Chapter 2

Monday— 10:46 a.m.

The small apartment had been trashed. Broken glass sparkled on anonymous beige carpet; books and carefully chosen knickknacks had been raked from the shelf to the floor; an empty pizza box lay discarded on the floor; and someone had taken a sharp blade to the old red leather sofa that sat in the middle of the room. Had the sofa been mutilated with the same knife that had killed Sherry Bishop? He didn’t know. Not yet.

Gideon kept his eyes on Bishop’s body while the woman behind him talked, her voice quick and high.

“I thought maybe Echo was on her way home early and had ordered a pizza on her cell, you know? She does like to eat late at night, so I didn’t even think…” She snorted. “Stupid. My mother will kill me when she finds out I let a wacko into the apartment.”

Gideon glanced up and back. Was that an expression Sherry Bishop had used a hundred times before and automatically called upon now? Or did she not yet realize that she was dead? My mother will kill me…

She looked almost solid, perched on the chair behind him. As usual, she wore a faded pair of hip-hugger jeans and a T-shirt with the hem ripped to display her belly button and the piercing there. The hairdo was new. Echo had found the body earlier this morning, after returning from a weekend trip to Charlotte. She’d immediately called him instead of dialing 911. So much for taking the week off. Gideon had made the necessary calls by cell phone, while on his way to the scene. After he’d arrived, he’d talked to Echo in the hallway. He’d calmed her down as best he could, and he’d been here to stop the first patrolmen who arrived from entering and possibly contaminating the crime scene. The uniforms stood in the hallway still, peering into the apartment like kids who weren’t allowed into the candy store. Had he ever been that young?

They were all watching, but he couldn’t worry about that. He already had a reputation as being odd; that was the least of his worries.

“Did you know him?” he asked softly.

“Her,” Sherry said.

A woman? Gideon glanced at the body again, then at the mess the attacker had made of the apartment.

She’s very bad, Daddy. Very bad.

When Emma had appeared to him in the dream, Sherry Bishop had been dead for hours. Not only dead, but mutilated. The index finger of her right hand was missing, cut off after death, judging by the small amount of blood that had been shed. A neat square of her scalp, as well as a portion of blond and pink hair, had also been taken. He had a hard time comprehending that a woman had done this, but by now he should know that anything and everything was possible.

“Did you know her?”

The specter shook her head.

She looked almost real, except that she wasn’t entirely solid. It was as if she were manufactured entirely of a thick mist. Her pink-and-blond spiked hair, the jeans and T-shirt she wore, her pale skin. It was all slightly less than substantial.

“I opened the door, she rushed in and said she wouldn’t hurt me if I didn’t scream, and then she hit me on my neck and…” She laid a hand over her throat and looked past Gideon to the body. Her body. “That bitch killed me, didn’t she?”

“I’m afraid so. Anything you can tell me about her would be helpful.”

Sherry looked at the body and gasped.

“She cut off my finger? How am I supposed to play the drums with…” The ghost fell back against the couch. “Yeah, I know,” she sighed. “Dead.”

“Detective Raintree?” One of the patrolmen stuck his head in the room. “Are you, uh, okay?”

Gideon lifted a hand without looking at the officer.

“I’m fine.”

“I heard you, uh, talking.”

This time Gideon did look at the kid. Hard.

“I’m talking to myself. Let me know when the crime scene techs arrive.”

He heard Echo start to cry again, and the officers turned to comfort her. His cousin was distracting them so he could work in peace, he knew. There wasn’t a man alive who would mind comforting Echo Raintree.

The ghost of Sherry Bishop sighed again, and her form vibrated.

“They can’t see me, can they?”

“No,” Gideon whispered.

“But you can.”

He nodded.

“Why is that?”

Blood. Genetics. A curse. A gift. Electrons.

“We don’t have time to talk about me.”

He didn’t know how long Sherry Bishop would remain earthbound. Maybe a few minutes more, maybe an hour, maybe a couple of days. Perhaps she would demand justice and hang around until his job was done, but he couldn’t be sure. He could never be sure. Ghosts were damned unreliable.

“Tell me everything you remember about the woman who attacked you.”

