DEAD CERTAIN Read online

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  Savannah took another sip of her coffee, her thoughts racing. Cop thoughts and woman thoughts battled inside her. The crime that had occurred to his family was remarkably similar to what appeared to have happened to hers. Did he have any idea the power of his hypnotic blue eyes?

  Was the connection she felt to him that of two people whose lives had been touched by violence, or was she drawn to him because he stirred something inside her that reminded her that she was not just a cop, not just a victim, but a woman as well?

  This thought irritated her, and she averted her gaze from him. Brown eyes, that's what she had loved. Eyes the color of her own, filled with laughter, filled with love, that's what she had lost.

  "Did the police attempt to find your mother?" she asked, grasping at the cop inside her rather than the lonely woman. "Usually when somebody disappears there's a paper trail of some kind."

  He nodded and she couldn't help but notice the rich shine of his dark-brown hair beneath the artificial lights overhead. "The authorities checked for activity on their bank account and credit cards, but there has been none in the nearly two years since it happened."

  She shoved her half-empty cup aside. "There's no way to ignore the similarities in the two incidents," she said.

  "That's why I thought it was important I make contact with you last night. Scott called me as soon as he heard the first report over his scanner, and that report indicated a man attacked in his living room and his wife missing. Scott thought I'd be interested since it seemed so much like what had happened to my family."

  "But, despite the similarities, it's possible one has nothing to do with the other," she added hurriedly. She couldn't imagine her mother missing for two years. Savannah couldn't stand the thought of not knowing where her mother was for another two minutes.

  "I'd guess that it's far too early in your investigation to draw any kind of conclusions," he agreed. "But if you're interested, I have copies of all the records pertaining to the crime against my parents. I've got witness lists, detective notes, everything."

  She raised an eyebrow in surprise. Family members rarely saw those kinds of things.

  "I had a friend on the Sycamore Ridge police force," he said in answer to her unspoken question. "Anyway, you're welcome to see anything I have. Of course, nothing I have will help if it's not the same kind of thing."

  "I appreciate the offer," she said. "But I really don't think it would help much." She didn't want to believe there was any connection between what had happened to his family and what had happened to hers. After all, his father had died and his mother had never been found.

  Suddenly she wanted to be away from him, needed to be away from him. It was almost as if she felt that if she spent too much time here with him, his tragedy would become her own.

  "Thank you so much for meeting with me," she said, and rose from her chair.

  "No problem." He got up, as well. He was taller than she remembered from the night before—tall with broad shoulders and slender hips. It was the physique of a man who worked a job of physical labor. He began to pull his wallet from his back pocket, but she waved her hand.

  "Please, the coffee is on me."

  She was grateful he didn't try to fight her for it. She was far too tired, far too emotionally fragile to fight over something as inconsequential as a dollar cup of coffee.

  "Thanks for the coffee," he said as he walked to the door of the shop.

  "Thanks for the information," she replied. Together they stepped outside, where night had fallen and the surrounding stores had closed up for the night. The night brought with it a terrifying sense of loss as she realized that her mother had been missing for nearly twenty-four hours.

  "Your father … is he doing all right?"

  "He's hanging in there. He's a stubborn Irishman with a hard head."

  He quirked a dark brow upward. "Irish, huh? I would have never guessed. You and your sister and brother don't look Irish."

  "My father always teased that Mom wasn't happy unless she dominated everything, including the gene pool." She swallowed hard as a wave of emotion swept over her. "It was nice meeting you, Riley," she said, and held her hand out to him.

  "I wish it had been under different circumstances." He reached for her hand, but to her surprise instead pulled her into an awkward hug. "I'm so sorry about your family," he said into her hair. "I hope … I pray that everything turns out okay." He released her as quickly as he'd hugged her, then murmured a good-night and walked away.

