Guarding His Midnight Witness Read online

  It was his eyes, Greta realized as she dipped the needle-thin tip of her outlining brush into the glossy blue, that called to her. His face was as perfect on the canvas as it had been inches from her own. She moved in, added a droplet of golden yellow into the blue that had her inner critic singing. Her hand continued to sweep and capture every microcosm of detail she’d made note of when she’d sketched him in the kitchen. Only when she stepped back to examine the nearly finished piece did she pick up on the depths of who he was.

  She’d spent most of her life watching, observing. Studying the few who stepped in and out of her path. She’d always purposely kept everyone at a distance, but from the moment she’d first set eyes on Detective Jack McTavish, something inside of her had stirred. Unfamiliar. Tempting. Exciting. And, when she stopped to really think about it, utterly terrifying. It was that fear that kept the brush moving, kept her bare, paint-splattered feet on the wrinkled tarp.

  Her apprehension hadn’t stopped her from committing his details to memory, such as his sturdy shoulders that told her he could take on a lot. The way his dark blond hair brushed evenly across the collar of his blazer, showing he took pride in his appearance, a supposition seconded by his clean-shaven face at such an early hour.

  A nightmare, not a dream, had brought him into her life. Fleeting perhaps, but for long enough to impact her.

  Her hand stilled as the fear scuttled to life once more. These emotions, these thoughts, all these rioting sensations had arrived on the wings of a darkness she could only pray she hadn’t imagined.

  She didn’t trust many people; she never had, and chances were she never would, but there was something about Jack McTavish that made her wish her abilities in that direction were stronger. Maybe all she needed was a bit of practice. Maybe it was time to step further out of that self-imposed solitude and...

  Greta jumped when Cerberus wound his sleek gray body between her feet and rubbed his head against her calf, his purr at jet-engine setting. She blinked, glancing over at the paint-spattered clock sitting perfectly straight on one of the organized shelves.

  Her stomach growled, not an uncommon occurrence when she got lost in her work. She didn’t bother to examine what she’d created as she set the paint and brush down and returned to the kitchen to rebrew the tea that had gone cold. Because her stomach demanded it, she toasted up half a bagel.

  Still embracing the residual haze that followed her out of a bout of work, she found herself wandering to the hall window just outside her studio. Before the last of the fog cleared her mind, she sipped her tea and, wedged behind the thin layers of fabric, watched the constant stream of moving vans and construction workers putting the finishing touches on the new Fremont Complex.

  Bile rose in her throat. She tried to resist looking at the window. How did they do it? she wondered. How did everyone scuttle about their lives as if nothing had happened? As if everything was normal. As if nothing had changed.

  Everything about the other night, right down to the police officers’ reaction, told her it had all been some kind of dream.

  Except she knew it wasn’t.

  Didn’t she?

  * * *

  Jack pulled his SUV behind an open moving truck parked less than a block from the soon-to-open Fremont business complex.

  Ashley had been right yesterday. Stewing about this case wasn’t going to do anything than raise his blood pressure. Chances were Greta Renault had been sleepwalking or dreaming or...something. But simply walking away without asking any questions? That wasn’t who he was.

  He’d just needed a not-so-gentle reminder of that fact.

  He leaned over, craned his neck to look up and out of the windshield. “The guy definitely knows how to refurbish a building.”

  Not to be outdone by the likes of those companies that maintained a massive presence in the Bay Area, Doyle Fremont was centralizing all of his businesses—real estate, technology research and about a half-dozen other sub-interests Jack hadn’t committed to memory—into the block-long, seven-story, all-inclusive structure. Not only did the complex include a dozen apartments, but there would be a five-star lobby restaurant open to the public, a state-of-the-art tech store, a meditation garden on the roof for employees, valet service and its very own custom coffee shop.

  Personally, Jack preferred the blood-curdling coffee and stale donuts of the squad room. Which was where he had spent his morning running down basic information on Doyle Fremont and his various enterprises and connections. Near as Jack could tell?

