Mind Reader (18 page)

“Sensing something doesn’t make Forrester a conspira
tor in a kidnapping. He could have been talking to an anxious stockholder who wanted to dump a block of stock too
soon. It could have been normal business.”

Caron weighed her options. Considering that every time she talked about imaging, Parker pulled away from her— mentally and physically—she wasn’t enthusiastic about
discussing the matter with him. But he was her partner. She
had been attracted to him from the start, and last night
she’d come a long way toward respecting and admiring him.
Their relationship had to be planted on solid ground, on mutual understanding. Just as she must accept him—as
sets and flaws—he must also accept her. The images were a
part of her, a part of what had shaped her into the woman
she’d become. And, yes, she admitted to herself, she wanted
him to understand that—and to approve of her.

The seat was butter-soft. Smoothing it with her hand, she
opted for the truth. “If I can connect Decker and Forrester, me sensing something does make him a conspirator.”

“If we connect.”

Even his arrogance had become less irritating to her. “If
we connect them,” Caron repeated. She had to explain.
Yet, if Parker still didn’t believe her about Misty afterward, Caron wasn’t sure she would be able to hide her re
action. It would anger and hurt her.

Lowering her foot to the carpet, she looked out the window at the blur of trees they were whizzing past.
“
You
don’t understand about my images. I rarely sense ordinary
people.” Her throat locked shut. She swallowed and forced
herself to finish. “I sense victims.”

Parker’s hand stiffened on Cheramie’s file; the folder
crunched. “Forrester’s a victim?”

Solemn, she looked over. “Forrester
causes
victims.”

“I see.” Loosening his tie, Parker sighed, then freed the
top two buttons on his shirt.

“You don’t see,” she said, contradicting him
.
“Not yet,
but
you will.”

 
“We’ve
checked with all your neighbors,” Sanders said
to Caron, “but no one saw or heard anything.”

Parker stepped into Sanders’s office and touched Caron
’s shoulder. “About done?”

Strain etching her face, she nodded. Parker hated seeing it, and gave her shoulder a reassuring rub. Suspicion glim
mered in Sanders’s eyes, but Parker couldn’t resent the look. Caron and Sanders were friends; Sanders knew
Parker had been after Caron for a long time. And after getting to know her, Parker better understood Sanders’s anxiety. Caron was a strong and courageous woman, but there was still something very fragile and
feminine about
her
that made a man feel protective.

“On the abduction.” Sanders rocked back and slid his
cigar into the ashtray, burying its tip in cold ash. “Have you
imaged anything else, Caron?”

“Nothing important.” She didn’t meet his gaze.

Though her denial surprised Parker slightly, he held his
tongue. Caron
had
imaged other things. And she’d
seen
Misty’s bike. But outside Decker’s last night she’d said that without a
missing-persons report Sanders wouldn’t believe
her
,
or even attempt to get a warrant to search Decker’s house. Decker could be Misty’s uncle, maybe. Caron had
thought they were related when she’d first mentioned him,
and
without a report, who was to say he wasn’t? Caron could just be imagining Decker meant Misty harm. But,
Sanders’s doubt had hurt her; pain had shadowed her eyes.
Was that hurt the reason she was withholding information
from
Sanders now?

Instinctively Parker stepped closer, until the back of her
chair brushed against his thighs.

Sanders noticed, and pursed his lips. “I’m still keeping tabs on the reports. So far, nothing’s come in that could be
your girl.”

Parker looked over the top of Caron’s head to Sanders’s
desk calendar. Several names had been scribbled in, and
tons of doodling. John Dryer. A ship. Linda. A star. Marcus Theriot. A question mark. Linda, again. Another star.

“Have you checked with surrounding towns—Metairie, Kenner, Bridge City?” Caron shifted in her seat and ab
sently patted Parker’s hand.

On seeing that, Sanders grimaced. That he didn’t ap
prove was obvious. But what were his specific objections?
Parker wondered. Did he fear he would hurt her? Take revenge on her because of Harlan? Sanders should know Parker better. But, Parker admitted, he had put the fear of God into Sanders, warning him against blowing Parker’s
cover by telling Caron about his connection to Harlan. And it wasn’t a bluff. If Sanders did tell her, he
would
think this
sweltering shoe box of an office was paradise.

“Caron, look,” Sanders said. “Maybe you should let
this one ride. I talked to Dr. Z, and she wants you to call.”

“Not yet. I’ll call when I’ve got a fix on Misty.”

Parker watched them interact. Sanders almost kow
towing. Caron defiant. Was his objection something else? Something darker? Could he be in love with Caron him
self?

Parker considered it. Sanders didn’t look at Caron like a father, or even like a fond uncle. He didn’t look lovesick,
either. Parker narrowed his eyes. In fact, Sanders didn’t
look
at Caron at all. Not into her eyes. Now that was an
interesting observation.

“And I can’t let this ride. How could I let a child’s life ride?” Seeming more than a little annoyed, Caron jerked
a pen from her purse and poised it over a notepad. “What have you learned on Cheramie and Forrester?”

Sandy retrieved his cigar and bit it between his teeth. “Word on the street is that Cheramie’s been doing a little
inside-trading. Nothing solid on that. Strictly rumor.”
Sandy thumbed through a sheaf of yellow legal sheets.
“Forrester’s squeaky-clean.”

“Nothing?”

Parker heard Caron’s surprise. She seemed so sure
Forrester was the connection to Decker. Parker’s money
had been on Cheramie...until now. Something sublimi
nal in Sanders’s behavior niggled at Parker’s investigator’s instincts. What, Parker couldn’t have said. But this didn’t happen often. And when it did, he sat up and took notice.