  She stood on the sidewalk, shell-shocked, a bundle of exposed nerves and heightened sensations. It had been a very long time since she'd felt the press of a muscular chest against hers, the warmth of strong arms surrounding her. In the instant that he'd hugged her, she'd smelled him, a distinctly woodsy male scent that was quite appealing. Too appealing.

  She turned and went back into the ice cream parlor. She joined her cousin Alyssa behind the counter where she was making a fresh pot of coffee. Alyssa finished what she was doing then turned and embraced Savannah. "Is there any news?"

  Savannah shook her head. "I spoke with Bree before coming here and there's no change in Dad's condition. Clay is trying to get Glen to let him into the house or at least see what the crime scene has gathered so far, but Glen is refusing."

  Alyssa sank down on a stool. "This is what I saw," she said softly. "I knew something bad was coming … knew somebody was going to be hurt … but I couldn't tell who … I couldn't stop it." Tears filled her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks.

  "Melinda, keep an eye on things, okay?" Savannah asked the young woman who worked for Alyssa. Savannah took Alyssa by the arm and pulled her through the doorway that led to Alyssa's living quarters.

  She closed the door behind them, shutting off the sounds from the ice cream parlor and led Alyssa to the cream-colored sofa where they sat side by side. She took Alyssa's hands in hers and squeezed tightly.

  "Alyssa, everyone in the family knows how your visions come to you. We all know that most of the time you can't figure out exactly what they mean. Nobody blames you for not seeing this coming."

  "I know that, but it's just so frustrating," she replied. She pulled her hands from Savannah's grasp and used one to push a strand of her long dark hair behind an ear. "Over the past two months, I've had a single, recurring vision, and it's been different from any other one I've ever had."

  Although Savannah had heard this before, she sat patiently and listened, knowing Alyssa needed to talk about it. "What I've experienced over the past two months weren't even real visions," Alyssa continued, her eyes dark and worried. "There was never a picture … just a feeling of horrible doom, of enormous grief and emptiness. Is there any news on Aunt Rita?"

  "None."

  Alyssa frowned. "I had a new vision this morning … about Aunt Rita."

  Savannah leaned toward her cousin, her heartbeat quickening with hope. Maybe Alyssa's newest vision could provide a clue of some kind as to where Rita was … what had happened to her. "What? What did you see?"

  Alyssa frowned, a delicate furrow appearing across her brow. "It won't help," she said as if reading Savannah's thoughts. "It doesn't make any sense."

  "Tell me anyway," Savannah replied.

  "I saw Aunt Rita in bed. She was sleeping peacefully in her own bed, in her own room." She sighed in frustration. "I told you it wouldn't help."

  Savannah frowned thoughtfully. "Are you sure it was her own bed?"

  "Positive. I saw her beneath the dark-blue floral bedspread that's on their bed. I saw the Tiffany-style lamp they have on the nightstand. It was her room, Savannah, I told you it wouldn't help. We both know Aunt Rita isn't safe and sound and sleeping in her bed at home."

  Savannah reached for her cousin's hand once again. From the time they had all been children together, the James siblings had known that their favorite cousin had mysterious visions. The visions were as much a part of Alyssa as her long, dark hair and gentle nature.
r />   "But you'll tell me if you have any more visions of her?" Savannah asked.

  "Of course," Alyssa replied.

  "Even if they seem crazy or unimportant?"

  Alyssa's lips curved into a half smile. "Even then."

  "And if you think you see anything that might help find her, you have to promise me you'll tell Chief Cleberg."

  The half smile fell into a frown. "Glen Cleberg is like nine-tenths of the people in this town. They all think I'm more than a little crazy."

  "I know the chief has given you a hard time before when you've tried to help, but you've got to promise me you'll tell him if you see anything that might help us find Mom."

  "I promise," she agreed. "You know I'll do whatever I can to help find her. She's always been like a mother to me." Tears once again sprang to Alyssa's eyes, and she and Savannah hugged.

  Alyssa's mother had died when Alyssa was four, and it had been Rita who had stepped in to fill the empty space in the little girl's life.

