Dead to the Max (22 page)

“I don’t know them at all.”

“
You
have the chance to know them better. You have a chance to help us catch the man who did this to my daughter.”

His taunting tone numbed her bones. She was, she realized, looking at the man responsible for Wendy’s death. He might not have strangled her with his own hands, but everything Wendy had done was because of this man. She had welcomed death in the back seat of her car, her legs spread, her thighs covered with a man’s come, because of what her father had driven her to.

Max had seen the Devil the night Cameron died. She knew what he looked like. She recognized him in Bud Traynor’s bottomless black eyes.

Chapter Nineteen

The late evening sun beat down on her head. It went a long way to warming her insides, but it wasn’t enough. “I can’t do this anymore,” she whispered.

“You can’t stop,” Cameron murmured in answer, his words whipped away by the wind as she headed out to the freeway.

“I didn’t know myself in there.” She hadn’t been strong, hadn’t been in control. She’d been putty in the hands of evil. In the end, she’d damn near run out of there.

“You weren’t that bad. You’re living in Wendy’s skin. It’s understandable that you reacted the way you did.”

“I should have accused him, ripped him a new asshole.”

“That wouldn’t get justice for Wendy.”

“Who the hell cares about justice? She needs vengeance.”

“Vengeance against whom?”

“Against the guy with one hand squeezing my knee and the other reaching for my soul.” Against Bud Traynor.

Exhaust fumes wafted across the open vehicle. She merged into the sluggish freeway traffic between a Mercedes and a black Ram, though she couldn’t seem to drum up an ounce of enthusiasm for the fantasy truck. Behind her, Mr. Mercedes wore sunglasses and a scowl, and leaned on his horn. Max raised her hand in the air, middle finger up, then curled her fingers into a fist, and shook it at him.

Now
that
made her feel a world better. For a split second.

“Maybe there was more than one man who drove Wendy to her death,” Cameron urged.

She laughed mirthlessly. “Wendy was a magnet for scumbags.”

Bud and Hal and Remy. Nick, too. He’d wanted to help her, but he’d ended up getting her killed.

“Or killing her himself.”

Weary, she shook her head. “Please stop eavesdropping on my thoughts.” She slammed on the brakes as a white Honda zipped out of the commute lane and cut across two lanes of nearly stalled traffic. “Goddamn it.”

“Talk to me, Max.”

“I’m trying to drive.” Trying to block out his voice.

“Did you ever ask him why they didn’t go to her hotel room? She must have had one if she’d left Hal.”

She
couldn’t wait. Max didn’t say it aloud, but Cameron picked it up out of the air.

“Afterward,” he whispered. “After Nick made love to her.”

She felt his words inside her, between her thighs, and she squeezed her eyes shut a moment, remembered the feel of Cameron, his hands on her, his lips, his tongue. Jesus, she even remembered the fullness of Detective Witt’s balls in her hand.

“They didn’t make love,” she whispered. They didn’t even have sex. “They fucked.”

The shriek of a horn jerked her attention back to the road. She’d kill herself arguing with Cameron.

“I’m tired.” Her voice cracked. God, she’d become weak.
Snap out of it, girl
.

“Tell me why Nick didn’t go with her?” he insisted. “Why they didn’t leave that parking lot together?”

Max ground her back teeth. “He didn’t kill her.”

“But why didn’t he leave
with
her?” The tension in his voice rose a notch.

“I don’t know.”

“
Tell
me.”

She gunned the engine, slipped into the commute lane and flashed past the line of cars. Screw the ticket she might get, even if it broke the bank. Hey, maybe the cop would be able to see Cameron sitting there. She could always say
she
saw him. Then they’d haul her away, lock her up, throw away the key, and she wouldn’t have to answer any more of Cameron’s questions.

“Why, Max?”

Push, push, push. Cameron’s MO stretched her nerves to the breaking point. Even violating the law, she couldn’t drive away from his insistent voice.

“Because they had a fight, okay?”

“About what?”

“I don’t know.” She’d only felt Wendy’s anger, then her loneliness, and finally her despair.

“Ask him.”

“I’ll probably never see him again.”

“You’ll see him, Max. He’ll find you. A dog can always find a bitch in heat.”

