Sheri WhiteFeather - Always Look Twice

“Olivia is FBI, too,” Muncy said, catching the profiler’s attention with a silly joke. “Full-blooded Indian.”

“I’m aware of that.” He leaned forward, putting his hands on the conference table, looking straight at her, his voice laced with a Southern-boy slant. “I assume you’re concerned about helping our people.”

“Our people?” She raised her eyebrows. He wasn’t claiming to be Indian, was he? Olivia hailed from an Oglala Lakota father and a Chiricahua Apache mother, both of whom were long gone from her life. A younger sister was her only family.

“Let me guess. Your great-great-grandmother was a Cherokee princess,” she said, poking fun at the oldest, most ridiculous wannabe claim that ever existed.

A cynical smile ghosted across his lips. Apparently he was familiar with the princess scenario. “I’m a card-carrying Muscogee Creek, Ms. Whirlwind.”

Who relied on his heritage when it suited him, she thought. A special agent, ready to save the day, with one-sixteenth or possibly one-eighth Native blood flowing through his veins.

But, hey, he was registered with his tribe.

“I’m impressed,” she told him.

“So I see,” he mocked. “And considering you have a lot in common with the victims in this case, you should be. A young, attractive Native American woman living and working in Los Angeles County. I’d be careful if I were you.”

“But you’re not me, are you?” Olivia knew damn well that she could shoot a flea off the back of a gnat’s ass faster than West could pull out his peter to pee. “I can take care of myself.”

He dropped his gaze to the base of her throat, where a noticeable scar made a mysterious statement. “You sure about that?”

“Positive.” Was the special agent wondering if someone had tried to slit her throat? Olivia knew how her scar affected most people and what their speculations were. Of course, he was different. He’d probably figured it out already. He’d probably seen enough wounds to know how they were inflicted. But even so, she lifted her chin, allowing him a good hard look.

He took an unabashed gander, but he didn’t let his gaze slip lower, even though her curve-clinging jumpsuit attracted plenty of attention. Olivia enjoyed dressing like a designer-clad dominatrix. It fit her daring personality, the part of her that refused to be tamed.

“Why don’t you brief me on the case?” West said, his tone a tad too condescending.

She glared at him. “I’m sure the detectives already brought you up to speed.”

“I’d really like to hear it from a psychic’s perspective.”

“Fine.” She accepted his challenge and glanced at Muncy, who leaned back in his chair, keeping his emotions in check. Riggs, on the other hand, managed a small smile. But whom the smile was intended for wasn’t quite clear.

Olivia came to her feet, walking to the front of the room. At twenty-nine she worked hard to keep her body fit, taking pride in the beauty that came from being a woman. Bulletlike, her spiky-heeled boots sounded on the floor, as deadly as her aim. A ladylike bondage belt was slung low on her hips, resting to one side. And although the Glock she routinely carried was in plain sight, she’d snagged a permit to carry a concealed weapon, something next to impossible for a California civilian.

West didn’t take a chair. He parked his butt on the edge of the table, and when Riggs cleared her throat, a blast of sexual energy ripped through Olivia’s body.

Well what do you know? The lady cop really did think the profiler was a hunk. Olivia wondered if fraternization was allowed, or if FBI agents were banned from boffing pretty blond detectives.

She glanced at his left hand, then got a quick flash of the wedding band that used to be there. She shrugged away the energy connected to it, the hurt and anger, the nights he spent alone.

West crossed his arms. “Any time you’re ready.”

Needing a distraction, Olivia messed up her hair, scattering the short, choppy layers, blocking out the profiler’s private life. “There’s been three female victims in this case,” she began. “The first two were slashed inside their L.A. homes, stabbed repeatedly, with no forced entry and no sexual assault. The third, Denise Red Bow,” she added, indicating the autopsy pictures, “was killed in the same manner. But even though she lived and worked in Hollywood, she was stabbed while house-sitting for her parents on their reservation, about 120 miles south of L.A.” Olivia paused, cursing the law. “And that’s why you were brought in. Indian Country falls under federal jurisdiction.”

“That’s right.” He uncrossed his arms. “And now here we are, one big happy family, working on this investigation together.”

She looked at Muncy and noticed the strain around his mouth. The LAPD did its own profiling. They didn’t need the FBI’s assistance.

Olivia continued the briefing, reciting information West already knew. “The killer’s calling card is an arrowhead encased in a valentine-style heart. He draws this symbol on the victim’s abdomen, on the right side, using an average black marker.”

“Have you gotten a reading on the artwork?” he asked. “Any vibes that enhance the investigation?”

Was he testing her skill? Or just hell-bent on giving her a hard time? Either way, she was used to proving herself. Most law enforcement officials—skeptical by nature and suspicious by training—didn’t believe in her ability. And those who did, like Detective Muncy, didn’t admit, at least publicly, that he consulted a psychic. The press would have a field day if they knew how many investigations she’d been involved in.

She finally answered West’s question. “No, I haven’t gotten any vibes about the Slasher’s calling card.”

“So what’s your opinion? Do you think we’re dealing with a serial killer?”

“Yes,” she responded, knowing full well she was talking to a highly educated man with several advanced degrees. But that didn’t make her opinion any less valuable. Olivia’s gift gave her an edge.

“Why?” he pressed. “Why a serial killer?”

“Because he perpetrated random murders, with an emotional cooling-off period in between. The victims were unrelated. They didn’t know each other,” she clarified. “And each had been slain in a different location.” She shuffled the autopsy pictures, stacking them like a deck of cards. “So far, the Slasher has gone after married women.” But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t change his MO, she thought. Single girls could be at risk, too.

“Two of our victims were cheating on their husbands,” West remarked.

“But Denise wasn’t. At least not that we know of.”

“So you think this is one killer? One man?”

Olivia nodded. “That’s the feeling I have. My intuition.”

“Why not multiple offenders? The forensic evidence is inconclusive.” A frown marred West’s forehead, carving a groove into his skin. “In fact, it’s downright weird. Footprints that appear then disappear, hair samples that test human one time and animal the next. Nothing makes any sense.” He shifted his weight. He was still perched on the edge of the table. “Do you have an answer for any of that?”

“Actually, she does.” This came from Muncy, who rose from his chair. “Olivia thinks the killer has supernatural powers.”

“Really?” West’s frown remained, deep and dark and troubled. “And do you agree with her analysis, Detective?”

“I’m inclined to.”

The profiler turned to Riggs. “And you?”

Her blue eyes locked onto his. “It’s a baffling case.”

The special agent nodded. “That it is.” He tunneled his hands through his hair, quietly perplexed. Then he addressed Olivia. “Do you think the killer is a skinwalker?”