Detective Hope Malory rushed up the stairs of the old apartment building, slowing her step as she approached the third floor. Half a dozen cops and a handful of neighbors were milling around in the hallway outside the victim’s apartment, all of them trying to peer inside as if there were a show going on.

All but one petite young woman with short blond hair shot with liberal hot pink streaks. She hung back, almost as if she were afraid to see what was happening inside.

Hope took a deep breath and smoothed her navy-blue jacket as she approached. This morning she’d dressed professionally, as always, in trousers and a jacket like any other detective. Her pistol was housed in a holster at her waist, and her badge hung around her neck, so everyone could see it plainly.

The only concessions she made to her femininity were a touch of makeup and the two-inch heels. She wanted to make a good impression, since this was her first day on the job. From everything she’d heard, no matter what she said or did, her new partner was not going to be happy to see her.

She made her way past a couple of the officers to the doorway. One of them whispered to her, “You can’t go in there.”

She stopped for a moment and watched Detective Gideon Raintree at work.

She’d studied his file extensively in preparation for this assignment. The man was not only a good cop, he had a solution rate that boggled the mind. Right now he was down on his haunches, studying the body and talking to himself in a low voice. Behind him, a lamp on an end table directed light on to his tightly-wound body in an odd way, as if he were caught in the spotlight. All the blinds were closed, so the room was almost dark. Everything was as he’d found it, she knew.

The photograph in Gideon Raintree’s file didn’t do him justice, Hope could tell that from where she stood, even though she didn’t have a clear view of his face. He was a very good-looking man with a great body—the perfectly cut suit couldn’t hide that—and the fact that he needed a haircut didn’t make him any less attractive. She’d always been a sucker for longish hair on a man, and very dark brown hair with just a touch of a wave hung a tad too long on Raintree’s neck. No matter how conservatively he dressed, he would never completely pull off a conventional look.

The suit he wore was expensive; he hadn’t bought that on a cop’s salary, not unless he’d been living on macaroni and cheese for the past year. It was dark gray, perfectly fitted, and would never dare to wrinkle. The shoes were expensive, too, made of good quality leather. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, very hip, very roguish. If not for the gun and badge, Raintree wouldn’t look at all like a cop.

She stepped into the room, against the whispered advice of the officer behind her. Raintree’s head snapped up.

“I told you…” he began, but he didn’t finish his sentence.

He stared at her with intense green eyes that were surprised and intelligent, and Hope got her first really good look at Gideon Raintree’s face. Cheekbones and eyelashes like that on a man really should be illegal, and the way he stared at her with those narrowed eyes…

The lightbulb in the lamp behind him exploded.

“Sorry,” he said, as if he had somehow made the lightbulb explode. “I’m not ready for the crime scene techs. Give me a few more minutes and I’ll be out of your way.” His tone was dismissive, and that rankled.

“I’m not with the Crime Scene Division,” Hope said as she took a careful step forward.

His head snapped up, and he glared at her again, not so politely this time. “Then get out.”

Hope shook her head. Normally she would offer her hand for a professional greeting when she got close enough, but Raintree was wearing white gloves, so she would be keeping her hands to herself. The firm businesslike handshake she usually offered the men she worked with would have to wait.

“I’m Detective Hope Malory,” she said. “Your new partner.”

He didn’t hesitate before answering with confidence:

“My partner retired five months ago, and I don’t need another one. Don’t touch anything on your way out.”

She was dismissed, and Raintree returned his attention to the body on the floor, even though he now had less light to study it by. The overhead light was dim, but she supposed it cast enough illumination over the scene. Hope had tried not to actually look at the body, but as she continued to stand her ground, she made herself take in the scene before her. It was the hair that caught her attention first. Like the woman in the hall, this victim’s hair was a mixture of pale blond and bright pink. She was dressed in well-worn blue jeans and a once-white T-shirt that advertised a local music festival. She had four gold earrings in one ear and one in the other, and wore a total of five rings—a mixture of gold and silver—on her slender fingers. All nine of them. Hope’s stomach flipped. One finger had been removed, and there was a horrible bloody wound on the top of the victim’s head, as if someone had tried to scalp her.

The same someone who had sliced her throat.

Hope took a deep breath to compose herself, then decided that wasn’t a good idea. Death wasn’t pretty, and it didn’t smell nice, either. She had, of course, seen bodies before. But they hadn’t been quite this fresh, or this mangled. It was impossible not to be affected by the sight.