“That’s a nasty thing to say.”

“I’m only speaking the truth.”

It was true. About her, God knew. And about Wendy.

* * * * *

Max felt better the next morning. Bud Traynor may have zapped her energy, but a good night’s sleep without a dream to mar her rest was like an upper.

Then again, she might be bipolar.

Or Wendy’s emotions had taken over her life—again.

Which was worse, psychosis or possession?

It didn’t matter. At her desk, Wendy’s desk, she opened her notepad with the list of appointments from Wendy’s planner.

“Divinity,” Cameron whispered in her head.

“A psychic reader? Don’t make me laugh. The psychiatrist.”

“The psychiatrist won’t tell you a thing.”

Max twisted her mouth. He was right. “Fine. I’ll try her hairdresser.”

“What are you afraid of?”

She pursed her lips. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Then go see Divinity. Next to Lilah, she’s your best bet.”

Her fingernails drummed on the desktop. A refusal would be tantamount to admitting she was scared. Which was a ridiculous notion. “You win. I’ll go.”

Divinity. She traced the name with her finger. So other worldly, so out-of-character for an accountant like Wendy. Except that Wendy had committed desperate acts.

On the phone, Divinity’s voice wasn’t other worldly. It was scratchy with too many cigarettes. Yet the welcoming sound of it made Wendy cry out inside her. Max set up a 5:30 appointment for a half-hour psychic reading. The address was in an industrial area on the opposite side of the freeway to Hackett’s, only a couple of miles from the shop.

When she arrived at a quarter after, she found Divinity’s address wedged between a used office furniture store and a car repair shop. The sign above the window advertised plumbing supplies in faded blue lettering. Max looked down at the slip of paper in her hand and matched the number—it was the right place.

She climbed out of the Miata, slammed the car door, and darted across the four-lane road. Once on the other side, she thought she saw Witt’s innocuous tan vehicle parked three doors down from her bright red convertible. The angle of the sun, however, obscured the occupant, if indeed, that blob was a person.

“Still checking up on me, Detective?” She considered for a moment if she should run back and confront him. “Screw that.” He could rot inside the heat of his unmarked car. She jerked open the door of the plumbing supply house.

Avoiding him had nothing to do with that morphmare.

Inside the shop, narrow aisles were stacked floor to ceiling with pipes, fittings, and toilets. The light from the front window failed to penetrate the gloomy maze. A counter filled one wall, its glass so scratched she couldn’t make out what was inside. Years of fingerprints stained the surface. Dust powdered the air. An ancient mariner, wearing a sailor’s cap and a filthy navy shirt with the sleeves chopped off, sat on a stool. The tattoo of a naked woman undulated as he flexed his arm. He looked like Popeye. All he needed was a can of spinach and a pipe.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for Divinity.”

He grunted, grumbled, lifted his rear end, scratched, and finally pointed to a doorway two feet beyond his countertop. Light from a hallway window streamed through a curtain of gold plastic beads that twinkled and glittered in a slight current of air. Just behind, Max could make out a set of wooden stairs.

“Thank you.”

Max pushed aside the beads, and the scent of incense drifted down the stairwell. Better than any doorbell, the steps creaked as she climbed.

“You must be Max.” Voice unmistakable, Divinity stood at the top, her lips curved in a slight smile.

She was older than Max had expected, judging by the leathery texture of her skin. She wore black leggings and a loose sweater that stretched to mid-thigh, and held a pencil between her fingers as though it were a cigarette.

Stepping aside, she waved Max in.

The room was the antithesis of the store below. The windows were open, a breeze fluttered the lace eyelet curtains, and pots of incense sat on each of three round, flower-covered tables. A tall banquette separated the room from a small kitchen. Savory smells wafted from a crock pot on the far counter. Max’s mouth watered. Her stomach rumbled.

“Have a seat.” A rattan sofa scattered with pillows sat beneath the windows opposite a soft cushy chair that beckoned Max. She sank down into it.

Divinity perched on the sofa and pulled a pillow across her lap.

“Tarot cards?” A deck lay on the coffee table between them.

