Chapter Three

Frank pulled the Denali onto the interstate and headed for his office. A curse left his lips when his latte went flying while reaching for his cell phone on the passenger seat. "Hey, Grace," he said after flipping it open. "I bet you're wondering if I died."

His office assistant's throaty laugh echoed through the line. "That would be a cold day in Hell."

"Which, that I died or you'd be wondering?"

"I always worry about you, Frank, you know that. How would I pay my rent if you died?" Before he had a chance to answer, she changed the subject. "Baltimore's finest is here and he brought the upper brass with him."

"Is that code for Jeffords and a cohort at the FBI?"

"You're so perceptive, Frank, pun intended. When should I say you'll arrive?"

"How about ten minutes? As soon as I wipe the double-shot mocha off the seat of my car, I'm there."

"Over and out," Grace said and hung up.

Frank parked the car in front of the old brownstone and rushed up the steps with images of Rand flashing through his brain. Hounded by the pervasive snapshots, the quick-flash montage left him with a queasy, bleak feeling. His Inner Spirit had sent transmissions for days—dark, subliminal messages that warned of something evil riding the wind. What did those messages have to do with Rand?

Frank's dismal musings were interrupted by Jeffords when he entered Grace's outer sanctuary. "McGuire, long time no see."

"Not long enough," Frank whispered under his breath before turning to the men with a smile. "Jeffords. How's life?"

"Ugly, Frank, nastier than ever." Jeffords' eyebrows lowered in remembrance of the man beside him. "This is Hayworth, Rueben Hayworth, lead agent out of the Washington agency."

Hayworth extended his hand. "McGuire."

Nothing about the young man squealed FBI. Handsome, with blond hair and eyes the color of gun-metal, Rueben possessed an aloof air, setting him apart from the other FBI agents Frank had met over the years. Hayworth reeked of poise and confidence for one so young.

"FBI, and all the way from Washington." Frank offered his hand. "Someone must be stirring up a ruckus in Baltimore."

"Come on now, Frank, don't start with that baloney. You know why we're here." Jeffords gave a gentle nudge to his shoulder.

"Not officially, but I read the newspapers." Frank turned to Grace. "How about some coffee?"

"It's brewing, Frank. I'll be in with a carafe in two minutes. Mr. Jeffords, Mr. Hayworth, do either of you take cream or sugar?"

Jeffords shook his head and Hayworth held up two fingers. "Cream, thank you, ma'am."

“Ma’am.” Grace winked at Frank. “A girl could get used to such manners.”

Frank ribbed her in return. “You’re not saying I lack manners, are you, Grace?”

“Of course, not, boss. You’re the best.”

Frank focused on Jeffords and Hayworth again and led them into his office with outstretched arm. "This way, and have a seat."

Hayworth and Jeffords settled into a pair of chairs in front of his desk. Hayworth took in his surroundings, typical of every FBI man Frank had ever known. Jeffords crossed his ankles and leaned back in his chair. Frank didn't dislike Jeff Jeffords. On the contrary, he found him genial enough, but the man annoyed the piss out of him, and, at times seemed denser than swamp moss. He wondered briefly if that was just an act Jeffords put on for everyone.

"Okay, here's the deal on this one, Frank." Jeffords held back when Grace came through the door with the coffee and then resumed when the assistant left, closing the door behind her. "I faxed the specifics on The Black Rail case to the FBI when we closed out the case and Agent Hayworth picked up on your name. He's read every one of your notes, Frank, beginning to end, knows you took a bullet in the line of duty."

Frank was all in favor putting Jeffords in his place, reminding him he didn't take the bullet for the Department or the FBI. Remembering his manners and his guests, he looked out the window instead. "I hope to never hear the name of that file again."

"In any event, I did read the file." Reuben's voice pulled Frank back to the conversation. "And here we are a year later with another dilemma on our hands."

"Dilemma?" Frank asked.

"Yes," Hayworth said in a calm tone. "The five college students have turned up in the Patuxent River."

"Not the Little Patuxent this time," Jeffords said. "The big river."

Frank rolled his eyes. Didn't he just tell Jeffords he'd read the newspaper accounts? "And?"

"Unlike local opinion," Jeffords added, "we don't believe there's another serial killer on the loose."

Hayworth came to his feet, poured a cup of coffee and watched Jeffords' hand movements as he talked to Frank.

"You know how college kids are, drinking, binging, carousing into the wee hours of the night. I've looked at every case in detail and it's quite simple." Jeffords might have well as thumped his chest. "The kids slammed down one too many tequilas, left the bar and walked into the river."

Frank rubbed his temple with his thumb and index finger. He felt a headache coming on. "They weren't all at the same bar."