Raintree sighed.

“You’re not going away, are you?”

Hope shook her head, and tried to casually cover her nose and mouth with one hand.

“Fine,” Raintree said sharply. “Sherry Bishop, twenty-two years old. She was single and had no significant relationship at the time of her murder. Money was tight, so robbery is unlikely as a motive. Bishop was a drummer with a local band and also waitressed at a coffee shop downtown to make ends meet.”

“If she was in a band, maybe a stalker fixated on her,” Hope suggested.

The man who continued to squat on the floor by the body shook his head.

“She was killed by a left-handed woman with long blond hair.”

“How did you come up with all that information in the past, what, twenty minutes?”

“Fifteen.” Gideon Raintree stood slowly.

He was over six feet tall—six-one, to be exact, according to his file—so Hope had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. His skin was warm, kissed by the sun, and this close, the green of his eyes was downright remarkable. The goatee and moustache gave him an almost devilish appearance, and somehow it suited him. When his eyes were narrowed and watchful, as they were now, he looked incredibly hard, as if he possessed no more heart than the murderers he pursued. Feeling more than a little like a coward, Hope dropped her gaze to his blue silk tie.

“From the angle of the wound, it appears that the attacker held the knife in her left hand,” he explained. “The coroner will confirm that, I’m sure.”

From what she’d heard, Gideon Raintree was always sure of himself. And always right. “You said her. How can you know the killer was a woman?”

Gideon nodded. “There’s a single long blond hair on the victim’s clothing. Hair that length on a man is possible, but unlikely. Again, the coroner will have to confirm.”

All right, he was observant. He had done this before. He was good.

“How could you possibly know the personal details of her life?” Hope asked.

Drummer. No significant other. Waitress in a coffee shop. She quickly scanned the room for clues and saw none.

“Sherry Bishop was my cousin Echo’s roommate.”

Hope nodded. She tried to remain unaffected, but the smell was making her queasy.

Raintree stared right through her with those odd eyes of his.

“This is your first homicide, isn’t it?”

Again Hope nodded.

“If you’re going to throw up, do it in the hallway. I won’t have you contaminating my crime scene.”

How thoughtful.

“I’m not going to contaminate your crime scene.”

“Good. If you insist on sticking around, interview the neighbors and see if they heard anything last night or early this morning.”

Gladly. Hope nodded yet again, then turned to escape from the room, leaving Gideon Raintree alone with the victim.

She was quite certain that he was more comfortable with the dead woman than he was with her.

His new partner was intently interviewing a nosy neighbor, and the crime scene techs were doing their thing inside the apartment. Gideon sat beside Echo on the steps that led to the fourth floor.

“Is she here?” Echo asked softly.

No one was paying them any attention at the moment. Gideon didn’t expect that would last long.

“She’s sitting behind us.”

Even though Echo knew she wouldn’t see anything, she glanced over her shoulder to the deserted steps.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve known.”

Like Bishop, Echo was a young twenty-two. She was incredibly talented—as a guitar player and as a seer—but she had little or no control over her gift of prophesy. Calling her psychic wasn’t quite right. She couldn’t tell you where you’d left your wallet or whether or not you would marry within the next year, but she did see disasters. She dreamed of floods and earthquakes. Her nightmares came true.

Gideon had a touch of pre-cog ability, but not enough to make a significant difference. His instincts were just a hair sharper than was normal, but he didn’t dream about catastrophes and experience them as if he were there—there and unable to do anything to stop what was coming. Compared to Echo’s power, he considered talking to dead people a walk in the park.

“It was painless,” Gideon said as he put his arm around Echo’s shoulder. “She didn’t even know what happened.”

“What a load of bull,” Sherry muttered, her voice sour. “It hurt like hell!”

Fortunately, no one but Gideon heard her.

“Why would anyone kill Sherry?” Echo asked. The tears hadn’t stopped, but they were softer now. Constant but gentle. “Everyone liked her.”

“I don’t know.”

