Guarding His Midnight Witness Page 10
“What?” Bowie asked.
“What what?” Jack echoed.
“I know that look. You’re thinking something you shouldn’t be.”
“I’m thinking this might be a bigger case than we thought. I heard through the grapevine Fremont might be connected to organized crime. I’m wondering if any of our federal friends might be able to give us a hand.”
Bowie plucked up the receiver on his desk, but Jack shook his head, gestured for him to hang up. “We want this quiet, remember? I’m thinking maybe an in-person visit might be best. I know he’s thinking of retiring, but for now Eamon Quinn is still working at the San Francisco office. You feel like taking the drive and seeing if he can give us some off-the-record help?”
Bowie’s chest actually puffed out. “You want me to go? Really?”
No, actually Jack would prefer to go himself, but he didn’t like the idea of being that far away from Greta. Professionally speaking of course. “Nothing official,” Jack told him. “Your sister’s still down there, right? Maybe you can stop in for a visit?” In case anyone noticed a Sac PD deputy asking questions.
“I can do that. Thanks, Jack. For trusting me with this.”
“Yeah, well, let’s see if we can get a better description of the victim from Greta before you get too excited.”
“It does seem she had no trouble identifying Fremont, but she can’t seem to remember what the victim looked like,” Bowie said. “Other than body type and the birthmark. Even in the drawing she did, the face is turned away. There aren’t any details, except the glasses, to grab hold of.” The elevator dinged above the familiar din of the squad room.
“I’ve been thinking on that,” Jack mused. “I might have an idea to solve that problem. Next time I see her—”
“How about now?” Bowie cut him off.
“Huh?” Jack sat up so fast his chair nearly wheeled out from under him.
He barely noticed the uniformed desk sergeant leading her into the squad room. Seeing her here, seeing her anywhere other than in the dim, soft light of her loft, sent his mind spinning. Her thick blond hair was tied back neatly to trail almost to her waist. The forest green wraparound blouse she wore accentuated every curve against the crisp white of her slacks. He couldn’t help but skim his gaze down her figure to the less than practical, pointed-toe, spiked heels she wore.
Man, he thought. The woman was a pure knockout.
“I’m going to get some coffee before I step on your tongue.” Bowie slipped past him as Jack found himself reaching up to straighten his tie, smooth his hair. The air in the squad room crackled as if a live wire had broken free. Even in his slightly dazed state, he noticed the chatter in the room fade under the searching, albeit uncertain, gaze of Greta Renault.
When she spotted him, she smiled, and he could all but hear her sigh in relief. He sucked in a breath. His entire body sang with the hit of attention. Her smile widened against the flicker of nerves in her eyes. She strode forward, a large handled paper bag in one hand, an art portfolio in the other. He heard the scramble of footsteps behind him, anticipated the stampede to welcome their visitor and moved out into the aisle to greet her.
“Greta.” She faced him, sending the scent of jasmine and springtime into the stale office air. So good, he wanted to free her hair, bury his hands, his face, his soul, in that thick, luxurious mane. “This is a nice surprise.” He nodded his thanks in the desk sergeant’s direction and drew her away. He should have been clearer about needing her to stay away—from the investigation and the station. Every visitor was logged in, which meant he needed to give the curious eyes and stares aimed at them another reason for her visit. He bent down and brushed his lips against her cheek, enjoying her unexpected gasp of surprise. “I thought we decided I’d come to you?” he murmured before he stood up straight.
“You did.” Her eyes clouded with confusion as he took hold of her arm and squeezed. “Is now a bad time? I have an appointment at the Camellia in a bit, so I thought I’d save you a trip and drop off the statement I wrote last night and show you the rest of the drawings I finished.” She hoisted the portfolio only to have him gently push her hand down.
“No, yeah, that’s good. It’s fine. Now is...” He glanced around, grateful to see the LT was nowhere to be found. “Now is fine.” He pointed toward the coffee room. “We can talk in there.”
“Sure.” She waved at the people still watching as she trailed behind him. “Hi. Hello.”
“I can take that for you.” Jack slid his hand down to the handled bag and moved her along before any questions or introductions were thrown their way.
“Oh, right. It’s for you.” She let out a nervous laugh that brushed featherlight against his heart, and for a moment, he forgot where they were. “I thought maybe after yesterday you could use one.”
Curious, he pried open the sides and looked in. He snort-laughed, trying to ignore the pang of affection. “It’s a blanket.”
“One of the weighted ones like I have. I wasn’t sure what color you’d like, but then I saw this blue and, well. It reminded me of your eyes.” She shrugged and caught her lower lip between her teeth in a way that had Jack wishing they were anywhere but where they were. “I hope it helps.”
He couldn’t remember the last time someone had given him a gift that didn’t come with a Get Well Soon tag attached. “I can’t wait to try it. Thank you.”
A throat cleared behind him.
“Oh, Officer Bowman.” Greta stepped away from Jack. Jack turned and narrowed his eyes in silent warning, but only found a blank expression on his substitute partner’s young face.
“Ms. Renault.” Bowie set his coffee on the counter and rounded the smattering of tables, hand out. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior the other morning. There’s no excuse for the disrespect I showed you, and I hope you’ll give me another chance.”
