Deadly Visions (15 page)

Roth snorted and placed a fat manila folder in front of Joe. “I guess I was the perp in all of these cases too, huh?”

Joe opened the folder and thumbed through its contents. It was packed with newspaper clippings, magazine articles, and written testimonials from grateful relatives and law enforcement officials. “I'm
familiar with some of your cases, Mr. Roth. On the face of it, you've done some amazing work.”

“Only on the face of it?”

“For what it's worth, I think you're probably better at your craft than Monica Gaines. Before you started on the music video network, you were associated with some fairly high-profile cases.”

Roth shrugged. “I usually donate my services to criminal investigations. Television is where the money's at, I'm afraid.”

“Don't apologize. But tell me this, have your gifts ever enabled you to identify a criminal who wasn't already a suspect?”

“Sure.”

“By name?”

“By initial.”

“Ah. Let's see…. His last name begins with S or J. Right?”

Roth stared at him.

“If I look through this file, will I find out that in those cases, the eventual suspect's last-name initial is S or J? Because it's the most common last-name initial in the English language. If it turns out not to be true, it's either forgotten or you can find someone connected to the case whose last name begins with those letters.”

“Perhaps I'm talking to the wrong man. Is there someone else—?”

“No. What do you want, Mr. Roth?”

“I want your department's cooperation. I think I have something to offer.”

“I'm afraid that our department's cooperation
with the psychic community began and ended with Monica Gaines.”

“You're not even willing to listen to me?”

“Sure, I'll listen. Why don't you start by telling me how you found out about that symbol?”

“I told you. I dreamed about it.”

“Right. But have your dreams told you anything that we
don
'
t
know? Something we can verify?”

“Not yet.”

“Mr. Roth, you don't need our cooperation. Most of the crime scenes have been broken down, and you can go there yourself with permission from the property owners. There's a task force tip line you can call if you get any more insights. I'll make sure the receptionist gives it to you on the way out.”

Roth nodded. “I know the drill. But you have to realize that this isn't a normal murder case, Detective. That's why I came all the way here. There are forces at work here that you don't understand. That I don't understand.”

Joe stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“I wish I knew. Thank you for your time.”

Roth reached for his folder, but Joe scooped it up first. “Mr. Roth, would you mind leaving this with me? I'd like to look it over.”

“Sure. I'd be honored.”

Joe stood and walked him out of the interrogation room.

Forces at work here that you don
'
t understand.

Roth's words probably wouldn't have affected him so much if he hadn't been still reeling from hearing Angela's voice the night before.

Keep it together, man.

“Another glass of wine, Tess?”

Shawn Dylan motioned for the waiter. He and Monica Gaines's producer were comfortably seated in the lounge of the Buckhead Ritz-Carlton. A piano played softly in the lobby nearby.

Tess Wayland leaned back in her chair. “I really shouldn't.”

“Why not? You've already taped tonight's show, right?”

“Yes, but there's still tomorrow's show, and the day after.”

“You have to learn to relax.”

She laughed. “I don't even know why I'm here. I don't usually do this.”

“I'll bet you say that to all the guys.”

“No, seriously. I don't even know your last name.”

He smiled.”Maybe that's because I never told you.”

“Maybe I didn't care to know. Maybe I still don't.”

“Oh, you care.”

She gazed at him. “You're right. What's your last name?”

“After you finish your next glass.”

As if on cue, the waiter brought two more glasses of Chardonnay and took away the empties.

Tess smiled.

It was working, Dylan thought. He'd trained for this, and although it had worked for him dozens of times before, he was still amazed it was so effective. A few hours in his hotel room perusing online databases had helped him enormously. An article in
Work
ing Woman
had told him about her background, hobbies, and extensive collection of Murano glass
sculptures. He'd waited in her hotel lobby and complimented her on her crystal lapel pin, remarking on its similarity to the
Dark Mystique
sculpture he'd always admired. How could she know that he'd seen the sculpture's full-size replica in the magazine layout of her Vancouver home?

The rest had been all too easy. Just a matter of pushing the right buttons.

“Tell me about the art commodities business, Victor.”

His new name. Victor Sbarge.

“My investors trust me to spot paintings and sculptures that will quickly appreciate in value,” he said. “I purchase the artwork, then resell when the time is right.”

“It's that simple?”

“Pretty much. There are complications here and there, but that's the essence of it. I think your job is far more interesting.”

She laughed. “Interesting like a torture chamber.”

“Aw, come on.”

“Monica Gaines isn't your usual boss.”

“Having a boss who reads your mind would be pretty unnerving.”

“It's not that. It's that I'm usually the last line of defense, you know? Half the world wants to bring her down and show the other half that she's not what she claims to be.”

“And
is
she what she claims to be?”

Tess was quiet for a moment. “Monica Gaines is the most amazing woman I've ever known.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

“She's the real thing. You can take that to the bank.”

“You already have. She was quite an industry.”

Tess gave him a sharp glance.”Don't refer to her in the past tense.”

“I'm sorry, but she's not expected to live, is she?”

“Monica has made a career of defying expectations. Never count her out.”

“I didn't mean any offense. I just know what I've been reading in the papers. I also read that you've been using psychic guest hosts while you're here in town. Are there really that many psychics around here?”

“Oh, they've been coming from all over. With all the media coverage after Monica's attack, every two-bit sideshow performer from Atlantic City to San Jose has poked their noses around here, trying to get their mugs on our show and any news program that will have them.”

“Who do you have coming up?”

