“Call me picky.”
THIRTEEN
The new arrivals began checking in early that afternoon. Luther sat beside Grace on the hotel’s wide, shaded veranda. To the left he could see the pool terrace and the beach beyond. To the right was an unobstructed view of the open-air lobby and the front desk. There were two glasses of iced tea on the small round table between the two rattan chairs. He had a copy of The Wall Street Journal. Grace appeared immersed in a paperback novel that she had brought with her. They both wore sunglasses.
He fine-tuned the pleasant little fantasy he had been concocting while he watched the bell staff unload an expensive set of golf clubs from the back of a limo van. The latest version of the fantasy involved Grace and himself on a Maui honeymoon that he, not J&J, had paid for. Also The Fantasy 2.0 did not include keeping an eye out for a psychic killer.
A man and a woman got out of the limo. They were greeted with orchid leis and escorted to the front desk by a member of the hotel staff. Automatically Luther looked at them with his other vision. The man was sending out the quick, green vibes indicative of a simmering irritation that could spill over into anger, given the right provocation.
“She’s a low-range intuitive talent,” Grace said without looking up from her book. “A three maybe. Strong enough to give her an edge when it comes to picking a husband who is as ambitious as she is. As far as she’s concerned, she’s made him what he is today.”
“Think she knows about the psychic side of her nature?”
“I doubt it. Not at that level. Like most women, she probably takes her intuition for granted.”
“What about the husband?”
Grace turned a page. “He’s annoyed.”
“Yeah, I got that. Probably a long flight with a few of the usual travel glitches. Anything else?”
“His wife holds the reins of power in the relationship. He knows she’s smarter than he is and that he needs her to climb the corporate ladder. But that just makes him all the more resentful. Based on that analysis, I’d guess he has a mistress who knows how to make him feel like the strong one.”
“You’re good, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” She turned a page. “That’s why Mr. Jones sent me on this mission.”
“I hate to shatter your image of yourself as a female James Bond but I’m not sure this trip to Maui rises to the level of a mission.”
“What would you call it?”
“A job.”
“I think I’ll stick with mission. Sounds more exciting.”
He nodded. “Things have certainly been exciting in the past twenty-four hours, I’ll give you that.”
Another limo arrived at the front of the hotel. More bags of golf clubs and what looked like diving gear were unloaded. Luther watched the bell staff spring into action. A sophisticated-looking man in his early forties got out. His companion was an attractive redhead of about the same age who looked like she spent a lot of time in spas and high-end hairstyling salons.
“I give the marriage six more months,” Grace said coolly. “He’s headed into a full-blown midlife crisis and wants a trophy wife to impress his friends.”
“Kids?”
Grace studied the couple for a moment. “Yes. I’m sure he’ll tell the children that it’s for the best.”
“You’re right,” he said. “You’re good at this game. Must get a little depressing at times, though.”
“I like to think of it as being realistic.”
He glanced at the cover of her book. The illustration showed the shadowed profile of a woman. She had a gun in her hand. The title was equally ominous.
“Looks like a murder mystery,” he said.
“Romantic-suspense,” she corrected.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning it’s got both romance and a couple of murders in it.”
“You like books like that?”
“Yes.”
He smiled. “Thought you said you weren’t a romantic.”
“I’m not.” She turned another page. “Doesn’t mean that I don’t like to read about romance.”
“What about the murders?”
“They get solved by clever sleuthing on the part of the hero and heroine. It’s very satisfying.”
“You know, in real life the motivation for murder is usually a lot more straightforward than it is in fiction,” he said. “Somebody gets pissed off, picks up the nearest gun and shoots the guy who pissed him off.”
“Really?” She did not seem particularly interested.
“What’s more, the majority of cases get solved because someone talks, not because of forensics or clever sleuthing.”
“If I want real police work, I’ll read the newspapers, not a book,” she said.
“Probably a good idea. Let me know how that one ends.”
She turned another page. “I already know how it ends.”
“You read the ending first?”
“I always read the ending before I commit to the whole book.”
He looked at her, baffled. “If you know how it ends, why read the book?”
“I don’t read for the ending. I read for the story.” She looked toward the entrance, watching a cab that had pulled up in front. “Life is too short to waste time on books that end badly.”
“By badly you mean unhappily, right?”
“As far as I’m concerned, the two are synonymous.”
“Okay, so how does that book end? Wait.” He held up a hand. “Let me guess. The butler did it.”
She flinched visibly, her lips parting as though in shock. He could have sworn that the book shook a little in her hand. He raised the volume of his senses.
The normal hues and colors of the world faded. The myriad shades of the paranormal spectrum shimmered into view. He was startled to see unmistakable spikes of fear in Grace’s aura. Before he could ask her what was wrong, he realized she was watching the lobby entrance.
He followed her gaze and saw a man climb out from behind the wheel of one of the newly arrived vehicles. He had the heavy, overmuscled build of a weight lifter on steroids. His head was shaved and he wore a pair of mirrored sunglasses.
But it was his aura that grabbed Luther’s attention. It was not only strong, there was something wrong with it. Sparks of dark energy flickered and flashed in the field. Wherever they rippled through the pattern, they created disturbing pulses.
“What the hell?” he said softly.