Now You See It (2 page)

“I do this for a living.” His tone gave no room for questions. He stopped just inside the door and ran his fingers over the latch plate, as if he were looking for scratches or other indications of forced entry.

“You need to call a locksmith and get all these locks changed this afternoon. And I want you to get in touch with your security company and have the techs reset your alarm password. That’s first.” He pulled latex gloves out of his back pocket and snapped one on as he started up the stairs. “I’m going to make sure the house is clear, and then have a look at the computer.”

* * *

So that was the sister. Brady glanced around her office as the computer whirred and bleeped its way through the series of commands he entered. A redhead. He should have guessed it ran in Mike’s family. He didn’t date redheads—too volatile. Nice eyes, though. Big, green, a little fuzzy from worry. Mike thought the moon rose on her. Baby sister, and all. He’d been less than subtle the last few weeks about fixing them up. Too short for him, though. She couldn’t be more than five-three. Great face. Not beautiful. Pretty. And a body that wouldn’t quit.
Damn.
Slim, subtle—nice ass. And something else that nagged at him. It would come to him eventually.

Whatever it was about her, it had nothing to do with him. None of his business. Redheads were trouble, and he had better ways to screw up his life at the moment. He was sure he could think of some, if he just put his mind to it.

Still, that jolt when their eyes met.
What was that about?
Dumb question. He knew well enough what it was about. It was his blood rushing from his big head to his little head and the roar of his brain pouring out his ears.

The shelves above her desk held a row of books with snore-inducing titles such as
Managing Federal Grants in the 21st Century,
and
Statistical Analysis for Educational Managers
. The desktop and the side wing were covered with stacks of tables and charts. Brightly colored file folders and pages full of intimidating blocks of text lay in what he suspected was some sort of order.

On top of the center pile was a well-read paperback novel, its creased cover decorated with masses of roses, a sultry-eyed woman and a half-clothed knight. Brady grinned as he took off the gloves to
touch
the surfaces around him, opening his senses to tactile traces of whoever had been in the room. He ran his fingers lightly over her keyboard, the monitor, the desk. The intruder must have worn gloves. Probably why he wasn’t getting anything.
Nothing. No one but Gemma.

Her energy was clear, like fluid crystal. Warm, strong. Stronger in some places than others. The stacks of worksheets were cool, intellectual, but as his fingers skimmed the novel, he grinned again at the wave of heat.
Fascinating
. He got a clear flash of her moss-green eyes going soft and misty, and the erection that had been threatening since he saw her sitting under the tree in the front yard sprang up hard and insistent.
Great. Go back downstairs in this condition, probably scare her to death. Just great.
He shifted his weight to ease the pressure.

Still, he couldn’t resist letting his fingers wander, pausing to explore the fractals of her personality that opened beneath his questing
touch.
Piquant—not a word that usually came to him, but there it was—and funny. Echoes of desperation and determination.

He
touched
a box of men’s sweaters on the floor beside the desk, and had to brace himself against surges of her anger layered over Ned—and what a selfish prick
he
was. Brady jolted at a flare of sharp, feral joy and a vision of the sweaters flying through a doorway onto the hall floor. He whistled and chuckled under his breath.

He was using too much energy. It was going to zap his abilities for an hour or so, but he couldn’t resist
touching
her things again. He let his mind spin with a kaleidoscope of impressions, enjoying the sheer strength and clarity of them. He picked up a figurine of a hatchling Pegasus, tested the weight of the smooth stoneware egg against his palm.

“What are you doing?”

Brady jumped.
Oops! Busted.
“Accessing your husband’s files.”

“Right.” Gemma crossed her arms.

“I thought you were going to wait downstairs.”

“
Wait
is a four-letter word.”

He looked down at the Pegasus in his hand. “He’s a cute little guy.”

She didn’t smile. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“What question?” He tried his best innocent look—clear eyes, open smile. With any luck, she’d think he was telling the truth.

“About what you were doing just now when I came in.”

“I told you. I’m going to access your husband’s files and zero-write the drive.”

