The Death Dealer
Page 22

Joe noticed, however, that one person was soundly clapping.
Albee Bennet, the butler.
He caught Joe watching him and smiled sheepishly. Later, as they were filing out of the church, he stopped Joe, who was with Genevieve and Eileen, and said, “That poor shy woman. I had to clap. I mean, the whole place went crazy over that egomaniac Don Tracy, but she was the one who really deserved the applause.”
“That was very kind of you,” Eileen told him sincerely.
And then they were all outside. Raif and Tom had respectfully disappeared before the end of the service, Joe noticed, as he watched Jared escorting Mary toward a limousine. Jared turned and stared back at Joe, and it was a bitter and resentful stare. Then he and Mary got into the limo, which drove smoothly away.
But Joe noticed that, as it started down the street, it was being followed.
Apparently the cops were still keeping an eye on Jared and his aunt.
He made a mental note that tomorrow he would try interviewing Mary Vincenzo. She never appeared quite as assured as Jared. She might well be the one to give him a clue to Jared’s guilt or innocence.
“Thorne would have been horrified,” Lila Hawkins announced, coming to stand beside them.
“Why?” Eileen asked, surprised. “I thought it was a lovely ceremony. A bit long, but Thorne would have enjoyed all the readings in his honor.”
“I meant he would have been horrified that Jared isn’t having a reception, that he isn’t inviting people back to his father’s house.”
“Maybe he’s still too upset,” Eileen suggested.
Lila let out a snort and turned to Gen. “Did you mention Larry Levine to Mr. Connolly?” she asked, then looked meaningfully at Joe.
“There hasn’t been time,” Genevieve said, then quickly told him about Lila’s suspicions.
“Is there some reason why you suspect him, especially?” Joe asked.
“He was always so jealous,” Lila said.
“I’ll certainly look into Larry’s whereabouts at the time,” he said.
“Good. And now, since nothing is on offer, I’m off,” Lila told them. “Good night.”
“Did you gain anything from this?” Genevieve asked him as they walked over to his car together.
“Maybe,” he told her.
“What?”
He grinned. “I’m not sure yet. We’ll have to see.”
“Lila is very suspicious of Larry, but…”
“But?”
“Well, I think it was my mother who mentioned that women tend to use poison to commit murder.”
“Historically speaking, that’s true. Poison is generally thought of as a woman’s weapon,” Joe agreed.
“So do you think…?”
“I wish I knew what to think,” he told her softly.
They drove Eileen home. Henry and Bertha were there to see that she got safely inside. When they got to Genevieve’s apartment, Joe parked and went with her to her door. Once there, he hesitated.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” she asked softly.
“Not if you don’t want me to,” he told her.
“I don’t,” she said, and smiled.
It was incredible, being with her. She was an exquisite lover, giving, exciting, tender, wild. He cared about her deeply, had been in danger of falling in love with her from the moment he had first seen her, as traumatic as it had been. Now, on only their second night together, they had already slipped easily into a close relationship, as if they were longtime lovers. He was physically exhausted and emotionally content when at last they slept.
There was no reason for the dream—the nightmare—to come again, but it did.
He was looking at her face, the perfect, sculpted beauty of it, and into her eyes. Those eyes, bluer than blue, filled with vibrancy, brilliance and life.
And then…
Then everything changed. Her eyes were suddenly huge and bulging, the red of broken capillaries spilling out around the blue, and bruises, blue and black, circled her neck, taking the form of handprints against the pale flesh of her throat….
“Joe!”
He heard her calling to him, but he was gasping, desperate to stop her murder but unable to figure out how. He couldn’t see who was threatening her; he could only see the certain death that was facing her. He could only see her death…
As it happened.
“Joe!” she called again.
He awoke with a start. She was next to him, her hands on his shoulders as she shook him awake.
He stared at her for a long moment before registering the fact that he was awake, and she was alive and well and at his side and that he had been experiencing a nightmare once again.
He didn’t speak at first, just put his arms around her and pulled her against him. He felt a thundering and knew that it was his own heart.
“Joe,” she repeated again, struggling to free herself enough to look up and meet his eyes. “Joe, what is it?”
