Kay Hooper - Sense Of Evil

“Nothing new, I’d say,” Caleb observed, wondering if she was as tired as she seemed. Telling himself he shouldn’t take advantage.

Hollis agreed with a nod. “The police have already photocopied and gone through every page of the day planner: everything in it is purely work related. What few personal effects she kept in the desk are the usual, innocuous sort of thing any woman would keep at work. Extra compact and lipstick, small bottle of perfume, emery board and nail clippers, a ripped-in-half photo of the ex-boyfriend she clearly wasn’t quite ready to throw away.”

Caleb grimaced. “I caught her looking at that once or twice. She said just what you did, that she wasn’t quite ready to toss it.”

“It takes time for some people to let go.”

He decided not to comment on that. “So there’s nothing helpful here in the office.”

“Nothing I can see.” Hollis rose to her feet. She glanced past Caleb toward the front door and for an instant went still, eyes widening.

Caleb looked back over his shoulder, then at her. His first, instinctive reading of her posture and expression was that she had received a shock but was almost immediately back in control of whatever emotions that shock had caused.

“What?” he asked.

She blinked, her gaze returning to him. “Hmm? Nothing. It’s nothing. Listen, Mr. Powell, confidentially, the focus of the investigation is going to shift back to the first victim. We believe something about that victim or that murder is most likely to help us identify the killer.”

He thought she was a little pale, but what she’d told him pushed that awareness out of his mind. “So Tricia’s murder goes on the back burner.”

Gravely, Hollis said, “In the conference room at the police department where we’ll work every day, there are bulletin boards sectioned, so far, into thirds. Each third is filled with photos and information on each victim. Time lines of the last weeks of their lives. Habits, haunts, events that might or might not have been important. Every day, we look at those boards. Every day, we look at the pictures of those women. And every day, we’ll discuss their lives and the people who knew them and try to figure out who killed them. Every day.”

Caleb drew a breath and let it out slowly. “Sorry. It’s just that… she was my friend.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Her blue eyes gazed past him for another moment, briefly. “Just know that nobody is going to forget Tricia. And that we’ll get her killer.”

“You seem so certain of that.”

Hollis looked faintly surprised. “We won’t give up until we do get him. It’s only a matter of time, Mr. Powell.”

“Caleb,” he said, “please. And thank you for your efforts, Agent Templeton.”

She smiled wryly. “Hollis. Especially since I’m not a full agent yet. Special Investigator is a title the SCU gives its members who lack a background in law or law enforcement. I’ve only been with the unit a few months.”

“But you’re a trained investigator?”

“Recently trained, yeah. In my… previous life… I did something else.” Hollis came out from behind the desk, adding in a slightly preoccupied tone, “My partner, on the other hand, has a solid background in law and law enforcement, as well as years of experience, so you don’t have to worry that the Bureau sent two rookies down here.”

“I wasn’t worried, actually.” Realizing she was about to leave, and reluctant to let her go, he said quickly, “I remember you saying something about being an artist.”

“Used to be.”

“Used to be? Does a creative person ever stop being creative?”

For the first time, Hollis was clearly uncomfortable. “Sometimes things happen that change your whole life. I-uh-need to get back to the police station. Thank you very much for your cooperation, Mr.-Caleb. I’ll be in touch.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Thanks again. Bye.”

He didn’t try to stop her, but for several minutes after she left, Caleb gazed after her, frowning, wondering what had happened to change Hollis Templeton’s entire life.

“I know all about evil, Mr. Powell, believe me. I met it up close and personal.”

He hadn’t thought she’d been speaking literally.

Now he was very much afraid she had been.

5:00 PM

When Rafe and Isabel were in one of the department Jeeps and on their way to Jamie Brower’s apartment, he said, “I notice you haven’t suggested that Hollis visit any of the crime scenes.”

“Since what happened earlier, you mean?” Isabel shrugged. “You’ve obviously also noticed Hollis is a bit… fragile.”

“It’s a little hard to miss.”

“She has a lot of potential. But becoming a medium cost her a trip to hell you wouldn’t believe, and she hasn’t completely dealt with that yet.

“But despite being afraid, despite her not reaching out, not trying to make contact-she did. Which is an indication of just how much potential she has.”

Rafe sent his companion a glance. “You really believe there was a ghost in the room with us?”

“I believe the spirit of Jamie Brower was there, yes.”

“But you didn’t see her? It?”

“No, I can’t see the dead.” Isabel’s voice was utterly matter-of-fact. “Or hear them, for that matter. But I can sometimes feel them near me. The very air in the room changes, maybe because they aren’t supposed to be a part of this dimensional plane. You felt it yourself.”

This time, Rafe kept his eyes on the road. “My ears popped. It happens.”

“All the time,” she agreed mildly.

“Look, if Jamie was really there, why didn’t she say or do something to help us find her killer?”

“She was trying. Trying to speak to Hollis, the only one in the room with the ability to hear her. Unfortunately, Hollis isn’t ready to listen.”

“I don’t suppose Jamie could just scribble us a note, huh? X killed me. ”

Isabel answered the question seriously. “So far, none of us has encountered a spirit or noncorporeal force with enough focus and power to physically touch or move objects. Unless they were inside a host, of course. Or controlling one.”

S HE’LL TELL. You know she’ll tell.

He listened to the voice this time because he wanted to. Because he enjoyed this part of it so much. Watching them. Following. Learning their routines.

Hunting.

Like the others. Just like them.

The voice was right about that. She was just like all the rest. Laughing behind his back. So eager to tell his secrets. He had to stop her before she could do that.

You’ve done three. Only three more. And then you can rest. Then you can be.

“I’m tired,” he murmured, still watching her. “This time, I’m tired.”

That’s because you’re changing.

“I know.” He moved carefully, staying in the shadows as he followed her. This one was tricky; she was aware of her surroundings, watchful. Uneasy. They were all beginning to act that way, he’d noticed. Part of him loved that, that he made them so uneasy.

But it made things more difficult.

You can do this. You have to. Or she’ll tell. She’ll tell them all about you.

“Yes,” he murmured, easing a little closer despite the risk that she would see him. “I have to. I can’t let her tell. I can’t let any of them tell.”

Rafe pulled the Jeep abruptly to the curb and parked. They were still in the downtown area, not even halfway to Jamie’s apartment. He continued to stare through the windshield, his rugged face completely unreadable. “A host.”

Isabel didn’t have to be clairvoyant to know he had just about reached the end of his willingness to believe in the paranormal. Or even to accept that it might be possible.