of his feverish fantasies. They were real. Most of the time.

“Almost finished,” she assured him. “I’ll be on my way to Portland in an hour or so. Before I leave I have to drop by the post office to ask Mrs. Waggoner to hold my mail, and then I have to notify my landlady that I’ll be out of town for two or three days. That’s it.”

“You have to make an announcement about this trip to the whole damn town?” Fallon growled.

“Trust me, if I don’t inform my landlady about the trip and leave word at the post office, there will be rumors within twenty-four hours. The next thing I know, the police chief will be knocking on my door wanting to see if I’m alive. This is a very small town.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know how it is with small towns. Same story here in Scargill Cove. Do what you have to do and then get moving.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re booked into an airport hotel in Portland tonight. The ID you and Malone will be using will be delivered to you there by a Society courier. Your flight to Honolulu leaves tomorrow morning. Malone will meet you at the gate in the Interisland Terminal at Honolulu International. That’s where the two of you will catch the connecting flight to Maui.”

“How will I recognize Mr. Malone?”

“Well, let’s see. He’s a level-eight aura talent. With your sensitivity you’ll be able to pick him out in a crowd. Can’t be that many level eights running around Honolulu International.”

Luther Malone was the one factor in the venture that bothered her. She had not had an opportunity to research his family tree but she was not worried about his level-eight ranking. It certainly indicated above-average strength but nothing out of the ordinary, at least not within the Society. What concerned her was the fact that Malone had once been a cop, specifically a homicide detective. What’s more, his record for closing cases was extraordinarily good. Cops could be tricky. But she had dealt with a number of them over the years. She could handle one more.

“All right, I’ll watch for an eight aura,” she said. “Anything else?”

“His picture is on the driver’s license the courier will give you this evening,” Fallon said. “But let’s see, I think he said he’d be wearing khakis and a dark brown shirt. No flowers. I told him you’ll have on a pair of gloves. Don’t sweat it. I doubt that the two of you will miss each other at the airport.”

She looked down at the gloves in the suitcase and sighed. Like everyone else she met these days, Luther Malone would think she was weird. She was getting very tired of being weird.

“Right,” she said.

“I should probably warn you that Malone isn’t thrilled about working with a partner. He’ll want to know as much about you as possible. Probably try to interrogate you a little. He’s an ex-cop. He won’t be able to help himself.”

It would be okay, she thought. If she could deceive Martin Crocker and conceal her secret from Fallon Jones, she wouldn’t have any trouble dealing with an above-average aura talent. Malone wasn’t interested in Crocker’s death, anyway. He had no reason to be suspicious of her, merely cop-curious about his new partner.

“I’m sure we’ll get along just fine,” she said, going for smooth competence. She could do smooth competence very well. She’d had a lot of practice during her twelve years with Martin.

“This is your first time in the field as a J&J agent,” Fallon continued. “You’re going to have to do a little acting on this job but I don’t want you to take any risks. That’s what Malone will be there for.”

“To take the risks?”

“No, to make sure
you
don’t. This is a routine surveillance and identification operation, not a takedown. Once you’ve confirmed Eubanks’s psychic profile, your job is done. Malone will get you off Maui and you’ll be on the plane back to Oregon ASAP. Understood?”

“Yes, Mr. Jones.”

“Look, between you and me, Malone can be a pain in the ass but he’s good at what he does. If he starts giving orders, which he probably will, just shut up and do what he says. Any questions?”