After Dark (10 page)

“I thought so.”

She fiddled with the belt of her robe. “The rest of it, the part about being a businessman from Resonance City. That's all true, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

She relaxed. “Mind if I ask why you don't make your living as a ghost-hunter?”

“I did for a while.”

“What happened?”

“I quit.”

She looked up at the stars. “Okay, I know a dead-end conversational wall when I see one.”

There was a short silence.

“You think that those two ghost-hunters who were on your team six months ago are responsible for what happened to you in those catacombs, don't you?” Emmett said.

She gripped the railing. “I told you, I don't know what happened to me six months ago. I can't remember.”

“But you blame the hunters.”

“They blamed my recklessness. We all agreed to disagree.”

He nodded. “I'm not the only one with dead-end conversational walls.”

“No, you're not.” She turned sideways and studied his unforgiving profile. “So let's change the subject again. You think there's a connection between what happened here tonight and the ghost who appeared in my bedroom last night.”

“Sort of obvious, don't you think?”

She tightened her fingers around the rail again. “I've tried to talk myself into believing that the two incidents could be unrelated. But I've got to admit I haven't been able to convince myself.”

“The ghost last night was intended as a warning.” Emmett gazed out into the night. “Presumably meant to stop you from looking for the cabinet. But why did someone search your apartment tonight? What was he looking for?”

“I haven't got a clue.” She contemplated the night for a time. “Maybe we should take this to the police, Emmett.”

“The cops can't handle it. Hell, they can't even find the guy who killed your pal Brady. This involves hunters. And hunters stick together. We need the Guild's cooperation. Here in Cadence, that means we need Mercer Wyatt's help.”

“But maybe the police could talk to him.”

“No,” he said. “No cops. Wyatt would view it as an infringement of his own authority. Besides, we don't have much to give the police. The ghost last night and the break-in tonight won't amount to much in their eyes.”

“What about the fact that your nephew is missing?”

“There's no evidence of foul play. Quinn is eighteen years old, not a little kid. The cops don't have any reason to look for him. They'd say it's a family matter. And they'd be right. Finding Quinn is my problem, not theirs.”

“What about the cabinet of curiosities?”

“Same thing. A family problem. It wasn't exactly stolen, after all. It was pawned. I've got a copy of the receipt. No, we can't go to the cops. At least not until I figure out what the hell we're up against.”

Some of her gratitude gave way to irritation in the face of his hardheaded attitude. “What harm can it do to at least talk to them?”

“For starters, it might get my nephew killed.”

She stilled. “What do you mean?”

“Bringing the cops into it now will drive everyone involved further underground. Whoever's behind this might decide that the easiest way to deal with the problem is to get rid of whatever it is that's drawing the attention of the authorities.”

She sighed. “In other words, your missing nephew.”

“Yeah.”

“All right. Oddly enough, I can see your point of view. No cops. Not yet.”

He turned partway around to face her. “Thanks. I appreciate your cooperation.”

“Hey, I'm your high-priced private consultant, remember? A satisfied client is my only goal.”

He ignored that. “I wish like hell that I could get you out of this.”

“I told you, you can't fire me.”

He watched her with somber intensity. “Even if I could, it's too late.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“After what happened here tonight, we have to assume that for some reason you're in this up to your neck.”

Another chill went through her. This one had nothing to do with the temperature. “I sort of came to that very same conclusion myself this evening. It's not always real obvious, but I'm actually pretty smart, you know.”

“I know. Looks like we're going to be sharing a bathroom for a while.”

She had a sudden thought and found herself grinning.

“What?” he asked.

“Just make sure you stay out of sight if my landlord comes to the door. I'm not supposed to have long-term houseguests. Driffield says it's a violation of the lease to have anyone living in the apartment who's not named in the lease.”

“I'll hide under the bed if he shows up.”

“You won't fit. Relax. Odds are, he won't make it up all five flights of stairs.” She turned away, intending to go back through the door. Then she paused. “I almost forgot. In addition to saving Zane and Fuzz, I wanted to thank you for something else.”

