drew a sharp quick breath of profound relief. “I’m going to need a ride, though—I came in a squad car. I’m sorry to bother you, but is there someone you could ask…?”
“I’ll take you. Where do you live?”
“Oh, but you—I’m sure you must be very busy. I don’t want—”
“It’s no problem. I’m heading back to the shop anyway. Nothing more I can do here.” He took a firmer grip on her arm and steered her to the left, away from the media trucks and waiting cameras.
He couldn’t have said why he was doing this, not with any truthfulness. He told himself he wanted to ask her some questions, find out more about her and her so-called impressions. Never entertained the thought there could be any other reason for spending another minute in the woman’s company.
She seems so vulnerable. Is it an act? I’m a cop, I should be able to tell. But I can’t. What is it she feels when she looks at me? Does she know about—
But those thoughts he pushed firmly out of his mind and slammed and locked the door to make sure they stayed out.
Okay, so she’s one hell of an attractive woman. And I’m a guy. Guys like attractive women, so why should I be any different?
Yeah, but she’s not my type, he told himself, kicking that thought out the door, as well. He wasn’t exactly sure what his type was, except for one thing: he liked his women sexy and fun and without complications. And while this one could probably pass muster on the first requirement, he had real doubts about the second. And as for number three, well…he was pretty sure complicated didn’t even begin to describe her.
Neither of them spoke again until they were settled in the front seats of his unmarked gray sedan. She—what was her name? Started with a T. Terry? Tracy? No—something unusual. Damn.
“Where to, Miss…” He let it hang just long enough.
“It’s Doyle. But please call me Tierney.” She glanced at him as she clicked her seat belt into place, and he wondered once more if she’d read his mind and taken pity on him. But she didn’t read minds…or claimed she didn’t. “Or even Tee,” she added, “if you wish. Some people do.” Her half smile told him she knew the chances of him doing likewise were slim.
Which was maybe why he said, out of pure contrariness, “Okay, Miss Tee it is, then. I’m Wade, by the way. Wade Callahan.” He turned in his seat to offer his hand. Did it out of long habit, then kicked himself for hesitating, for having second thoughts. For wondering whether it was “safe” to touch her, or if physical contact might open up some kind of psychic channel between them. Kicked himself all the more for even thinking those thoughts, knowing it meant he had to believe at least some of what she claimed to be able to do might be real.
Her hand was warm in his, small but vibrant, reminding him of a gentle but wary animal that had allowed him to hold it for one short moment in his grasp.
“Wade,” she murmured, and there was a shimmer of amusement in her eyes. Eyes so clear and blue and…yes, normal, he wondered how anyone in their right mind could believe she had creepy gifts. The Sight—or whatever she wanted to call it.
He released her hand and was smiling crookedly as he wrapped his around the gearshift lever, wondering whether it was himself or her he was smiling at.
She lived with her grandmother, he discovered, in an apartment above an art gallery called Jeannette’s, in a formerly hippieish part of the city that was gradually becoming yuppified. No surprises there; Wade figured if he ever wanted to hang out his psychic shingle it was the place he’d choose. Just enough hippie left to provide plenty of local ambience, with a New Age slant to appeal to the yuppies who went in for that sort of thing.
What did surprise him, though, when Tierney led him through the gallery to the stairs at the back, was how much of the artwork on display actually appealed to him. The watercolors particularly. Not the roses, so much, although he could see the real artistry in them. They were a bit too pretty and feminine—for want of a better word—for his taste. But the waterfalls, now those he wouldn’t mind hanging on his own walls. There was something about them… He paused to look closer at one, and a coolness, like fresh moist air, seemed to pour into him, filling all the churning dark places. He felt a strange easing inside, a sense of quietude and peace.
“That’s Multnomah Falls,” Tierney said. “It’s one of my favorite places.” He hadn’t been aware of her coming to stand beside him.
“Yeah,” he said, “mine, too.” He saw it now, the neat and vaguely archaic signature in the lower righthand corner: T. Doyle. He glanced at her and stated the obvious. “These are yours.”
She nodded without looking away from the painting, her smile crooked. “When I’m working on a case—like this one—I like to go there, or to places like it. Places where people feel a sense of awe. Or just…happy. Thankful.” She nodded at a panel hung with a grouping of the rose paintings. “The Portland Rose Gardens—that’s another, and it’s closer, easier to get to when I’m…when I need it. Those emotions—good emotions—nourish me. The other kind, the bad emotions…” She shook her head and glanced up at him before moving away. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I’m sure you’re not interested, since you don’t believe in what I do.”
“Haven’t made up my mind on that score, actually.” He was surprised to discover that was true, and judging from the smile he glimpsed as he held the door she’d opened, so was she.
He followed her through the door into a small passageway that led to what appeared to be an office, or maybe a storeroom, and the back entrance to the right, and to the left, a flight of stairs. The space smelled of some sort of cleaning product—maybe several mixed up together. Whatever it was, he couldn’t quite place it. “But I’d be interested, whether I believe in what you do or not. I’m always interested in what makes people tick.”
“Tick?” A ripple of light laughter drifted down to him as she mounted the stairs ahead of him. “You mean, you’d like to know what my ‘racket’ is, don’t you?”
“Well, sure,” he said, carefully screening his enjoyment at the view. “That, too.”
On the landing at the top of the stairs, Tierney paused to take a key from the pocket of her slacks and insert it in the door’s dead bolt lock.
“If you don’t mind waiting here for a moment, I’ll see if my grandmother’s…” The rest she left hanging as she opened the door and stepped inside, leaving him standing on the landing.
After a moment he pushed on the door she’d left almost closed but unlatched, widening the crack so he could hear what was going on inside the apartment. Didn’t hesitate or feel guilty about it, either. That was the thing about being a cop—nosiness pretty much went with the territory.
He heard Tierney call softly, her voice light, sweet, gentle, as if she were talking to a very small child. “Jennie, darling, it’s Tee…”
There was a ripple of laughter, low and musical, and a voice to match it said, “Hello, dear.”
The next words were muffled, as if by an embrace. “Gran, do you feel like having company? I’ve brought a friend. His name is Wade Callahan. Would you like to meet him?”
More