Something Gideon didn’t like niggled at his brain. Bishop hadn’t recognized her killer. She’d never suspected that her life was in danger. There was no logical reason for her to be dead, much less savagely mutilated. In every case he’d had since moving to Wilmington four years ago, the victim had known the name of the killer. Drugs were the usual motive, but there had been a few crimes of misdirected passion. Murder by stranger was a rare thing. With a few notable exceptions, it took a personal connection for murder to occur. He didn’t want to scare his cousin, but there was one possibility he couldn’t ignore.

“Have you had any visions lately that might’ve put you in danger?”

Echo didn’t need to be asked twice.

“Do you think the person who killed Sherry was after me?”

“Son of a bitch!” Sherry said softly. “I never should’ve dyed my hair blond and pink like Echo’s. We thought it would be such a good thing for the band, you know? A trademark. A… a thing…” She pouted. “I thought it was so cute.”

“It’s just a possibility,” Gideon said softly. “Look, you won’t be able to stay here for a while anyway, so I want you to find yourself a quiet place to crash, and I want you to stay there until I figure this out. Where are your folks?”

“St. Moritz.”

Figures.

“I don’t want you going that far.” Besides, Echo’s parents were all but useless in a crisis. “You can stay at my place for a few days.”

Echo sighed and rested her head on her hands.

“We have a gig next weekend, so I’m cool until then. I can call the coffee shop and tell them I won’t be in this week, and then I can go to Charlotte and stay with Dewey until Friday.”

Dewey. Great. The guy was a rail-thin goofy-looking saxophone player who had the hots for Echo, even though she insisted they were just friends. Still, a few days with Dewey would be better than staying around here if there was any chance the murderer had been after Echo and not Sherry.

“Call me before you come back to town. You may have to cancel your gig.”

Echo didn’t protest, as he’d thought she might.

“Maybe we should just cancel everything. We’ll never find a drummer to take Sherry’s place. And even if we do, it won’t be the same.”

Gideon didn’t see Echo often. He was twelve years older than she was, and they had no common interests. In fact, his little cousin had a wild streak that put his teeth on edge. Not that he’d always been a saint. But they were family, and he checked in on her now and then. He had even been to a smoky club to see her band play a couple of times. The music had been too loud and too angry to suit him, but the girls had all seemed to have a good time.

She was right. It would never be the same.

“You look tired.”

Echo shrugged her thin shoulders.

“I’m supposed to work this afternoon—you know, at the coffee shop—so I stayed up all night instead of driving home last night or trying to get up early this morning to drive back. You know how I hate to get up early.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“It just made more sense to stay up and drive back to grab something to eat before I had to…” Her voice hitched. “I guess I should call Mark and tell him I won’t be in today, and that Sherry won’t… you know.”

It was difficult to say aloud. Sherry Bishop wouldn’t be going back to work. Ever.

Gideon took his house key from his pocket and handed it to Echo.

“Get a couple of hours sleep at my place before you head to Charlotte. You shouldn’t be on the road in your condition.”

She nodded and slipped the key into her front pocket.

“Keep your cell on,” Gideon added.

None of the Raintrees advertised their gifts, but perhaps someone who had discovered Echo’s ability had wanted to silence her. Because of something she’d seen or might possibly see? And why take the finger and a segment of the scalp? That alone took this case beyond anything he had ever worked, but it didn’t help him. All he had were questions. Theories. More questions.

When he walked down the steps, Sherry Bishop followed.

“You are going to find out who did this to me, aren’t you?” she asked.

“I’m going to try.”

“This is just so freakin’ unfair. I had plans for my life, you know. Big plans. I was kinda hopin’ you’d ask me out one day. I mean, you’re older and all, but you’re really hot anyway.”

“Gee, thanks,” Gideon mumbled.

Sherry gasped.

“I never got a chance to wear my new boots! They were really kickin’, and I got them on sale.” She sighed. “Crap. Tell Echo she can have them.”

“I’ll tell her.”

Gideon stopped at the foot of the stairs and watched his new partner as she interviewed an older woman with frizzy gray hair. He liked to work alone. It made speaking to the victims so much easier. His last partner had finally decided to believe that Gideon talked to himself and had great hunches on a regular basis. Hope Malory didn’t look as if she would make things that easy for him. She didn’t look at all accepting of things she did not understand.