Jack had to give the kid credit. He had style.
“Of course.” Greta returned the handshake. “Although I have to admit, adding kooky to my resume and bio might just do me some good.”
Bowie’s face went bright red. “That was rude of me.”
“When you know better, you do better, right?” Greta said. “Don’t let it worry you, Officer. I didn’t exactly come across as... Well, I know how I come across. I can be a bit scattered and—” she sighed “—never mind. Oh, no, please stay.” Greta caught Bowie’s arm when he started to leave. “I could use another pair of eyes.”
Bowie looked between Greta’s friendly gaze and Jack’s irritated expression. Jack made no apologies about wanting to spend time alone with Greta, even in the middle of the station house. And that, he knew, was not a good thing. She pushed him so far off-kilter he forgot what world he was supposed to be inhabiting.
“Happy to.” Bowie’s grin took up half his face. “And it’s Bowie, please. What’s in the bag?” He elbowed Jack in the arm as Greta lifted her portfolio onto one of the tables and unzipped it.
“Just a thank-you gift.” Greta flashed that brilliant smile at Jack. “For making me feel better the other day,” she added when Bowie’s eyebrows disappeared under his hairline. “Here’s my written statement.” She handed Jack the sealed legal envelope. “I assume you need me to sign something official, so just let me know when to come in to do that.”
“We’ll do that,” Jack said as he pocketed the statement. She didn’t need to know he didn’t plan putting this anywhere near an official file. It was risky enough her name was in the file for the original call and follow-up visit. For now, he planned to keep it limited to that. He’d keep her written statement close, though. At home. Where he knew it would be safe. “So, the drawings?”
“I told you I think in images rather than words, but now that I’ve got all my thoughts arranged, I can do the latter.” She stepped back and motioned to the drawings. “I hope these are all right.”
Jack had to agree. They were incredibly detailed, like reading a graphic novel illustrated by a master. He could see everything she’d told them the first night. “If every witness offered these we’d be out of a job,” he said. But he also noticed what Bowie had earlier. In none of these illustrations could he see the victim’s face. They went through all the sketches twice, then, on the third time, slowed down as Jack tried to focus on the one element most needed to get a handle on the case: their victim.
He was a large man whose suit was significantly wrinkled. The detail in the drawing was amazing. Jack bent closer to take it all in.
“Rage,” Bowie murmured when Greta moved off to explore the coffee and tea offerings. She leaned over the donut box and took a deep breath, sighed and shook her head, as if talking herself out of indulging. “I get it now,” he told Jack. “I see it.”
“Yeah, but that’s not what’s worrying me.” Jack kept his voice low and flipped to the last page where a solitary Doyle Fremont stood, framed by the window, hands in his pockets, looking directly up at Greta’s window. “That does. You see that.” He poked a finger against Doyle’s illustrated eye, probably a bit harder than necessary. “He knows she saw him. He knows.” And even at his most controlled when they’d met, Doyle had been unable to resist gloating with that glance to where the witness had stood.
“Not much he can do about it, though, is there? Not without bringing attention to himself,” Bowie kept his voice low. “The smart thing would be to just lie low and do nothing. This almost feels like he’s taunting her.”
Jack smirked. “Doyle Fremont is not a do-nothing kind of man. He gets off on stuff like this. On knowing people’s secrets. On using them to his advantage. He told me that himself. He’s like a cat with a new toy.”
“Why?” Bowie asked.
“Why does he use them, or why did he tell me?”
“Both.”
Good questions. “Because everything to him is a game. Or a puppet show. And he prides himself on being the puppet master.” Jack had dealt with men like Fremont before. He knew how they thought, and what they thought was that they didn’t care about collateral damage.
Jack straightened and looked at Greta who was flitting about the cabinets exploring and examining their less than stellar offerings. Fremont wouldn’t care who got hurt so long as he got what he wanted. The question was, why bother himself with someone like Greta? What endgame was Jack missing?
“Greta?” he called.
“Hmm?” She turned, a box of bagged tea in her hand. “You all do realize that drinking from tea bags makes the tea taste like paper.”
“Hadn’t really crossed our minds,” Jack said. “Did you check the date on the box?”
She flipped the box over. “Oh. Five years ago.” Greta laughed, and every cell in Jack’s body flickered to life. “Never mind. Do you have more questions for me?”
“In a bit, yes. Bowie and I were wondering something. About your drawings.”
“Wondering what?”
“The victim’s face,” Jack said. “Other than the birthmark, you never show it.”
“Don’t I?” Her eyes widened, and she joined them, tea box still in her hand. “I could have sworn...hmm.” She flipped through the pages. “You’re right. It’s not there at all, is it? Seems strange I didn’t realize that.”
“Did you see his face?” Bowie asked.
“Did I—” Greta drew her finger across one of the images as she considered the question. “I’m sure I did. But I can’t seem to remember it now. All I can see is—isn’t the mark enough?”
“Maybe. We need to figure out who the victim is before we can figure out why Doyle would have killed him.” San Francisco was a long shot. Greta’s memory on the other hand...
