Maggie Shayne - Dream of Danger

“You don’t have to say anything yet. I have something to ask you. Then you can say something.”

“What?”

“I’d like you to consider applying to the department as a consultant. That way I could use you on tough cases and you’d get paid for your time.”

I blinked. Just sat there dumbstruck and blinked at him. “I don’t need a job. Best-selling author, remember?” Then I told my brain to shut up, because it was hopping with notions of why he would ask me this, and opened my senses instead. That was where the answer would be. I had it in seconds. “That’s why you asked me to meet you, isn’t it? It had nothing to do with the case. You just wanted to pitch this ridiculous...consultant idea.”

“It’s not ridiculous. Police departments use consultants all the time. You could be a huge help to us.”

“Are you forgetting what happened last time I helped? I was almost murdered, Mason.”

“Yeah, but that was a fluke. It wouldn’t be like that.”

I sighed, reined my emotional responses in again, stopped reacting and went back to feeling. And I realized what was happening here. He missed me. That was all it was. He missed me. And the boys probably missed me, too. Josh must be having withdrawal over Myrtle. I drew a breath, nodded and said, “If you want to hang out sometime, we could—”

“I think you have a gift, Rachel. It hit me, as I was going over everything that happened on the Wraith case, that you could put it to use. You could help people.”

“So it’s not that you miss me.” Yes, it is.

He made a face, as if to say that was ridiculous.

“‘Cause, see, I do have a gift. And it does help people. In my books. But I’m not a cop, and I don’t aspire to be one.”

“Okay, okay.” He held up his hands. “It was just an idea.”

Yeah, an idea of how we could spend time together without him having to admit he missed me. The jerk.

* * *

I was in a shitty mood that afternoon. The writing hadn’t gone well—one of the big downsides of doing what I did for a living was that it was hard to pull it off when you were in a bitchy mood. How do you write sunshine and rainbows when you’re wishing you could poke someone in the windpipe with an acrylic nail?

So there was that, and then there was the report from the vet, which Amy delivered from as far from me as she could stand without being out of earshot. According to Dr. Einstein—not—my dog was obese. Not chubby. Not fat. Not a little overweight, but obese. If he’d said it to my face, I’d have hit him.

And now, still steaming over that little pronouncement, I was face-to-face with Mel, the new boyfriend.

And no, I am not Amy’s mother or her aunt or her guardian. I have no power over her. And it was probably none of my business.

But I will tell you right now, I knew from my chestnut-brown hair to my scuff-around-the-house slippers, which I put back on my feet the minute I got home, that there was something wrong about this guy.

Oh, he smiled at me, had great manners, said all the right things, looked adoringly at Amy and then made his exit with all the grace and ease of a seasoned actor. And I got the feeling that was exactly what he was. The big Thanksgiving trip was about to begin, and they were due at her parents’ before the night was out. Five-hour drive, after all. Yada yada yada. I snapped a pic of his Jag with my cell phone when they drove away. I don’t know why. It was as knee-jerk a reaction as blinking when someone claps their hands in front of your face. I didn’t think about it. Just did it, then thought, Huh. That was weird.

I didn’t like him, and I didn’t like Amy going off with him.

When Amy’s mother called the next morning to ask if I’d heard from her daughter, I liked it even less.

Chapter Three

I had to bite my lip to keep from blurting something that would scare the hell out of Ellen Montrose. But I knew it was bad. I don’t know how I knew. I just knew. It was just there, right in the middle of my chest, like a big pulsing tumor. Something bad had happened to Amy. And my brain was running at light speed, churning its gears and finally spitting out a series of simple commands. Stay calm. Get the details. Call Mason.

I took a deep breath and tried to obey.

“I haven’t seen her since she left here yesterday evening,” I told Ellen, trying to sound casual. “When did you hear from her?”

“She called along about six. Said she was goin’ to pick up her car, go home to pack a bag and then she’d be leaving to head home. Riding down with this new fella she’s been seein’. Mel.” I heard it in her voice when she said the name: she didn’t like the guy any more than I did. Mother’s intuition. It’s the real deal. “They should have been here by midnight at the latest.”

Stay calm, get the details. Call Mason, my brain reminded me.

“Maybe she changed her mind at the last minute. Did you call her?”

“Well, of course I called her. Heaven’s mercy, Rachel, do you think I’d be callin’ you if I hadn’t already tried to call her first?”

“I’m sorr—”

“No. No, I’m sorry. I got no call to snap at you. I just...I’m worried about her.”

“I know. It’s okay. Really. I’ll look into it from here, okay? I’ll find her, give her hell for worrying her mother and have her home in time for Thanksgiving dinner. All right?”

Her mother sniffled. “I got a bad feelin’, Rachel.”

“You just focus on that homemade cranberry dressing Amy’s been raving about all week long. Let me worry about your girl. I’ll get her there. I promise.”

She sighed. “Okay. I guess. Keep in touch, all right?”

“I will.” I hung up the phone, closed my eyes for a second, took a deep breath. Then I went to my cell phone, which was sitting on the long sofa table behind the couch on its charger pad. Hit the button, flipped to the photos, selected the shot of the departing Jag and sent it to Mason, along with a brief message.

Amy missing. Need u.

I hit Send and realized my hand was shaking.

He called within two minutes. In another thirty he was at my front door.

* * *

I was riding beside Mason in his black Monte Carlo, which was his dream car. I didn’t see why. It was big, it was old and it was ugly. I far preferred my ‘02 T-bird, a replica of the ‘65 model, only with electric everything, and lots of bells and whistles. His was original. It even smelled old. There was just one long vinyl bench, no console between the driver’s and passenger’s seats.

Myrtle, however, loved it. She liked the window seat, so I was in the middle, crammed up beside Mason, because she took up a lot of room. We had the window down halfway because I’m ridiculously in love with my dog and she loves the wind in her face. She crammed her face into the opening, mouth gaping, tongue flapping in the chill November breeze, goggles protecting her eyes.

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