  The guy was so clean he squeaked. No one, at least no one in Jack’s extensive investigative experience, was that clean. No one.

  “Dropping off or picking up?” One of the moving men called out to him as he locked up his car. About as tall as he was wide, the mover barely gave a glance to another man in the truck who handed him an oversize box.

  “Neither. Job interview,” Jack lied. “I’m not parked in a loading zone, right?”

  “You’re fine. Just go around front. We’ve got the freight elevators locked down.”

  “No problem.” Jack gave a polite wave and hustled down the street as if he was late for his appointment. Before he rounded the corner, he stopped, pretended to check his phone as he glanced up and across the street at Greta Renault’s building. Having been inside the charming space, he recognized the shorter windows as those in her studio while the taller ones were in the hall; the curtains had been reserved for the living room.

  One of the curtains shifted slightly, but when he didn’t see any sign of Greta, he assumed it was her cat getting his exercise. Jack angled his phone up, snapped a few pictures to remind himself later as to what could be seen from where. He rounded the corner and pushed through one of the heavy glass lobby doors rather than walking through the lazy, roundabout entrance.

  If he didn’t know better, he’d think the Fremont Complex was already open for business. There was a security counter off to the left, manned by two uniformed guards currently clicking through the multiple screen displays flashing across monitors built into the wall behind them as they adjusted hookups and plugs. Instead of stale, air-conditioned office air, Jack found himself inhaling something close to pure oxygen, no doubt the result of the lush greenery planted around the spacious area. As he looked up, he saw the lobby stretched all the way to the skylighted roof, with an open floor plan outlining the expanse of the building. He remembered reading that Fremont had originally planned to build on the empty rail-yard property, but at the last minute, about eight months ago, he’d changed course and bought this former hotel and invested double the cost in the extensive remodel. Given all that had been done in the time, Jack guesstimated Fremont had sunk a good portion of his fortune into the project. Why the rush? It was only one of a hundred or so questions Jack had.

  “Pretty impressive, don’t you think?”

  “Very.” Jack’s response was automatic as he faced the man behind him. “Fritz?”

  “How ya doin’, Jack?” Doug Fritzhugh, a former cop who could have made a living as a pro wrestler, slapped a surprisingly gentle hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You don’t look too worse for wear.”

  “Doing okay, thanks.” Aside from longing for the day people didn’t look at him as if he were a walking miracle, he thought. “Haven’t seen you since your retirement party.” Jack took in the gray security uniform and shiny gold nameplate. He’d heard through the grapevine Fritz had made a jump up in the world into private high-end security for a well-recognized company. It hadn’t taken much to find out where. The answer had been a lucky break for Jack. “I see it didn’t take.”

  “Retirement? Oh, it took just fine for me.” Fritz guided Jack out of the way of an oversize leather sofa being carted in from outside. “The wife lasted about a month before she was begging me to get a job. I had a few connections, made a couple calls, and voilà. Head of security for this place.”


  Jack smirked at the phrase. “You’re going to have your hands full. Lots to take care of, I’d imagine.”

  “Compared to thirty years on the force, this is gonna be a slice of heaven. Well-paid heaven.” Fritz lowered his voice and laughed. “You looking to make a change? Wouldn’t blame you if you were.”

  “You know me, Fritz,” Jack said. “I never rule anything out. I was driving by a few days ago, thought maybe I’d check the place out. Don’t suppose I could talk you into a tour?” He glanced up.

  “Well, sure.” Fritz shrugged. “Let me get my boys settled, and I’ll show you around. Can’t take long, though. The boss is due back today, and we’re trying to get as much done as we can.”

  “Due back? He’s been away?” Jack followed Fritz over to the security desk and signaled for a guest badge.

  “Los Angeles. Some big fundraising shindig. Quite the deal, from what I hear. My wife pays more attention to that stuff than I do. Here you go. Clip that to your jacket.” Fritz handed over the badge that clearly designated him as an outsider. “The coffee bar’s already in full swing if you want something. Where do you want to start?”

