Brown and de Luca Collection, Volume 1 Page 13

  I reached for the hot sauce and started shaking it all over my quesadilla. “I spent more than twenty years blind. Had to depend on my other senses, so I guess they got stronger.”

  I looked up. He was watching me as I continued to shake the hot sauce. I shrugged and set the bottle down. “It’s a recently acquired taste. Weird, I admit, but…” I cut a big bite and slid it into my mouth. “Damn, that’s good.”

  He took a gulp from his water glass, then put it down with care, setting it precisely in the ring it had already formed on the Formica. He was nervous. Why?

  I could guess. “Your brother loved hot sauce, too, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah.”

  I sighed, nodding. “I thought so.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He wasn’t ready to hear it, so I shrugged and changed the subject. “I have a sort of inner camera. When I was blind I would imagine what people looked like by their voices, their mannerisms, and…I don’t know, I guess you’d say their energy. It’s not ESP woo-woo bullshit. It’s just that some people give off…I don’t know. A vibe, I guess.”

  “So you really believe the things you write about?”

  I clamped my jaw to prevent an honest answer from leaking out and reached for my own water glass.

  When I set it down I changed the subject again. “What about the latest missing guy? You gonna tell me?”

  “I don’t see the harm. He’s twenty-seven, a perpetual student and apparent science geek. No known enemies.”

  “Known enemies aren’t the ones to worry about, though, are they?”

  He smiled a little. “I guess not.”

  I kept eating, because my quesadilla was to die for. Why had I never eaten here before? The place was fantastic, everything vivid and bright. Green, yellow and red, each trying to be louder than the other, like competing mariachis. And there was music, a little too soft but creating the perfect ambiance, trumpets and castanets. I took another long drink of water. “So, where was he last seen?”

  “Getting into a car in front of a coffee shop on Front Street.”

  I stopped with my fork halfway to my mouth and looked over it at him. “Shit.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Blinking fast, I shook my head, ate my food. But I was scared. I did not want to believe I’d seen the murder victim just before he’d been killed. It wasn’t possible, was it?

  Why not? Tall, scrawny, brown hair, brown eyes, coffee shop? Test it. Go on, ask what he was wearing. No, tell him what he was wearing, because if I’m right, he’s going to have to believe me sooner or later.

  I wanted to prove the voice in my head wrong so badly that I went for broke, even though I would probably come off looking like an idiot when he refuted my vision. “I don’t suppose he was wearing skinny jeans and a bright blue Legalize Love T-shirt?”

  He didn’t answer me. I was feeling a little queasy. Too much hot sauce, that was all. I eyed the last of my quesadilla for a minute, debating whether to stuff it down or ask for a take-out box, and feeling the silence lengthening and growing tense. I looked up.

  He was looking at me as if I’d killed the guy. And then it hit me that was probably close to what he was thinking. I hadn’t considered that possibility.

  “How do you know what he was wearing, Rachel?”

  I set my fork down. A box, definitely a take-out box. “I don’t know.”

  “I asked you before, do you claim to be some kind of a psychic?”

  “No. I don’t even believe in that shit.”

  “Then how do you…?”

  “I saw it.”

  “You saw it? You saw this guy getting into a car with someone? Can you describe—”

  “No. No, just hold up. I didn’t see it see it. I saw it…in here.” I tapped my head. “I was driving down your street, looking for your house number, and it flashed into my head like a pop-up ad. I saw this tallish, skinny guy, long brown hair in a ponytail, skinny jeans, bright blue T-shirt with white lettering, walking down a sidewalk past a window with a neon coffee cup in it. Then I hit your mailbox and it…blinked out.”

  He just kept looking at me. I looked right back, holding his gaze, keeping my own eyes steady, so he could see that I wasn’t making shit up or losing my mind.

  He swallowed hard. “We’re going to have to talk about this.”

  I sighed. “Are you leaning toward ‘she’s batshit crazy’ or ‘she’s a fucking serial killer’?”

  “Are you?” He stared hard into my eyes. I’d never seen eyes like his were just then. Sharp. Penetrating. Hell, he was as good at reading people as I was.

  “Am I what? A killer? No. Absolutely not. Batshit crazy, on the other hand…I’m beginning to wonder.”

  He nodded very slowly, still holding my eyes. “You ever have…visions like that before?”

  He didn’t think it was a vision. He thought I was a suspect. I shouldn’t have said what I had, but damn, I’d been so sure there was no way in hell what I’d seen would match the latest missing man. “No.”

  “Interesting.”

  “What is?”

  “That I can tell when you’re lying. Maybe I’m not losing my edge after all.”

  “You thought you were? You, with the commendations and awards the chief was singing about on TV this morning?”

  He didn’t answer. “You’ve had visions before. What were they?”

  “Is this an interrogation?”

  “I’ve got thirteen missing men on my hands, Rachel. I have to follow up every lead, and you just gave me the biggest one I’ve had so far.”

  “Fourteen.” Why the hell did he keep getting that wrong? “So now I’m a suspect. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

  He sighed, shaking his head, and then clearly deciding to go ahead and tell me more. “You have an alibi,” he said.

