Evil to the Max (32 page)

“I’m alive. No thanks to you.”

“I sent Witt, didn’t I?”

“He got there
after
I’d already incapacitated Pippa.”

“You mean after you whacked her in the stomach with the baseball bat and ruptured her spleen.”

“I didn’t have much choice, considering the alternative.”

“You were damn lucky Nadine fell apart.”

“I was damn smart. At least give me some credit.” She didn’t tell Cameron she’d gotten through by imagining he’d been there with her. It would have gone to his head.

She set the screwdriver down and closed the door of the medicine cabinet. Her face in the mirror was whole and uncracked.

“You’d get some credit if you hadn’t rushed off to screw your brains out, then sicced Bubba on Witt after a disgusting display on the dance floor that had Nadine gunning for you.”

“Don’t be so crude. And how was I to know she was watching?”

“Witt ought to lock you up for your own safety.”

Cameron’s anger vibrated in the air. She could almost see him, a shimmering, undulating mass of pissed-off ghost.

“I can take care of myself, thank you very much. I’ve been doing goddamn well at it for two years now.” Which was a lie, and she knew it. She’d been floundering since that day.

He changed in the blink of an eye, as if he’d read the thought, and became a soft translucent rainbow that she would never have seen if she hadn’t been watching the metamorphosis. “I was scared shitless we wouldn’t get there in time.”

So was she. “I’m sorry.” For so many things, mostly for never insisting he quit smoking long before he went down to that 7-11.

“It was fate, my sweet.”

“Fate didn’t make me grind up your last pack in the garbage disposal.”

He laughed. “Hothead.”

She didn’t deny it. The guilt was as fresh as the day she’d flipped the switch and sealed their fates by forcing him out to the store to feed his habit.

“Being there was my fate, Max. Not your fault. If it wasn’t for a pack of cigarettes, I’d have gone into that 7-11 for something else. Everything has a purpose. Don’t scare me like that again.” His words were a soft whisper through her hair, a caress along her cheekbone, a kiss against her lips.

She confessed with her eyes closed. “I’d already decided I wasn’t going home with anyone before I even walked into the Round Up last night.” Well, she had. She just hadn’t admitted it to herself until the second she’d seen Witt. “I’ve lost my taste for it.”

“Maybe you’re healing.”

“I’d like to think of it more as growing up.” Healing made it sound like there were wounds that needed treatment.

“And you’re learning to use the gifts God gave you.”

She snorted even as a vice twisted around her major organs. “Yeah, right. That’s why I said Snake knew the license number when he didn’t. Why I missed the significance of the locket.” Why she hadn’t known enough to save Jules.

“Max, Max, Max, you always have to know everything right this minute. Savor the learning experience, sweetheart.”

“My little learning experience got Jules killed.”

“Jules’s participation in that video got him killed.”

“But—”

“Fate, Max. Jules sealed
his
the night he let Pippa talk him into raping Tiffany.”

She stood mute before him. It just wasn’t that easy.

“I want you to at least admit the possibility that I’m right,” he whispered.

She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, chewed on it, and gave in with a suddenness that surprised her. “Maybe.”

“Witt’s here,” Cameron said just before a knock sounded at the door.

Her heart gave a curious little leap. She moved to the top of the stairs and saw his big shadow filling the curtained window of the door below.

With one hand on the jamb for support, her gaze riveted on Witt’s outline, she realized her confessions weren’t over.

And she owed Cameron an apology. “I’m sorry I hurt you with all that stuff last night.”

“You didn’t hurt me. But you should have told me years ago, my love.”

The backs of her eyes ached at the endearment, but she didn’t cry. “You’re right, you know. I don’t know how to make love. I don’t even know how to have a relationship.” And she had the most awful sense that the lack of feeling she’d so eloquently described to Cameron last night was merely the tip of the iceberg. “In fact, I’m scared to death of it all.”

“I know. Now let in Witt, sweetheart.”

The command held a wealth of meaning. She descended the stairs and opened the door under the misguided impression that Witt wasn’t still pissed at her.

Not, she realized, as he blocked the light in her doorway. He didn’t smile, his dimples were totally non-existent, and his blue eyes were dark and stormy.