“Great. Bloody brilliant. What does that mean, and why does it necessitate touching my things?”

Her index finger began to tap against her bicep. Brady watched intently, as if fearing it might suddenly sprout a talon.

“
Necessitate
?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Big word.”

She looked as if she wanted to hit him. “They get bigger the madder I get.”

“I’ll remember that. As for your question, I’m going to erase whatever’s on there, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay. I’ve had about all the creepy behavior I’ll need for one lifetime, thank you
very
much. And I hope you’re going to back up my data before you erase it all. I need that information, you know.”

“Look, Gemma, I know you’re pissed, and scared, but you need to let me work here, okay?” He straightened in the chair and squared his shoulders.

He expected her to back away, get some distance, but she stood her ground.

“You’ll need my password.” She lifted a notepad off the desk and pulled the pencil out of the casual knot at the back of her neck. Her hair tumbled over one shoulder in a dark red tangle of curls that framed one tempting breast.

Brady’s mouth went desert dry.

“You know,” he said, “I could really use something to drink.”

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“That, too. But I am seriously thirsty.” He folded his hands together like a child at prayer and raised his eyebrows. “Pretty please?”

“Tea in fifteen minutes,” she said. “That should be just about long enough for you to finish.”

He grinned and slanted a look at her. “Not nearly long enough.”

She hurried out of the room, but not before he saw the color flood her cheek.

His smile faded. She hadn’t been teasing him. She’d been surprised to see him using his
touch
, which meant Mike hadn’t told her. Well, duh. He wouldn’t have. Couldn’t have.

Great. Just great. He finally meets the One, and—God, did he just think that? Even to himself? Brady sat back in the chair and blinked, caught his breath and rethought the last few seconds. Well, damn! It had happened, just the way his aunts had always said it would. Just the way it had hit his dad. With amused and knowing grins, the old women had called it the
coup de foudre
—the thunderbolt. He’d shrugged it off as just more Indian stories. Served him right.

Okay. Now what? How did he tell her about himself without outing Mike and the Team, too? He’d never had to think about that before. Up until now, the whole thing had just been “one of the best stories you can never tell,” as the old SEAL saying went, before it went on to describe the horrors of the windowless cells in the Aleutians reserved for people who had violated their oaths of secrecy. He supposed every culture had its own “Indian stories.” Still, some were scarier than others, and more plausible. He had no plans to spend the rest of his life disappeared into a nameless facility in Nowheresville. Of course, if Gemma was there with him...

The computer gave one last little growl and stopped. He was going to have to tell her she needed a new computer, too.
Okay,
Brady hunched forward in the chair.
Let’s see what we have in here. And why someone would want to know badly enough to risk breaking into the house.

Gemma’s computer had been networked at some point, probably to the husband’s, and still needed a password to log on. Getting access to Ned’s side turned out not to be a problem, the code so trite it brought a grim little smile as Brady worked.

While the hard drive was copying onto a terabyte thumb drive from his pocket, he started searching through Ned’s files. They were full of toys and applications.
Looks like he downloaded everything that came along. Ned plays
Age of Empires
? Hmm. What’s this?
MYST?
Jesus, I haven’t seen that in years.

He pulled a list of every file accessed and sorted them by date, and wasn’t surprised to see dozens had been opened between three and four this morning. He installed a custom shredder program from a flash drive and set it to zero-write the husband’s hard drive space. By the time it was done, someone would need a lot of time and serious expertise to discover Ned was ever there. The thought gave him more satisfaction than it should have.

Moving on to Gemma’s files, he used the password she’d given him and checked the contents of her hard drive. No surprises, nothing to catch the eye. Except
MYST
, again, in her “Shared Files” folder. Maybe they played against each other, somehow? Competing to finish levels? No accounting for what people did for fun. He copied her hard drive to the portable backup. Then he changed her password.

