Perfectly Matched (17 page)

“If he does, he never said.”

Sean dragged a hand over his face. Ebbie tiptoed over to him and gracefully jumped in his lap. He picked her up and held her against his chest while scratching her ears.

My heart melted just a little bit more.

“Can you remember him having any enemies? How long were you two on the streets together?”

“Six months. And there’s only one kid I can recall. His street name was Johnny Largo.” He shot me a wry look. “He was a big boy. But Sam always managed to outsmart him, and it pissed Johnny off to no end.”

“Do you know his real name?”

Sean shook his head.

“Do you think anyone in that neighborhood would know it? Or maybe his old school?”

“He didn’t go to school, Lucy.”

It was a whole unfamiliar world. My computer whirred quietly, warming up. “Maybe DCF?” The Department of Children and Families. I was grasping at straws, but this was Sam.
Sam
.

“Those records are sealed to the public. Not that it would matter if they weren’t. All the foster and adoption records made during the eighties went up in smoke in that warehouse fire last month, remember?”

Goose bumps popped up on my arms. “A fire?”

Sean’s eyes darkened. “Jesus,” he whispered. “What are we dealing with?”

***

Sean continued staring at his notepad as if an epiphany would emerge from the college-ruled lines. We both agreed that this case was over our heads, but we were still ready to dive in to the deep end.

The problem was that we were looking for the ghosts. The ghosts of Sam’s past.

It was an impossible task.

But we were going to try.

Tomorrow morning we would get together with Sam and try to uncover more information. For now he was safe with Raphael.

We also planned to take a trip back to the neighborhood where Sean first met Sam on the streets. Maybe there were some old-timers there who would know Johnny Largo’s true identity. Even if all the DCF records were gone, Johnny might still be able to be tracked down.

For kicks, I typed “Johnny Largo” into my web browser. Apparently there was a singer with the same name but wasn’t the right age. Very little else.

I abandoned that search and typed in another name. I had my own ghost to search for.

Jeremy Cross.

There were too many hits to sort through. I narrowed it down to Jeremy Cross + psychic. Unfortunately, there were no relevant hits. I added “
Massachusetts
” into the search and the browser informed me that it had no matches at all.

I did another search, this one with Jeremy’s name and “farm.” Still nothing.

I stared at my blinking cursor.
Who are you, Jeremy?

Glancing over at Ebbie, I frowned. For all intents and purposes, Jeremy Cross did not exist.

“What’s wrong?” Sean asked. “Your foot?”

“No. It’s Jeremy.” I explained what I’d found. Or the
lack of
what I’d found.

Sean looked ready for a diversion. He turned on his laptop, too, and searched his P.I. databases. “There’s nothing here that would match.”

“So, ‘Jeremy’ is an alias?” I said.

“It’s my guess,” Sean said. “But why?”

I told Sean about the scar on Jeremy’s face and what he’d said about my leg, and how I’d made the leap that he’d had a run-in with a psychopath, too.

He said, “You have the most interesting friends.”

Ebbie was tucked next to him in the tiny space between his leg and the side of the chair. She slept peacefully. I smiled. “I wouldn’t call him a friend.”

“How are you going to find his match?”

“According to Jeremy, Ebbie’s in charge. But I’m getting Cutter involved, too. However, I have to find Jeremy first.”

Sean glanced down at the cat. “Do
you
believe she’s in charge? That she’s going to lead you to his soul mate?”

There was no mocking in his voice, just curiosity.

Inwardly, I searched for an answer. “Honestly? I don’t know.”

“But?”

“I’m willing to believe it.”

“The Love Conquers All syndrome,” he said with a drawn-out sigh.

Now
he was mocking.

I tossed a throw pillow at his head. He often teased me about my belief that love could conquer all. I’d yet to convert him, but I was working on it.

Thoreau snuffled and rolled onto his back. Grendel lifted a sleepy eyelid and nuzzled deeper into the dog’s side. The two adored each other.

Hopefully all three of the pets would continue to get along until I could figure out this Jeremy Cross situation. Why hadn’t Orlinda called me back? Was she trying to teach me something? Was Jeremy part of another psychic lesson plan?

I glanced over at the bassinet by the front door. In it rested
Bethany
’s pink bear. I thought about what I’d seen in that radiology room. The man. The license plate.

I knew well enough that the plate could have been misleading. Stolen.
Bethany
might not have even been kidnapped from
Maine
. I wanted more information.

Frowning at my blinking cursor, I deleted Jeremy’s name from the search box and typed in
Bethany
+ missing +
Maine
. My finger hovered over the enter button.

I wanted to find out as much as I could about
Bethany
’s case. Her birth date. Her parents. Did she have siblings? Did anyone witness the abduction? Was the truck ever found? Was there a ransom note? Or any contact from the kidnapper afterward?

But I’d made a promise to Orlinda. To use only my psychic abilities to try and locate
Bethany
.

And really, the Internet couldn’t answer my biggest question.

Was
Bethany
alive?

I pushed the delete button and closed my laptop.

Across from me, Sean was still staring with fierce concentration at the pad of paper. I was almost grateful for the arsonist’s distraction. Otherwise, Sean would be worrying about the purse snatcher and Graham’s vision.

I tried to push the thoughts out of my head. I had enough anxiety without dwelling on what may or may not be true. I needed a distraction.

I looked at Sean.