  I frowned at him and wondered how he could know that when I didn’t. Oh, right, he knew the date and time the guy went missing. “I do?”

  “The guy was seen getting into that car about the same time you were running down my mailbox.”

  “So I saw him as it was happening?” I lowered my head and tried to quiet the questions that were swirling through it, but they wouldn’t go silent. Those nightmares of murder by hammer, they’d felt like something in the past. I’d seen the same one again and again. That couldn’t have been happening as I’d dreamed it, could it? That had been some kind of flashback.

  Over and over I tried to replay that damn unwanted video clip of the latest victim in his blue T-shirt in my mind, to grab onto a detail or two that I’d missed. But there was nothing. “What kind of car did he get into?” If he told me, it might jog something loose.

  Mason shrugged. “The witness said it was a dark blue or dark green or maybe black sedan. Not old but not new, either.”

  “Not a motor head, was she?”

  “How do you know it was a she?”

  “Not old but not new? That’s not a car person.”

  “Not all guys are car people.”

  I sent him a look, and he shook his head as if he was almost, but not quite, confirming my guess. The waitress came back and asked if we needed anything else, and I asked to have my leftovers boxed up, never taking my focus away from Mason. The guy was going through some shit, that was for sure. And he had been, even before his boss dumped this case on him. And now here I was, telling him details I had no way of knowing. I hoped he was as strong on the inside as he looked on the outside.

  He was puzzled right now, uncertain about me, about the case, about how to proceed, and still keeping something inside. I realized that I had a momentary advantage with him and, sensing that was going to be a rare thing, decided to press it. “Is my brother dead, Mason?”

  To his credit, he didn’t l
ook away. “I’m pretty sure he is, yeah. I think they probably all are.”

  I lowered my head. The waitress came back with my food in a box and a white paper bag. “Chocolate chip cookies, free with every meal this week.”

  “Thanks,” I said, but I didn’t look up, because there were hot tears burning my damn eyes.

  She walked away, and Mason said, “I’m sorry, Rachel. I know how it feels.”

  “I know you do.” I swallowed hard.

  “We’ll talk again.”

  I nodded, blinking until it felt safe to lift my head. “You’re not gonna keep dodging my calls?”

  “Not now. I’ve gotta figure out how you know what you know. And I will figure it out. Count on that.”

  I pulled a cookie from my bag and handed it to him. “When you do, let me know, okay? Because it’s freaking me out.”

  I don’t know if he believed me or not. But he took the cookie and the check, then got up. Lunch was over. My brother was dead. And I was having visions. Accurate ones, apparently. And now I was, if not a suspect—albeit one with a cop for an alibi—at least a person of interest.

  I got up, too, and followed him to the door. He held it open, then walked with me to my car, which was parked at the curb in front of the police station, with ten minutes left on the meter. I stopped beside it, fished for my key and unlocked the door while he studied me as if any move I made might be the slip that revealed my guilt. Of what, I didn’t know. He couldn’t think I’d done it. He’d already admitted being with me at the time.

  I finally met his eyes. “While you’re investigating me, Detective, take a few minutes to look into your brother’s deep dark secrets.”

  His shock was impossible to hide. There was something in his eyes. Just for an instant. Fear, quickly masked. “What does my brother have to do with any of this?” he asked. But there was…something behind his words, and a slight change in his breathing.

  “I don’t know. I only know that I didn’t start having these visions until his eyes were in my head. And I promise you, Mason Brown, I’m going to figure out why. So whatever secrets you’re keeping about him won’t be secret for very long.”

  He blinked twice, shook his head. “My brother’s life is an open book, Rachel. I don’t have anything to hide, and neither did he.”

  I leaned in closer, my face right up near his, and whispered, “There’s a subtle change in your breathing when you’re lying. Did you know that, Mason?”

  I didn’t wait for an answer, just got into my car and took off. But I no longer had any doubt. Mason’s brother had known something about the serial killer. Either he was psychic, or he knew the guy, or one of the victims, or…something. And whatever it was, Mason knew it, too.

  * * *

  The rat had emerged into a den with tunnels veering off into many directions. He’d crawled around, exploring them one by one. Most were completely inhospitable to him. Most rejected him with the first of his urges. And one of them—one was out to destroy him. Could see him. Could feel him. The one who had Eric’s eyes. She was going to have to go, because she could stop him. She was the only one who could.

  But first he’d had to find the right host.

  And this, he thought, seemed to be the one. It had already proved itself compatible with his…needs, at least to a degree, and now he would see whether he could continue to control it.

  It was a big body, strong, with a brain that wasn’t overly bright and a soul that was a little bit mean. A little bit hungry. Like his own. Mean and hungry enough? That remained to be seen.

  He’d taken the victim, offered him a ride and a cup of roofie-laced coffee that had him passed out in the passenger seat within five minutes. And now he was chained up in his host’s basement. But would he be able to follow through? Killing a man was harder than drugging him, chaining him up, even than torturing him.

  Already his host was resisting, feeling guilt and pity for the begging, crying, soon-to-be-dying prisoner in the basement. His will was stronger than Eric’s had been.