"No, they weren't, but the river runs the length of all the bars they frequented," Hayworth said.

"Don't you find it strange it's only been men. “Frank continued to rub his forehead. “And all five walked into the river at different locations?"

Hayworth settled into his chair again. "What are you insinuating, McGuire? Don't tell me you're buying this bull that there's a killer on the loose again, only now he isn't targeting Goth girls, he's picking gay college students?"

Frank leaned over his desk. "What did you say?"

"You didn't know, did you?" Jeffords smirked. "Yep, light in the loafers, every one of 'em. We kept that little tidbit out of the papers and you can bet their parents aren't going to be spreading the news."

"If they even know they’re gay," Hayworth added.

Jeffords annoyed the hell out of Frank at times—the man and his departmentalized labels. Light in the loafers? In Frank's opinion, Jeffords was light in the braincell department. While squashing an uncontrollable urge to reach over and strangle the little pipsqueak, Jeffords' smart-ass phrase sunk in. So that's what the latent dreams and images meant. Five gay men were dead. Frank's stomach clenched and Rand's face rose before him again.

Sick. He was going to be sick.

He'd been down this road many times, and his Inner Spirit never failed him. He didn't always know the exact nature of the messages but his subconscious never fell short of its goal—to rouse his precognitive abilities.

He wanted the men gone from his office, now, this minute. He needed to dim the lights, light a candle or two, and connect with a higher level of consciousness, take a peek into the future. Damn, he should have done it days ago when the images nagged at his addlepated brain. Too wrapped up in his feelings for Rand and the kid's irrational behavior, he'd failed to heed the warnings.

Jeffords narrowed his eyes. "McGuire . . . you still with us?"

"Yeah, I mean, yes, I'm listening. What does your visit have to do with me?"

Jeffords looked at Hayworth, and Frank couldn't help but wonder about the agent's cool, collective demeanor. He didn't seem eager to offer an opinion and Frank really wondered about that.

"We, that is, the Department and the FBI, hope you'll attend the meeting tomorrow night at City Hall to settle the natives, convince them there’s not another maniac prowling the city, but rather it's the result of overindulgence."

"Why would they listen to me, Jeffords?"

"Emily thinks they will."

Frank nearly came out of his chair. "Emily, Quinn Brennan's widow, Rand and Marlow's mother? What has she got to do with this?"

Jeffords’ face morphed into the familiar smirk again. "Haven't you spoken to her lately?"

"Last week. Why?"

The smirk launched into a grin and split Jeffords' lips. "You probably don't know, but the last kid we found is the son of Emily Brennan's best friend."

Frank picked up the newspaper and glanced at the headlines: Another College Student Missing. And next, Frank looked at the young man's picture. "Thomas Kincaid? This kid?"

"Yep, found his body early this morning. Emily and Martha Kincaid were high school friends. Emily wants you brought in, and the pressure is on. She claims the parents don't trust the police or the FBI and they want a neutral to look things over, meet with them, and deliver the facts straight up."

Hayworth cleared his throat. "Jeffords tells me you deal in a form of clairvoyance?"

Frank shot Jeffords a stern glare and turned to the man. "I'm not a clairvoyant and Jeffords knows it. I dabble, and I want to stress dabble, in perceptions, a skill learned through meditation and personal discipline. It's not recognized by the medical community, it's a . . . a―"

"You commune with the dead, huh, Frank? You can talk to spirits and ghosts. Tell Reuben, he's already read your file anyway."

Hayworth studied him and Frank couldn't imagine what thoughts must be flitting through the man's procedural brain. He held no illusions about the FBI's opinions on clairvoyants, spirit walkers, and the all the other derivatives. Hell, the government might be out a job if they relied on mystical theories to solve their crimes.

"I've read it, McGuire. I take my career very seriously and follow proper procedure in every regard, but I'm not a skeptic by nature. That is, I embrace mysticism and unconventional theories in my personal life."

Frank looked into his eyes and knew the man spoke the truth. People didn't lie about or encourage such philosophies if they aren’t learned about them.

"Whether you believe it or not, the FBI has worked with several psychics in solving some of our most difficult cases."

"I repeat, Hayworth, I'm not a psychic or a clairvoyant."

Smoke-gray eyes met his. "I know what you are, McGuire, I read the file, remember? Numbers or letters come to you through dreams, but they're convoluted. You have learned through mediation how to connect with your inner spirit, tap into a wellspring of spiritual energy. This inner spirit performs as a catalyst to connect with an even higher level of consciousness. Scenes flash through your head akin to water rushing over rocks."

Damn, the man had smarts, and moxie. He'd just repeated the notes Frank left in the file on The Black Rail case, verbatim. "Cut to the chase, what do you want from me?"