  “How about upstairs?” Jack kept his tone neutral. “Like, maybe the third floor?”

  * * *

  In some ways, Greta thought, surveillance was like watching a movie. All that was missing was a monster bowl of popcorn and butter-covered fingers.

  As she had over the past few days, Greta sat on one of her kitchen stools, a bottle of water perched on the sill of the window and her grandmother’s antique opera glasses, one of her few prized possessions, held up to her face. They didn’t help much, but enough she could scan faces and spot movement. As if she couldn’t spot Doyle Fremont in a crowd. Who was she expecting to see? Her murder victim?

  Her hands went icy at the thought, and she swallowed hard. Well, that would answer that question, wouldn’t it? “Great. Now I’m sounding strange even to myself.” Cerberus let out a tiny meow from where he was sitting at her feet. “Sorry, Cerb. I know I’m supposed to be painting, but I can’t get this out of my mind.”

  It was as if the rest of the world had fallen away, her painting, her routine, even her cell phone forgotten, although as far as the latter was concerned, she rarely paid it any mind. She’d already ignored three calls from her friend Yvette because she always knew when Greta was keeping a secret. Only problem with avoiding the phone was that Yvette would get irritated enough to pop by to check on her. Whatever. Greta would deal with that when she had to.

  As if reading her mind, her cell rang again. With a growl of frustration, Greta got up, left the glasses on the stool and hurried into the living room to answer the phone. “Yvette, everything’s just fine.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Uncle Lyndon.” Greta sighed and sank onto the arm of the sofa. She really needed to pay attention to her caller ID. “No reason.” She cringed at the idea of lying, but it was better than the truth, at least in this case. Lyndon Thornwald, her late father’s best friend, had long been the only constant in her life, acting as both her lawyer and legal guardian while she’d been a minor, then as her agent when her career began to take off. “When does your flight get in?”

  “I was scheduled to arrive this afternoon.”

  Greta’s stomach dropped. Today? Oh, that wouldn’t work at all. She peeked over the back of the sofa and out the window. Doyle Fremont was due back today. Now was definitely not the time to host a houseguest. Except... “Did you say you were scheduled?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. One of my clients passed away this morning, so I’m tied up in New York and can’t get out there until next week at the earliest. So unless you want to reschedule your show, you’ll need to meet with Ms. Sorenson at the gallery this week on your own.”

  “Oh.” Greta nibbled on a paint-stained thumbnail. “Okay.” She’d never handled one of these meetings on her own before. With the attention span of a dying gnat, important details didn’t always stay in her mind the way they should. That said, Collette Sorenson, the curator of the renowned Camellia Art Museum, held great sway over the West Coast art world. The last thing Greta wanted to do was alienate a woman who could have a substantial influence on her career.

  “I guess I can do that.” Even as she said the words, the anxiety built in her chest. This was why she should leave the house more often, so what needed doing outside these walls wasn’t so terrifying. “I’m probably in need of a change of scenery anyway.” Was she trying to convince him or herself? “Before it’s time to move on.” She was already closing in on a year, and she rarely stayed anywhere longer than that.

  The hesitation was slight on Lyndon’s part, but it was there. “So soon?”

  “It’s been ten months.” If there was one constant in her life, it was her determination to avoid anything remotely permanent. Permanent meant commitment, meant promises, and with her uncertain future, she had no business making either. “I was considering Portland.”

  “If that’s what’s best.”

  “You don’t think I should move?” Definitely not the reaction she’d expected. “You’re the one who’s always said the longer I stay anywhere the more likely it is someone will dig up my past. Besides, I like building up my real estate portfolio.” Not that she needed to. The family money she’d inherited when she was six years old was more than enough on its own. But she liked the idea of owning bits and pieces around the country and abroad, although she had never gone back to any of them. Some people put pins in maps. She collected real estate. “Unless you think—”

  “I think you should do what you want to do, Greta.” There was an exhaustion in his voice she hadn’t heard before. “I just assumed since Yvette was so close now, you might want to stay a bit longer.”