Gemma wandered out of the kitchen, ready to plunge back into sorting and packing. She should have changed the locks the day Ned moved out. Breaking into the house at night was such a rotten thing to do, even for him. If he’d asked, she’d have let him onto the computer any time. He didn’t have to sneak in here. But he just had to push the limits, had to break the rules. It was what he lived for.

She couldn’t keep thinking about it, or she’d be on her way to losing her temper. She looked over the half-packed shelves and sighed, shaking her head. There was probably time to get one box done before the kettle boiled.
Let’s get it over with
. It was a relief when the doorbell rang before she even reached the bookcase.

Nikki charged down the stairs and wuffed at the front door. Gemma edged the dog away with her knee and opened the door against the chain.

Two grim-faced men in suits stood on the porch.
Process servers
. The thought was automatic. The divorce papers should have been filed and in process by now, but Ned kept requesting ridiculous changes to the terms. Instead of having them sent attorney-to-attorney, Ned the Drama Freak had opted for an actual person to knock on her door and chirp, “You’ve been served.”

Every time she had to accept a surprise package of legal papers that accused or demanded something else, she walked around for a couple of days feeling as if she had swallowed a huge weight.

But why were there two of them?
What is he up to now?
A female officer in Kirkland Police Department uniform mounted the steps to stand behind them, and Gemma’s chest tightened even more.

“Mrs. Carrow?”

She slipped the chain and opened the door. “Cavanagh. Carrow is my husband’s name. Can I help you?”

“Ms. Cavanagh,” the shorter man said, “I’m Detective Sergeant Olsen with the Pierce County Sheriff’s Department, and this is my partner, Detective Abernathy, and Officer Teng from Kirkland P.D. We need to speak with you for a moment. May we come in?”

“I’m sorry, but what’s this about?”

“It’s about your husband. I’m afraid we have some bad news. May we come in?” he asked again.

Cops and vampires,
her dad had said more than once,
can’t come in unless you invite them.
“May I see some identification, please?”

Their picture IDs looked genuine enough. She knew credentials were simple to fake, but the smooth way the men pulled them out convinced her. As if they’d done it so many times it came automatically. The way her dad had done it. The older one even had the same look in his eyes Dad had when he came home from a tough case—steady, wounded, compassionate. Gemma took a deep breath and swung the door open.

“What’s he done this time?” She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice, but she really didn’t have time for more of the ploys Ned came up with to keep her off balance.

When they were all in the entry, Olsen spoke. “I’m very sorry, Ms. Cavanagh, but your husband is dead.”

Ice flashed through her, followed immediately by angry heat. The last time he’d pulled this particular stunt, she’d lost the baby. No. No way was he getting away with this a second time.

No,
she wanted to snap at them,
I’m not falling for that again.
But if these were real cops, that would be about the worst thing she could say. She took a slow breath and tried to focus on something concrete.
Pierce County
, Olsen had said.
Ned was in Pierce County?
They were a long way from home. Which was probably why they’d brought the local uniform with them.

Gemma wanted to ask if they were sure it was Ned—people always did. But of course they were sure, or they wouldn’t have come all this way and involved a second jurisdiction.

“No. No. He can’t be. Not really.” She stood, unmoving. Her voice clogged in her throat, but she forced herself to speak. “What happened? Was anyone else hurt
?” Ned always did think he was a better driver than he really is.
“Can you tell me what happened?”

“Ned Carrow was found dead this morning at the summer home of Dr. Robert Mendelson. He was murdered, Ms. Cavanagh. I’m very sorry.”

Chapter Two

Brady rose from the desk and stepped softly out into the hall, straining to hear. He recognized the tone of cop voices just about the time he felt the atmosphere in the house change.

“Murdered? Ned?” Gemma’s words floated up through the stairwell.

The air whooshed out of his lungs as if he’d taken a punch to the solar plexus.
Jesus! What the hell...?
From his vantage point near the head of the stairs, he could just see a little of Gemma’s head. He couldn’t see the detectives at all. Should he go downstairs? Would it make things easier, or more complicated? Was there any way he could help? He moved his hand to the railing and realized he was still holding the Pegasus. As he strained to listen to the conversation below, he set the paperweight on the newel post and leaned slightly forward.