“And that is?”

“For not labeling me delicate.” She smiled tremulously. “That counts for a lot in my book.”

“Even if the compliment comes from a hunter?”

“I thought you said you were a businessman.”

He smiled slowly. “That's right.”

She took hold of the handle, started to open the door.

“One more thing,” Emmett said softly.

She glanced back inquiringly and discovered that he had moved away from the rail. He was standing very close to her now. Almost touching her. Totally blocking the night view. If she moved, she would brush up against his bare chest.

Deep breaths, she reminded herself. More deep breaths.

“What?” she asked. Damn. So much for deep breaths. She was suddenly breathless.

“Given that you're not the delicate type, and all,” he began deliberately.

She searched his face. “Yes?”

“Do you think that you're likely to faint if I make a pass?”

She was no longer just breathless, she discovered. She was out of oxygen altogether. “Is this a hypothetical question?”

“No.”

His hands closed around her shoulders. A sizzling charge, more shocking in its own way than a jolt of UDEM energy, shot through her. Every nerve resonated in response. She wondered if her hair was standing on end.

Like brushing up against a ghost but without the pain.
No pain at all. Just an exquisite sense of excitement. Very high-rez stuff, she concluded. Very high-rez indeed.

He bent his head slightly. His mouth closed over hers in a kiss that held the concentrated essence of everything she had deduced from her intensive study of his back. Control, power, sensuality.

To hell with deep breaths. It had been a long, long time since she'd been involved in anything that could even remotely be described as an intimate relationship. And this was
her
balcony, after all.

She flattened her palms on his chest. The heat of his skin burned nicely. She let her mouth soften beneath his.

He groaned. It was the unmistakable sound of hunger stirring in the depths. It should have made her cautious, but instead it only heightened the thrill. Experimentally, she flexed her fingers, savoring the feel of muscle beneath skin.

He tightened his hold on her immediately, wrapping her in his heat and strength. One of his hands slid down her spine, glided over her buttocks, cupping them.

Her lower body was suddenly tight against his. Even through the layers of his jeans and her bathrobe, she was intensely aware of his erection.

And just as intensely aware of the sudden dampness gathering between her legs.

He took one hand off of her long enough to grasp the door handle.

“Inside,” he muttered against her mouth. “No room out here.”

She did not argue. It
was
a very small balcony.

He got the door open, got her into the living room. She was conscious of movement. Her feet left the floor. And then she felt the tumbled bedding and the cushions of the sofa beneath her. She turned her head into the pillow and caught his scent—heady, utterly male, unique. As exhilarating as the tangled energy in an illusion trap. And no doubt just as dangerous.

His hands left her. She was once again conscious of the coolness of the room.

She opened her eyes and looked up. Emmett loomed over her. His fingers were busy at the fastening of his jeans.

The unmistakable frisson of psi energy sparked invisibly in the vicinity. She glimpsed tiny flickers in the air just behind Emmett. He was causing them, she realized.
Probably wasn't even aware of it.

The little flashes of green light brought her back to reality with a jolt. From out of nowhere came a sharp memory of Melanie's description of a sexual encounter with a hunter who had recently summoned a ghost.
Using their talent gives them a hard-on like you wouldn't believe. Makes 'em sexy as hell. Something to do with the aftereffects of exercising dissonance energy. The experts think it's linked to their hormones or something.

Lydia froze. She could not abide the thought that Emmett's eagerness to go to bed with her was just a byproduct of his earlier use of his paranormal talents. It was too depressing to think that
any
woman might do for him right now.

“Time out.” She sat up quickly and shoved her fingers through her hair to get it out of her eyes.
Deep breaths.
“This is not smart. This is definitely not smart. Everyone knows that this sort of thing plays havoc with a business relationship.”

His hands stopped moving at the waistband of his jeans. For a long moment he said nothing. Behind him, the little green sparklers winked out.