“Let’s go for a ride.” His voice had that dictatorial quality that set her nerves on edge.

“A ride?” She wasn’t dressed to go out. She had on her grungiest pair of jeans and the T-shirt she wore when she cleaned the toilet, which is exactly what she’d planned to do after hanging the medicine chest. Penance maybe.

“You need to know what’s happening.”

She pushed the door wide. “You can come in and tell me.”

His gaze was mutinous. “We need to be out in public. I might strangle you if we’re alone.”

Uh-oh. Full sentences again. He hadn’t forgiven her. She just couldn’t figure out which thing he was most pissed about—for almost getting herself killed, for sending Bubba to run interference, or for telling him she wasn’t interested in him. “I need a sweatshirt.”

She ran back upstairs, swapped out her shirt and jeans for her more traditional black suit and high heels. Witt liked her high heels. She hoped they would help him loosen up.

The scowl only got worse when he saw the new ensemble.

Parked in her gravel drive was a tan department vehicle. No Dodge Ram. Oh man, he was
really
pissed. She straightened her shoulders stoically and climbed in beside him. The seats were sun-warmed and the interior musty and smelling of pine air freshener over old cigars.

“Are you on duty?”

“I’m working a case. I don’t have much time.”

He backed out of the drive, turned left, drove a couple of blocks, and parked next to the playground. Two girls whipped back and forth on the swings, laughing. A woman sat watching at a nearby picnic table.

The sun streamed in through the windshield, warming her inside and out. Or maybe that was just the effect of being with Witt in the close confines of the vehicle. Max turned in her seat and waited. She’d done all her “I’m sorrys” and explanations last night, or rather early this morning. They hadn’t moved him. She didn’t think anything had changed.

Witt undid his seat belt, letting it slam home. The sound made her jump. “Scagliomotti and Berkowsky found a box of Tiffany videos in the house. Pippa Lamont caved after that. Nadine spilled her guts about killing Tiffany. Although they’re both saying the other one was the leader.”

Witt’s voice was low, almost gruff. It started a low frequency humming in Max’s stomach. She let him go on without interruption just for the sheer pleasure of the sensation.

“Pippa knew all about the plan for that Saturday night. Tiffany taunted her with the fact that Miles was going to watch it all, said eventually she was going to take her husband and then everything else in her life, including the salon, which, by the way, Pippa started before she married Miles. She and Nadine decided they’d teach Tiffany a lesson. Jules picked her up in his car. In all the commotion of the riot that followed her little scene in the men’s room, no one noticed Tiffany, the instigator of it all, slipping away.”

She burrowed into the corner of Witt’s car. What a waste. Jules would have been better off taking the bus instead of learning to drive.

Witt went on with his dissertation as if he was reading a typed statement. “After picking Tiffany up, he had sex with her because Pippa told him to.”

“Because Tiffany teased him into it.” She didn’t tell him that she’d come to the conclusion Jules had been the one watching Tiffany getting screwed on the washing machine. She decided that little vision wasn’t pertinent right now. Instead, she did a fast forward on Witt’s story. “Then she liked it too much, and they decided to take the lesson a little farther.”

“Yes, they beat her to death. Which, by both accounts, was the other one’s idea.”

The car had become hot, stuffy. And the scent of his aftershave was doing funny things to her stomach, almost like nervous butterflies. She rolled down her window. “It was Pippa’s idea.”

He looked at her. “You sound so sure.”

His bland, unemotional tone irritated her. She waved a flippant hand. “You watched the video. You know as well as I do.” She didn’t tell him about the voices in her head, first Pippa’s, then Bud’s.

“Afterwards, they used Jules’s car to dump the body.”

She closed her eyes. A touch from Witt would have been nice. A gentle tone. At the very least, he could have dragged her across the bench seat of the car and kissed her. Then she wouldn’t have had to think about ... “Poor Jules.”

“He was, again by both their accounts, upstairs asleep at the time.”

Upstairs asleep, having sweet afterglow dreams of the blow job Tiffany had given him. Totally unknowing.

“Pippa Lamont used him in her videos all the time.” Witt cocked his head, waiting for her reaction.