He sensed me staring and met my gaze. Slowly, he set his notepad on the table and dropped his pen. “What’s that look in your eyes, Ms. Valentine?”

“My eyes?” I blinked dramatically. “Dust, maybe.”

One of his dimples popped.

“You know, I was thinking about what you said earlier,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“About how it’s okay for me to ask for help.”

His other dimple popped. “And is there something with which you need help?”

I smiled at his very proper grammar. He had an English minor and sometimes it reared its head. “I believe so.”

He eased out of his chair. “Do you want a drink?”

I shook my head.

“More medicine?” He knelt down on the floor next to the couch.

“No.”

His hand slid up my thigh. “A book?”

I shook my head again, afraid my voice would crack. Just one look, just one touch, and he could make me melt.

“Well, what is it you want?”

“You.”

“Well,” he said, carefully setting my crutches aside and pulling me onto the floor with him, “I do think I promised to take good care of you.”

The thick area rug was soft under my back as he tucked me beneath him. “Yes, yes you did.”

His hand skimmed over my hip and dipped under the edge of my tank top. “How’s your foot doing?” he asked.

“What foot?”

His fingers splayed across my ribcage, the tips barely touching the undersides of my breasts. “Let me help you with your shirt.” In a flash, my shirt was off.

“Let me help with yours,” I said, tugging his over his head.

I barely noticed the scar near his collarbone as my hands roamed over his chest.

This was the best distraction ever.

“And your shorts,” he said, carefully sliding them down my legs and maneuvering them over my boot. He took his sweet time in kissing his way back up my legs, my stomach, my breasts. Finally, he reached my face and the desire in his eyes almost did me in.

“You’re the best helper ever,” I said.

He smiled, flashing his dimples. “You haven’t seen anything yet, Ms. Valentine.”

Chapter Seventeen

Enraptured, I watched the hand covered in a blue latex glove twist the cap off a generic water bottle and toss its contents in random arcs over the walls, across the counters, cabinets. He splashed the dining room cushions, the curtains.

Except it wasn’t water. The sharp sting of gasoline filled my nostrils.

My heart thrummed as I watched the scene unfold. The hand set the bottle on the kitchen counter and pulled a wallet to him. He was precise with his movement, going straight for a driver’s license.

With a red Sharpie, he drew concentric circles over a face.

My face.

Adrenaline coursed through my veins as the man turned the license over. On the back of it, he wrote five words.

CATCH ME IF YOU CAN

As he slid the license into a crack in the raised panel of a cabinet, I realized I was watching it all through his eyes.

A shudder rippled through me.

After picking up the water bottle, he turned and looked downward, and I started when I spotted the body of a man on the floor. Face down. Unmoving.

The man stepped over him and turned back one more time.

Next thing I knew, he pulled out a matchbox. His hand didn’t shake as he carefully removed a match, turned the box on its side, and placed the red match head against the strike strip.

With a quick swipe, a flame erupted. The man held it in front of his eyes for a moment, then he flicked it into the kitchen.

Flames burst from the floor. Licked across the floorboards and headed straight for the man on the ground.

My eyes flew open, and I bolted upright in bed, gasping for air. I clung to the sheets on the bed, trying to work through what I’d just seen.

It hadn’t felt like a nightmare.

It had felt real. Very real.

Especially since I recognized the kitchen.

Sean sat up and placed his warm hand on my back. “Lucy?”

I tossed off the covers. “We have to go.”

“Where?”

As soon as I put my feet on the floor, I crumpled in pain. I’d forgotten about my foot. Reaching down, I pulled my boot toward me.

The phone started ringing.

Sean rose out of bed, moonlight spilling across his naked body. He took a second to slip on a pair of pajama bottoms and ran for the phone in the kitchen.

I glanced at the clock. Two thirty-three.

My heart raced, and as I finished fussing with the Velcro straps of the boot, I noticed Ebbie watching me carefully. She sat on the bed, next to my pillow.

I squinted in the darkness—there was something on my pillow. Sean’s voice floated in, loud and clear in the silence of the night. “Who’s calling?” he asked. “Hold on.”

Turning on the bedside lamp, I groaned when I saw what Ebbie had done. The remnants of a chewed-up matchstick were spread like shrapnel across my pillowcase. It was the matchstick Sean had brought home.

Looking at Ebbie, I said, “You didn’t.”

She blinked innocently at me.

Suddenly, all I could think about were shards of wood in her digestive tract. I bent over her and opened her mouth. I couldn’t see any sores, but I knew I’d have to have her looked at. The sooner the better. If a splinter pierced her stomach or esophagus or intestines... It would be bad.

But first...the dream.

The nightmare.

“Lucy,” Sean said from the doorway, his hand covering the mouth of the portable phone. “It’s Jeremy Cross.”

I didn’t have time for Jeremy right now. Had he somehow received a psychic message that Ebbie had eaten three-quarters of a matchstick?

I held my hand out for the phone, but kept the mouthpiece covered. To Sean, I said, “Use your cell and call 911, okay? Tell them there’s a fire at Sam’s house. And to hurry.”

Sean blanched. “How do you know?”

Tears filled my eyes. “I don’t know for sure. But I had this dream...and it didn’t feel like a dream.”

“Lucy, I can’t call with a hunch. A false report can get you arrested.”

I stood up. “Call. Do it now. Please. There’s a man in house. I think...he’s dead. Do it. Please. Trust me.”