It was also the “why” behind his nightmares, the ones he told nobody about.
Duke’s phone let out a beep, notifying him that a new message had been left for him.
Through the fog that had settled into his brain, he watched his thumb move over the smooth screen, calling the voice mail up … and then he put the cell up to his ear.
“Duke, this is Yasemin Oaks—you must come see me. At the very least, I need to speak with you urgently. The dreams are getting more intense—you are in danger—please, Duke, I’m warning you. Blood is going to flow and—”
“The light’s green,” the man next to him announced. “Hit the gas and take us down to the river. It’s time, Duke. We’ve got shit to take care of.”
For some strange reason, Duke thought of Cait. Beautiful Cait.
“I don’t know you,” he said roughly.
“You don’t have to. But you need to trust me.”
Snap out of it, he told himself. This is all bullcrap.
“Not going to happen,” he heard himself say.
Abruptly, he put his phone away. Pushed his foot down on the accelerator. And was ready to go anywhere except over to the water—just to establish who was in charge.
After a moment, he glanced over at the other man. The son of a bitch was sitting in the passenger seat, jaw set like he knew exactly how this was going to play out.
Duke cursed under his breath. Yeah, no way he was telling this guy anything … and yet he couldn’t ignore the sense of foreboding that was dogging him. Besides, he’d wanted to end this shit for so long, even as he was knee-deep in it right now. The trouble was, old habits, like bitter resentments, died hard.
“You don’t have much of a choice,” the man said. “You need me if you want to come out of this in one piece.”
One piece? Duke thought. Hah. I’m already broken.
“You’re going to tell me everything, Duke. You have to.”
Chapter Forty
As Cait parallel-parked on Trade Street, no more than a block away from the Palace Theatre, she frowned and leaned into the windshield. It wasn’t because she was lost this time, though. As opposed to when she’d been trying to find the hair salon a couple of nights ago, she had no confusion as to the theater’s location.
The issue was the police.
There were six or seven Caldwell Police Department vehicles parked in front of the Palace, and about half a dozen uniformed officers milling around outside the main entrance.
Getting out into the sunshine, she pulled her light coat in tighter and slung her bag over her shoulder. She had to wait for a stream of traffic to go by, but eventually there was a break in the cars and she jaywalked across.
Probably not the smartest thing to do in front of a cop convention, but it sure seemed like the unis had bigger fish to fry than her.
As she approached the knot of officers, several of them turned to her.
“Hi,” she said, blinking in the glare of their badges. “I’m here to meet a friend for lunch?”
The tallest one, an African-American guy with a voice that suggested you really did not mess with him, spoke up. “Who would that be?”
“G. B. Holde? He’s a singer—he’s here rehearsing for Rent?”
“You’re meeting him for what?”
Abruptly, they were all focused on her, measuring her, no doubt taking mental pictures and notes. “Lunch? We were going to have a sandwich together?”
“Is this a regular thing?”
“Um, no. We made the date—er, you know, the time—last night?”
“Do you know him well?”
“Why are you here? What’s happened?”
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Cait. Caitlyn Douglass?” Maybe they were violating her rights, she didn’t know. But she had nothing to hide. “Is he okay?”
“We can’t let you inside, ma’am, I’m sorry. This is a crime scene.”
Cait felt the blood leave her face. “Who died?”
“A young female.”
Which meant G.B. was okay—and yet the intel was not any kind of relief. “Oh … God.” Was it a case of Sissy all over again? Or … “I was chased in the parking lot the other night. You don’t suppose this had anything to do with—”
“When was that, ma’am?”
Even more police officers clustered around her as she told them all what had happened to her. And then an exhausted man in a loose suit came out of the theater’s glass doors.
“Detective?” someone called out. “We got a female over here.”
A man with dark hair and a way-too-early-in-the-day five o’clock shadow walked across the mosaic stretch and put his hand out. “Detective de la Cruz. How you doing?”
Shaking his hand, she instantly felt comfortable with him. “Hi.”
“You’ve got quite a crowd here.” He nodded at his colleagues. “They’re nosy—and paid to be that way. Me, too. So you mind telling me what’s going on with you?”
In quick, clear terms, she explained everything that had happened to her the other night, and as she talked, he scribbled in a little spiral notebook.
“Well, I’m sorry you were chased like that.” He put his notebook away. “Any follow-up on the perpetrator?”
“No. I haven’t called, and no one’s been in touch.”
“I’ll check back at the station and let you know one way or the other. As for your lunch, I’m sorry, but we can’t let you in. Everybody who’s working in the theater is being questioned by my team. As for this …” He took the notepad out again and flipped the cover open. “This G.B. guy? Is that the man you were going to meet?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, he’s going to be busy for a while.”
She frowned. “Detective, can you tell me anything about what’s going on?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t. But you’ll hear about it tonight on the news,” he said dryly as a van with a satellite dish on its roof pulled up across the street. “However, if you want me to get a message to G.B., I’d be happy to carry it in.”
“I just want him to know I came … and that I hope he’s okay.”
Which was stupid. Someone had died. Nothing was okay.
After she got back to her car, she started her engine and pulled out of her spot. She didn’t have any idea where she was going, although she did text G.B. at a stoplight, just in case the detective got busy or forgot.