“No.” Max rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, then let it pop back out. “I’ll be honest with you.” The last time she wasn’t, someone died. She tried to sit forward in the chair, but the deep cushions wouldn’t give. “I didn’t come here for myself. I came to ask you about Wendy Gregory.”

Divinity shuffled the cards in front of her, then wrapped them up in a soft, black cloth and put them aside. “No cards, then. Instead I’ll need something of yours to hold. Something personal. I get vibrations, sensations. It’s how I’ll get to know you better. It will help the reading.”

“But I just said I don’t want a reading. I’d like to talk about Wendy.”

“Are you with the police?” Divinity assessed her.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“I...knew Wendy. I want to know what happened to her.”

Divinity picked up the pencil she’d had when Max first walked in and waggled it between her fingers. “I used to smoke, quit over five years ago, but I still need something to hold.” She smiled, tipped her head to one side, sniffed the air, then looked at Max. “Some people prefer chewing on something when they quit, like peppermints.”

The words jolted her. Max tried to scramble out of the chair, but it sucked her back down. Cameron’s peppermints floated in with a pleasant stream of air.

Go away,
she mentally insisted.

I’ll never leave you alone when you need me, Max.
He never had, at least not since he died.

“Why don’t
you
give me something to hold, Max? It helps center me. It won’t hurt, I promise.”

Max had tucked her purse down close beside the chair. There were innumerable objects inside she could have offered. Her checkbook. The Bic pen she used. Her car keys.

Max pulled off her wedding ring and handed it to the woman.

Divinity closed her fist around the gold band, lowered her eyelids, and let out a soft sigh. “Over a year ago, I told Wendy she was going to meet an influential man.”

“Rich? Powerful?”

“Influential to Wendy. A man who would have a profound effect on her life.” Divinity opened her eyes again. “Why don’t you wear an engagement ring?”

Max looked down at her hands. They were bare now. “Did Wendy know who he was?”

“I told her his name was something like...Rick Blake.”

“Nick Drake.”

“Yes. A few weeks later, she told me she’d met him.”

“What exactly did she tell you?”

“Just that he’d started work at the store. She was amazed by the name. I told her to watch for his influence.”

“What else?”

“That was it.”

“What?” It was enough to galvanize her halfway out of the chair. “She never said anything else? Not a word?”

“Only reiterated that he was indeed a great influence, and then she never mentioned him again.”

Max’s jaw dropped. “But that’s not possible.”

“It is, Max. You didn’t tell me why you aren’t wearing an engagement ring.”

“I...what’s that got to do with Wendy?”

Divinity’s gaze never wavered. “Why...” She spread one hand in the air. “It has everything to do with Wendy.”

Max looked at her hands again and the explanation just rolled off her tongue. “I told Cameron it was all or nothing. No engagement. Just the real thing. Either he wanted me, or he didn’t. So we got married instead of getting engaged.”

Divinity held up the hand with Max’s ring and slowly unfolded her fingers. “So it was with Wendy. All or nothing. Put it on.”

What the hell did that mean? Scooting forward to the edge of her chair, Max took the ring and slipped it back on her finger.

“Now give me your hand.”

She did, laying her hand palm up in Divinity’s. Like a lamb to the slaughter.

“Why do you think you need me when you have more power in your little finger than I could ever hope to have after all my years of spiritual training?”

A trace of nervousness streaked up Max’s spine. “Give me a break.”

“You have all the answers about Wendy right up here.” Divinity leaned forward to tap Max’s temple.

Scalded, Max jumped back from her touch. She shivered despite the warmth of the room. “I don’t know nearly enough about Wendy to find her murderer.”

“You have power, Max.”

Power? The woman sounded like Cameron. Terrifyingly like Cameron. “Years of spiritual training,” she scoffed suddenly. Feeling far more than mere nervousness—it was damn near close to panic—Max went for Divinity’s jugular. “You live above a plumbing supply store in the dumpy, industrial part of town. Drug deals are probably taking place behind the body shop next door. I don’t see much spirituality around here.”

“That was my father you saw downstairs. He needs me.”

“Forgive me, but you charge sixty dollars an hour. Somehow that seems a little more mercenary than spiritual.”

“Perhaps you noticed the amount of dust on my father’s wares. Sixty dollars an hour supports us both.”