“Or how he was killed,” Bowie added. “I’m still not seeing that answer here.”
“The answers have to be in my head,” Greta whispered, sounding almost defeated. “I’m so sorry. I thought I gave you everything you needed.”
Bowie glanced over her head to Jack, the answer written all over the young deputy’s face. Jack gnashed his teeth. He didn’t want Greta any more involved in this than she already was, especially given the expression shown in that picture of Doyle Fremont. This wasn’t over; he wasn’t done. But the only way to keep Greta safe was to push through and dig for answers.
“I know someone who might be able to help.”
“You do?” Greta’s eyes went wide. “How?”
“That depends. How do you feel about regression therapy?”
* * *
Greta’s hand covered the leather band on her wrist. Of all the things she thought she’d have to face as a witness to a murder, she didn’t think regression therapy was going to be one of them.
Her entire body went cold, as if the past was trying to wrap itself around her again. Lock her in. Suffocate her. Because her art remained her only real safe place, she turned her attention back to her drawings, tried to recapture the power and control she felt while sketching them.
“Regression therapy?” Her voice trembled, and she squeezed her eyes shut, silently willing the room to stop spinning as she forced herself to remain on her feet. “No.” The refusal came easy, an automatic defense of the life she’d created for herself. “I’m sorry, but I can’t—”
“We have a friend,” Jack explained. “Dr. Allie Hollister-Kellan. She’s worked with us on quite a few cases and while most of her patients now are vets and first responders dealing with PTSD, I’m pretty sure she’d be up for a favor.”
Something about the name sounded familiar. Dr. Allie... “She’s the woman you saved. Last year. When you were shot.”
“Yeah.” There it was again, she noticed. That uncomfortable flinch, as if he didn’t like even the slightest reminder of what had happened to him. Which of course he wouldn’t. Standing so close to him, she could feel the tension move through Jack’s body, turning his occasional gentle touch to one of steel. “So, I guess you could say she owes me one.”
“Or ten,” Bowie added. “It wouldn’t take more than a phone call to get her here.”
“Weren’t you listening? I said no.” Hands shaking, she tried to zip up the portfolio but gave up when the zipper stuck for a third time. “You know what? You keep that. I don’t need them anymore anyway. I’m going to go. And I’ll...call you. Right, I’ll call you, Jack.”
She shoved her hand through her wristlet and hurried out of the room. Blood pounded in her ears so hard and so loud she couldn’t hear anything above it. What had she been thinking? Her desire to bring a murderer to justice and prove she wasn’t making things up had just backfired big-time and in the worst way possible. “What’s past is past,” she whispered over and over. “It can’t hurt me. It can’t stop me. Keep the past in the past—”
“Greta.” Jack caught up to her at the elevators, just before she bolted for the stairs. “Greta, it’s okay to be scared. I would be, knowing I’d seen what you did.”
“You’re a detective. What could possibly scare...” she trailed off, seeing that haunted expression float across his face. The same expression that sleeping on her sofa yesterday afternoon had started to erase. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless. I should have chosen my words more carefully.”
“As I should have apparently,” Jack said. “Look, how about we table the idea of the regression therapy for now. Maybe we can figure out another way for you to remember his face. How about dinner tonight? I know a great sushi place, if you like sushi that is. We can relax a bit, then maybe talk through things again. Maybe jar something loose. And if you still don’t want to—”
“I won’t.” There were some lines she knew she’d never cross. As much as she wanted to prove what she’d seen was real, that she’d witnessed a murder, she could
n’t take the chance of opening doors she’d closed long ago. “But I love sushi,” she added. For the first time, the idea of hanging out with Jack didn’t seem like such a good idea. She’d been nervous about leaving the loft, but knowing she was going to see him tempered her anxiety. To the point she’d looked forward to stepping inside a police station. But now... Now she wasn’t so sure this had been a smart move. He’d keep digging, keep pushing, and the more she fought him, the more curious he’d get. She needed to find a balance, keep him close without letting him in. A flirtation was one thing, a few heated kisses and gentle conversations a bit more, but his offer felt so normal. So appropriate. So needed. And she so wanted to be normal. She needed to be. Just once. “Dinner would be nice.” Unexpected. Exciting. Terrifying. “I’m not sure how late I’ll be at the gallery.”
“I’m off in a few hours. I can swing by and get you. I’ve been meaning to check out the new Dalí exhibit anyway.”
Greta’s heart sighed, and she leaned toward him. He was a Salvador Dalí fan. There really was a lot to like about the man. From his ability to make people think they were the most important person in the room, to the Star Trek key chain hanging out of his pocket. Maybe Yvette was right. Maybe he would understand...
Which meant maybe she could take the chance. “Okay then,” she found herself saying. “It’s a date. I’ll see you at the gallery in a few hours.”
Chapter 6
“I am sure everything will be absolutely lovely.” Greta’s neck ached from walking beside the tall, slim woman who towered over her like a giraffe. Managing five-inch stilettos was an impossible task in Greta’s world—she was barely managing three-inch pumps—but Collette acted as if she was simply walking on a cloud rather than escorting Greta through the section of the gallery currently closed to the public.