"Your time," Hayworth said. "We'll pay you, of course, to go over the file, see if Jeffords and his Department are right—there is no serial killer on the loose. The young men died after consuming too much alcohol, at least that's the unofficial statement for the time being. They left the bar, lost their way, and walked into the Patuxent." He nodded toward Jeffords. "That's his summation."

"And if I don't believe the reports or agree with his assessment?"

Hayworth rose and Jeffords followed suit. "Then, my friend, we have a serious problem."

Frank put his hand out. "Give me the files on the young men, all of them."

"I didn't bring it. Wasn't sure you'd agree to look it over. Would it be all right with you if I dropped it off this evening, say, around six o'clock?"

So much for his night of pleasure with Rand. "I won't be at my office at six."

Hayworth offered a deadpan look.

Frank handed him his card. "Here's my home address. Be on time, I have plans later this evening."

"You can count on it." Hayworth turned toward the door with Jeffords on his heels.

Frank resisted the urge to jump up and punch Jeffords in the face when he called out over his shoulder, "I knew we could count on you again, Frank. See you tomorrow night at the meeting."

* * *

No sooner had the men left his office when Grace buzzed him on the intercom. "Emily Brennan is on the line."

"Thanks, Grace." Frank released an exasperated sigh. He didn't need to hear from Emily today, of all days. There would be questions about Rand, hysterics over the death of her best friend's son, and no doubt she'd want to corner him about the meeting at City Hall tomorrow night. He punched line one. "How's the most beautiful woman in the world?"

"Frank, I've been trying to reach you all morning." Yep, hysterics laced her sultry voice.

"Calm down, Emily. I'm sorry; I turned my cell off this morning until I left for the office."

"I know. Grace couldn't reach you either and you were late getting in. Is something wrong, Frank? Is Rand in trouble?"

Damn, he didn't want to get into the alcohol and low grades’ crisis right now. She had enough to deal with. "No, Rand is fine." His mind raced while she drew a deep breath of relief. "An FBI agent, accompanied by one of Baltimore's finest, showed up at my office this morning."

"Let me guess." Her smoky voice dripped sarcasm. "Sergeant Jeffords?"

"The one and only."

"Makes you thankful he wasn't on the force instead of at the FBI, huh?"

"Ah, he's an okay guy, just a little misdirected at times."

"So you know why I'm calling. I hear it in your voice, and you can attribute that to being Quinn's partner for five years.”

Frank chuckled. "We go back a long way, don't we?"

"Eight years, my knight in shining armor." She sighed again. "Don't know how I would have survived without you since Quinn died."

"Oh-oh, guilt just took up residence in my gut."

"If you're talking about the five years you were MIA, we've discussed it, and I've forgiven you. I know you loved Quinn, as you do Marlow and Rand."

Ah, his chance to change the subject. "How is Marlow these days, doing well in school?"

"Her senior year and you know how that goes—too many parties, too many boyfriends, and too little studying. It's a battle, but we're getting on fine. She misses Rand not living at home, as do I, but we know the best place for him after losing his father is with you."

He closed his eyes. "Emily, I'm not Rand's father. We've never talked about it outright, but surely you know―"

"Stop right there. My mother said I entered the world at night, but not last night. I know Rand struggles with his sexual identity—have known it for years. Quinn knew it, too. We talked about it on many occasions." He pictured tears brimming in the green eyes, an exact replica of Rand's. "And I know you've warred with the very same issue." An ironic laugh followed her words. "If one has a sense of humor, it is rather comedic, don't you think? The virile, tough street cop turned PI, the man women wet their panties over, is gay."

"Christ, Emily, you're no good at bat-fowling, either."

"There’s that word again . . . bat-fowling, beating around the bush, I learned that from you. We share an odd sort of intimacy, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, we do, and I'm happy to call you friend, a true friend."

"Good, me too, and that's why I know I can count on you again. Jeffords no doubt told you they found another college student floating in the Patuxent this morning." She choked on the last words.

"He did, and I'm sorry to hear the kid is the son of your friend, Martha."

"She's devastated. Divorced ten years ago. Thomas is, correction, was an only child and Martha thought the sun and moon existed just for him." Another pause and he heard the wheels turning in her pretty head. "What else did Jeffords say? I get the feeling the Department is holding back."

"He didn't say anything specific about Thomas other than they found him this morning like you said. As for the other part of your question, the Department always withholds evidence from the public. They hold crime scene evidence close to their chest—things only a killer would know."

"So you think there is a killer?"

"Hold on now, Em. I didn't say that. I don't know enough about the case, only what I've read in the papers."