  Oh, but to kill again… To feel the hammer cracking through the skull and sinking deep into the softness of brain matter, to see the delicious fear in those brown eyes just before landing the first blow, and then the pain and tears and horror. And then the light just…blinking out. It was going to be so good. It had been too long. Much too long.

  Tonight. He couldn’t wait any longer. His new host lived with a mother, who would be returning home from vacation in the morning. It had to be tonight.

  * * *

  “Here. These are all I have.” Rosie brought a stack of hardcover books with paper dust jackets into the living room, and set them on the coffee table in front of Mason. Mason had filled him in on his bizarre lunch conversation with Rachel and, knowing Marlayna was a fan, asked to borrow any copies of her books she might have lying around.

  Marlayna came in from the kitchen with a brimming cup of coffee and a plate of her “special apple crisp,” and placed them nearby. “Now you make sure I get my books back, Mason. Rachel de Luca is one of my all-time favorite authors.”

  “I promise they’ll be safe with me.” He reached for the plate and took a big bite, making sure to “mmm” appreciatively.

  “It’s good to see you taking an interest in spiritual things, Mason,” she said, patting his hand. “Sometimes it takes a loss like you’ve had to call us to it.”

  “Spiritual? Is that what you’d call what she writes?”

  “Yes. But not religious. Just…spiritual. You read it, you’ll see.”

  “Thanks, Marlayna. And thanks for this, too.” He took another bite.

  “You come around more often and I’ll plump you up. A woman likes a man with some meat on his bones.” She slid her arm around her husband’s ever-widening middle and hugged.

  “Damn, woman, not in front of company.” Rosie was grinning, though, and when she turned to leave the two of them to talk shop, he swatted her backside and made her jump and giggle like a teenager.

  Mason lowered his head, almost jealous of what they had.

  When she was gone, he picked up the book from the top of the stack. “Being Human: An Owner’s Manual. Cute.”

  “I don’t know why you’re so interested all of a sudden. You said yourself, she couldn’t have done it. She was at your place when the guy got into the car.”

  Mason set the book back down and ticked off reasons on his fingers one at a time. “We don’t know for sure that the guy he got into the car with is the guy who killed him. That could have happened later. He might’ve just been catching a ride with a friend.”

  “Wallet on the sidewalk, pal. Driver’s license missing. Just like all the others.”

  “Could be coincidence.”

  “Uh, I don’t think so.” Rosie plucked a book from the middle of the stack, and held it up. The title of the book was Why There’s No Such Thing as Coincidence. “Besides, you told me what she’s driving. A yellow T-Bird does not resemble a dark-colored sedan.”

  “She knew what the guy was wearing. She knew what time he was taken. She knew the freaking words on his T-shirt. She knew—well, guessed—the witness was female.”

  “She said she had a vision,” Rosie countered.

  “She could have lied.” Mason finished the dessert, and started on the coffee while Rosie searched his face and shook his head.

  “You honestly think a little thing like—” Rosie dropped his voice to a whisper “—a little thing like Rachel de Luca killed all those men? Most of them while she was blind?”

  “No. I think this was a copycat crime. And I think she’s looking like the closest thing to a lead.”

  “Now where the hell did you get that idea, partner? Copycat? Since when?”

  Mason shrugged. “Gut feeling.”

  Heaving a sigh so b
ig it probably qualified as a gust, Rosie shook his head slowly, sadly. “I’m glad your gut’s talking to you again, my friend. I just wish it was makin’ a little more sense.”

  “It will. Give it time. I’d bet my bottom dollar this woman is hiding something. A whole lot of something. And I’m gonna find out what.” He drained his cup and set it down, then gathered up the books and headed for the door. He paused with his hand on the knob and turned back. “Marlayna’s into all kinds of new-age, supernatural shit, isn’t she?”

  “She calls it woo-woo.”

  “She have anything on…” Mason licked his lips, hoping he wasn’t going to give anything away. Then again, Rosie didn’t know de Luca had Eric’s corneas. “On organ transplants?”

  “What’s woo-woo about organ transplants?” Rosie looked worried. “Or is this a whole different topic? You thinking about Eric now? About those people he helped with his leftover parts?”

  Easy, Mason told himself. Just take it easy and go with it.

  Marlayna had come back into the living room with a plastic dish of apple crisp for him to take home. If the soft and sympathetic look in her eyes was anything to go by, she’d heard the whole thing. And then she said, “As a matter of fact, I have exactly the book for you.” She handed the apple crisp to Rosie and dashed out of the room, returning seconds later with yet another book. Cellular Consciousness by Dr. Raymond Vosberg. She put it on top of the stack in his arms, and Rosie topped it off with the dessert.

  “The man’s ahead of the curve in the psychological implications of organ transplantation. And he’s local. Maybe it will give you some comfort,” she said, and blinked back a tear or two.

  “I think your theory is dead wrong, partner,” Rosie said. “But you know I got your back either way.”

  “I know you do.” Mason looked at his watch. “I gotta go. Dinner with the family tonight, then reading if there’s time.” He looked at the books, knowing he would dig into them tonight, and half dreading what they might tell him about the sexiest, mouthiest, most compelling female he’d met in years. Or ever.

  CHAPTER 9