security guard. He’s probably asleep behind his desk.”
She tilted her chin, refusing to be cowed. “Don’t worry, I’m going to make sure you can’t get back in.”
Max laughed and took her stubborn chin between his finger and thumb, then gave her a kiss meant to curl the toes she was standing on. When he lifted his mouth it was with reluctance, and as he straightened he could swear Maggie was swaying on her feet.
It didn’t stop her trying for the last word. “So, goodbye.”
“Wrong, Maggie. I’ll never kiss you goodbye. Only hello.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“I won’t. I’m not a betting man. So I’m going to count on it.”
Maggie leaned her back against the door after she’d locked it and a rap of Max’s fingers on the outside told her he was on his way.
Why did life have to be so complicated? She had enough problems without Max adding more. Despite his confidence, Maggie knew things could only get worse.
Without Max’s presence the apartment closed in on her and the air grew thick with memories of past apparitions. She shivered as she thought about going to bed. The last thing she wanted was to cushion her sleep and dream.
Chapter 3
The baby was fussing again. For almost a week now, it had kept Maggie awake. Fussing and fretting, fussing and fretting, driving Maggie mad as it brought her maternal instincts screaming to the surface. Instincts she could do nothing to quash, as the source of her dilemma hid in the center of her mind where no human hand could find it. There were no ear-plugs or sleeping pills to fix what ailed her.
A baby fist reached inside her and twisted her gut, more tightly than any man’s could, with its demands for succor. She wanted, needed to find it, to comfort it and relieve herself of the torture her nights brought.
Maggie slammed her fist into the pillow, displacing the feathers. Hands above her head, she twisted and turned while attempting to cover her ears with the soft, insulating sound barrier.
There was no hiding from herself.
“Go away! Go to sleep and leave me alone…leave me alone.”
She didn’t want to cry. It was exhaustion, not self-pity, that spilled tears from her eyes. She tried unsuccessfully to focus on Max, anything but the plaintive cries in her head. Max wasn’t the answer. How dare he or any damn cop think she’d wished this on herself?
Pulling the pillow off her head, she slapped it a few more times and threw herself on top of its downy softness. She lay partly on her stomach, twisting sideways as she brought her knees up to ease the ache pulling at her insides. It was 11:02 p.m. by the bedside clock when the baby stopped crying and Maggie fell asleep.
And began to dream.
He stepped back from the bed to admire his handiwork and frowned. Under the heels of her shoes the duvet wrinkled slovenly. With care he slipped the shoes off, set them neatly at the side of the bed, then smoothed out the creases.
He sighed, thinking, I’ll bring my camera next time. Definitely. A ripple of pleasure caressed his senses. The way the red scarf picked up the flecks in her suit, she could almost have dressed for the occasion. Even the bedcovers, sprigged with roses, added to the overall effect. She had good taste. They made a beautiful picture. He’d arranged it just right. Madonna with child.
And the baby! So good, so angelic. No more crying now it had found its mother. The effort it had taken to tuck the babe against its mother’s breast had been worthwhile. Luckily she was a full-busted woman, ample. The child would never have to go without again.
He walked to the door. His surgical gloves snapped as he rolled them tighter across his knuckles. He touched the light switch, then hesitated. He couldn’t bear to turn the light out. One more look, just one, and then he would go.
He smiled the smile of an artist who knows when to paint the last brushstroke. So perfect. To leave them in the dark would be a crime.
Quietly, he slipped out of the house into the night. As he vaulted the back fence his head spun with pictures of blond hair arranged across a pillow scattered with rosebuds.
And two pairs of matching blue eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
Maggie parked her car in the civic car park and walked up the slope of Mayoral Drive. Auckland Central rose six stories above her. A patchwork of earth-colored scoria blocks some volcano had spewed up millions of years ago formed the basement wall. It opened halfway along its length, a gaping black maw indiscriminately swallowing cop cars, cops and prisoners alike. Dim, hollow, a place where slamming metal doors and screaming sirens echoed in air heavy with disinfectant, vomit, fear and defeat.
Maggie took the last few paces at a run, turning into Cook Street and up the steps to the entrance as if the devil nipped at her heels. Time, precious time didn’t allow for a meeting on neutral ground and had driven her to this place against her will. On the top step she paused, her heart in her throat. Hadn’t she vowed never to cross this threshold again? And here she was doing just that.
Conscience drove a hard bargain. Hers had been up and running from the moment she’d opened her eyes. Three women dead. Three too many. A single thought, blinding in its simplicity, had forced her out of bed, into the shower, and sent her in search of paper and pencil.
Maybe it’s not too late.
This, the first dream of death she’d had in Auckland, had been clearer, more edgy in its intensity. Pathetically, she shied away from the word murder. It was too out there, too in her face. The word death was easier to swallow, if it stopped her wanting to run to the nearest bathroom and throw up. And if living the dream slammed her with a knockout punch, the flashes, images, caught her off guard, winding her with short, sharp jabs to the solar plexus. What could be worse? Nothing—except maybe the ridicule she knew waited on the other side of the door.
She’d been directed to the fifth floor. Reception was empty, though a light, electronic hum issued from a double-doored office. Her muscles tightened, screaming with tension. Maybe she should barge in and sing out, “Can anyone tell me where to find Sergeant Strachan?”
Impatience gave in to need. Fists clenched, teeth clamped over her bottom lip, she stepped toward the office.
Maybe it’s not too late!
A huge, tawny-haired man dressed in uniform blues preempted her decision. Doors swinging in his wake, he asked, “Need any help?”
He had a look of authority, of reliability, and a badge with the legend Sergeant McQuaid sitting squarely on his massive chest. A cop she could trust, thought Maggie, taking in his attractive, craggy features. If only he was the one she had come to see. “Yes, could you show me to Sergeant Strachan’s office?”
“Sure thing.” Warm, teasing hazel eyes gave her a quick, speculative once-over. “Follow me,” he said as he walked on, keeping her pinned with his inquisitive gaze.
Since he hadn’t asked her name, she didn’t have to suffer a swift change in his attitude. Taking two steps to his one, she kept pace with him, keeping close to the wall; the sergeant’s shoulders
