Dead Ringers 1: Illusion (8 page)

“Tell her I’ll drive you home.”

“I’ll tell her to wait for me.”

He salutes me. “You’re the boss.”

The temperature of the ocean water is nearly as warm as the night air. The surf teases my bare feet, the water advancing and retreating as we walk alongside each other. The clouds that had delivered some early morning showers had lingered all day and into the night. The moon isn’t visible and neither are the stars.

I’m carrying my flip-flops. If he tries anything, they’re my only weapon.

“Any time you’re ready to start,” Max says, “I’m listening.”

“What did you hear?”

He scratches the side of his nose. “I heard about your dad. That’s a bum deal. I’m sorry.”

Unexpected tears prick the backs of my eyes. I blink them back. “
Stepdad
. No reason to be sorry. He was guilty.”

“I didn’t mean sorry for him,” Max says. “I meant sorry for you. It can’t be easy having him in prison.”

I blink again, not trusting myself to respond to that. “What else did you hear?”

“That after he pleaded guilty, you don’t remember anything that happened for two days.”

I kick at the water and it sprays in an arc. “Not bad for gossip.”

“So those days you don’t remember,” he says. “Where do you think you were?”

“Roxy Cooper says I was with her on a ski trip.”

“Yeah, I heard she said you don’t remember going with her because you hit your head. Kind of hard to buy.” He pauses, and the roar of the ocean fills my ears. “She’s a strange lady. Why would you go anywhere with her?”

He actually gets it. “Exactly.”

“What do you think really happened?”

The question seems innocent, but I’ve lived near the ocean long enough to know that unseen currents lurk beneath the surface. He could be trying to lull me into trusting him with my secrets.

“Do you think someone abducted you and held you against your will?” he prods.

“Something like that.”

“Who?”

“Beats me. For all I know, it could have been an evil clown.” I’m not sure why I recklessly throw that out there. Maybe to see his reaction. There is none. Sighing, I say, “You got any ideas?”

“What would I know about it?”

“You seem awfully interested for a guy who doesn’t know anything.”

A wave larger than the others pounds the shore and splashes salty water into the air, soaking the bottoms of our shorts. Max doesn’t flinch. “It’s an interesting story.”

I’ve held the stage long enough. “What’s your story? You promised to tell me.”

He stops, turns to me and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. The sensation of his fingertips grazing the skin at my temple feels sensuous. For one pulse-skittering moment I think he’s going to kiss me, but then his hand drops away from my face. “It’s not as interesting as yours.”

I’m disappointed, both because he didn’t kiss me and because I would have let him. My words come out harsh. “Let me be the judge of that.”

The next batch of waves is gentler, the roaring not quite as loud so I can hear every word.

“My dad used to take me to the carnival when I was a kid. Happiest times of my life. He died when I was ten years old. So when I saw on Craigslist that the Midway Beach Carnival was hiring, I applied.”

“That’s it?” I harden my heart against the boy who lost his father at such a young age. It’s probably not even true. “That’s your whole story?”

“My mom’s not real happy I’m here. She raised me by herself. She works all the time, though, so she’ll hardly notice I’m gone.”

“I don’t believe this. I thought you were going to tell me what you were doing in the forest.”

“I already told you. I was scouting hunting locations.”

This is a waste of my time. I feel my feet sink into the sand. We’ve walked far enough that the lights are visible from one of the beachfront mansions at the Estates at Ocean Breeze. But we are utterly alone. If Max had something to do with my abduction, it’s dark enough that he could easily orchestrate another disappearance.

“I want to turn back,” I declare.

His attention, for once, isn’t on me. His focal point is somewhere in the distance. “There’s something up ahead on the beach. It looks like it might be a person.”

I squint and pick out an elongated lump. If the lump’s human, there has to be some reason it’s horizontal. “Sometimes we get homeless people sleeping on the beach.”

“I don’t think so. It’s too near the shoreline.”

The beauty of the ocean can hypnotize the unsuspecting into taking dangerous chances. Just last summer, Hunter got caught in an undertow and barely made it back to shore alive. If he hadn’t been such a strong swimmer, he would have been a goner. Like others over the years who haven’t been so lucky.

“Oh, my God. You don’t think it’s a body, do you?”

Even before I finish the question, Max sprints toward the dark shape. I start running, too, my feet sinking into the sand as water sprays in every direction.

A cloud drifts from in front of the moon, lighting our path. Max comes to an abrupt stop. He’s silhouetted against the moon, hand rising to his mouth. He turns to me, shielding me with his body from whatever’s on the beach.

“Don’t come closer,” he says. “It’s a dead woman.”

He can’t be certain she’s dead. In the movies, heroes are always administering CPR and breathing life into people supposedly thought drowned. Adrenaline propels me forward, and I side step him to reach the woman.

The woman is lying on her back unquestionably dead, her eyes wide open and staring. It’s not just any dead woman. So many photographs of her have appeared in the media that I instantly recognize the notorious Constance Hightower.

If the Black Widow was on the run, she didn’t run far.

“I don’t understand,” I murmur, staring down at the body. “Why isn’t her hair wet?”

“Because she didn’t drown.” Max’s arm comes around me, taking away some of the chill of the discovery. “Even at high tide, the surf doesn’t come up this far.”

“Then how?”

“Her wrists,” comes Max’s soft reply. “They’re slit.”

The cop taping my formal statement is the same one who responded to the 911 call the night before. He’s also the muscle-bound cop who found me wandering around the carnival in February. He’s maybe five or six years older than me, his skin is the color of coffee diluted with cream, and he has a beautifully shaped scalp. If mine was that perfect, I might shave my head, too.