“You're right,” he said eventually. “Everyone knows that.”

He didn't have to agree with her so readily, she thought, irritated. It wasn't as if there weren't several good counterarguments he could have made.

With an effort of will she summoned what she prayed was a nonchalant nod and managed to struggle up off the sofa. “I realize that this was a unique situation. It's not your fault. I completely understand.”

“Good to know,” he replied as she gathered her robe more snugly around her and edged toward the hall. “Nothing like an understanding woman, I always say.”

“My friend Melanie explained everything to me.”

“Terrific. Mind if I ask exactly what she explained?”

“You know, all that stuff about how using your particular type of psi energy affects your, uh, libido.”

“Lydia—”

“It's okay. Really.” She flapped her hands at him as she backed away. “Every type of psi talent produces certain eccentricities.”

“Eccentricities,” he repeated in that oddly neutral tone.

“Don't worry. I'm sure you'll be back to normal in the morning.”

“You really think so?”

“Melanie said the effects are transitory.” She paused to give him a chance to respond, and when he didn't she whirled and fled back to the safety of her own bed. She forgot about the little table until her knee glanced painfully off the corner. She knew she would have a bruise in the morning. More than one kind, she thought, thinking of how close she had come to letting Emmett seduce her.

She could only hope that none of the bruises showed.

P
ERPETUAL RESONANCE CEMETERY
had historical significance because it dated from Settlement days, but it was no longer the most fashionable final address in town. The oldest headstones, the ones that marked the graves of several pioneers, were chipped, scarred, and weather-worn. Graffiti had been liberally spray-painted on some of the markers. Weeds grew with carefree abandon on most of the plots.

The day had dawned sunny and bright, but clouds were moving in from the west. There would be rain by nightfall. A bitter breeze was already rustling the leaves of the trees.

The only fresh flowers in sight were the ones Lydia had picked up on the way to the funeral. Tears burned in her eyes, surprising her, when she bent down to place the bouquet on Chester's grave.

She straightened and fumbled for a hankie. Belatedly she realized she hadn't thought to put one in her shoulder bag before leaving the apartment. But, then, she hadn't planned to cry. Not at Chester's funeral. Chester had been a thief, a liar, and a bloody nuisance.

Oh, God. Bloody. A vision of Chester's body in the sarcophagus appeared in her mind. The tears burned hotter in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Whatever else you could say about Chester, he had never killed anyone. No one had had any right to kill him.

Emmett put a large square of white cloth in her hand.

“Thanks.” She hurriedly blotted her eyes. “He wasn't a very nice person, you know.”

“I know.”

“When you don't have any family of your own, you sometimes hook up with odd people.” She blew her nose, realized what she had done, and hastily stuffed the hankie into her bag. “I'll wash it and return it.”

“No rush.”

She looked around, eager to change the subject. Things had been somewhat strained since they had bumped into each other coming and going from the bathroom that morning.

After she had gone to bed for the second time last night, she thought long and hard about how to handle the situation between them. She concluded that by morning Emmett would have recovered from the aftereffects of using his para-rez talent and would no doubt be embarrassed by his psi-driven pass last night.

Aware that he would probably regret everything, she had determined to pretend that nothing had happened. Unfortunately, as far as she could tell, her strict avoidance of any reference to the steamy kiss had done nothing to improve his mood. He had been grim and taciturn all morning.

“Olinda was right about one thing,” she said as they turned to walk back to the car. “We were the only ones who came to the funeral.”

“Not quite,” Emmett said, looking past her toward the parking lot.

Startled, she followed his gaze to where the familiar figure of Detective Alice Martinez lounged against the fender of a nondescript blue Harp.

“Great,” Lydia muttered. “Just what I needed to brighten my day. I wonder what she's doing here. She didn't even know Chester when he was alive.”

“Might as well say hello, since we all seem to be in the same neighborhood.”

