Stella Cameron - Out of Body

“They’ll call anyway, you know that.”

Fisher moved his shoulders around. Prickling showered the middle of his back. He looked at his damp, empty cup. His fingers felt cold.

“Someone walking on your grave?” Archer said. “You shivered.”

And Fisher shivered again. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said and grinned.

He didn’t feel like smiling. His gut was hot and jumpy. It had happened before, many times, starting when he’d been a kid. In the past year the episodes had come more frequently and with increasing discomfort. He might as well face it and hope whatever it was this time would move on quickly. He got these feelings before something happened, something unpleasant.

“Tell me something about Liza Soaper?” Archer said.

It wasn’t a pretty story—although it got better recently—and he didn’t feel like sharing much of it. “She’s a loner. No friends she mentioned or that I saw. Country girl with guts and drive. Her family never wants to hear from her again. They’re convinced she’s a prostitute or a stripper, and New Orleans is sin city.”

“Sounds like they know our little burg.”

“Yeah.” Fisher snorted. “She lived on just about nothing for the first months, until someone noticed she’s got a big, rich voice.”

“That matches what we know,” Archer said. “There isn’t even a record of her having a car.”

“I don’t think she did—or Amber.”

Archer rocked a little, then jotted a note. “Probably doesn’t matter, but we’ll find out how these women got to work.”

Fisher wanted to rub his back and walk around, but he stayed put, and still. The heat inside him cranked up. This time was different from the others, exciting rather than unpleasant. Muscles in his back bunched so tight he rotated his shoulders.

The phone rang. Archer swung his feet to the floor, picked up and barked, “Archer.”

Silence, except for the occasional grunt, went on for a while before he got off and said, “You were more or less onto something. Everyone who ever heard Liza or Amber or Pipes Dupuis sing, or think they did, must have called in. I’m going up to Lemon and take a look.” He stood, but hesitated. “You’ll be here when I get back.”

The order wasn’t subtle, and Fisher didn’t like it. “Not if you’re up there long. I’ve got to keep on doing what I’m doing. I’ve got a living to make.”

“I’d like you to wait.”

“I can give it about ten. After that, you’ve got my cell number. If I intended to make a run for some reason, for any reason at all, I wouldn’t be here now.”

Hands on hips, Archer studied him.

Fisher’s teeth locked together. He looked over his shoulder at someone standing outside the windows—looking in. Breath left his lungs as if he’d been winded.

“Who the hell is that?” Archer said.

Someone for me . He could feel it. Fisher didn’t answer.

“Civilians aren’t supposed to wander about down here—on their own,” Archer said.

A woman, a bit shorter than average, stared at them through spaces in the warped window shades. She had very curly, dark red hair that burst out in ringlets to her shoulders, and eyes green enough for the color to be obvious at fourteen feet. She was suddenly even shorter. Apparently she had been standing on tiptoe to get a better look at the office.

The door opened slowly and she stepped partway into the room. Fisher heard a whine from the corridor and the woman turned and looked down. “Don’t embarrass me, Winnie,” she said clearly.

Fisher realized he’d mashed the cup to a pulp. “Dog,” he said, hoping Archer wouldn’t notice the cup.

“Why not a dog?” Archer said. “Or a damn performing monkey? Fits right in with the way this day’s been going.”

“Detective?” the redhead said.

Archer cleared his throat. “What makes you think I am?”

“One of you probably is. There’s a name on the door.”

Forest-green. That was the color of her eyes. Fisher couldn’t have met her before or he would have remembered the instant he saw her. A little woman with a big impact—on him. For the first time he understood exactly what was meant by raw nerve endings.

“Who are you looking for?” Archer said, but Fisher noticed he didn’t sound angry.

“Detective Archer,” she said with a puzzled frown. “I already said that.”

“Ma’am, how did you get down here?” Archer asked. “The public isn’t supposed to wander in off the street and poke around.”

“Why not? The public pays for all of this. We pay your salary, too.”

While Archer watched, his lower jaw slack, she came in and shut the door.

Again Fisher felt a slam to his diaphragm, this time even harder. This was it. The closer the redhead got, the more excited and riled up he felt. She was part of something to do with him.

“I’m Detective Nat Archer. This is Gray Fisher—he’s a journalist friend of mine.”

After nodding at her, Fisher balanced the notebook on a knee and wrote words, just words. Later he’d take a look and see if they said anything. For now he didn’t care as long as she didn’t get a look at the effect she was having on him.

“I’m Marley Millet,” she said. “I wanted to talk to someone about what was on that press conference earlier. Upstairs they told me to wait and someone would get to me, only they didn’t.”

“This is a busy place, Miz Millet,” Archer said. “A lot of people wait.”

“They shouldn’t have to. Not all of them—not if they’ve got important information like I do.”

“Come and take a seat,” Archer said, dragging another folding chair forward. “How did you know I was on this case?”

“These questions are all a waste of time.”

From the corner of an eye, Fisher saw her sit down and cross her legs. Nice legs. Nice body. Little, but definitely worth more than a look. Some sensations began to fade, all but the intense and growing feeling that he should prepare to defend himself. Why did the anticipation stimulate rather than put him on guard?

“I heard someone say your name. Several times. And I could figure out they were talking about the women who are missing—” She paused. “I went to the ladies’ room on the main floor and then just started walking along corridors. When I didn’t find you up there, I came downstairs and here you are.”

“This has been a bitch of a day,” Archer said.

“I agree,” Marley Millet said. “I’m pooped out.”

Fisher smiled to himself.

“I came to talk to you about Liza Soaper and Amber Lee.” She wound her hands tightly together. “I don’t suppose you’ve found them yet, have you?”

This was the right place and the right man, Marley thought. Archer’s body had tensed, and he leaned toward her. His face was a study in reluctant curiosity. Curiosity, she understood. Why reluctant, she didn’t know.

“How are you connected to them?” he said of Liza and Amber.

Archer was the one she’d come looking for, but…she looked sideways at the man seated in a chair…this one had the power, a special power. A gripping, a tightening around her midsection disoriented her. Who was he and why was he here?

Archer cleared his throat. “I asked how you know Liza Soaper and Amber Lee,” he said, not attempting to hide his irritation.

“Yes,” she said. There was a pull, an attraction, but not necessarily of the kind she was happy about.

The other man didn’t even glance at her. But Marley studied him closely. His hair was dark with hints of time in the sun, roughed up and skimming his collar, like her brother Sykes’s had been the last time she saw him. Only Sykes had black hair—an anomaly in the Millet family and cause for grave concern. Quixotic he might be, but she longed for Sykes’s presence, his assurance that anything could be overcome, or “accomplished,” as he would say. She could try asking him to come. They had their way of signaling each other, only Sykes had a rule, they both did: If you call, there had better be blood on the floor .