  That might have been true before her ill-advised guilt-call to 9-1-1. Greta rubbed her fingers across her forehead. All the more reason she should be relieved Detective Jack McTavish and his sidekick hadn’t taken her seriously. She’d spent most of her life trying to bury the past. She certainly didn’t need the police digging into it. “Maybe someday I’ll stop, but not now. I don’t want to take a chance.”

  “We can talk about it when I arrive. You’re certain about meeting with Ms. Sorenson yourself?”

  The doubt was there, just like the doubt she’d heard from Deputy Bowman, the doubt she felt in herself. She was rubbish around people; at times she could barely hold a conversation without getting distracted or going off in another direction. An unexpected flash of Jack McTavish exploded in her mind and for a moment, thanks to the image of his dimpled smile, she almost forgot what she and Lyndon were discussing. “I’m sure.”

  “I’m going to send you a list of things we need to confirm. Please be sure you go over it. Whatever else you need to discuss with her is up to you.”

  “All right.” She had the entire weekend before she had to go to the museum on Monday, but she was already getting nervous. In a good way. “Was there anything else?”

  “Just remember, it’s difficult to put the genie back in the bottle. Life is going to change for you after this show, Greta. We all need to be ready for it.”

  “At least with genies you get three wishes,” Greta teased because she felt he needed it. “If I have any questions about the meeting, I’ll text you.” This must have been what Dorothy felt when she’d emerged from her black-and-white world into glorious Technicolor. All that promise, the hope she’d find down the yellow brick road, it was all just waiting for her. This could be the start to an adventure, something she’d avoided all her life. All she needed to do was take the first step. “This is the right move. It’s my work, my future. I need to take better care of both.”

  His silence didn’t last quite so long this time. “I worry about you, Greta,” he said finally. “I don’t want—”

  “I know.” Greta swallowed around a suddenly tig
ht throat. “I know what you’re afraid of. But I’m not my mother.” She squeezed her eyes shut against the past and the pain. Against the terror that the darkness would swallow her as it had her mother. That she would become a danger not only to herself but to those around her. All the more reason to keep her life as solitary as possible. No matter how lonely it might be. “And you will be here for the show, won’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.” She could hear the scratching of the eagle topped fountain pen she’d given him when she was ten years old. No doubt he was scribbling on a piece of monogrammed stationary. The idea made her lips twitch. Lyndon Thornwald was so old-school that history textbooks could use him as a footnote. “Just let me know how the meeting goes.”

  “I will give you an update as soon as I have one,” Greta promised and after a few more minutes, they hung up.

  She wasn’t entirely sure what excited her more: taking a professional meeting all on her own or having the perfect excuse to take her time exploring the wonder of the Camellia Art Museum, which currently hosted a small, privately owned Salvador Dalí collection.

  Even before its renovation and expansion, the acclaimed art museum had long been considered a source of pride for Sacramento. For years, collections from all over the world had been displayed in the old Victorian built in 1872, but now most art pieces were displayed in the modern pavilion that had been constructed next door. She’d been working toward this for the past five years: her first private showing in a major gallery. All the more reason to keep her wits about her.

  The idea of leaving her tidy, comfortable world didn’t cause as much trepidation as it might have last week. Yes, this was her place where everything was in her control. But out there? She resisted the urge to look out the window. Well, the other night was the perfect example of what happened out there, but beyond that, she could only imagine what inspiration she might find. She needed to embrace the opportunity.

  Greta tossed her phone down and headed back to her stool and resituated herself with her glasses. Her view caught on the window across the street as she angled the glasses at the third floor. She blinked against the sunny glare on the glass and turned her head away to get rid of the spots from her eyes. When she looked again, for the second time she found two men standing in the office in question.