  "Who is Riley Frazier?" Alyssa asked as Savannah stood.

  "A man who had something horrible happen to his parents a couple of years ago. He was offering me his support."

  "Nice-looking man," Alyssa said, also rising from the sofa.

  Savannah shrugged. "I guess." A vision of Riley streaked through her mind. "I've got to get going. I want to stop by the hospital on my way home."

  Alyssa walked with her to the door. "You doing okay?" she asked.

  "I'm holding up," Savannah replied.

  Alyssa gazed at her with warm affection. "You were always the strong one, Savannah. I've always admired your incredible wealth of strength."

  Alyssa's words replayed in her head thirty minutes later as she sat by her father's hospital bed.

  The sight of her father lying there, so pale, so lifeless had shocked her. Thomas James was a big man with an even bigger presence. Now, with his head wrapped in bandages and his mouth hanging slack, hooked up to a variety of monitors and machines and with deep, dark circles beneath his eyes, he looked frighteningly old and fragile.

  Savannah took his hand in hers. Cold … his hand was so cold. Tears welled up in her eyes as she gazed at him. "Daddy," she said softly. Did he hear her? Could he hear her? "Daddy, you need to wake up." She squeezed his hand. "We need you … I need you."

  It was all too much, she thought. Her mother missing, her father in a coma—it was all too much to survive. She released his hand and leaned back in her chair, utterly exhausted both physically and mentally.

  Alyssa had been wrong. She wasn't strong. She wasn't strong at all. She wasn't strong enough to survive what had become of her life, nor was she strong enough to let go of the bridge support and join her Jimmy in the spirit world.

  She felt as if she was caught in some horrible state of limbo, too cowardly to join her husband in death, but equally afraid to contemplate what lay ahead for herself and the people she loved.

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  Chapter 4

  «^»

  Every morning when Riley left his house and headed for work, he passed by his parents' house. As the early-morning light played on the neat little ranch house surrounded by trees and bushes, it gave the place a golden aura of warmth. One would never know the house had been the scene of a violent crime.

  During the summer months, Riley kept the yard mowed and weeded, and in the winter months he would shovel snow from the driveway and sidewalks. But, since the day the police had released the house back to him, he hadn't been back inside it.

  The house was in his name so he could sell it or rent it out if he so chose, but he couldn't. It was here, just the way she'd left it. It was here, waiting for his mother's return.

  This morning as he drove past the house, his thoughts were filled with Savannah Tallfeather and the conversation they'd shared two nights before.

  She'd been reluctant to completely acknowledge the unmistakable similarities between his case and hers. He understood her reluctance. If she believed the same perpetrator was responsible not only for what had happened to his family, but to hers, then she also had to accept the possibility that her mother's whereabouts might still be a mystery two years from now.

  She wasn't ready to face that possibility.

  A swell of pride filled him as he turned off the main road and drove through a stone entrance. Gold lettering on the left side of the entrance read Frazier Estates.

  Just ahead was the trailer that had served as Riley's office since he'd begun this dream project four months ago. In the distance he could see the rooftops of the four model homes that were nearing completion.

  Pride mingled with a bittersweet pang of grief as he parked in front of the trailer. For so many nights be and his father had sat at the kitchen table and planned this, plotted this, dreamed this, and now the dream was within Riley's hands. But his father wasn't here to share it with him.

  He wasn't surprised to see Lillian's car already parked in front of the trailer. He'd hired the sixty-two-year-old woman six months ago as his secretary. However, in the space of those months she'd become a combination of secretary, personal assistant, friend and mother hen. There were times when she could be as annoying as hell, but he positively adored her.

  The scent of fresh-brewed coffee greeted him as he entered the trailer. Lillian sat at her desk with the morning paper spread out before her.

  "Morning, Lillian."

  "Morning, boss. Coffee is made and there are some muffins on the counter … bran. You should eat a couple. You young people don't get enough fiber in your diet."