Caron stood. “Thanks, Sandy.” Her eyes were shad
owed, the skin beneath them dark-circled. She hadn’t slept
much last night. “If you hear anything...”

“I’ll call.” Sanders stood and nodded.

Parker had no doubt that Sanders would call. But he had
grave doubts about the good detective’s motives for doing
so.
 

The phone at his ear, Parker cracked two eggs into a heated skillet and waited for Fred to answer the phone at
Caron’s apartment.

“Chalmers residence.”

Parker smiled. Fred would be formal in a tent. “It’s me.
How are things going over there?”

“Ah, good morning, Mr. Simms. The police finished an
hour ago, the new locks have been installed, and Helga has
just informed me that she requires an additional quarter
hour to finish cleaning.”

“Great.” Picturing his petite maid, with her steamroller
personality and her gray waffle hair, Parker switched phone
ears and arranged the sizzling bacon on a bed of paper towels to drain. “Tell Helga I owe her.”

“Indeed you do, sir. She’s requested a coat.”

“A coat.” Parker salted the eggs. Nothing was simple
with Helga. The woman demanded, she didn’t request. “A
mink, right?”

“Sable, sir,” Fred said. “Full-length.”

Remembering the blood smeared on Caron’s door, Parker agreed. “Tell her she’s got it.” He’d learned years
ago not to barter with Helga. She’d wind up with the fur
and
diamonds.

He hung up the phone, gave the eggs a final turn, then
left the kitchen.

Slinging a dishcloth over his shoulder, he stopped at the
foot of the stairs, leaned against the banister and looked up.
“Caron.”

No answer. Why didn’t she answer him? “Caron?”

Still no answer.

Maybe she
couldn’t
answer. That grim thought had him taking the steps two at a time. The dishcloth went flying.

He knocked on her door. “Hey, Caron.”

Muffled sounds came from inside.

Fear fueling his moves, he kicked hard. The wooden door cracked and splintered, then banged open and slammed back against the wall.

Bent double and twisting, she screamed.

“It’s me!” he shouted. “It’s me!”

“God, Parker!” She whirled around, giving him a view
of more than her jean-clad backside. “What are you trying to do, scare me to death?”

Feeling like a fool, he muttered. “You didn’t answer.” She couldn’t see. The ribbed neck of her red sweater was twisted around her ears, clinging like a band around her
forehead and completely covering all but the crown of her
head. The bottom of the sweater was hiked, baring her
middle and resting just beneath her breasts. His palms itched to touch her naked skin.

“Has it ever occurred to you to turn the doorknob? Kicking down doors! Geez, Parker!”

Muttering, she gyrated and bumped into the bed, banging her shin. She grunted, and her stomach muscles tightened, then flattened, with the sound. More creamy skin.
Very nice.

Hot and cold at once, he folded his arms over his chest, leaned against the doorjamb and narrowed his eyes. She looked like a ticked-off turtle wedged inside its shell. “At
the risk of sounding stupid, what’s wrong?”

“My sweater’s stuck.”

“Ahh.” Did she think he hadn’t noticed? He’d have had to be made of stone. And just looking at her vividly reminded him he was one hundred percent flesh-and-blood
man.

“On my earring.”

He smiled. “I see.”

“I wish I could,” she growled, twisting herself into the
bed again. “Would you mind?”

Chuckling to himself, he walked over to her. She’d just
showered; he smelled soap and some soft and sweet-
smelling powder that dusted her skin. He edged his fingers
into the neck of the sweater. Her skin was as warm as it was
silky smooth. He dragged his fingertips down.

“Ouch!” She grabbed at her neckline.

The fabric cut into his hand. “Sorry.”

“Me, too. I could’ve choked to death.”

He hiked his brows. “I’d revive you.”

“I’ll bet you would.”

Something shiny near the sleeve of the sweater caught his
eye. Her backside brushed his thigh, and his knees went weak. “Wait. Be still a second. I see the culprit.”

Her backside rested firmly against his thigh. Sweat
beaded his brow, and his hand trembled. How could getting a snagged earring out of a woman’s sweater do this to him? He’d had sex without feeling so aroused.

“Okay. Just get it, will you?”

Her voice was none too steady, either. That pleased him.
“Patience, Caron.”

“Not one of my best virtues.”

So he’d noticed. He anchored his hand on her bare waist. His fingers automatically kneaded, and warm heat flowed up his arm and down his middle to his loins. “My hands are
too big.” His voice sounded gruff and grainy.

“You’re a large man.” Her flesh quivered under his
hand. “But you do have your gentle moments.”

Her skin was soft, as smooth as good Scotch, and even
more warming. Desire curled low in his body, and his hands
began to shake. Slowly he twisted the shiny silver star
through the knit. “Got it.”

“Thank God. I thought I’d be wearing this as a turban for the rest of my days.” She let out a relieved sigh and jerked the sweater down, trapping his hand underneath.

Their thighs brushed, their gazes met, and they stilled.

“You’re caught.”

Afraid she was right, he nodded and lifted the earring in his free hand. She didn’t notice, so fixed was her focus on
his eyes. She really was a beautiful woman. Especially fresh from the shower. Worse, she smelled as good as she looked,
and her scent had his stomach in knots. Her hair was still
damp and wisps curled around her face. He liked that. A
lot. Too much, in fact. “Did you mean it, Caron?”
He let his fingers drift over her abdomen and up to her ribs.