“Is there anyone we can call for you?” one of the detectives asked. “A neighbor, a relative?”

“My brother.” Gemma’s voice sounded far away now, and diminished, nothing like her spunky style when she was giving him what for. “His office is in Seattle.” Her breath hitched audibly and she looked up. One of the cops must be tall. “My brother,” she said again. She let go of the doorknob and led them into the living room.

Brady shifted along the banister to a spot where he could keep an eye on the detectives’ reactions. The two men looked around, taking in the stacks of half-filled boxes, piles of blank newsprint, the heap of colorful fabric art on a bentwood chair, and empty rods on the walls. He didn’t need to see their eyes flatten and cool to know they’d gone into full professional mode.

That settled it. Brady started to move, and realized with a jolt the figurine was gone. No time for more than a quick look around, but he didn’t see it on the floor as he started down, letting his footsteps be heard on the stairs.

Gemma looked up, startled, when he walked into the room. As if she’d forgotten he was in the house. Well, that certainly put him in his place. Then he saw some of the tension in her shoulders begin to ease.
Here goes nothing
. He stopped five feet from the detectives.

The older man broke the silence. “You are—?”

“Braden McGrath,” Brady said. “Computer and internet security.”

Gemma made the introductions.

Olsen turned a measuring gaze on him. Brady returned it, equally hard-eyed, and the two men shared a moment of recognition that precipitated a subtle shift of focus.

The tall one still looked suspicious and uneasy. “You have any ID, Mr. Mc—?”

“Mc
Grath
.” Brady turned a fraction to the right, just enough to put his left rear pocket into full view. He reached back, his movement deliberate but not markedly slow, and pulled out his wallet with two fingers.

Abernathy’s eyes narrowed.

Brady opened the wallet and handed Olsen a business card. “My contact information,” he said. “Ms. Cavanagh’s brother is one of my clients.”

“And you’re here today because...?” A note of belligerence slipped into Abernathy’s voice.

“Because Mike Cavanagh asked me to check his sister’s cyber-security.” Brady handed him a card as well.

Abernathy reached for the card, nodded, and turned back to Gemma. As he did, his fingers brushed Brady’s.

The vision hit without warning. Usually when Brady’s psychic batteries were running on empty, his
touch
drained away, too. But the visions came sometimes, when the situation was tense, the other person was seriously churned up about something, and Brady’s
touch
was running too low to keep his shields up. This one hit with sight, sound and smells, in living Technicolor. The light changed, and he was somewhere else, watching with Abernathy’s eyes.

The sunshine fell golden soft through the morning. The breeze carried the scent of cedars and salt water and just enough moisture to make its touch a caress as it brushed by. A small lake glinted in the sunlight, and birch trees rustled softly at the edges of a clearing near a stone-and-cedar cabin with lots of expensive options, a chimney of imported rock, a trim dock running out to a gently bobbing day sailor. He couldn’t hear traffic or the noise of the city, only the sounds of birds, lapping water, the hum of a turquoise dragonfly as it settled against the jade green of the grass, and the helpless retching of the young deputy who leaned white-faced over the hand-split cedar railing.

Suddenly Brady knew why the cops were so on edge. He sent a protective glance in Gemma’s direction. How far could he go to draw their attention away from her without making her situation even worse? She stood her ground, her face white and tense, and then she squared her shoulders. At that quiet gesture of courage, something warm began to break open in his gut. She didn’t deserve what was coming.

Before he could say anything, the dog came to life and placed herself four-square between the police and Gemma, ears forward, tail erect.

“Nikki, it’s okay,” Gemma said. The malamute, openly unimpressed with Gemma’s judgment of character, lifted her lip and growled deep in her throat at the intruders and began to stomp her front feet in warning.

“Please sit down.” Gemma waved the detectives to the couch and took a white-knuckled grip on Nikki’s collar.

Brady took a seat off to one side and tried to look harmless.

