True Vision (14 page)

“It wasn’t worth what it cost.” She drew in a shuddery breath. She’d been so blind, so stupid and stubborn and self-righteous. “It cost so much more than I ever thought it would. I’m so sorry about that. About Laurette.”

He swallowed, looked away. “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s not your fault.”

She laughed softly, not the least bit amused. In fact, she couldn’t recall a time when she’d felt worse. “I do stuff that gets people killed and fired and destroys livelihoods, and you think it’s not my fault? It’s
all
my fault.”

He gave her a small, sympathetic smile, but instead of offering platitudes, he gestured at the car. “Let’s get you to the ER.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN

H
alf an hour after Noah delivered her to her anonymous room at the Royal Palm, Charlie walked outside to the car she’d rented at the front desk. She’d showered and changed into fresh khaki shorts and a clean white tank top. Her hair was in a ponytail and stuffed under a navy baseball cap, and dark sunglasses hid her eyes. As disguises went, it wasn’t much, but between the red Sebring convertible, the cap and the shades, she figured she’d blend right in with the tourists.

As she circled a few city blocks, she kept a close watch on the rearview to make sure no one followed. She knew she was taking a chance by going out, but this was something she had to do. Lucy Sheridan might be dead, and she couldn’t ask anyone else to check on her without revealing that Lucy was the source on the Dick’s story. She’d promised to protect Lucy’s identity. Not that that mattered if she was dead, but still.

Charlie had already tried to call her home, cell and work numbers and got no answer. Unusual for Lucy, who had been at one of those numbers every time Charlie had needed to reach her about the story.

Her stomach knotted as she pulled into Lake Avalon dinner traffic. The thought of what she might find at Lucy’s terrified her. She imagined a bloody hammer and the smell of fresh paint. A crushed skull.

A few minutes later, she parked the Sebring in front of Lucy’s modest, blue stucco house. She got out of the car and walked across the yard, taking in Lucy’s Mazda in the driveway and the lamp glowing through the curtains of the front window. On the porch, the light shining in her face, she pushed the doorbell and listened to it chime behind the door.

Nothing.

No movement beyond the curtains.

But Lucy’s car was in the driveway. She had to be here.

Anxiety tightened the back of Charlie’s neck as she rang the bell again, picturing drop cloths and a blood-clotted hammer on the other side of the door.

Please, God. Let me be wrong.

Still nothing.

“Are you looking for Lucy?”

Charlie started and turned, surprised to see the slightly overweight woman in baggy, faded jeans and a pink T-shirt spotted with blue paint standing at the end of the driveway. She held the leash of a large German shepherd that sniffed at the roots of a tree next to the road. A black-with-teal-accents Marlins baseball cap sat on top of shoulder-length dirty-blond hair.

“Hi,” Charlie said. “Yes, I’m looking for Lucy. Do you know her?”

“We were supposed to go to a movie tonight.”

Charlie had to concentrate to keep breathing as she felt again the
crunch-thud
of the hammer striking bone. “Do you know how to reach her? I haven’t been able to get an answer anywhere.”

“Me neither.” The woman walked halfway up the driveway, the dog following, nose firmly to the ground. “She hasn’t answered her door, and usually the only time she’s gone and her car is here is when she goes on vacation. I always take her to the airport.”

“So she’s not on vacation,” Charlie said.

“Not that I’m aware of,” the woman said. “And I would think she’d tell me. I water her plants and get her mail while she’s gone.”

Charlie inspected the flower bed, hoping to spot one of those fake rocks that held a house key. “I don’t suppose you know if she keeps an extra key anywhere.”

The woman traversed the rest of the way up the walk, making kissing noises to get the dog to follow. “Who are you, exactly? I’ve never seen you around with Lucy.”

Charlie put on her friendliest smile. Think fast. “I’m a real estate agent.” She thrust out her hand. “Samantha Truman. You are?”

“Sandra Stuart.” She clasped Charlie’s hand—

“Miss Truman?”