"You're doing that bat-fowling thing. I know you've channeled this, tapped into your inner spirit or whatever you call it." When he didn't answer she asked, "Am I right?"

He blew air out his lips. "Yes, some, but I don’t have the answers either."

"I knew it!”

"I don't know, Em, seems too coincidental that five young men all ended up in the river."

"Frank, you’re holding out on me."

"All right. I've had some strange dreams lately, but they’re convoluted, murky."

"Dreams about whom, about what?"

Christ, why did she have to call him today? "About shiny, metallic objects."

"Thanks for narrowing it down." He heard her slosh something down, coffee most likely. "That could be anything."

"Needles."

"Sewing needles?"

Frank looked at his briefcase lying on the chair beside him and struggled for words. "No, syringes."

"Frank, do you think it means the young men who died were into drugs?"

"Back up three or four sentences. Didn't I say my dreams are always murky? Christ, Emily, it could mean anything from diabetes to nursing homes."

He heard her doorbell ring.

"Damn, hang on."

Frank kept the phone to his ear and listened to the muffled voices in the background, Emily's and a man's. He couldn't make out the words, but heard her laugh once. As always, the sonorous chuckle reassured him. Damn, she shouldn't have to be going through this again, whatever this current mess evolved into. After losing her husband in a botched bank robbery, and raising two kids on her own, she had a right to a normal life.

She returned to the phone breathless. "That was an interesting conversation."

"Who came calling?"

"One of Rand's professors. He said Rand left a notebook on his desk yesterday so he looked up our address in the office and dropped it off on his lunch hour. Thought maybe Rand would need it before tomorrow."

"That's our boy, always on the ball, never forgetful."

"I think he's been stricken with Attention Deficit Disorder since his father died, but anyway, you were telling me about the dreams."

"Dreams, what dreams?"

"Stop it, Frank. You're making me edgier, if that's possible."

"Okay, the dreams involve Rand."

The hysterics returned. "What!"

"I told you they were muddy; doesn’t mean anything at this point. Perhaps because of your connection with Martha, and now they found her boy . . . that could be the connection to Rand."

"Oh, don't tell me that. Your dreams always mean something even if they are fucked up. I'm scared, Frank. The parents are convinced there's another serial killer stalking the college and the FBI insists the adults are acting out of panic and misinformation."

"What do you think, Em?"

"Come on, you've got to be kidding! Five students dead after leaving a bar, found in the river? What are the odds?"

"The FBI claims it happens all the time. College kids are prime candidates for alcohol-related deaths running the gamut from falling off balconies, poisonings, car accidents or other freak accidents."

"No one fell off a balcony, their blood alcohol content showed intoxication, but not enough to cause death, and they did not die in car accidents. Freak accidents all right, as in some freak killed them."

"Settle down. Maybe the toxicology reports showed something the police aren't divulging right now."

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know, drug use or some other commonality. You know drug users come in all forms, ages." Thinking about his discussion with Rand that morning, he visibly cringed. If the little fucker had lied to him again, he'd have to send him packing. "I've promised Hayworth―"

"Who's Hayworth?"

"The agent Washington sent to investigate. I promised him I'd go over the file. He's bringing it to me tonight."

"Thank God, and you'll attend the meeting tomorrow night at City Hall?"

"I'll be there, Emily, promise."

She blew a sigh of relief. "You sure you're not holding anything back about Rand?"

"Not a thing," he said and then called himself a liar. "I gotta run, sweet lips. I'll call you tomorrow after I review the file."

"Sweet lips. The name brings back so many fond memories."

Frank laughed as an image of Emily's husband flashed before him. "I used to call you that all the time just to piss Quinn off. Told him one day I'd be kissing those sweet lips."

She sniffled. "What did he say?"

"He said, 'Yeah, when you come back reincarnated as a hot-blooded straight guy.' I told him at least he had the hot-blooded part right."

He loved it when she laughed, always had. "You'll call me tomorrow?"

"You can count on it, Em."

"Love you, Frank."

"Ditto," he said and clicked end on his cell phone.

The black cloud descended again, whether from talking about the dreams with Emily or from the visit with the FBI agents, he didn't know. He leaned back in the chair with his head resting against the soft leather and closed his eyes. How could this be fucking happening again?

Frank knew he was in over his head when it came to Rand, but the time had passed for recriminations and told-you-sos. The kid was beautiful, plain and simple, with the most delectable body he’d ever laid eyes on. The thought of someone else even touching Rand made him want to seek the unknown person out and kill him.

He drew a deep breath. In his field, people killed for three reasons: sex, money, and love. The truth might as well have arrived on the edge of a dull butcher knife.

Christ, he'd fallen in love with Rand.