He appreciated women. He had no plans to marry or even get involved in a serious relationship, ever, but that didn’t mean he lived like a monk. Most women were attractive in some way; they all had a feature or two that could catch and hold a man’s attention for a while. Hope Malory was much more than attractive. She had a classic beauty. Black hair, cut chin length, hung around her face thick and silky. Her skin was creamy pale and flawless, her eyes a serene dark blue, her lips full and rosy. She was tall, long-legged and slender, yet rounded in all the right places. She had the face of an angel, a body that wouldn’t quit, and she carried a gun like she knew how to use it. Did that make her the perfect woman?

A shimmer of pure electricity ran through his body. The lights in the hallway flickered, causing everyone who was lingering in the hall to look up. At least this time nothing exploded.

“You’re going to catch her, right?” Sherry Bishop pressed.

He watched Hope Malory take a few furious notes, then ask another question of the neighbor. “Catch her? Right now I’m not even planning to chase her. She’s pretty, but she’s not my type, and it’s never a good idea to mix business with pleasure.”

“Get your mind out of your pants, Raintree,” Sherry said sharply. “I’m not talking about your new partner, I’m talking about the woman who killed me.”

He didn’t take his eyes off Malory as he answered, “I’m going to try.”

“Echo says you’re the best,” Sherry said more kindly.

“Does she?” Hope Malory glanced his way, caught his eye, then quickly returned her attention to the neighbor.

“Yeah. And you’d better hurry, Raintree.”

Gideon turned to look at Sherry Bishop. She’d faded considerably since they’d left the apartment. Soon she would move on, go home, be at peace. That was as it should be, but once that happened he would have a much harder time communicating with her. It might be possible, but it certainly wouldn’t be this easy.

Malory made her way toward him with long, easy strides that spoke of confidence and grace. Her notes had been dutifully taken, and he was sure they would be complete.

“Nothing,” she said softly as she came near. “Mrs. Tarleton, who lives right next door, is practically deaf, and the other neighbor was out until early this morning. No one heard anything. Everyone liked the victim and your cousin, even though they were, as Mrs. Tarleton said, young and a bit wild.” She looked past Gideon to the stairway. “Maybe I should talk to your cousin.”

“No.”

She looked him in the eye and lifted her eyebrows slightly.

“No?”

“I’ve already talked to Echo.”

“You’re her cousin, which means you’re too close to her to be objective. Besides, you’re a man.”

“You make that sound like a bad thing.”

“It can be. The point is, she might tell me things she wouldn’t tell you.”

“I doubt it.”

The woman got her hackles up.

“Should you even be working this case? After all, you have a personal connection here.”

“I met Sherry Bishop one time. Maybe twice. There’s no reason—”

“I’m not talking about your relationship to the victim, Raintree. Until we eliminate her, your cousin is a natural suspect.”

“Echo wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“You tell her, Gideon,” Sherry Bishop said in an irate voice. “How dare she insinuate that Echo would do this to me?”

“You’re not objective,” Malory insisted.

Gideon did his best to ignore Sherry’s ramblings, which had nothing at all to do with her death. “We’ll establish my cousin’s alibi first thing, if it’ll make you feel better. Once she’s eliminated from your list of suspects maybe it’ll be okay with you if I do my job.”

“There’s no reason to get snippy.”

Gideon leaned down slightly and lowered his voice.

“Detective Malory, if you’re determined to be my new partner I don’t guess there’s much I can do about it. Not at the moment, anyway. But do us both a favor and act like a detective, not a little girl.”

Her nostrils flared. Ah, he’d hit a nerve.

“I am not a girl, Raintree, you—”

“Snippy,” he interrupted. “A word not used by real men anywhere.”

“Fine,” she said with unnecessary sharpness. “I’ll just grunt a lot and scratch my ass now and then, and maybe I’ll fit in.”

Sherry grimaced.

“I’ll bet a chick like her never scratches her ass.”

The truth of the matter was that Gideon knew it didn’t matter what Hope Malory did or said. She was going to get under his skin big time. Like it or not, she was already there, and she was going to stay until he found a way to get rid of her. Out of sight, out of mind, right? It wasn’t as if she was the only pretty woman in Wilmington.

He didn’t need a partner; he didn’t want one; it would never work. And in the end, it wouldn’t matter.

Malory wouldn’t last long.