I keep seeing you die, he thought, but he had no intention of saying the words aloud. Instead, he shook his head to clear it. “Nightmare,” he told her gruffly.
She seemed perplexed. Her hair spilled around her face, like soft flames in the shadows. “Maybe I should fire you,” she said.
He shook his head, his eyes dead set on hers. “You can fire me if you want to, but I won’t leave.”
She smiled. “You…you really are incredible, Joe.”
“Thanks. I’m good out of bed, too.”
Her smile deepened, and she settled down at his side. As he drew her closer to him, she said, “Joe, I’m worried about you.”
He hesitated. “You know, you had some kind of strange dream last night, too,” he told her.
“I did?”
He nodded.
“I don’t remember,” she said.
“That’s good,” he told her, thinking of the way she’d been sitting bolt upright, as if she were looking at something, watching someone.
Great. They should both head straight to therapy.
Except that she didn’t know that there was anything wrong. She didn’t remember what she’d been dreaming. She didn’t know…
That he heard dead people speak.
“Joe, are you sure you’re all right?” she asked, sounding anxious. “I don’t mean to pressure you. I’m awfully glad you’re with me, but—”
“Shh, I’m fine,” he assured her.
“Joe,” she said. “Joe…you kept saying…”
“Saying what?”
“‘No, don’t die. You can’t die.’”
He winced. Which would be worse? Lying and telling her that he had been dreaming about Leslie, or admitting that he was dreaming about someone murdering her?
“I know what you’re thinking, but I wasn’t dreaming about Leslie,” he said softly.
She swallowed, looking at him, her eyes so caring, so concerned.
“Joe, you were saying something else, too.”
“What?”
“‘I don’t talk to the dead. I don’t.’”
“Wow, I’m having some major-league nightmares, huh?” he asked lightly.
“Joe, have you been having these dreams for a long time?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“Is it…me?” she asked, sounding a little ill.
“Good Lord, no!” he protested.
“I would never want to hurt you, Joe,” she said.
“It’s exactly the opposite,” he told her. “I would never hurt you. I would kill someone before I let them hurt you in any way.”
She touched his face in that special way of hers. He felt as if he were melting.
“Joe,” she said, “I’m so glad you’re here with me. I’ve wanted you here for…for a while, I admit.”
“You are a dream, do you understand?” he asked passionately. “You are the best dream, and never a nightmare,” he told her.
She seemed uncertain for a moment. Then she offered him a dry half smile. “I know I have to be careful because of that big head of yours, but…you really are incredible.”
“Aw, shucks, ma’am.”
He ran a hand down the length of her back. Sleek. Arousing. Then he turned toward her. Kissed her.
Made love to her.
They slept again, and he had no more dreams that night.
There was something wrong with Joe. She was sure of it, no matter how hard he tried to deny it.
Over coffee the next morning, Genevieve sat in her den at her desk and mulled over the fact that something was seriously troubling him.
Something?
Oh, yeah. Something.
“I don’t talk to dead people. I don’t.”
She started to pick up the phone, hesitated, then set the receiver down again.
She really was worried.
Joe cared about her, she was certain. He was still protective, of course, but there was more to it than that. He made love to her with undeniable passion. He teased her, and when she teased him back, he responded with heartfelt laughter.
But he was having terrible nightmares. The kind that made him tense up like a coiled rattler in the middle of the night. The kind that seemed to grip him in a brutal vise.
And he hadn’t been having them for long. No, only since he’d been sleeping with her.
That certainly didn’t bode well for a lasting relationship.
She opened a desk drawer that she had closed a long time ago and hadn’t opened since. It contained the newspaper articles from when she had been kidnapped.
And rescued.
There, in one of the pictures, was a man named Adam Harrison. He had come because he had been a friend of Leslie’s. And Leslie had been a psychic. A real psychic.
She remembered Adam and his firm, Harrison Investigations, from that difficult time. Soft-spoken, reassuring and kind, he had never made her feel fragile, as if people had to walk on eggshells and whisper around her. Her mother also knew Adam, but differently. He, too, had been born wealthy, and they had met in the course of their various philanthropies.