“She had a sweet little side business selling homemade porn,” she said. Which was why Miles had such a large client base. The majority of those people had probably never even been to the shop.

“And just how did you know that?”

“Nadine. She said something about Pippa using Jules.”

“Family affair. Miles Lamont’s ass is in the wringer for that, whether or not he participated in Tiffany’s video.”

“I think Pippa planned on making more of Tiffany’s kind of film. Ariel was next on her list.”

“Well, she won’t get the chance now. Thanks to you.” Nice words, but no smile lit his eyes. He was still pissed.

“What about Jules? Did Pippa confess about Jules? Nadine said she had nothing to do with Jules getting killed.”

“Pippa denied it, too. And they’re both sticking to their story.”

Her head pounded, and it had nothing to do with the knot on her occipital. “Did she say anything about Bud Traynor?”

Witt glared. His jaw worked. “No. Neither did Nadine.”

She listened a moment to the laughter of children from the playground, watched as they ran to the steps of the slide. “Bud said he’d—”

Witt cut her off, his lips in a flat, tense line. “Leave it alone, Max.”

“But—”

“Maybe you ought to forget Traynor and start worrying about the shitload of trouble
you’re
in.”

“Me?” she squeaked.

“You’re going to have to testify. Again. This is the second murder you’ve gotten involved with, Max, in a little over two weeks. People are going to start asking why. What’s your answer going to be?”

“But they confessed. There won’t be a trial.” She looked at him. “Will there?”

“Depends on whether the D.A. goes for death or not.”

“And what do you think he’ll do?”

Witt snorted. “Worry about yourself, Max. What are you going to say?”

“That I have psychic visions?” Not that her
abilities
had been doing much of anything for her the last couple of days.

“Not good enough.”

“You’ll vouch for me.”

His eyes narrowed. “What makes you think that?”

“Well ... well,” she sputtered. “What about the fact that a little voice told you I was in trouble last night?”

“What little voice? After I beat the crap out of your bouncer boyfriend in front of your dancing partner, Jake Lloyd spilled everything he knew before I started in on him.”

“Which was?” she coaxed, smiling at Witt’s colorful descriptions. And the idea that he’d fought over her ... well, it kind of melted her insides.

“Which was that Pippa Lamont showed up at Nadine’s apartment on Friday night. Instead of sending Pippa packing, Nadine kicked
him
out. Put that together with the fact that my audiophile buddy positively IDed the two accomplices on the video as women ... ” He let his voice trail off.

“You made a logical deduction.”

“Not that it mattered. You had, as usual, taken care of everything yourself.”

Jeez, he smelled good, even when he was mad. Max smiled and leaned a little closer. “Is that why you’re pissed?”

“I’m not pissed.”

“Yes, you are. And it’s because you weren’t able to be my knight in shining armor.”

“You need a warden, not a knight.”

“Funny, that’s what Cameron said. He also said he nudged you.”

“Nudged me?”

“Hinted at where you could find me.”

“Are we talking about your dead husband again?”

“That’s him. Dead, but never silent.”

“I thought you said he was just a technique you used for working out problems.”

“I lied. He talks back.”

He put a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. “I don’t think I can handle this.”

“How do you think I feel? It’s me he’s haunting.”

“I really can’t tell my mother all this.”

Her breath gave a little hitch. “I’m sorry about last night.” She was purposely evasive.

“For almost getting yourself killed?”

“For hurting your feelings.”

“Should be. Gotta be thick-skinned where you’re concerned.” He examined his fingernails, then looked at her. “No excuse for what I accused you of, though.”

Ah, he’d dropped a pronoun. Things were looking up. Even if he had slammed her last night about doing the bouncers. She had thick skin, too, especially when she’d goaded him. “It wasn’t important.”

He tipped his head, regarding her for a long silent moment. “Didn’t mean it, you know.”

“I know.” She’d known that last night, too. “You better go. You’ve got a case to work. I don’t want to mess up your career.”

He stared at her hand where she’d reached to grip the door handle. “My career’s fine. For now.”

“Are you sure? Scagliomotti and Berkowsky might start asking why you were so interested in
their
case. And there’s all that time you spend running down here to take care of me when you should be working. Not,” she pointed, narrowing her eyes, “that I need looking after.”