The three police officers remained standing. Abernathy looked toward his partner, then turned back to Gemma. “May we have your full name, please, Ms. Cavanagh?”

“Grace Elizabeth Maire Cavanagh.” She spelled it for them. “I go by Gemma.”

“Do you mind telling us where you were yesterday morning, Ms. Cavanagh?”

Enough was enough
.
Gemma’s nostrils flared. “I’d like to call my brother, now. He’s also my attorney.”

She jerked her phone from her shirt pocket, but before she could thumb the phone on, it rang. She saw the two detectives exchange a look as she turned to take the call. Her brother’s voice came at a distance. She heard the hiss of traffic in the background.
He must be on his car phone
, she thought.

“Gemma. What’s wrong?”

“Mike, there are two detectives and a uniform here from Pierce County. They said Ned has been murdered. They want to ask some questions.”

Mike’s voice took on a deeper timbre. “I’m westbound on the 520 bridge right now. As soon as I find a place to hang a U-ie without getting caught, I’ll head back your direction.”

“Nikki is upset about them, Mike. I don’t know if it’s their guns or their attitude.” At the edge of her vision, she saw Abernathy shift his weight.

“All the more reason to keep them on the porch until I get there.”

“Too late.”

“You let them in? Geez, Gemma. Didn’t Dad teach you anything? Okay. Since they’re already inside, you may as well have them take a seat. I’m looking at about twelve to fifteen minutes. Brady still there?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Don’t let him leave. Keep him close, Gemma, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, glad she could look away from Brady as she felt the heat spread up her throat and into her face. Again.

“He’ll be here in twenty minutes,” she said as she ended the call.

“Ms. Cavanagh,” Abernathy began with a shy smile, “do you think I could have a glass of water before we get started?”

That had to be the oldest ploy in their manual. Did they think she was a complete idiot? “Sure. You may as well go ahead and look around, Detective. You’re already inside.”

He had the grace to look embarrassed. “You read a lot of mystery novels?”

“My dad was a Navy cop.”

“Huh. Your dad was a fed?”

“Twenty-three years.”

“That must have been different.”

“I guess. He went down in the line while I was in college. I miss him.” Where had that come from?
Stop babbling, Gemma. It’s not going to help
. “What happened? To Ned?”

“We’re not sure, just yet. I’m sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry at all.

Gemma felt sure it was going to be a really long twenty minutes. She stared at a square of sunlight on the floor, and wondered why she couldn’t cry.

She’d cried for months when her dad was killed in a drug bust gone bad. And when her fiancé died in Bosnia, she thought her tears would leave permanent runnels from her eyes to her chin. She had finally managed to stuff her grief for them deep into hallowed chambers of her heart, just by sheer imposition of will. Otherwise, she could never have gone on.

But she couldn’t even summon a single tear for Ned. Maybe that would come later.

She looked up as the Kirkland officer took a seat in a bentwood rocking chair. Gemma noted the spot allowed Officer Teng to watch Gemma, Brady and Nikki without being obvious.

When the doorbell chimed again, Gemma was so relieved she nearly sprinted to the foyer. She stood back as Mike strode in—tall, solid, red-haired, with his green eyes flashing a challenge that made him look less like an attorney than one of the Viking raiders who had plundered the Irish coasts a thousand years before. All he needed was a big axe, she decided, and one of those helmets with the nose-piece thing.

“Gentlemen?” Mike began, pulling her back into the moment.

Concentrate, Gemma. Keep it together.

“I’m Michael Cavanagh, Ms. Cavanagh’s attorney. You’ve met my associate,” he added with a nod toward Brady, and began passing out business cards.

Mike sat on a leather loveseat facing the couch, and Gemma joined him. Brady sat quietly, his expression on the polite side of neutral, and the detectives took a seat on the couch. The uniform rose and stood stolidly behind them, her face a careful mask as both detectives gave Mike their names and ID numbers.

“Ms. Cavanagh—” Abernathy began.