Emmett took Lydia's arm and steered her toward the Harp. Martinez watched their approach through a pair of wraparound dark glasses that concealed her expression.

“Good morning, Detective.” Lydia refused to be intimidated by the shades. “Nice of the department to send a representative to the funeral. I didn't know the police had a budget that allowed them to provide professional mourners.”

“Take it easy, Lydia,” Emmett said. “I'm sure Detective Martinez is here in an official capacity. Isn't that right, Detective?”

“Hello, Miss Smith.” Alice nodded at Emmett. “Mr. London. As a matter of fact, I'm here on my own time today.”

“Working on the old theory that murderers often show up at their victims' funerals?” Emmett asked casually.

“You never know,” Alice said.

“Emmett and I were the only ones who showed up today.”

“Couldn't help but notice that,” Alice said.

“I assume this means that you're no further along in solving this case than you were on the day of the murder. You're still looking at the same two suspects. Emmett and me.”

“Not exactly,” Alice said. “Mr. London is not on my list. He never was. His alibi checked out. Yours, of course, is a little harder to verify. Something about being home in bed, wasn't it? Alone. That kind of story is always hard to substantiate.”

“Hard to disprove, too,” Lydia shot back.

Emmett interrupted. “Taunting the investigating officer is not generally considered to be a sign of good citizenship and willingness to cooperate with the investigation, Lydia.”

Lydia felt herself turn red. “I happen to think Detective Martinez is wasting her time here. What kind of murderer would be dumb enough to show up at the funeral?”

Alice straightened away from the fender and opened the door of the Harp. “You'd be surprised how often the old theories prove to be true. Worth a shot, at any rate.”

“Have you turned up any clues at all?” Lydia demanded.

“Nothing you'd call real useful,” Alice said. “There was one small item of minor interest, however.”

“What was that?”

“We went to Brady's apartment and his shop to take a look around,” Alice said. “But someone else had been there first, looking for something, I think. The place was a shambles.”

Lydia felt Emmett go very still beside her. She stared at Alice. “Why would anyone have searched Chester's place?”

“No idea,” Alice said. “Don't suppose you could shed any light on the subject?”

“Chester didn't hang out with a lot of sterling citizens,” Lydia said.

“Present company excepted, of course,” Emmett inserted softly.

Lydia glanced at him quickly, realized he meant her. She noticed that Alice was watching the byplay very closely.

“Chester was a ruin rat,” Lydia said. “Once in a while he came across some moderately valuable artifacts. Whoever went through his things was probably someone who had heard about his death and decided to see what he could find before the cops got there.”

“Or it could have been the killer.” Alice got behind the wheel. “Making certain there was no evidence to point back to him.” She started to close the door.

“Wait a second.” Lydia stepped closer to the Harp. “What did you mean about being here on your own time?”

Alice turned her head to look out over the forlorn cemetery. Sunlight glanced off her shades. For a moment Lydia thought she would not answer.

“My boss tells me I've got to learn to prioritize,” Alice said.

“And Chester Brady's death doesn't rank very high on your boss's list of high-profile investigations, does it?” Lydia said acidly.

“No. In fact as of Monday, the Brady murder officially goes on the back burner. The department doesn't have the time or the manpower to spend on it. Too many other cases need attention. But I had the morning off, so I figured it wouldn't hurt to attend the funeral. Like I said, you never know.”

It occurred to Lydia that maybe she could learn to like this woman after all. “Speaking as a concerned citizen, thanks.”

Alice nodded once and rezzed the Harp's ignition.

Lydia watched the car move off down the narrow road that led away from the cemetery. Then she turned to Emmett.

“Whew, that was close,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

Lydia frowned. “You heard Martinez. They know someone searched Chester's shop and apartment. You told me you went through his things looking for a lead on your cabinet, remember? That's how you found that photo that led you to me.”

“Someone else must have gone in after me.” Emmett looked thoughtful. “I left everything exactly the way I found it, except for the photo.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure.”