Tess's eyes narrowed.”Why do you care?”

“Just curious.”

“I can't really discuss it.”

“Sure you can.”

“No, I can't.” She shifted in her seat.”Maybe I'd better go.”

“No more work talk, I promise.”

“It's not that. I just have a lot of work waiting for me in my room.”

“I could wait there while you finish.”

She smiled. “I wouldn't get much work done, would I?”

“I guarantee that you wouldn't.”

“Tempting, but no. It's been a pleasure, Victor.” She extended her hand.

Instead of shaking her hand, Dylan lightly caressed it. “I'll see you soon, Tess. Later tonight, maybe?”

She began to draw back her hand but stopped. “That Eastern European accent of yours is going to be the death of me. Tomorrow. Okay?”

“As you wish.”

He watched as she walked across the lobby and disappeared into an elevator car.

Tess Wayland was probably a blind alley, he thought. If Monica Gaines had been deceiving him, he doubted that this woman would know anything about it. Still, he had to cover his bases.

The stakes were just too high.

Dusk had fallen by the time Joe returned to his apartment. Nikki was spending the night with a friend, and although he'd been tempted to call her home, he knew he could use the time to check out his and Nikki's rooms. But what more could he do? He'd come up empty the night before. What was he missing?

He inserted his key into the front door and it turned easily. Too easily. Had he forgotten to lock it?

He walked inside. Everything was in order. No ghostly redecorating.”Nikki?”he called out.

No Nikki.

He walked toward his bedroom. Nope.

A crash behind him.

He turned to see a pudgy figure in a long gray overcoat. The man had knocked over a row of dishes
on the kitchen counter drying rack. The stranger threw open the front door and bolted into the hallway.

“Stop! “Joe yelled.

He barreled through the doorway. Footsteps pounded in the dark corridor ahead.

Joe rounded another corner, then another after that. One of his neighbors was blasting a stereo, and the thunderous bass thump-thumped through the hallway.

The footsteps stopped.

Dead end, Joe thought. He hugged the wall and slid out his service revolver.

“Hands above your head and against the wall, got it? I'm a cop.”

Not a sound.

Joe made his way to the end of the hall.

He listened.

Nothing. Just that heavy bass rattling the windows.

The windows. Shit.

Joe crouched low, hit the floor with his shoulder, and rolled upright with the gun aimed down the other hallway.

Crash.
His prey, little more than a shadow in the dark corridor, leapt through the window.

Pieces of glass and wood framing fell as Joe ran to the window and thrust his head outside. Four stories up didn't leave much chance of—

Bammm.
A blow from below.

He caught himself before he could be impaled on the daggers of glass protruding from the window frame.

his head throbbed.

His vision blurred.

He finally angled his gun down as he peered out the window. The figure had jumped to the fire escape on the building next door. He kicked in a window, and a shrill burglar alarm sounded.

The alarm obviously startled the man, as he flinched and dropped his knapsack to the street below. He watched it for a moment, then jumped through the broken window and disappeared into the dark building.

Joe stood and pulled out his cell phone.

Shit.

Half an hour later, Howe knocked on the open front door of Joe's apartment. “Jeez, Bailey. You should start leaving out snacks so all of your intruders can have something to munch on.”

Joe sat at his dining table, unzipping the knapsack that his visitor had dropped. “Did the patrol cars come up with anything?”

“Nah, the guy's long gone. He got out through a ground-floor window in the building next door. At least you know this one's flesh and blood, right?”

Joe reached into the knapsack and pulled out a silver electronic instrument equipped with a bicycle-grip handle and a foot-long protruding wand.

Howe moved closer. “Is that one of your toys?”

“No. The guy dropped it.”

“What is it?”

Joe turned it over in his hands.”It's a trifield meter.
it measures electrical and magnetic energy and records the data in a memory chip.”

“You think maybe he ripped it off one of your neighbors?”

“I don't think so.” Joe pushed a button and studied the small LCD screen on the unit's upper surface. “There's a time stamp on here. The guy was using it just before I came in.”

“In your apartment? Why?”

“These things are often used to detect the presence of paranormal activity.”

“You're kidding.”

Joe shook his head. “Some people believe that paranormal occurrences are accompanied by surges of electrical energy that linger for hours or even weeks afterward.”

“What kind of occurrences?”

“Supposed telekinetic activity, spirit visitations, you name it.”

Howe squinted at the device.”And it really works?”

“Well, it does measure energy waves, but you're likely to find variances in any room. Near cell phones or microwave ovens, for instance, or near improperly shielded power lines. But it makes the believers feel more scientific, trying to measure something that can't normally be quantified.” Joe put down the tri-field meter and peeled off his gloves.

Howe glanced around the apartment. “Anything missing or disturbed?”

“Nothing. It looks like someone found out about what happened here last night. I hope he came away with more answers than I have.”

A sharp knock at the door. Howe answered it, and
Carla strode into the room. She was breathless. “Hi, Joe.”

“Hi. Are you okay?”

Carla swallowed.”Has anyone called you yet?”

“About what?”

Carla pointed to the dining table's glass top. “Do you clean that thing often?”

“What?”

“Please. Answer me.”

“Uh, sure. With an eleven-year-old in the house? I probably wipe it down a couple times a day.”

“That's what I thought. The fingerprint guys got a couple of decent prints from it last night, clean off the surface. They ran them through the FBI database and got a match.”

“Anybody we know?”

She hesitated.”Joe, the prints were your wife's.”