  "Fiber isn't high on my priority list, Lillian," he said wryly.

  She quirked upward a perfectly plucked silver eyebrow. "Wait until you get to be my age, then fiber intake definitely becomes a priority."

  Riley poured himself a cup of coffee, then grabbed one of the muffins from the flowered plate. "I'll eat a muffin, okay?" he said as he disappeared into his office.

  The day was the usual blend of headaches and happiness: supplies arrived late; a fistfight erupted between two roofers; his foreman threatened to quit for the fifth time in as many days … they were the usual headaches that came with a big construction job.

  The tension headache he'd begun to nurse by ten vanished at eleven when a young, newlywed couple stopped by to have a look around.

  As he showed them the plans for the community he envisioned and saw their excitement and interest, he was the happiest he'd been in years.

  In between the headaches and the joys the day brought, thoughts of Savannah intruded at odd moments. As he watched the hardwood floors in one of the model homes being varnished, he thought of her skin. A lot of women would pay a lot of money to get that beautiful cinnamon shade of her skin.

  He thought of the moment when he'd told her goodbye, and spontaneously pulled her into a hug. She had been neither a willing nor unwilling participant in the embrace. It had been rather like hugging an inanimate, unemotional stuffed animal.

  Eventually her numbness would wear off, he thought. And then the grief would begin in earnest. But she wasn't a stranger to grief. She'd lost her husband a year before.

  At noon he ordered a pizza to be delivered from the local pizzeria. Lillian would give him hell about his food choices, but he'd become a junk-food junkie in the past couple of months.

  He'd just hung up the phone from ordering the pizza when it rang. He grabbed it up and murmured a hello.

  "Riley?"

  He recognized her voice immediately. The low, dulcet tones sent a wave of warmth through him. "Hi, Savannah."

  "I'm sorry to bother you, but I was wondering … about those papers … those files you have from two years ago…" Her voice trailed off, as if she was reluctant to come right out and ask him for what she wanted.

  "Would you like to take a look at them?"

  "If you wouldn't mind."

  "Not at all. Just tell me when and where."

  "Have you eaten lunch yet?" she asked.

  He thought
of the pizza he'd just ordered … easy come, easy go. "No."

  "Could you get away for a little while now?" Her voice was hesitant, as if she was afraid of asking too much of him.

  "Sure," he agreed easily. "Savannah, I know what you're going through. Whatever I can do to help, just tell me."

  "Could you meet me in an hour? How about at the Briarwood Truck Stop. We could have lunch while I go over the paperwork."

  "Fine. I'll see you there in an hour." Riley hung up the phone and immediately got up from his desk. The Briarwood Truck Stop wasn't the snazziest place in the world, but it was located between Sycamore Ridge and Cherokee Corners. It would be about a half hour drive for both of them.

  Before meeting her he'd have to go back to his house and grab the file that held all the paperwork that had been generated in the case of his father's homicide.

  "There's a pepperoni pizza coming in about twenty minutes," he said to Lillian. He threw a twenty on her desk. "Enjoy the pizza and I'll be unreachable for the rest of the afternoon."

  "Wait … you've got an appointment at two with Hal Brooks from Brooks Carpeting."

  "Cancel it. Set something up with him for tomorrow," he said as he flew out the trailer door.

  It was ridiculous how much he looked forward to seeing her again he thought as he drove to his home to get the files. It was ridiculous that his heart was racing just a little bit faster since her call.

  He told himself it was nothing more than a continuation of the strange connection he'd felt when he'd first seen her … the connection of two survivors.

  He told himself that his eagerness to see her again was because maybe, just maybe, something he found out about what had happened to her parents would bring him some closure as to what had happened to his.

  But, even as he told himself all these things, he knew it was more than that. Part of the connection he'd felt had been one as old as time—the response of a male to an attractive female.

  It had been years since he'd felt that charge of adrenaline, the rush of possibility where a woman was concerned.