Lydia nibbled on her lower lip. “That means that someone else—”

“Uh-huh. Maybe the same someone else who tore your place apart last night.”

Lydia shivered and looked out at the deserted cemetery. “Too bad the old cop theory about the killer attending the funeral didn't work this time.”

Emmett removed his sunglasses from the pocket of his jacket and put them on. He took Lydia's arm again and walked toward the Slider.

“I'm not so sure the theory failed,” he said quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“If you look up at that stand of trees on the hillside above the cemetery, you can see sunlight reflecting off something. Metal, maybe. Or glass.”

“Are you serious?” Squinting against the glare, she studied the trees for a few seconds. “I don't see anything.” She started to turn back. Light winked at the edge of her vision. “There. Yes. I caught it. Could be anything.”

“Anything including the lenses of a pair of field glasses.”

“A bird-watcher? Kids playing in the woods?”

Emmett said nothing. He opened the door of the Slider.

“Okay, okay.” Lydia got into the car. “It could have been someone watching the funeral with a pair of field glasses. But why?”

“Maybe because he knew Martinez was here and didn't want to take the risk of being seen. Or—” Emmett closed the door and walked around the front of the Slider.

“Or what?” Lydia prompted the instant he got behind the wheel.

“Or maybe he was there for the same reason Martinez was.”

“He wanted to see who showed up at the funeral?”

“Yeah.”

“Kind of gives you the creeps, doesn't it?”

Emmett did not reply. He rezzed the ignition. Flash-rock melted. The big engine whined hungrily.

He swung the Slider out of the small dirt lot and drove toward the narrow road. Lydia sank back into her seat and took one last look at the sad little cemetery.

She thought about the very abbreviated graveside service the funeral home had arranged. The check she had written to cover the cost of Chester's funeral had taken her account dangerously low. She hoped she wouldn't have to cut back Fuzz's pretzel ration.

Then she thought about how she was the only one who had attended the funeral for personal reasons. Emmett and Alice didn't count. They both had other agendas.

She shouldn't have been surprised by how pathetically lonely the short service had seemed. It was only to be expected. That was the way it was when you didn't have any close family or friends.

Memories of something Chester had once said to her over a couple of glasses of cheap wine at the Surreal Lounge returned.
You and me, Lydia, we got something in common. We're both alone in the world. Got to stick together.

She wondered how many people would have turned up today if it had been her funeral. Mentally she started to tick off potential mourners. Olinda and Zane would probably have attended. Ryan? No, he wouldn't have bothered to come. A couple of others from the paraarchaeology department might have shown up, though. Melanie Toft? Maybe. They had worked together for several months now.

Emmett glanced down at her hand on the seat. “What are you doing?”

“What?” Briefly distracted from her reverie, she looked at him. “I was just thinking about something.”

“You were counting.”

“Counting?”

“On your fingers,” he said.

She looked down at her left hand where it rested on the seat beside her thigh and was embarrassed to see that she had extended her first three fingers.

“Math was never my strong suit,” she said. Very deliberately she splayed all five fingers on the car seat.

Emmett, thank heaven, did not push it. She did not want to have to tell him that she had been trying to figure out how many people might show up at her funeral. The last thing she wanted to do was give the client any reason to believe the rumors that she was not mentally stable.

Nevertheless, for the first time in several months she thought she detected a hint of the dull gray mist that had obscured her world for a while after her Lost Weekend. She knew from experience that it was better not to examine the fog too closely. Better to focus on something else.

“I think Detective Martinez may actually be sincere about wanting to find Chester's killer,” she said. “But it doesn't sound like she's going to get much support from her superiors.”

“Priorities,” Emmett said. “Everyone has them, including cops.”

“Yeah, right. Priorities. You know, Emmett, I don't think Detective Martinez is going to find Chester's killer.”

Emmett said nothing.

Surreptitiously she fished his limp handkerchief out of her pocket and mopped up a few more ridiculous, totally unwarranted tears.