“Vivien—”
“Was it too much to ask? A name. That’s all I wanted, just the name of the bitch. But no, Daddy had to get himself killed before he found her. One lousy name, that was the only thing I ever asked of him. The bastard wouldn’t even give me that much.”
Damaris sank back down on the bed. “He did find her, Vivien. He also found her bodyguard. That’s why he went to Honolulu. He was going to fix things for us.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Vivien demanded.
“I didn’t tell you because Daddy wanted to take care of her. I can give you the name but it won’t do you any good. Now that Daddy’s gone we’ve lost our access to the J&J files. It’s just a name.”
“Give it to me.”
“Grace Renquist.”
“You’re sure?” Vivien’s voice sparked with excitement.
“Yes, but, I don’t see what you—”
“Thanks. Bye for now. Rehearsal time. You wouldn’t believe what I’m having to put up with from the conductor here in Acacia Bay. He’s an absolute nobody but he thinks he can give orders to La Sirène.”
The phone went silent. Damaris sat looking at it for a long time. Daddy was dead and, for all intents and purposes, so was she. He had been her source for the drug and now she was cut off. The good news was that soon there would be no more of the dreadful injections. The bad news was that Daddy had warned her that if she stopped taking the drug, she would go insane and die. She had a little more than a three-week supply left. It was just a matter of time now. She wondered if Vivien would miss her.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Luther watched Grace come out of the sea, removing the mask and snorkel as she walked through the light surf. Water spilled down her shoulders, br**sts and hips. Her hair was sleeked behind her ears.
She had picked up the little black bathing suit at one of the boutiques on Kalakaua that morning. He had thrown the snorkeling gear into the backseat of the Jeep and driven her to the secluded little cove that he thought of as his private slice of paradise.
Wayne and Petra had sent them off with a couple of sandwiches, some bottled water and instructions not to come back until the dinner service. A real date, he thought.
Grace dropped lightly onto the towel beside him under the umbrella, looking fresh and vibrant, utterly feminine and wet. Incredibly sexy.
She gave him a curious look when she reached for a bottle of chilled water.
“Something wrong?” she asked,
He realized that he was staring at her.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Sex.”
“I hear men do that a lot.”
“What about women?”
“We think about it, too,” she said, “but it is possible that we have broader fantasy horizons.”
“Yeah? What else shows up on your horizon?”
“Shoes come to mind.”
They both looked at his bare feet.
“Shoes are sort of absent from my horizon,” he admitted.
“It’s okay.” She patted his bare leg. “You have very nice feet. Big and strong.”
“You like big, strong feet on a man?”
“To tell you the truth, I never paid much attention to male feet until quite recently.” She smiled somewhat smugly and slipped on her sunglasses. “But now I find them utterly fascinating.”
“Good to know.”
She lounged back on her elbows. “You never told me why you quit your job with the police department.”
He contemplated the frothy surf while he considered. He had known the question was coming. She had told him her story. She had a right to know his. More than that, he wanted her to know it. The exchange was part of the bond.
“I told you that my talent had its uses while I was on the force,” he said.
“Yep, the way I see it, you must have been the great neutralizer in any kind of dangerous situation. One stroke of your aura and the bad guy drops his gun and goes to sleep. Cool.”
“There were other things I could do with my talent.”
She tipped her head a little to the side. “Such as?”
“Get confessions.”
“Hmm. Confessions. Double cool.”
“Without laying a finger on the perp,” he said evenly. “I never touched your client, Counselor. Check out the videotape of the confession. Your guy couldn’t wait to tell us how he beat the victim to a bloody pulp.”
“How did that work for you?”
“Great. For a while. You’d be amazed how easy it is. Deep down a lot of them wanted to tell me how smart or how macho they were. Robbing a convenience store is an adrenaline rush. Breaking and entering a house is a thrill. Murder is the ultimate power trip. Perps want to impress the cops. Show them how tough they are. So, on some level, yes, a lot of them wanted to talk. I just gave that natural inclination a psychic shove in the right direction.”
“I always assumed guilt was the motivating factor in a confession.”
“Sometimes it is.” He fished a bottle of water out of the cooler. “I can work with a bad conscience, too. With a few tweaks, a little nagging regret or anxiety about what your parents will think can become crushing guilt.”
“All it takes is a little subtle manipulation and the suspects suddenly can’t resist spilling their guts, is that it?”
“Get it on videotape, add a little hard evidence and you’ve usually got a case. No rubber hoses or misleading statements required.”
She looked at him very steadily, her eyes unreadable behind the glasses. “You must have been a very good cop.”
“I was,” he said. He drank some of the crisp, cold water. “Very, very good.”
“So you quit because you felt you had turned into some kind of psychic vigilante.”
He had known she would understand. What surprised him was the sense of relief that descended on him.
“Something like that,” he said. “It was never a fair fight. Statistically speaking, most of the perps I came in contact with were seriously messed up, the products of horrific parenting or no parenting at all. A lot of them had been abused as children. Many had some kind of mental illness. Nearly half the suspects I caught couldn’t even read a newspaper, let alone hold down a decent job.”
“You felt sorry for them?”
He smiled faintly. “I wouldn’t go that far but the truth is, the majority of the people I helped send away didn’t stand a chance against me. I could and did violate their right to due process without anyone else, including the suspect, knowing it.”