Mike put down his briefcase, took out a tablet, and took his time writing down the information they had given him.

Abernathy shifted, making embarrassing squeaking noises on the leather couch.

“Can you tell us where you were last Friday and over the weekend, Ms. Cavanagh?” Olsen asked.

Gemma glanced at Mike before answering. He nodded. “Friday, I was here, working,” she said.

“All day?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Just me and Nikki.” She looked over at the dog, who had relaxed when Mike arrived, and now lay with eyes closed, her nose on her forepaws.

“Can anyone verify that?”

“There should be records on my phone and computer. I had a conference call with a client at seven-thirty a.m. that lasted an hour or so, and was in fax and Skype mode with another client the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon.”

“The clients’ names?”

“Seattle Tech in the morning, and then Lubbock State College the rest of the day.”

“That was Friday.”

“Yes. Saturday and Sunday, the whole family went to an Irish Immersion Weekend in Lake City Way. We got back fairly late last night, so I stayed at my brother’s until about nine this morning. I got home around ten, and haven’t left since then.”

“Irish immersion,” Abernathy said. “That’s like, what, baptism?”

Gemma and Mike swiveled their heads toward him with identical expressions of surprise. “Language classes, detective,” Mike said.

Abernathy scowled. “Classes for Irish? It’s just English with an accent, right?”

Mike opened his mouth but Gemma interrupted. “Even Microsoft recognizes Irish Gaelic as a separate language.” She held her voice steady with an effort against a wild impulse to giggle. Great. Hysterics were just what nobody needed.

Olsen glanced at his red-faced partner and cleared his throat. “What sort of work do you do, Ms. Cavanagh?”

All at once, the whole thing became real. Her stomach dropped and her heart began to pound, making her breath come short. “He’s really dead this time, isn’t he?”

“Yes, ma’am, he is.” Olsen’s tone was dust-dry.

Mike shot a protective look at his sister. “Will my client be asked to identify the body?” he asked before Olsen could speak again.

The detective’s mouth firmed and he shook his head. “I’ve brought some photos.” He stared straight at Gemma. “Can you tell me if your husband had any identifying marks?”

Gemma held herself against the urge to flinch. If they asked that, it must have been a really bad wreck. Only it hadn’t been a wreck, had it? They said he’d been murdered. “He has a red birthmark at the back of his neck, and a tattoo of a scorpion on the back of his right shoulder. Black outline and red inside, about four inches long.”

Abernathy pulled out an envelope and extracted matte photos of a tattoo and a strawberry mark fringed by blond hair.

Tremors began to well up from deep inside her. She clutched Mike’s arm. Her hands shook badly as she stroked the photo of the birthmark. “Yes.” She couldn’t force her voice above a whisper. She lifted her eyes, swallowed to clear her throat. “What happened to him?”

“Gemma—” Mike began.

“They do this kind of preliminary ID—with photos—for air crash victims, burns,” she said. She heard her voice rising in pitch, sharpening as the reality washed through her in alternating waves of ice and heat. “Explosions. Right? When that’s all they have to go on.”

“Gemma—” Mike said again.

“Ms. Cavanagh, when was the last time you saw your husband?” Olsen inquired.

Gemma felt as if her head had filled with hot air, pressing, pressing until she couldn’t think. “I’m—last Thursday, I think. Have you told his partner?”

“Not yet,” Abernathy answered. “We try to notify the next of kin first. His partner is Doug Wheeler, right? He’s running for attorney general?”

“Yes. Ned is managing his campaign.”

Olsen tried to get the interview back on track. “You haven’t seen your husband in four days. You didn’t report him missing?”

She started to say something, but shook her head. The tears she thought wouldn’t come choked her mind and eyes now, when she needed clarity.

Mike answered. “Ms. Cavanagh and Mr. Carrow are separated.”

Olsen blinked twice. “For how long?”

Gemma did absolutely not want to talk about her marital problems in front of Brady. Not that it mattered, but still—she sniffed, willed the tears back. “A month and a half,” she said. “Nearly two.”