Charlie blinked at Sandra Stuart and felt her fake smile turn genuine. Finally, a happy ending. She glanced down at the German shepherd. “Who’s this guy?”

“Cherokee.”

Charlie scratched the dog’s ears. “Hello, Cherokee.”

“You’re a real estate agent? I didn’t know Lucy was thinking about selling.”

“She’s only exploring her options at this point. The thing is, she owes me some paperwork. She must have forgotten to drop it off before she left.”

“Oh.” Sandra cast an uncertain look at the front of Lucy’s house.

“If you know where there’s a key, I could slip in and grab the paperwork. Lucy will be so disappointed when she realizes she forgot to get it to me, and, well, it’d save my bacon, too. I kind of promised my boss . . .” She shrugged in her best I’m-a-screwup-please-save-me imitation.

Sandra nodded at the potted ficus on the corner of the porch. “There’s a key under there.”

Score! Charlie had to resist the urge to tell the woman not to trust strangers so easily. Especially lying ones. “Oh, thank you,” she gushed instead. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.” She tipped up the pot and slid the key out from underneath. Her fingers started to tremble as she straightened. The prospect of finding Lucy with her skull smashed in twisted in her stomach.

Sandra clicked her tongue at Cherokee. “Good luck,” she said as she started backing away with the dog. “If you hear from Lucy, could you ask her to give me a call? I’m worried about her.”

Charlie nodded and waved. She waited until Sandra was half a block up before she turned to Lucy’s front door and slid the key into the lock. Her hands shook in earnest now, her knees joining in. Please, God, no blood and guts.

Opening the door, she stepped inside, holding her breath, dreading that first whiff of wet paint. Or death.

But when she finally allowed herself a breath, she smelled vanilla air freshener.

A walk through the house told her nothing about where Lucy had gone or when she planned to be back. Her plants had been watered recently, and mail with today’s postmark sat unopened on the kitchen table. A check under the sink in the kitchen revealed an empty garbage can.

It appeared that Lucy had indeed gone on vacation.

Or, at least, someone had made it look that way.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT

C
harlie squeezed the lime wedge into her Tanqueray and tonic, then tucked it down into the ice before taking a sip. The first zing of crisp, piney flavor sent a shiver through her taste buds. She figured it was probably not cool that she was at a bar alone, but she hadn’t been able to handle the absolute solitude of the hotel room. There were other people in the lounge of the Royal Palm Inn, so she wasn’t being a twit. Safety in numbers, after all.

The indoor bar where she sat had been made to look like a tiki hut. A thatch roof hung over the display of liquor bottles like an awning, and tiki torches with flickering lamps instead of flames dotted the lounge and the patio outside. A Bob Marley tune played low and rhythmic, while the scents of tanning oil and fried food hung in heavy, almost electric air.

Before she’d come down to the bar, Logan had told her over the phone that Dick Sr. and Dick Jr. both had solid alibis for the break-in and the car accident. She’d pointed out that that didn’t mean they couldn’t have hired someone to take her out.

“Hey, darlin’, what’s your sign?”

She glanced sideways, startled out of her thoughts by the deep, resonant voice. Noah leaned against the bar with a wide smile. He wore new khaki safari shorts and an olive green “Save the Florida Panther” T-shirt. He smelled of soap and rain, his hair swept back from his face as though he’d finger-combed it after a shower rather than using an actual comb. A bottle of Bud Light dangled from one hand.

When she didn’t say anything, he arched a questioning brow, his green eyes glittering in the dim light.

“Do Not Enter,” she said, and turned her attention back to her ice-cold drink, so like reality. Why was he even talking to her? He should hate her for causing Laurette’s death. Just looking at him made her ache for what had been lost because of her.

With a chuckle, he plopped onto the stool next to her. “I was hoping for Yield.”

“Wrong Way,” she countered, though she had a feeling this man could rub her the right way.

She sensed him considering her and suddenly felt self-conscious in her shorts and tank top. “Soft Shoulders,” he murmured.

She looked at him, careful to keep her expression neutral despite the bemusement threatening to quirk her lips. That apparently wasn’t his first Bud Light. “Gator Crossing.”