“That’ll do it.” Officer Wainwright switches off the recorder. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

We’re at the police station in what appears to be an interrogation room, although there is no mirror, two-way or otherwise. The floor’s linoleum, the table’s formica and my chair is plastic. There’s a strong scent of stale coffee although neither of us have a drink.

“I still don’t understand why I had to come to the station,” I say. “I told you all this last night.”

“I know you did.” Wainwright’s voice is surprisingly high-pitched. “Just between you and me, it’s a waste of time. But the media’s breathing down our necks, and the chief says we’ve got to cross all our t’s and dot all our i’s. That includes audio taping you and your boyfriend.”

Max Harper is in a separate room with a different police officer. We haven’t spoken since the cavalry arrived on the death scene last night. The first thing the cops did was separate us so we couldn’t compare notes.

“Max isn’t my boyfriend.”

“Whatever you say.” He clearly doesn’t believe me. Before I can make another denial, he taps the back of his head. “How you doin’, anyway? The head okay? You were pretty confused last winter.”

“I’m fine.”

“Good, good.” He nods in rhythm with his comment. “Can’t be easy with your dad in prison.”

“
Step
dad.” I didn’t really expect to get out of the police station without someone mentioning my felon of a stepfather.

“I saw your mom out there waiting for you.”

Even though at eighteen I’m a legal adult, Mom insisted on accompanying me to the police station. She probably expected to be present during my statement but the desk officer said it was my choice. I didn’t choose my mother.

“Lucky me,” I mutter under my breath.

“How is she?” He leans back in his chair, totally at ease. Unlike mine, his chair isn’t plastic. “I tell you, she’s one lucky lady. Not many people who ram their cars into trees live to tell about it.”

I’d overheard her tell my stepfather she’d lost control because of the enemies on her tail. No way am I bringing up my mother’s crazy history to Muscle Cop, although I do need to make something clear. “She didn’t crash on purpose.”

“Then why did she jump off the bridge after she survived the crash?”

My heart stutters and my breath lodges in my windpipe. I can barely choke out my question. “What bridge?”

“The one near where she crashed.” He peers at me and runs a big paw over his mouth. “Aw, hell. You didn’t know your mom tried to kill herself?”

Forget the Black Widow. I’ve got my own problems. As crazy as Mom is, she’s never seemed suicidal. Think, Jade. I know that bridge. It spans a marsh and connects Midway Beach to the mainland. At its highest, it’s only about twenty feet.

“That bridge is pretty low,” I say. “She might have jumped for another reason.”

Yeah, maybe she just wanted a nice swim in the marsh. Crazy people probably get urges like that all the time.

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” Officer Wainwright is squirming now despite his more comfortable chair. Baby fat pads his cheeks. He might be even younger than I thought. “You should talk to your mom. She looks like she’s doing okay.”

“Don’t you think I should know the details?”

“I think you should talk to your mom,” he repeats. He gets up and sweeps a hand toward the door. “You’re free to go. Thanks for coming in.”

“But you haven’t answered—”

“I said
thanks for coming in
.” He walks to the door and pulls it open. “If I need anything else, I’ll be in touch.”

My only choice is to nod and leave the room. I’m forming the questions I’ll ask Mom on the drive home when I come across another fresh hell in the waiting area. Max Harper and my mother are sitting side by side, their bodies angled toward each other, their expressions serious. I nearly break Usain Bolt’s record in the hundred meters to reach them.

Mom looks up, her brow creased as deeply as Yoda’s. “How did it go, sweetheart?”

“Fine. It was a formality.”

“That’s exactly what Max said.” Mom nods at him, like he’s her new best friend. “He told me he was with you last night. I’m so grateful for that.”

My mother showed up at the beach last night to drive me home after someone—I’m still not sure who—called and told her what was going on. From me, she got next to no information.

“Have you two been talking about me?” The only worse topic would be my mother’s suspicion that I’m schizophrenic.

“Guilty as charged.” Max is wearing that half-grin. His khakis and cream-colored short-sleeved shirt call attention to how pale he is. Either he uses sunscreen with vampire-level protection or he doesn’t spend much time outdoors.

“Do I want to know what you’ve been saying about me?”

“Heavens, yes.” Mom puts her hand to her breast, exactly like a TV sitcom mom from thirty years ago. “Max has your best interests at heart. He thinks you’re terrific.”

Neither of those statements would score very high on a truth meter. “He does?”

“I do,” Max jumps into the conversation. “I mean, we came across a dead body and you didn’t even scream. How cool is that?”

His eyes are laughing, and I wonder if he knows about the
bloodcurdling
scream I let loose in the funhouse. With any luck, that’s old news by now. Then again, with Maia on the case, I doubt it.

The text tone on Mom’s cell phone goes off. She pulls the phone from her purse and makes a face while she checks the message. “My clients are waiting. They got to the house early. Jade, I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me.”

“That’s okay, I’ll—”

“I’m happy to drive Jade home, Mrs. Greene,” Max interrupts.

“That would be wonderful.” My mother accepts his offer before I can reject it. She lays a hand on his arm. “I’m trusting you to keep an eye on my girl. See you later, Jade.”

The high heels of her sandals click on the linoleum floor, and she wastes no time in getting out the door.

“What was that all about?” I ask.

He shrugs. “You heard her. She trusts me to get you home safely.”

“I was about to say I can walk home.”

“In this heat? In those shoes?” He points to the flip-flops I’m wearing with my sundress. “It’s gotta be two miles to your house.”

“I’m young and healthy. I can walk two miles.” Something occurs to me. “Hey, how do you know where I live?”