He laughed at that then tipped up his beer for a long swallow. She couldn’t help but notice the way his throat worked. Kind of sexy, really. As was the day’s growth of beard that shadowed his jaw, making him look slightly, chill-inducingly, dangerous. A bad boy. She’d never understood women who went for his type . . . until now.

Tamping down a rush of something that tweaked her tension, she went back to her drink. Couldn’t be lust. She didn’t do lust.

“Gator Crossing,” he repeated, and chuckled again. “We don’t have that one where I’m from.”

She sipped from her drink and hoped the liquor would ease the tense knot at the base of her skull soon. She was tired of the steady throb of the headache and unanswered questions that whirled in her head like a cyclone.

“Dollar-fifty for your thoughts.”

She looked sideways at Noah, saw from the look on his face that he’d been lame on purpose. Trying to charm her. But why? In his shoes, she’d be angry. Hell, she was angry in her own shoes. She never should have tried to defy the status quo. If she’d been the good little journalist and done what she was told, everything would be so different. No one would be dead. No one would want to kill her. The
LAG
would go on publishing next week.

She wouldn’t be super empathic.

Draining what was left of the alcohol in her glass, she put it down. “Sorry, but dollar-fifty’s not going to cover it.”

“Those are some pricey thoughts.” He signaled the bartender to set them both up with fresh drinks then grabbed a handful of nuts from the bowl on the bar. “I don’t suppose you came to the bar looking for me.”

She laughed at that. “Wow, that’s . . . well, that’s just . . . wow.”

“You’re flustered. I’ll take that as a good sign.”

“A good sign of what?”

“You like me,” he said, grinning as he popped a peanut into his mouth.

She felt her face flush warm. “You’re a flirt.”

“I don’t flirt. I’m naturally charming.”

She snorted. “Right.” But he kind of was, damn him. And sexy. The facial hair that darkened his jaw and eyes made her mouth water.

“While you were out, I did some exploring.”

She shot a glance at him. “While I was out?”

He grinned. “Thought you’d pull a fast one, huh? You forget who you’re dealing with. Big-city cops aren’t so easy to fool.”

She knew for a fact that no one had followed her to Lucy’s. “So where’d I go?”

“I didn’t say I followed you. I just know you went out.”

“Ah. You knocked on my door.”

“Yep, no answer. So where’d you go?”

“Maybe I’m a sound sleeper.”

“I don’t think so. Where’d you go?” Same tone, same dogged question.

She shrugged. “An errand.”

“Logan’d be pissed.”

“Yeah? How’s he going to find out?”

“I’m going to tell him.”

“Big-city cops are big on tattling, huh?”

“Oh, yeah.” His teeth flashed white. “So?”

“Let’s just say I visited a friend.”

He leaned an elbow on the bar. “A boyfriend?”

She let her lips quirk, foolishly pleased at the rasp in his voice and that he was asking. “No.”

His grin returned. “Good.” He reached for the fresh beer left by the bartender. “I visited an old restaurant up the block that the front desk recommended. Mama Mo’s. Fried chicken, collard greens and mac-and-cheese. I’m still feeling like I should go to confession.”

The image of him in a confessional amused her for some reason. Maybe because he struck her as so . . . sinful.

“You can’t picture me in a church, can you?”

She blinked at him, and started to smile. “Nope.”

“That’s okay. Before today, I couldn’t picture you going to a psychic.”

Damn it, that’s right. Then, he
had
been following her. “You must have been so disappointed.”

“Intrigued is more like it. What do you ask your psychic when you visit her?”

“Why do you assume my psychic is a woman?”

“Right, don’t pull that gender-bias crap on me.”

“I’m not. His name is George.”

He finished swallowing a gulp of beer before he laughed. “No shit.”

“Today I asked him what he saw in my future with a shaggy-haired Chicago cop who can’t seem to leave me alone.”

“And what did George say?”

“He told me to come to this bar tonight at this time and wait for Shaggy to show.”

“Ah, so this meeting was predestined.”